Page 29 of Dark Reasons

She's not far off the mark. "There's a lot of work to do today. Get cleaned up so we can begin."

Any leftover sleep vanishes from her eager face. "Oh, we're going to the bank."

"Yes, but that's not all we're doing."

She perks up. "Are we hunting Caruso?"

"Slow down," I chuckle, "there's a process to everything."

Selena throws the blankets out of the way, digging in her nearby dresser for clean clothing. I watch from the corner of my eye... recalling that same dresser spilling her panties and bras all over the floor yesterday as she panicked in the towel that barely covered her ass.

I quickly pull my shirt over my head. I yank my joggers off, then my jeans on next, standing to finish the job. When I turn back, fingers pinching the brass button, I catch Selena peeking. She turns away hurriedly, clearly not wanting me to notice. Her curiosity makes my animal urges worse. It would be better if she found me repulsive.Fuck.

"I'll change in the bathroom," she mumbles, rushing behind the door with her arms full of clothing. The lockclicks.I shake my head, ruffling my hair in frustration. The walls hide her from me, but they aren't enough to keep me from thinking about her stripping herself bare. If I strain, I can hear the sound of her footsteps, feel the vibration of her moving in the room.

My abilities have always been a blessing for my chosen career.

Today, they are torturing me.

"Okay," she says, coming back into view. "I'm ready. Let's get to it." Selena has slipped on a red tank-top that hugs her chest and ribs, highlighting a waist that's begging to be gripped by all ten of my fingers. Her shirt vanishes into her high-waisted tan skirt that swishes loosely around her knees. "The bank I use isn't far."

Scooping up my backpack I grab my jacket from where I left it on her kitchen chair. "First, we'll get breakfast."

"Okay!"

I cast a grin at her. "Not complaining about that part of the plan?"

She rubs a hand over her stomach. "If you're buying. I'm about to be broke."

"About to be," I repeat, looking around her apartment.

"Don't judge me."

"I'm mostly confused," I say, rubbing at my jaw. "You have enough money stocked away to pay my fee, but you live like this."

"Like what? Like I have a slumlord?" Selena snatches her phone from her pillow, then a purple purse with a thin strap from the top of her dresser. She fiddles inside of it; I hear keys jingle. "I assume you're driving us."

"Better to not leave my car here, I think."

Shouldering her purse she stalks past me to the door, yanking it open so quick the incoming air tosses her hair around. "If I get a parking ticket from street sweeping, you're responsible."

I step through into the hallway; she locks the door with her keys, then motions for me to lead the way. I'd rather she was in front of me—to keep an eye on her, not to stare at her perfect ass—but I don't argue.

The green-gray metal gate rises up at the end of the hallway. I yank the latch, the hinges screaming as the heavy portal opens wide for me. Together we walk beneath the overhang.

Early morning sunlight drives itself into my eyes. I shield my face, brushing aside the thick leaves of the areca palms that fringe the walkway. Some of the larger trees have threaded their roots under the sidewalk, lifting and cracking the pavement.

Selena navigates the uneven terrain without looking down. She's walked this way many times. When we reach my car I open the passenger door for her. "Oh, how kind," she sings, dropping into the seat. "You think I can't shoot gunsoropen doors."

"I was just being nice," I sigh, getting into the front seat. The trees along the road have shed blossoms on my window and roof overnight. I turn on my wipers to knock them away. "Is there a place around here you like to eat?"

"There's Egg Biscuit, it's actually right in the same plaza as the bank."

Turning my key, I rev the engine, guiding my car down the quiet street. At an hour like this on a Sunday, the traffic should be dead. The less eyes the better. "Just tell me where to go."

Selena guides me without a hiccup. We turn a corner onto a dented street flanked with tall apartment complexes and a streetlight painted in graffiti. The plaza on the right with its faded signs has a nail salon, the bank she mentioned, and at the end is a white building with a green front door. The Egg Biscuit sign is plastered above in red letters; it's the only building in the plaza that doesn't look like it's a hundred years old.

"That's the place," she says, pointing.

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