Page 14 of The Contract

Do my delusional ears heareth correctly?

Or maybe the word kiss means something vastly different in Russian.

Like blow job. Or anal.

“You want a kiss?” I ask flatly, brimming with disbelief.

Not that I can exactly say no.

“Yes. One kiss. When and where I say. Agreed?”

“Can a starved mouse not take the cheese from the trap.”

An unamused beat. “Is that a yes?”

I blow out a silent breath, secure in knowing he can’t see my eye roll from my vantage point. “Won’t I have to see you to kiss you?”

“Obviously, you’ve never been kissed. Not properly, if you’re used to doing it deer in the headlights style.”

Not at all, really.

When I take a little too long to answer, he clucks his tongue in time with each swing.

My own annoying, human metronome.

Each tick bores under my skin.

When Hannibal Lecter demanded his own quid pro quo, did Clarice think he was a total butthead?

I bet she did.

The Russian’s low growl grows in warning. The sack is balled tight in his fist.

“Well?”

“Yes, okay, fine.”

Out of nowhere, his pinky loops around mine. “Agreed?” The roll of his r is almost endearing.

And it’s only a kiss. One measly little kiss. “Agreed, already.”

He yanks once. A firm vow. With a psychopath. Two kindergarteners locked in a binding contract. To kiss.

Did I just execute a pinky promise with a serial killer?

He lifts the sack again—and the instant panic subsides as he tosses it at my feet.

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“We need to go somewhere private.”

“More private than a creepy dark alley?”

“Yes.”

In a huff, I do. I close my eyes and wonder if this is it.

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