Page 35 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“God,” I mutter, checking my reflection in his dark TV screen. “My hair looks amazing tonight.”

I pop open my purse, pull out the gloves, and get to work.

I sigh, staring at the mess. “This is what I get for rushing. Four dates, Jennifer. That was the rule. Four. Like a gentleman’s agreement between me and my last functioning impulse control.First date’s for the read, second confirms the red flags, third is for proof, and the fourth is where we get flirty with felonies.”

I look down at Derik. Slumped. Bleeding. In his living room. I should’ve waited. Taken him to my place. Done it properly, in the basement, with the plastic and the drain and the Clorox wipes I keep in cute little wicker baskets. But no. I just had to let him talk about my mouth like it was an appetizer.

I shuffle around the room, grabbing anything blood-touched. The pillow goes in a trash bag. Then I look at him.

The body. The rug underneath.

I groan. “Why do I do this to myself?”

He’s heavy. Not ‘gym rat’ heavy, no, this is pure beer-and-bad-choices weight. Dead weight and not even a six-pack to ogle on the way out? You absolute burden.

I grab the edges of the rug and start rolling him like I’m prepping for an impromptu moving day, except the U-Haul is my SUV and the cargo may or may not leak.

“Come on, you sweaty slab of Taco Bell,” I grunt, trying to flip him. “You could’ve at least died tidily.”

I finally get him halfway rolled when he slumps sideways and flops an arm out like a dramatic Victorian widow.

“Nope. You already touched my thigh uninvited. You don’t get a sequel.” I shove it back in. “Keep your hands to yourself, Derik.”

He mostly stays rolled this time. I secure the ends with duct tape because I am, at heart, a problem solver.

I shuffle backward, dragging the rug toward the door, swearing with each step. It’s like a workout video from hell. MurderFit: tone your glutes and your moral ambiguity.

Just as I’m bracing myself to heave the whole thing down the porch steps, I hear tires on pavement.

Shit.

I freeze, halfway through the doorway, one hand gripping rug-wrapped Derik, the other holding a trash bag like a deranged suburban Santa.

The car door opens.

“Jennifer?” a familiar voice calls. “Everything okay?”

I close my eyes and whisper to the heavens, “You have got to be kidding me.”

Carson walks up the path, wearing a confused expression that passes for concern on his annoyingly handsome face. He takes a long look at me, the bag, the bundle, the visible sweat on my brow.

I smile sweetly. “Oh hey, Officer. Rug emergency. You know how it is, blood, wine, men. It all stains.”

Carson glances down the street like he’s looking for witnesses or Girl Scouts. “Let me help you carry this… rug-shaped human problem… to your car. “

“That makes you an accessory. Or a mover. A very morally flexible mover,” I say. God, am I protecting him now? Is this how real couples bond? Should I bring snacks next time?

“Pop the hatch,” he says.

Jesus, why does that sound hot? It’s a car command. I shouldn’t feel that in my ovaries. I like his bossy tone. That’s weird. I hate bossy men, unless they’re tall and morally compromised and currently helping me hide a corpse, apparently. Odder still? I pop the damn hatch like a well-trained accomplice.

“The rug stain had it coming,” I say, hoisting the bag like I’m taking out emotionally charged trash.

Derik’s shoe falls off as Carson lifts him with insulting ease. I scoop it up and chuck it in the bag. Even dead, he can’t keep his shit together. “This wasn’t supposed to be a kill night. I didn’t even wear my murder shoes.”

Carson hauls the rug into the SUV, then glances at the house. “Come on. Sweep time. Crime scene’s not gonna clean itself.”

I follow him inside. He works like a man who’s been to a lot of crime scenes. Probably because he has. That’s his job, Jennifer. Good job. Very observant.

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