Page 19 of Heart Stopping
"Interesting," I said slowly. "Harlow St. James is squeamish."
"How do you feel aboutbeinga pizza topping?" She looked over at me.
"Negatively," I said. "As I imagine you do too. Unless you want your last act in this world to be saving another pig."
"When you put it that way, I feel selfish for declining," she said. "But I still decline. Not that I have any say in it." She stared off down the street, her expression dark.
"Is this one of those 'my days are numbered,' things?" I asked.
That was understandable. When you took the kind of risks we did, sooner or later something would go pear-shaped. Someone would fight back, or the cops would turn up at the wrong time. Or we'd lose what was left of our humanity and go on some kind of reckless spree. Something I was very mindful of.
It was another reason I wanted to be friends with her. For both of us to maintain our sanity. If we could avoid that occupational hazard, then I would. If I could help her, I'd be even happier.
"You don't feel that way?" She looked at me searchingly, like she was trying to figure me out. Fair enough, I'd been trying to figure her out since we met. I hadn't even scratched the surface of what made her tick. The more I saw of her, the more I wanted to see, know and understand. The more of myself I wanted to reveal to her in return.
"I don't think about it too much," I said honestly. "I get up in the morning, go to work, then…" I shrugged one shoulder. "Do my thing and go to bed. Then start the day over again."
"What do you do for work?" she asked. Of course she'd grab on to that. It was the most normal part of our conversation so far. Sometimes a bit of normal went a long way.
So I've heard. Don't quote me on it.
"I run an art gallery," I said. "Modern art, pottery, things like that. Sculptures made out of bones." I watched her carefully for her reaction. Someone who turned her targets into cuisine probably wasn't too worried about what happened to the bones.
She didn't flinch. "Animal bones?"
"What else?" In a public space like my gallery, human remains wouldn't go unnoticed. Shame, they'd make interesting sculptures. I could make a whole series, from Asshole Number One to Asshole Number… Whatever number I was up to.
Except, that wouldn't be terribly subtle. Did I do subtle? Not usually, but in this case I preferred to stay out of prison. I was too pretty for a place like that.
"Plaster," she said simply. "Or plastic like the skeletons you see in schools."
"I should be offended you'd suggest I'd have plastic in my gallery," I said with an exaggerated sniff. "The fact is, some of the work does contain it. But no, the bones are real. As real as I am."
"I'm not sure if that's the flex you meant it to be." For the first time tonight, she seemed to be holding back a smile.
"Touché, Miss St. James." I chuckled. "Were you an archer in a past life, or perhaps a sniper? You don't miss your target." I pressed a hand to my chest.
"I might be both of those inthislife," she said cryptically.
"You just became twice as hot," I said. And my balls were now twice as heavy.
"And if I'm neither of them?" She cocked an eyebrow at me.
"I stand by what I said." I nodded. "You're twice as hot because you have a sense of humor. And if you can shoot, that's an added bonus. Especially with a bow and arrow. Think of it, we could start robbing from the rich and giving to the poor."
"That would be a twist on the Robin Hood tale," she said. "This is your building, isn't it?"
I hadn't realized we'd stopped until she said that. This woman was good at messing with my brain and I didn't mind it for a moment. Not with the memory of her pussy convulsing around my cock still fresh in my head.
Both of my heads, before you ask. One in a spin from being close to her, and the other I was struggling to keep from rising to full mast.
"Yes, yes it is." I pulled out my card and swiped it to unlock the front door and gestured her inside. None of this was as frantic as our night together, but it was early yet.
Smiling to myself, I followed her in.
CHAPTER 8
HARLOW
