Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I glare at him. “When someone says trust me it usually means I’m a lying asshole.”
“Normally, you’d be right, but for once in your life—” He slams on the brakes.
I let out a very undignified squeal as I’m rocketed forward, straining against my chest restraint, only to be slammed back into my seat. A huge plume of dust bursts up all around, flying into the air, obscuring the headlights, blocking out the moon.
“—You really should trust me,” he finishes.
I sit there, breathing hard, staring at him for a full five seconds before screaming, “What the hell is wrong with you? You almost got me killed!”
But he’s already getting out of the truck.
I gather myself, seething with rage as he goes around to pull out the corpse burrito. He’s messing with me, trying to put me off-balance so I won’t keep pestering him with questions, and it’s almost going to work.
Except this is my life, and my paycheck, and Grandpop’s depending on me. If I’m screwed out of the money I thought I was going to earn from Dimitry—Burian, whatever—at least I can get some answers.
I climb out of the truck. Lanzo’s dragging the body toward a short ravine. I can barely see it in the moonlight. I follow him, picking my way over rocky, uneven terrain. We’re in the middle of nowhere, no lights nearby, no cars, no houses, deep under darkness. Only the weak light from the stars breaks up the black.
“Hey, wait up,” I say, hurrying to catch him. “You can at least tell me who this guy is.” I nod at the corpse burrito.
“You don’t want to know.”
“You keep saying that and yet I keep asking.” I grab his wrist. “Come on, slow—”
He releases the corpse, moving fast, twisting my grip. I end up pressed against him, gasping in shock as he twists my arm behind my back, pulling me tight to his chest. I stare up into his face, heart racing into my throat, a twinge of pain in my elbow.
How did he do that so quickly? He was like a blur, bending me to his will.
“I’m not joking when I tell you to drop it.” His voice is soft but menacing. His smile is gone, replaced by an inner intensity.
“Who is he?” I say through my teeth, not giving up. “That’s all I want to know.”
“This isn’t a game. I’m not refusing to answer you because I get off on making you squirm, although I also kind of enjoy that. The less you know, the less likely it is you’ll get in fucking trouble. So please, stop pressing.”
I’m breathing hard, my breasts pinned to his muscular midsection. “You’re getting off right now?”
His smirk comes back. “Pissing you off is the highlight of my night.”
“Then maybe you’ll like this.” I lean forward, getting up on my toes, moving closer. An insane idea bursts into my head like an intrusive thought I can’t shake. He seems surprised, but he doesn’t pull away as my lips graze his neck as I move my mouth to his ear. Then I yell as loud as I can: “Tell me who the fuck he is, asshole.”
“Ah, shit,” he says, letting me go and shoving me back.
I stumble, glaring death as he rubs his ear. “That was extremely uncalled for.”
“You’re the crazy asshole talking about getting off when we’re standing two feet away from a corpse. And I still want to know who he is!”
Lanzo glares at me and for a second, I think he’s about to charge over here like a rampaging rhino. There’s something fierce and animalistic in his eyes, something dangerous and beautiful all at once.
It’s raw and magnetic. Sexual, in the I’ll-fuck-you-then-kill-you sort of way. Which I didn’t realize I was into until right this second.
“Fine,” he says, turning to the corpse burrito. “You want to know? Here you go.” He grabs one end of the blanket and pulls hard until the body comes rolling out like a limp crash test dummy.
I shove my hands against my mouth to keep from puking again.
He mumbles to himself, clearly annoyed, as he rolls the dead guy halfway onto his side and reaches into the back pocket. A big, fat wallet appears, which Lanzo rifles through. I step back, sweating, pulse racing. Panic edges into my brain again when he comes over with an ID card between two fingers.
“Here,” he says, shoving it at me. “Enjoy.”
I take it with trembling hands.
The man’s name is Peirce Queiros.
Was, anyway.
And he’s an FBI agent.
“Oh, god,” I groan.
Lanzo grabs the card back, shoving it into the wallet. He walks over to the body, no longer a corpse burrito but an actual body with an actual name and a job, and puts the wallet in the pocket. “Feel better?” Lanzo asks.
“No,” I admit, tugging at my hair. “Holy shit. Holy shit. That’s an FBI agent. That’s a freaking federal agent.”