Killer (Savages 2)

"What?" I yelped, thrown off.

"Well with an attitude like that, I figured you must have your panties in a bunch, darlin'. Maybe you need to excuse yourself to... remedy that situation."

Oh, what a jerk! Who the heck said things like that to relative strangers?

Well, he wasn't going to get away with it, that was for darn sure.

I lifted my chin. "I'm not wearing any panties and you're a jackass," I said, brushing past him, making sure to slam my shoulder into his as I went by. I stomped toward the door. "I hope you like cats, because she's yours now," I said, slamming the door hard behind me.

I let myself into my apartment, slamming my own door for good measure, and started pacing. Alright, so maybe I was easy to rile. My temper could fly off the handle at any moment. But darn if that man didn't deserve it.

Fact of the matter was, I knew a lot about Johnnie Walker "Shooter" Allen. I probably knew more about him than most of his family did. I knew what I knew because I had been neighbors with his father for three years. I was there in the mornings, watching as Ben would open his door to find the case of scotch there each month, a look of disdain and need in his eyes so great it hurt me somewhere deep down in my soul. I had been the one to get the super to open his door when there was a loud crash one night, only to find Ben passed out on his kitchen floor, his head busted open from hitting the edge of his kitchen cabinet while stumbling around in a drunken stupor. I had been the one to visit him in the hospital; I had been the one to talk him into getting help; I had been the one sitting with him after his meetings and listening to him tell me all about the ways he messed up his life. He told me his biggest regret was losing the love of his son.

From what Ben said, Johnnie moved to the East coast and became a killer for hire. He was, apparently, really good at his job because Ben said he had some expensive place and a fancy car. Despite his son's seedy lifestyle and his adolescent need to still 'stick it to' his father with the scotch, Ben still always wanted to get back in touch.

Apparently the only thing that could bring him back was his father's death. And then he had the gall to be a jerk to the one person who had been there for Ben like he should have been? It didn't matter how good looking he was on the outside. There was no amount of charming smiles that could make me overlook his ugly soul.

I sighed, forcing myself to stop worrying the wood floor as I looked up. My apartment had the same layout as Ben's. The living space formed an L around the small square kitchen with its generic white cabinets, fake brown, black, tan, and red swirl marble counter tops. I had two chairs butted up against the outside of the kitchen counter. I didn't need a dining room table; I never had company. My living room was unapologetically feminine. I had a floral throw rug, plush off-white tufted sofas, shabby-chic end and coffee tables, and the walls were painted a soft barely-there hint of lavender.

Glancing into my kitchen, I spotted the supply of cat food I had run out to get that morning. Great. I might not have had any intention of seeing Johnnie again, but I couldn't exactly let Millie go hungry because of my disdain for him.

With a growl, I grabbed the cardboard tray full of cat food and stalked back toward my door. Pulling it open, I flew back a foot on a surprised yelp. Because there right out front my door, was Johnnie.

"So the no panty thing," he started, his eyes warm, "is that an everyday occurrence?"

My eyes lowered as I bit the inside of my cheek. "What are you doing creeping outside my door?"

"I can see you're jealous of Millie's love for me," he teased, his smile charming enough to make a nun reconsider her vows, "but you can't blame her. I've always had a way with a pussy."

"Don't be coming to my door and talking nasty to me," I snapped, shoving the box into his chest, making his hands move up to grab it. "There's Millie's food. Please feel free to never speak to me again." I grabbed the edge of my door, meaning to slam it shut, but he slipped his body sideways into the doorway and forced his way into my apartment. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Aw, angel," he said, shaking his head as he looked around. "I get you now."

He got me? What the heck was that supposed to mean? "What?"

"You know, my grandmother is a big gardener," he said, tucking the flat of cat food under one arm and running his hand over the back of my sofa.

"That's wonderful. Now get out of my apartment."

"She's won awards 'round here for her roses," he went on his weird speech. His attention suddenly turned back toward me, pinning me into place. "She used to tell me that the prettiest roses have the biggest thorns. It's a defense mechanism. So," he said, coming closer toward me and running his finger across the side of my jaw, "I get you, Amelia Alvarado."

And with that, he was gone, the door clicking quietly behind him, leaving me feeling almost exposed, vulnerable. That made no sense, but it was how I felt. Because when he looked at me in the middle of his little speech and told me he got me, it felt like he did; it felt like he somehow got a peek at my soul. My hand moved up to scrub his touch off my jaw, somehow feeling like there was a lingering tingling from his finger there.