The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

"Mostly, yeah."

"Sweeping dalliances under the rug?"

"Yeah, that kind of thing," I agreed.

"No wonder you like to unwind by researching murderers," she mused, pushing away from the counter, and moving out of the kitchen.

I tried like hell to keep my gaze at an appropriate level, but there seemed to be no stopping it as my eyes roamed down her back, to the rounded curve of her ass, to her mostly-bare thighs. On the back of one of those thighs was a tattoo of female eyes with a bloody knife below, held by a woman's hand. On the back of the other was a death head moth tattoo.

"Are you staring at my ass or my tattoos?" Poppy asked, sensing my gaze. "Either one is an acceptable answer," she added, turning over her shoulder to shoot me a smirk.

"Do you have other tattoos?" I asked, following her back into the foyer. There was a moment of pure panic at the thought of her kicking me out already, followed by me berating myself for being so needy all of a sudden.

"I do. Maybe if you're lucky, you will see more of them," she said, unlocking the door that seemed to lead down into the basement. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

At that, she gave me a long look, and something that looked similar to regret crossed her face before she ducked her head, and rushed down the stairs.

Regret over what?

Inviting me?

Sharing this with me?

Or maybe it was simply regret that I might view her differently after seeing her serial killer theory up close and personal.

Unsure, I followed her down the narrow stairs, moving into the narrow space.

And there it was.

Her crazy board.

With red string and everything.

I didn't recognize the strange tickling sensation at the back of my throat until the sound bubbled up and burst out.

A laugh.

I never laughed.

It had to have been years.

Hell, I didn't remember laughing since before deployment, since before all the dark marks got scratched into my soul.

But there was no mistaking it.

I was laughing right then.

Because of her.

Chapter Five

Poppy

I was out of my damn mind.

I mean, really, who invited a stranger to their home to peruse their serial killer wall?

I was supposed to be smarter than that. I was the one constantly begging my listeners and watchers to be careful, to be aware of their surroundings, to have backups on their backups.

I preached that you told your friends everything about a prospective date, that you shared your location with them in case you didn't check in at a previously specified time, so they could find you if they needed to.

And here I was, inviting a man to my house in the middle of the night without even knowing his last name. Not a soul in the world knew about him, either.

I was just asking to be the next missing woman on some other person's true crime podcast.

But regardless of all that, I invited him over. I opened the door for him. And then I did the even more unthinkable. I invited him into my command center. I allowed him to see my dedication to something I believed in.

What was his reaction?

To fucking laugh at me.

The sound seemed to catch even him off-guard as it bubbled up and burst out. I was annoyed for a moment, too, that the sound was way more appealing than it had any right to be when he was laughing at me.

"Wow. Okay," I hissed, arms crossing. "You can just fuck right off back upstairs and out of my house," I snapped as he struggled to quiet the deep, belly laugh he was having at my expense.

"No," he choked out, putting a hand on his stomach.

"No?" I asked, tone slipping deeper, more threatening. "Do we need to revisit the whole you dead, and me never being found guilty of it thing?"

"Poppy, wait," he demanded, reaching out to grab my arm as I passed.

What did I find myself right then?

Aside from without a weapon, which was wholly unlike me?

Turned on.

From him grabbing my arm.

What the hell was wrong with me?

"I'm not laughing at you," he said.

"Really? Because it sure seems like you're laughing at me." I was more butt-hurt about it than I should have been. I'd always been able to take a little criticism. The nature of my job demanded it. People laughed with or at me all the time. But my command center and my secret project were oddly important to me, and when something was important, I got my nose out of joint when someone made fun of it, or teased me about it.

And, well, let's face it. I wanted to sleep with Finn. I could overlook a lot of things when it came to bed-mates. But I couldn't sleep with someone who made fun of things that were important to me. I wouldn't be able to respect myself afterward.