Daman guides me to the checkout line. In silence we get everything he put into our basket before he again guides me out of the store and opens the passenger door for me.
“I’m sorry,” I say when he gets into the driver’s side.
“We don’t have to do anything, babe.” He places his hand on my leg. I shake my head.
“Just seeing him close up.” I turn to look at Daman. “I need more. I get it, jacking off on my bed is gross but is it death worthy? Should we just hand it over to the police? Will he only get a slap on the wrist?” Question after question enter my mind.
“This is not his first time doing something like this and it won’t be his last. What he did in your apartment was child’s play.”
“That was not—”
“For him. Trust me. I know this without digging.” Daman leans over the center console of the car. “You have to dig into your mark. You give me a few hours and I’ll tell you everything I think he’s ever done or what he will do.”
“You can do that?”
He shrugs. “People are predictable once you get a feel for them.”
“True. I know you’re going to kiss me.” He smiles, his mouth so close to mine I can feel his warm breath against my lips.
“Have you changed your mind?” I lick my lips, my tongue grazing his mouth.
“No, I’m just not sure if I can pull the trigger.” I kiss him. I want Daman to know it’s not him I’m questioning but myself. “I never said you couldn’t do anything.” I lean back into my seat.
“Seatbelt,” Daman reminds me as we head back to his place.
“Now, I’m worried he’s going to do something before we find out more about him.” I groan. This is more complicated than I thought. Daman taps his phone. “We’ll keep tabs. I won’t let him hurt anyone.” He glances over toward me, his eyes locking with mine. “Because I know that will hurt you.”
I smile. Maybe I shouldn’t. The man I know I’m in love with is a killer. But he is my killer, and for some reason, that makes all the difference.
Chapter Nineteen
Daman
“You’re staring at me,” I murmur. Quinn’s eyes have lingered on my face for the last few seconds. I’m usually the watcher and this attention feels odd. I wish I had a hat.
“I’m trying to figure out if I like you better with or without glasses. Do you wear contacts when you’re working?”
“Wait. You have a job?” Trin interrupts before I can reply.
“I used to have a job.” I keep my eyes down on my plate. Anything about my past feels like dangerous waters. This is why I kept to myself before but Quinn felt guilty about not spending time with her roommate so here we are, having dinner together out in public. The middle of my back that’s hard to reach is itching even though I’m sitting with my back to the wall. I remind myself that a crowded cafeteria is not the place where most hits happen. There are too many witnesses. It’s far better to catch them at home where they won’t be found for hours instead of taking them out in the street where dozens of CCTVs can capture everything from the trajectory of the bullet to the flapping of your jacket as you try to escape, which is what happened to some hitman out of Texas. He’s on death row now but hopes to get out, I guess, which is why he isn’t spilling all the secrets he’s collected over the years.
“Don’t ask, Trin,” Quinn says. “It was boring. Something to do with wiring and electricity. I make him tell me about it when I can’t sleep.”
“You two act like you’re married,” Trin whines.
“Married?” My head jerks up. Is that even an option? I hadn’t given it a thought because…well, who’s going to marry a hitman?
Quinn rolls her eyes. “No one is getting married. College students don’t get married.”
Ah, as suspected. It is not an option. I return to my burger.
“Well, you guys might as well be married. I never see you anymore. It’s like I don’t even have a roommate. I’m lonely.” Trin shifts in her chair. “Since you’ve stolen Quinn from me, you should set me up with a co-worker. I’m ready to hear some boring bedtime stories. Who do you have?”
I shove the burger in my mouth so I don’t have to answer. Quinn coughs into her hand, probably to cover a smile. “They all have plumber’s butt. It’s not pretty,” she tells her roommate.
Trin makes a humming noise—halfway between agreement and disbelief. “So Quinn says you’re a landscape architect major. Does that mean you’re going to design gardens and stuff?”
“Something like that.” I don’t have to work for a living. I have a nest egg tucked away in the Caymans big enough to support both Quinn and me, but I had to major in something. “I like growing things so it appealed to me.”