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)
Lanzo gorgeous, chaotic, frustrating, and my only hope.
At my lowest, I accept a dangerous job from a killer. Problem is, my employer doesn’t plan on letting me survive the night.
That’s when Lanzo makes me an give myself to him and he’ll save my life.
Soon, the teasing, the close proximity, and the bickering turn into something twisted when I visit his room in the middle of the night. I need comfort, and Lanzo’s happy to provide.
Our relationship tangles into a tight knot. The more I take from Lanzo, the more I need him.
It’s selfish, but it feels too good to stop.
And the worst part is, no matter how dangerous things get, Lanzo won’t let me go, not until he gets what he wants.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Renata
I had no idea cleaning up after my new boss would involve a dead body.
The motel room smells like disinfectant and vinegar. A cigarette’s still burning in the ashtray, nearly down to the filter now, and the water’s running in the bathroom sink. I stare at a pair of shoes on the floor next to the bed: beat-up sneakers, laces still tied, like he slips them on and off without bending over.
Slipped, actually—got to think in the past tense. He’s dead.
I shut the door behind me. Panic hasn’t hit yet. That’s probably good. I walk closer to the bed but veer away at the last second. There’s an empty beer bottle next to the TV and luggage in the corner. A pair of pants, a dress shirt. Someone packed light, like he didn’t plan on staying long.
I can’t look at the body yet, because if I do, I’m going to lose this lucky calm.
Instead, I shut the water off in the bathroom, though not before splashing some in my face. “Get it together, Ren,” I whisper at the mirror. God, I look tired. Big bags under my eyes. Brown hair with streaky red highlights pulled into a messy bun. I need a shower. A wash day. Anything but this. “Get it together. You’re here for a reason.”
Back into the main room, and finally, I raise my eyes to the bed.
The body’s still there. Hasn’t moved. That’s probably good. Dead bodies shouldn’t move.
I close my eyes, take a couple steadying breaths, think about Grandpop back home in his easy chair, unable to sleep from all the medications, struggling to breathe through the oxygen tubes, then get to work.
My new boss had been explicit when he texted me a half hour ago: head to this room, go inside, don’t freak out, clean up the mess. I figured there’d be used condoms, drugs, maybe a sleeping hooker or something.
Instead, a corpse.
I begin to roll the body up in the blankets.
He’s youngish. Thirties, if I had to guess. Maybe early forties. Sandy brown hair, thick eyebrows. Thin, like he’s a runner or a junkie. Baggy jeans, socks on his feet. Button-down shirt askew. I can’t tell what killed him—there’s no blood. No trauma anywhere. Only he smells terrible.
This is not normal. Not remotely normal. Nowhere in the realm of normal. Except I have to do it. I untuck the blankets, roll the body from side to side, until he’s wrapped up like a burrito. A corpse burrito. I laugh once sharply and realize I’m crying. I don’t remember when that started.
Then I puke on the floor.
“Not great,” I groan, wiping my mouth. Spitting to get the taste of bile off my tongue. Some woman like me is going to clean this up. A girl that’s been working too hard for too long. I almost feel bad.
But then the corpse burrito loses its balance and flops onto the floor.
I puke again.
It takes me a few minutes to get myself together. I’m spinny, head light and dizzy. I’m tempted to see if there’s another beer in that minifridge, if only to steady me a bit, but drinking and dealing with bodies probably isn’t a good mix.
I’m not in a healthy place right now.
“Money,” I whisper, walking around to the corpse burrito. I begin to drag him to the door, not sure how the hell I’ll get it to my car without being seen, but at least it’s two in the morning. The parking lot was dead when I came inside, the road quiet, nobody around. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
“Money,” I say again, grunting with the effort. I picture Grandpop’s face in my mind: shining blue eyes, square jaw, short forehead, bushy hair, wrinkles around his thin lips. I have to remember why I’m doing this, or else I’m going to lose it completely. “Money, money, money.” It’s a chant, like a song.
I almost reach the door.
Then someone knocks.
I straighten up, breathing hard, before clamping my hands over my mouth to keep a scream inside. How the hell is this happening right now? There’s another knock, more insistent this time.
“I know you’re in there,” a man says. “I know you’re in trouble. Open up and I can help.”
I stand very, very still.
Still holding back a scream. If I move my hands, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop screaming.
This wasn’t part of the deal.
My new boss said he’d give me a hundred grand to show up at this rundown motel on the edge of Dallas, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and clean up his mess.
He didn’t specific corpse removal.
He never said there’d be other people involved.
Finally, the panic hits in force.
I close my eyes. The corpse burrito lies on the floor behind me. Tears leak down my face, dripping onto the front of my zip-up hoodie. I’m fucked, beyond fucked. I knew getting involved with this shady guy was a bad idea, knew the kind of money he was throwing at me is reserved for extremely illegal activities only, but I didn’t care.