Page 3 of Riot

“Sup, Oscar.”

“Damn,” Miguel said with a small smile. “Look at you. All grown up now.”

Look at you. Still a predator. Every instinct in my body recoiled. “Happens.”

The tip of Miguel’s cigarette glowed bright before fading again as he took a drag.

“Still working late nights at the laundromat over on Pearl?”

“Something like that.” Not anymore, but I wasn’t volunteering that information. I headed for the kitchen, feeling his eyes follow me the entire way.

Now I wanted a shower. Maybe soak in some industrial-strength bleach too.

The less the creep knew about me, the better. It was already bad enough he knew where I lived. And that question hadn’t been innocent curiosity, no matter how casual he’d made it sound. Miguel asked questions for a reason.

I yanked my phone from my back pocket and texted my friend Niles.

Me: Ramos was released early.

Three dots appeared on my screen.

Niles: Lock everything up! Secure valuables! Don’t panic. Breathe. We survived him once. We’ll survive again. How’s he look? Still gorgeous?

I stared at the screen.

I’m surrounded by idiots. Niles had never met a red flag he didn’t want to climb like a tree.

Me: Keep your lip-gloss and net shirts away from him. He’s a convict. Gross. Gonna throw up in the empty lasagna bowl. Fucker ate my dinner.

Niles: I’ll march right over there and spank him!

Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

Me: Oscar and Miguel are here too.

A pause.

Niles: Never mind. Still creepy?

Had Miguel ever stopped being creepy? Doubtful.

Me: Already asking questions. If I disappear, check his trunk first. Then whatever basement he keeps bodies in.

Niles: I shall search tirelessly until my Pilates class starts. You have my word.

Despite myself, I grinned. He would absolutely abandon me to my fate for an hour with Dale the hot Pilates instructor.

Dale bent over at least six times every class like he knew exactly what he was doing to the gay men in attendance. Not that I’d noticed or anything.

“Wanna beer?”

I nearly dropped my phone at the sound of Miguel’s voice behind me.

Jesus Christ.

The guy always talked like everything was a secret. Low voice. Too close. Like he thought every conversation needed to happen directly against someone’s ear.

My pulse kicked hard as I turned my head. “You scared ten years off my life.”