Page 11 of Twisted Control

I practice my smile in the mirror. It looks forced and brittle.

I try again, but the feeling is the same: slipping back into that role feels like forcing myself into a beautiful dress that no longer fits quite right. The fabric is still lovely, still exactly what everyone expects me to wear but it’s tight in all the wrong places now, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep pretending it’s comfortable.

I stare at my reflection and force my lips into that well-practiced smile once more.

I can do this.

4

DREW

Itighten my tie, drag a hand down my face, and let out a slow breath. The last thing I want to do today is work. I got maybe two hours of sleep, not that I regret a single second of it.

I’d rather still be in bed, but when Ray says “pack a bag and go,” you don’t ask questions. You get in the car and drive.

So here I am, crawling up this ridiculous hill in a car that was never built for it. The undercarriage scrapes on every turn, but I’m too distracted by last night to care.

I still don’t know her name. She wouldn’t tell me.

She’s tall for a woman, killer body, light brown hair that felt like silk between my fingers, and a face that could stop traffic dead. Easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

She looks like an angel. She is anything but.

Bossy. Demanding. A little unhinged. Especially when she pinned me down out of nowhere and made me tell her she wasn’t a starfish in bed. That came out of left field, but…I liked it. I liked all of it.

No woman has ever taken control like that. Never had one lock her thighs around my head until I was tapping out for air.

She was easily the most fun I’ve had in years. I don’t chase women. I don’t do repeats. But for her? I’d burn every rule I have.

Too bad she couldn’t get out of my place fast enough this morning. Bolted like she had somewhere—or someone—to get back to. A boyfriend, probably. Maybe a husband.

Doesn’t matter to me. If he can’t keep her satisfied, that’s his problem. I’m more than happy to pick up the slack.

My phone rings just as I muscle the car around another tight corner. I glance at the screen and hit answer.

“Yeah?”

“You stole my .45?” Levi snaps, already halfway to pissed. “The one with the custom grip. I know you took it⁠—”

I roll my eyes. “I fixed it.”

“You fixed it?” His laugh is sharp. “Fixed what?”

“It was pulling left,” I say. “Grip was loose. You didn’t notice?”

“Notice? It’s my gun. I know how it shoots.”

“With the grip half hanging off,” I say.

“It wasn’t hanging off.”

“You could’ve tightened it with your fingers.”

“You could’ve kept your fingers off my gun,” he says. “Bring it back. I’m not running a job with this piece-of-shit compact.”

“Can’t,” I say, calm as ever. “Got a special gig. Gonna be tied up for a few weeks.”

There’s a beat of silence.