Page 3 of Venomous as a Snake

“Not likely,” I say, closing the bedroom door. “Can you send me one other thing?”

He hums again, his words a seductive purr. “What’s that?”

I snort at him, because outwardly, I need him to know that I’m not one of those women who will ever be goo at his feet. But inwardly, I melt a little more each time he drops his voice to that low octave that screams sex. It’s the tone of filthy promises whispered in one’s ear as they lovingly wrap a hand around my neck. And he knows the effect it has on me.

What I’m saying is… It’s a fucking problem.

“I need a sedative,” I blurt. “Something I can mix with food.”

“Killing the neighbors already?” Drew jokes. “That’s a record.”

“Drugging the latest idiots following me,” I admit.

“Are you making cookies?” he sings.

I narrowed my eyes. “It’s weird how well you know me.”

“Will you send me some back?”

“With or without the drugs?” I tease.

“Both,” he announces, because the choice is obvious. “It’ll be a chocolate chip lottery. Will I pass out or won’t I? Maybe I’ll eat them at your house, so when I’m walking around with a hard—”

“Sure,” I cut in, giggling under my breath. “Send enough to make a dozen, and I’ll send back what’s left. But you’re not eating them at my house. You do your drugs at your place.”

* * *

By the time I’m done putting up the obnoxious amount of groceries Drew ordered for me, the rats have finished running the wires and installing dozens of tiny cameras throughout my house.

Each time I move, they get more efficient at their job.

Drew only hires the best of the best to work for him. Or he attracts the most loyal kind of people. I’m not quite sure. But trust me when I say it has nothing to do with his charm.

He’s vicious on his best days.

And his idea of dirty talk is hearing all the ways I want to fuck Clay over. Or anyone, really… Which is why my drug order is delivered quicker than the groceries. I haven’t gotten the entire story behind Drew’s animosity, though I know it’s about me and what he did.

Within an hour of ending the call with my mate, a seagull lands on my back patio, effortlessly shifting into a tall woman with gleaming strawberry blonde hair. No words are needed, so we don’t speak. She passes me a clear baggie filled with white forget-me-pills. The seagull is back between one blink and the next, flying away as if nothing ever happened.

Nothing is exactly what happened just now.

She knows it, and I do too.

The shimmering water in my pool beckons me to take a dive. Inviting ripples roll over the surface with the breeze. Plump gray clouds promise a midafternoon rain storm. As much as I want to enjoy the change of weather, I have cookies to bake first, then a bedroom to assemble.

Boxes litter the kitchen island, though none of them belong here. I’m not sure where they go, because these are the few that didn’t get a label. I’ll deal with them later.

After rinsing my mixing bowl, preheating the oven, and taking out all the ingredients for cookies… I crush two dozen pills into a fine powder.

I stash the rest in a candle jar under the chunk of wax that slides out when you hit your palm on the side of the mossy green glass. The sweet musk scent fills the kitchen, even without lighting the wicks. I pop the lid back into place, sliding the candle across the top of my fridge to keep it out of the way.

Chocolate chip and sugar cookies are my go-to recipes. The former will get the drugs, because they’re Drew’s favorite. The latter will go to the neighbors as a greeting gift. I’ve found that making introductions before them means they don’t knock on my door unexpectedly. Not as frequently, anyway.

Once I’ve got the dough balls spread out across the greased pans, I ease them into the oven and set a thirty-minute alarm on my phone. That’s enough time to sort through the clothing I left on hangers and wrapped up in a fitted sheet when I left my rental house…

Maybe.

* * *