Page 3 of Trigger Happy

Lawton plucks the toothpick from his mouth as he saunters forward and tosses it into the aquamarine water. “Dead guy’s name was Popeye? He seems more like a Jaxon with an x.”

“No,” I say, ignoring the way his low, raspy drawl melts into my skin. It’s always had that unfortunate effect on my body. “Popeye’s the flamingo. Bryce is the floating corpse.”

“Ah. Makes more sense,” he says, cowboy boots clacking on concrete.

He steps into a drop of blood, smearing it all over the crime scene. My eye twitches. It’s like he’s trying to leave DNA evidence for the cops to find. There’s no finesse. No concern. Lawton simply walks through life expecting fate to bend to his will.

It’s infuriating.

I have to stick to a strict 130 grams of protein per day on the not-so-off chance I might have to strangle a man twice my size.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, snapping on the plastic gloves I stashed in my tote. “I’d already slipped cyanide in his IPA, so feel free to flit off to your dusty farm.”

“Ranch,” he corrects, shaking his head. “And only you, Chastain, only you.”

“Only me what?”

“Only you would say ‘flit’ instead of ‘fuck off.’ ” He smacks a hand to his broad chest. “And shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

The sheer arrogance. “Why would I thank you for contaminating my crime scene?”

“For shooting that fucker.” Something dark and ominous overtakes his expression as he glares at the floating corpse, and I think he’s about to put another bullet in him, but then he blinks, and that tilted smirk is pasted back on his lips. “I saved you. You’re welcome.”

“Saved me?” I scoff. “Did you think I’d let him suffocate me with his Patagonia vest?”

“Now, that’d be fun to watch.” He snaps his fingers, and a memory lights up his face. “Remember when I choked that murderer dentist with floss? Admit it, that got you a little wet.”

“The only time I’ve been ‘wet’ in your presence is when we both got tagged to take out that stalker hunting the meteorologist during Hurricane Ida,” I say, tossing him an extra pair of plastic shoe covers. “Put these on. I don’t want you tracking mud everywhere and leaving evidence. Actually, just toss those boots in the recycling bin.”

“Never.” He snatches them, careful not to touch my skin. “Really, Chastain? Packing an extra pair of shoe covers in case you run into another assassin? Way to stay on-brand. I’ve never met a more neurotic killer.”

My parents always said you can only control what’s in your control, which starts with planning for the unknown, but I’m not about to have a heart-to-heart about the importance of preparation with a man who once vacuum-sealed a dead body in his luggage and checked the bag. He only got away with it because of the fake address, but it was all over the news. UNKNOWN TRAVELER FORGETS CORPSE IN BAG.

“It’s kept me alive this far.” Ignoring him, I pluck the SIM card out of Bryce’s phone. I’ll microwave it later. “Hand me the hydrogen peroxide. It’s in my Bottega.”

“I don’t know what that is.” He cracks his neck, then lazily stretches his arms above his head, revealing a dusting of hair at his navel.

“My tote.”

A cocked brow.

“My purse.”

He digs through it and pulls out one of my snacks, grimacing. “You brought hard-boiled eggs with you? Nasty, Chastain. That’s serial killer behavior.”

“I need to hit my macros,” I say. “Besides, it’s only serial killer behavior if you peel eggs on a plane.”

“Can’t argue with you there.” With a shrug, he pushes up the sleeves of his leather jacket and starts dragging the body out of the water, the veins in his forearms straining with the motion.

I fold my arms, watching his every move. I don’t trust this man. The Montoyas and Chastains go together about as well as Dom Pérignon and Frito pie.

It’s ironic because in the sixties, our grandfathers were partners. The Deadly Duo, people called them. If you needed someone gone, they could make it happen without a trail. But everything changed after a standoff-gone-wrong when Grandpa Montoya put a bullet in mine. It was an accident, but it murdered our partnership. After that, Mom always said you can only trust a Montoya to kill you.

And then there’s the thing we don’t talk about.

“What do you want to do with this asshole?” he says, nudging the soaking-wet body with his boot.

“I was planning on throwing him in a hot tub full of lye.”