Текст книги "Skin of a sinner"

Автор книги: Avina St. Graves

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Chapter 22

ISABELLA

Roman’s whistling.

Why is he whistling?

He’s acting like setting fire to two mutilated bodies is an everyday chore for him. It must be because he didn’t hesitate when he took a photo of their IDs, stole their cash and a couple of coupon cards, and then doused gasoline on it along with the rest of them. All while whistling.

I can still feel the cold barrel pressed against my temple and how the man’s hand felt wrapped around my neck. The safety went off a second before the other man went down. Click. The sound plays on repeat.

When Mickey pulled the trigger, I thought I was done for. I was certain the man would call an eye for an eye and take my life.

I guess I should count myself lucky that the person who found me in the bathroom had some qualms about hitting women because he was gentle until he threw me aside.

Less aggressive than I’m used to is more accurate.

The moment he stepped into the bathroom, I froze. My drive to fight disappeared, and the only thing I did was whimper when he pointed the gun at me. I thought I was better than that. Stronger.

It’s mortifying, and both settling and unsettling that Roman can be so calm while committing several felonies after almost dying. It almost makes me feel like I’m the crazy one for being upset by all the gore I’ve witnessed in the past seventy-two hours.

Oh, lord. Has it only been three days?

I should be more upset by the fact I’m becoming the old me who followed him along and jumped when he said jump. But at least I’m sort of fighting him at every turn, and that must count for something.

I hope.

Even though I’m amped up, I bite back a wince with every step I take around the house. I’m now intimately aware of what everyone meant about not being able to walk after. It feels like my insides have been rearranged, and my poor lady parts are throbbing in a good and awful way. I both never want it to happen again, and simultaneously want it to happen on a daily basis.

The whistling stops, replaced by humming. Dear Lord, now he’s singing “Another One Bites the Dust” while washing up in the bathroom. How is he not more stressed about the situation? More freakishly intimidating men might come. Who knows, maybe next time we won’t be so lucky.

I’m moving faster than I have in my life, packing the essential clothing into bags, food, blankets, towels, basic utensils—Christ, what else would we need when we’re running from outlaws and the law?

Running back inside after stuffing more things into the trunk, I find a freshly washed Roman pulling a t-shirt over his head.

Momentarily off balance by the sliver of abs, my eyes focus on the splash of red on his arm, spanning a centimeter. “You’re bleeding,” I gasp. “He cut you? Let me check.”

He wipes it away with his thumb like it’s nothing. “That’s why you shouldn’t roll around on the ground. You get splinters.” He grins.

I narrow my eyes at him, then glance out the front door and to the car. “I’ve packed.”

He looks at me, sticks his head into the room, and says, “Not well enough.”

First whistling, now he’s smirking? Is this what a sociopath does?

“What do you mean?” Following him into the room, I start prattling, “I’ve got food, water, some clothes—"

“You forgot Mr. Mickey Mouse.” He holds up the doll my mother gave me and sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. “I can’t believe you were going to forget about me, Isabella,” he mimics Mickey Mouse.

I snatch Mr. Mouse from Roman and hug the toy to my chest. “Well, I didn’t say I was ready to go.”

Roman hums in disbelief, grabs a duffle bag from the closet, and starts dropping all the hair accessories he bought inside.

“Those aren’t essentials.”

Without looking at me, he says, “You’ve had your turn packing. Now it’s my turn, and you didn’t have me breathing down your neck while you did it.”

I can’t believe we’re having this conversation after I almost died.

I huff like a petulant child and storm back into the living room, doing a once-over of everything we could possibly need.

Oh wait, I forgot the first-aid kit and toiletries.

Five minutes later, I’m stepping into the car while Roman slaps the roof, hooting, “Road trip, baby.”

I’m not sure whether I should be upset or happy about leaving the horror house. I guess I’m pleased that I’m no longer at risk of needing to cultivate my own food, but I don’t like that I’m only leaving out of fear of being murdered—a worse fate than dying from starvation.

Roman’s expert fingers massage my neck while he drives, and his calm—not calm, normal—exterior is the whole reason I’m not hugging my knees, repeating the moment in my head, over and over. The click of the safety, the bang of the trigger, the terror in Mickey’s eyes, because he thought it too.

He thought I was going to die.

Yet, it’s been half an hour, and he’s strumming the wheel, screaming along to whatever plays on the radio as if there wasn’t a threat to our lives an hour ago.

Would I stay with Mickey if I constantly had to look over my shoulder to check if a gun is pointed at me? I mean, it’s only been this one time; he’s never placed me in danger like that before. He even left me for years so I wouldn’t have to deal with the police. He’s been a pretty big advocate of protecting me from danger.

Plus, I heard the conversation Mickey had with that man, and I believe Roman when he said he didn’t know who the man was. Which begs the question, how did they find us to begin with?

I’ve seen Mickey on the phone several times since those guys turned up. Could whoever he’s texting have something to do with it? Wait, who is he even texting? Prison buddies?

Turning down the stereo’s volume, I yell, “Where are we going?”

He drops his hand to my thigh and squeezes. “To get some extra cash.”

I throw my hands up. “That raises more questions while simultaneously leaving my first question unanswered.”

He grins at me. “You turn me on when you use big words.”

“Everything turns you on.”

“Only when it comes to you.” He winks.

“Back to my question. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

I roll my eyes. “The last time you surprised me, you committed double homicide.”

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll outdo myself this time. Make it triple.” He taps my thigh. “Actually, that’s standard. Make it quadruple, and then we’re talking.”

“What do you mean, standard? Have you committed triple homicide?”

He just grins. Grins. He’s meant to be reassuring me. None of his answers calm me in the slightest. How many people has he killed? Do I even want to know the answer to that?

“Mickey,” I say cautiously. “What do you mean by standard?”

He turns to me and blows me a kiss like we’re love-drunk teenagers, then goes back to belting it out to the music, leaving me stewing. I promised myself I would start asking questions, but maybe I’ll leave that to rest. Plausible deniability is in my best interest this time.

An hour later, the sign for Chicago illuminates under the headlights as we turn onto a main highway. “Seriously, where are we going?”

“Just trust me, Princess. Would I let anything bad happen to you?”

I stare at his profile. “Do I need to remind you what happened two hours ago?” And just because I’m in a mood, I add, “I trust you so much, I haven’t jumped out of the car yet.”

His face hardens. “It won’t happen again. And you aren’t fucking going anywhere.”

“How can you be sure about that?” He was so certain that we could stay at the Horror House, but obviously, that’s not the case.

“Because after this, I’m done.”

“What do you mean?” My heart picks up its pace. After what? Done with what? Does he mean done with me? Is he going to leave me again like he—

No. I’m not entertaining those kinds of thoughts. If I can accept that I’m enough for me, then so can he. And if he leaves after getting my name tattooed, then good riddance.

My insecurities got the better of me last time, and I won’t let that happen again. The past three years have taught me if there’s anything that would separate us, it would either be someone else’s doing or if I manage to run fast enough. The former seems more likely than the latter.

“You’ll see.” He grabs my hand and kisses it. “I promise you, just a couple more days, and I’ll go straight.”

I let the silence hang in the air, with the occasional “mmhmm” I send his way when he starts back up with his chatter. I can tell he’s uncomfortable because his rambling doesn’t make any sense, along with his use of movie quotes in his conversation with himself.

I want to fix all this, but I don’t know how to. I want to know the next steps, but I don’t want to make the decisions. Maybe it’s because I’m scared, or maybe I’m just hoping something will land in my lap and the rest of my days will be all happy-go-lucky.

A few hours later, he’s stiff and silent, and I’m sick of sitting in a car. It’s pitch-black outside, and I’m seriously ready to find a bed to crash out on for the next two days.

Mickey pulls us into a rest stop and cuts the engine.

“Why are we stopping?” I’m basically speaking in questions tonight. But it must be asked when a glance around tells me that the only building around us is the dodgy-looking bathroom. Other than that, it’s nothing but woods for miles.

I wanted a bed, not Horror House 2.0 minus the house.

“We’ll rest here for the night. We’re still too close to the house to get a hotel.”

I groan internally and get out of the car without responding. He follows me to the bathroom, standing guard wordlessly. It’s not until we get back inside the tin can that I use my inhaler, then recline my seat to lie down with my back to him.

“No, that’s not happening,” he says the second I shut my eyes.

There’s a violent edge to his voice that I promptly ignore by grabbing a blanket from the back seat. What’s the worst that will happen? He’ll kill me? Tie me up again? I don’t think so.

“Either look at me, or we’re sharing a seat. And I don’t give a shit how uncomfortable that is.”

Actually, I stand corrected; that can go on the list of bad things that could happen. The issue now is whether I play the stubborn card or give in to his demands like the old Isabella. I’m about to choose the former when my nether regions remind me just how sore I am and how much worse this whole lap-sitting thing will be.

“Too late.” Mickey hauls me over before I get the chance to utter another word.

“No, no, no, stop,” I plead, hitting his arms as he arranges my body on top of his, careful not to hit the steering wheel. “You’re hurting me.”

He freezes. “Where?” His gaze is filled with concern and his voice is laced with panic. It makes me feel unnecessarily warm inside.

Damn him.

“Umm.” I’m not about to tell him where. My heating cheeks should be answer enough.

“Where, Bella?” he warns.

When he shifts his leg, I yelp and nearly leap off him from the sudden ache the contact causes.

“Bella,” he muses, walking his fingers across my thigh until he dips between my thighs, where I squirm strategically so my core doesn’t rub against anything. “Is my baby girl sore?” He makes a pleased sound in his chest, skimming his fingers over the part of me I’ve been trying to keep away from him.

“Mickey, I’m serious. It hurts.”

“Fine.” His chuckle brings me anything but relief. “On one condition.”

“There shouldn’t be any conditions to this. I don’t think I’ll survive another round.” My voice rises an octave or two.

“What’s that saying? You break it, you buy it,” he teases. “Well, that only works if I don’t already own it.”

“You do not own it or me, Ro—Mickey Riviera.” I bite the inside of my cheek for the near slip-up. I could say it, and he’d stop with his advances. But what else will stop?

“I disagree.” He places the tiniest bit of pressure on my center, and I push back against his chest to escape his touch. “Do you want to know what my conditions are?”

I burn holes into him with my glare. “What?”

“Kiss me.”

I narrow my eyes. Mickey is never that simple. “What are the caveats?”

“There are none. Kiss me, and I’ll let you go back to your seat.” He’s smirking, and I don’t know if it’s a mischievous smirk or a cocky one.

“Okay.” I quickly peck him on the cheek and scramble to get away, but his vice-like grip around my waist becomes steel.

He presses his lips to my ear and lightly circles my sensitive nub through my tights. The friction is enough that I can feel the heat of his fingers through the thin material. “It was very generous of me to give you such an easy offer. So I will say it one last time, and you’ll give me a kiss like the good little girl you are. Or else I might decide that your pretty lips would be put to better use…elsewhere.”

His threat vibrates through my body. Somehow, someway, despite how beat up my nether regions are, Mickey manages to make me throb with pleasure.

“Okay,” I whisper, a tremble in my voice.

“Okay, what? You want me to come in your mouth, baby girl? Fuck, I can just imagine what those eyes of yours will look like when you gag. I bet you’re wet—"

“I’ll kiss you,” I blurt out to cut him off.

I don’t need him to know that he is one hundred percent correct about what’s happening downstairs. His praise only adds to my downfall. And waterfall. What would he feel like in my mouth? I never got a chance to feel him, but he looked like he would be silky to the touch. How would—

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Kiss Mickey, that’s all I need to think about right now. Nothing else. No distractions. Just… Just focus on those very kissable lips and keep our hips a healthy distance away from each other.

He raises his brow, eyes alight with amusement. “I’m waiting.”

Here goes nothing.

I lower my lips to his. At first, he doesn’t kiss me back. Then, my breathing stutters to a stop with the force of his kiss. It’s as brutal as the way he fucks. His hands move to thread in my hair, holding me hostage as his tongue dominates my mouth.

Kissing him here feels more intimate than what went down in the woods and the bath—intimacy without the sex. I want this, right? I want Mickey, just under different circumstances and at the right time? I… I don’t know why I’m feeling this way. I haven’t had time to sit in my corner of the world and sort through my thoughts and feelings. But I have to focus on the now.

“This is more than a kiss,” I try to say through his refusal to break it.

“Shut up, Bella.” His gravelly tone curls down my spine.

He bites my lip and angles my body to deepen the kiss, but it hurts. Not my lips, but my goddamn abused bits, rubbing up against the harsh material of his jeans and solid muscles, making me want to scream.

I tense with a pained whimper, and he stills.

“Did I hurt you?”

That’s a loaded question. “Yes. I kissed you, like we agreed. Now, can I please lie on my side so I can attempt to make a full recovery.”

Mischief gleams in his eyes. “On two conditions—Three.”

If looks could kill, the one I’m giving him would be considered second degree homicide. “I swear to God, Mickey—"

“Keep your claws to yourself until you hear what I have to say.”

Sighing, I cross my arms and lean away from him. “What?”

“You can stay on your side of the car if you face me while you sleep and hold my hand.” Mickey says it with his deep voice and that unhinged sparkle in his eye, but all I can think about is how I used to make the same request to my mother. “Do we have a deal?”

I nod hesitantly.

“Shake on it.” Mickey holds his hand out.

Narrowing my eyes, I take his hand before he can pull it away and turn this into a germaphobe’s nightmare. I still have trust issues after he quickly spit on it and slapped our hands together when I was twelve. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever felt.

“Good.” He releases me, motioning to my seat as if I’ve been dismissed. Such a little shit.

The journey back to my side of the car is less than graceful. A whole bunch of awkward positioning of limbs and less than ceremonious grunts. Oh, and a brutal slap to my ass.

Once there’s no pressure on my backside, and I’m protected by the blanket’s warmth once again, I try to pay attention to something other than Mickey. But there’s nothing else to look at but him because condensation coats the windows, so there’s no way to know if anyone is standing outside.

There isn’t a doubt in my mind that if anything were to happen, Mickey would risk his life to save me. That kind of knowledge makes falling asleep easier, but the longing in his stare chases the prospect of rest away.

“Hand, Bella,” he scolds.

“But it’s cold.”

I shook on it, and it’s a cardinal sin to break what has been shaken on.

He mutters something under his breath and drags another blanket to the front seat so it covers both of us. Without waiting for me to give him my hand, he shoves his arm beneath my blanket and fumbles around until our fingers are intertwined, and then he grunts his approval.

We’ve been through Hell together, and like he promised, he came back for me. I’m giving him a hard time, but I still want to be wherever he is. As I stare at his profile and let the sound of breathing calm my racing nerves, I realize something; he feels like cocoa in the winter and the first sign of color in the fall. And when I’m around him, I feel like sangria in the summer and daffodils in the spring.

We’re polar opposites, but work so perfectly together.

Or maybe so tragically.

“Goodnight, Princess.”

“Goodnight, Mickey.”

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter 23

ROMAN

“I’m just saying, if we were ever in a Mad Max and Aliens situation, we’d be sorted. I’d set us up a nice ride—maybe steal a Tesla, go electric—and we’ll be crusin’ around the country, just you and me. I mean, it would suck because there probably wouldn’t be any radio, and we’d have to hunt our own food—lucky we have the house—but I think we have a serious chance of survival.”

Bella mumbles a non-committal “Yup,” while reading the back of a chip packet, which she follows up with a cute little frown. “The Tesla would be useless without electricity.”

So she was listening to me. Good. “We’ll head to South America, so I can be a cooler Indiana Jones, and you can be Jane.”

Bella still doesn’t look up from the packet she’s been reading for the past ten minutes.

The great news is that her hair is back in her signature pigtails—but she didn’t want my help. So that pissed me the fuck off this morning.

Fuck baby steps. Why isn’t she madly obsessed with me yet?

“Jane’s from Tarzan, and please don’t compare yourself to Indiana Jones. You’ll never win.”

Test number two: Passed.

Wait, actually, no. Now I’m a little bit jealous. What the hell does she mean that I can’t win against Harrison Ford?

That’s it. She’s banned from watching movies with him in it.

All morning, Bella has been either ignoring me or giving me her very obviously distracted attention. I’m inclined to pull over and make her give me her full attention, but she’s lucky that we’ve got an appointment to make, and we’re already late.

It's time to change tactics and say something that will really get her going. Pull out the big guns, as they say. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. While in prison, I read this book that said that when snakes lay eggs, you should always spin and tip the eggs a couple of times to help them grow strong.”

I bite back my grin and wait for her to explode.

She drops the bag and looks up at me with crazed eyes. “You’ll kill it if you do that!”

Bingo.

Yes, Princess, I very painfully remember the YouTube phase you went through. I had to sit and watch hours of egg-hatching and snake breeding videos. Weirdo. I’m practically traumatized—but I still didn’t hesitate to get the Mojave ball python tattooed on my wrist.

Christ. The things I’d do for this girl.

And to this girl.

Note to self: Once we pull over, Google how long she needs to recover so we can go another round or two.

“The book also said that if you see mold growing, run it under hot water and use a toothbrush to clean it.” I’m trying so hard to hide my grin, but damn it, I’m failing. She’s just too easy to rile up.

Over hypothetical snake eggs, of all things.

“Mickey!” she gasps, like I killed a dog or something. I’m not sure why she’s acting like either of us will be breeding or raising a clutch of snake eggs anytime in the foreseeable future, but I guess she’s preparing for the unlikely event it does happen. “No! You can’t do that. You’ll damage the shell and risk hurting the snake. You could kill it,” she says with haunted eyes. “You have to sprinkle antifungal powder to try to save the egg.”

So much passion in such a little body.

I pinch her cheek, and she slaps my hand away—as expected. So I send her a wink. “I’m just egging you on. No baby snakes are being harmed. Promise.”

“Snakelet. Not ‘baby snake.’” She scoffs, doing a cute nose scrunch. “It’s like saying baby dog instead of puppy.”

Out of everyone, I find Bella the easiest to read. Glaring and nose scrunching usually means she’s angry. Red cheeks and fluttering lashes mean she’s feeling flustered. Who knows what the fuck the rest means. She usually gives me a piece of her mind and fills in the blanks for me.

My phone buzzes for what has to be the tenth time in the past half hour. I check the GPS and slow down to a stop in front of a block of decrepit apartments.

Damien sticks out like a sore thumb in this shitty neighborhood, leaning against his bike like an A-class predator. I’d say we’re pretty equal on the hunter scale, but at this moment, I’m envious of the prick; I want to feel the wind around me as I ride my goddamn bike.

But, I gave it up for Bella.

I’m driving a 2006 Toyota pickup instead of the other love of my life, my BMW GS.

“Why are we here?” the main love of my life asks.

“To get IDs.”

She stares at me, mouth ajar. “This was the surprise? You seriously couldn’t have told me this last night.”

I shrug, grabbing my gun from the glove compartment. “It didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Are you kidding me? We’re on the run because someone almost murdered me, then you started driving us to God knows where at night, and you didn’t think telling me where we were going was important?”I pause with my hand on the door, glaring at her because the reminder of the fucker holding a gun to her head sets me off. I should have kept stabbing him, or beaten his sorry ass up before he died.

“Sorry. Well, now you know.” I’m out of the car before she can blow up. Unless I cool my shit, we’ll probably have another murder on my hands.

I still. Wait, I was meant to Google something. Shit, what was it? I remember it’s something really important. I narrow my eyes at Bella, hoping she’ll inspire my memory.

Oh, that’s right.

I pull my phone out and type my question into the search bar. Pursing my lips, I tip my head from side to side. Three to four days until she’s recovered. I can live with that.

Barely.

Bella doesn’t waste time running to me, darting her watchful gaze up and down the street until she settles on Damien. Other than him, the only people around are the kids biking and playing farther up the street.

Rico’s brother nods at me. It’s a good thing Damien looks nothing like his annoying ass brother. Different mothers or something like that.

Damien’s all slicked-back hair and dead eyes. Whereas Rico’s got a buzz cut, and he’s like a dog that doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up.

I stand up straighter when Bella grabs onto me, leaving no more than a foot between us.

“Who is that?” she whispers under her breath.

“An acquaintance.” I’m sure as shit not about to call him a friend. I doubt he’d call me anything other than a person he knows. But I’ve got to admit that I still trust Damien more than his punk of a brother.

I’ve known Damien for five years. He’s a runner of some kind (I like to call him bitch boy, which he doesn’t appreciate) for the Alvarez Cartel, traveling over state lines for one thing or another. Damien got me doing some jobs for him on and off for extra cash; get money from this guy, fuck up that guy, win this thing, drop that thing off.

In principle, I don’t fuck with gang business, and he knows I have no loyalties with the Alvarez, but there’s no questioning that it pays damn well. It’s the only reason I’ve been able to spoil Bella.

And because I wouldn’t trust the cartel with two-week-old pizza, let alone personal information, until yesterday, I’d never mentioned Bella to him. Rico probably told him, though, and Damien strikes me as someone smart enough to do his research before getting into business.

Damien makes no move to greet us as we approach. He doesn’t need to take his glasses off for me to know he’s staring at me blankly. The man only has two settings: bored and angry.

“Riviera.” Even his voice sounds bored.

“Reyes.”

He looks at Bella for a beat too long, so I glue her to my side by an arm around her shoulder.

Actually, hey, that’s an idea. Maybe I could cuff us together so she can never leave my side (aka, she’ll have no choice but to shower with me). I’m a genius. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?

“Your contact?” I grind out when Damien continues to stand still.

Typical fucking criminals refusing to share their contacts so they can get a cut. I mean, Damien won’t expect anything, but he’ll want the person to know he referred me to them.

Without another word, he walks toward one of the three-story apartments. The guy unnerves me with how quiet he is, but at least he doesn’t run his mouth like Rico. And Damien can actually throw a decent punch. I’ve been in the ring with him a couple of times and became intimately aware of how good it feels to have my nose broken by his fist.

Bella sidesteps the trash and random shit on the stairs as we climb up the three-story building. Laundry hangs over balconies, and people sit on plastic chairs next to their open doors, smoking and having their morning beer.

On the third floor, Damien removes his glasses and leads us down the walkway to the second apartment from the very end, which happens to be the only apartment with a camera in front of its door. Whoever owns it painted the camera the same color as the walls, but it's hard to miss when a single, black, beady eye is staring right at you.

I tug Bella behind me to get her out of view. Damien tracks our movements but, as expected, he doesn’t say a thing.

Before his knuckles hit the door, it swings open, and I instinctively reach for my gun.

“You’re late,” the little thing behind the door snarls, hands on her hips, teeth bared, looking more murderous than I feel.

She’s a five-foot-something package of loathing, with bleached white streaks at the front of her hair, glaring daggers at Damien. Bella’s pretty tall for a girl—small compared to me—but Damien’s contact must come to Bella’s chin. Hell, she looks about our age, too.

Her freakishly blue eyes snap to me, and her scowl deepens. The fuck is her problem?

“Come in,” the aspiring demon snaps. “I’ve got better shit to do than wait around for you two assholes.” She narrows her eyes at my girl, who’s stepped out from behind me. Her scowl drops, and she dips her chin at Bella. “The name’s Connie.”

Oh. So the Oreo-haired girl knows how to play nice, after all?

My princess gulps. “Isa.”

Connie steps back to let us in, sneering extra hard at Damien as he passes. His only reaction is a dismissive glance her way.

The door locks behind us, causing Bella to jump and huddle closer to my side. The mouse is eyeing Damien and the dark room, where the only light comes from the locked computer monitors. Connie pushes a button, and a photography setup in the corner of the living space comes to life.

Connie crosses her arms and stares me down while Bella shifts her weight. “So what do you need?”

“IDs.” I almost jump when Damien answers for me. Since when the hell does this guy speak voluntarily?

She whips her head to him. “I wasn’t fucking asking you, now was I, Reyes?”

His eye twitches, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Passports, driver’s licenses, and birth certificates. For the both of us,” I say, because fuck that guy for talking for me. I was planning on just a driver’s license, because decent fake shit is expensive, but the guys from yesterday made me realize that we need some extra precautions.

“What grade?” Connie’s expression is all business.

“The best.”

“Can you pay?”

I pull out a fat wad of cash from my pocket.

She nods, studying the stack like she’s trying to count how many bills I hold. A lot, that’s how much I’m handing over. Inflation hurts criminals, too.

Which also means I have to make up the money somehow.

Connie unlocks her computer, and one of her five monitors lights up. “Name?”

“Michael Key.” I grin at Bella, waiting for her to get the joke.

Connie types the name and raises a brow at Bella.

She gives me an are you kidding me? look. “Um.” Pigtails bites her lip and looks around like she’s trying to find inspiration. “Alice.” In Wonderland—one of her favorite movies. “Uh, Benson?”

“Key,” I correct.

Connie jerks her head from the computer. “What? Are you siblings or something?”

I glower, and Damien shifts forward. “Put her down as my wife.”

Bella scrunches her nose. “What?”

Connie glances from Bella to me, then back to Bella. “So you’ll need a marriage certificate and a name change certificate as well?”

“No.” What we’re already getting is expensive enough.

Connie shrugs. “Figured if you’re starting fresh with a good product, you’ll need a solid cover.”

Little shit has a point.

“Fine, Alice Benson,” I say.

“Alice Olivia Benson,” Bella says.

So that’s where she got the last name. “You are not naming yourself after a character from Law & Order.”

Pigtails frowns and crosses her arms, feeling emboldened by the glare Connie is giving me. “Why not?”

Christ, the attitude on this girl.

“Don’t you support her on this.” I point at Connie and direct my attention back to Bella. “If you’re trying to have a convincing cover, you don’t name yourself after a TV show.”

She narrows her eyes at me and looks at Connie as she confidently says, “Alice Rosa Benson.” Then she mutters, “Rosa Diaz is just as cool.”

This woman. I shake my head internally.

The silence that follows grates as Bella and I take turns standing in front of the camera. Damien never once takes his eyes off Connie as she moves around the apartment, checking photos and writing the names and ages we want.