"Oh, fuck off. You noticed. All that yummy caramel skin. You noticed."
"I saw a biker jacket and a dog feasting on human flesh. And the boxes. That was it. I didn't really get to ogle anyone."
Astrid's hazel eyes rolled. "What is the purpose of life if you can't take a second or two out to eye-bang a hot guy?" she shot at me.
Astrid liked men.
Mostly looking at them, hitting on them, and then never following through.
And the men, well, they certainly liked Astrid right back.
She was gorgeous in her somewhat rocker-chic way with her long bob of coppery brown hair, her tendency toward leather pants and tight shirts with no bra that allowed you not only to see nipple but the little barbells that poked out of them as well.
And she just had that vibe.
That sensually confident vibe.
Men didn't see sex in layers like women did. If they could, they would know the second she stabs her little claws into them that there was no way she was going to end up on her back in their bed
Sex, attraction, lust, men.
It was all a power play for Astrid, built on a lifetime of fucked up shit that made her always feel powerless.
Little girls didn't stay little forever.
Hurt little girls didn't hold bruises on their flesh for the rest of their lives, wrapping their pain in fear and shame.
No.
They became women with claws and teeth and a thirst for blood.
Even innocent blood.
Though, if you asked Astrid, the concept of an innocent man was an oxymoron.
No man, not even the one in the seat beside her, was someone she'd call innocent.
And, in his case, I'd have to give her that one.
Camden was, well, Camden.
Tall.
Dark.
Handsome.
Lethal.
Mute.
The thing is, he didn't even need to speak, to regale you with his war stories, to make you aware of how dangerous he was, how bloody his hands were, how not innocent he was.
Everyone vibed.
Astrid sex-vibed.
Camden death-vibed.
I was half surprised that plants didn't simply wither and die when he walked past them.
"He was hot, right, Cam?" Astrid asked, watching the side of his face.
Watching because she knew he would never answer with words.
He didn't.
Couldn't, maybe.
We had no idea. If he was mute because it was a medical condition, or that he simply chose not to speak. All we knew was he didn't. Even in all the years he and I had been working together, I had never heard a peep from him other than a hiss of pain when he took a knife in the fleshy bit right between this third and fourth rib.
Cam's head turned slightly, giving her a half-raised brow and eye-roll, something we both knew to mean something to the effect of You've got to be fucking kidding me or I'm not involved in this conversation.
Astrid huffed, falling back into her seat, facing forward.
"He was hot."
"There will be other hot guys for you to toy with," I assured her. There always were.
It was kind of lucky - kind even - that she only toyed with the hot ones. The ones who got enough ass that they didn't find themselves overly put-out by her eventual rejection. She didn't go for the easy targets, the shy guys in the corners, the middle-aged, balding, waistband-bursting divorcees. She wasn't cruel. Just impulsive. Compulsive even at times.
She couldn't help herself.
And she had come so far since I'd gotten my hands on her that it felt unfair to try to push her too hard too fast.
Someday, she would get control over it.
But that was not today.
And I couldn't be annoyed that she was more concerned about the biker we'd just robbed than the fact that the job we'd been hired to do was almost done after several long, frustrating weeks.
"We're ditching this car on the next right," I reminded Cam even though he had a better memory than even I did.
I was just hyped up still.
I'd been hiding in the damn bushes for nearly an hour, half worried about losing a toe or fingertip to frostbite if someone didn't show soon.
We'd been expecting more men, to be perfectly honest.
Two or three at least.
It was why Cam was driving and I was on the property even though Camden was a faster runner, a stronger fighter. At least when it came to men. He was bigger, stronger.
But me, I was the tits and ass.
Maybe I shouldn't have felt comfortable admitting that. Maybe it should have made me feel like I was setting feminism back a couple decades.
But the fact of the matter was, nothing worked quite as well at disarming a group of horny guys than a good ass or nice tits.
Like it, lump it, it was the truth.
And, as far as I knew, there was no hornier set of men than bikers.
Except maybe college frat assholes. But in my book, those were boys, not men. So they didn't count.