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The only thing I know for sure is the amount of self-control I have to practice as I wait for her to finish her shower. I still can’t believe she is actually a virgin with that body. Men must have been trying and failing for years. What I’ve seen of her so far hints at the whole package—she’s firm, tight, with luscious curves in all the right places, begging to be caressed by a man who knows what he’s doing. Me, in other words.

Here I am, barely stopping short of having to tie myself to the bed when all I want is to kick the bathroom door in, throw her over my shoulder, and show her the difference between watching a pitiful little porn video and experiencing the real deal.

My heart skips a beat at the opening of the door. What the fuck has come over me? Almost breathless with anticipation, all because a girl who never shuts up is about to join me. A girl dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants countless sizes too big, a girl whose body moves underneath all that cotton, somehow more tempting than if she were wearing skimpy lingerie. Because now my imagination has to do the work for me.

Her tits sway slightly with every step she takes, unencumbered by a bra, her nipples poking at the fabric before she scrambles into bed and covers herself with a blanket like it’s her last line of defense. Was I staring? Probably. Not that the idea bothers me. She knows by now that I’m not exactly disinterested. What’s the point of tiptoeing around the subject?

If she inches any farther away from me, she’ll end up on the floor. “I don’t bite,” I tease, turning off the lamp on my side of the bed and plunging the room into darkness.

“Maybe I do. Maybe I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“How’s the head?”

“Functioning. It doesn’t really hurt anymore.” I hear the uncertainty in her voice, and she soon reveals its origin. “Are you sure it’s safe for me to go to sleep?”

“You’re fine.”

“Because I’m a little nervous,” she babbles, as if she needed to announce it. “Talk to me. I don’t want to go to sleep right away.”

I can think of other ways we could keep ourselves awake if she’s that worried. Rather than torment her, I ask, “What should I say?”

“Anything. Tell me about yourself.” Now uncertainty has been replaced by curiosity. Dammit. I walked straight into this trap. “You know so much about me, but I don’t know anything about you.”

“Did you ever think maybe I prefer it that way?”

“Did you ever think it’s kind of unfair?”

“This situation has nothing to do with fairness.”

In a flash, she flips over to face me. My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, meaning I can catch the steely determination etched across her delicate features. The narrowed eyes, the tightened jaw, the lowered brow. “Either you’re going to tell me something about yourself, or I’m going to sing every song I know at full volume until you’re begging me to stop. Your choice.”

I would call her bluff if I believed she was bluffing, but I don’t. “Please. I don’t think I’ve done anything worthy of torture.”

“Then out with it. Tell me about you.”

Why not ask me to learn to live without breathing? It would be about as simple as this is, wrestling with the sensation of having my teeth pulled against my will as I settle back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way her gaze burns into me. It brings to mind lying in the dark in the bedroom I shared with my brother, Theo, telling him the kinds of secrets that are only easy to tell in the dark. Childish shit—whether I would barely pass math, whether he would make the basketball team. Back when we still had the luxury of being kids.

“What do you want to hear?”

“Anything. Where did you grow up and what was it like?”

I sigh, trying to dig up memories that seem like a different lifetime. “I guess I had a normal upbringing. We lived right outside LA. My parents both worked, my brother and I played sports, I hated school, especially math,” I offer, just to get her to let it go. But it’s better that we stop talking. Safer for both of us. There’s no use in getting closer to her or letting her feel close to me. I’m only inviting trouble.

It’s a shame trouble feels sort of nice at the moment. I talked about myself and I’m still alive.

As if she can hear my thoughts, she pushes for more. “You’ve never mentioned a family. Where are they? Do you ever see them? Do they know what you do?”

I should’ve been prepared for this line of questioning. It’s only natural. So why is there tightness in my chest as I put together a response? “My older brother knows,” I blurt out. I normally try not to even think about him, but something about June is so disarming.

“Tell me about him,” she prompts.

For a moment I think about steering the conversation away toward something less personal, but the excited look in her eyes changes my mind. “We were close growing up. I looked up to him. Things went south a few years ago, though. We don’t speak anymore.”

“It can’t have been that bad, whatever it was.” God, she’s so naive. “One of you just has to be the one to make the first move toward rebuilding your relationship.”

Because it’s that simple. “I’m sure you’re right.” It’s quicker and easier than explaining what a stubborn prick Theo is. At least I’ve been very sure in the past. He pushed me to leave the criminal underworld with him, but I refused, certain there is no alternative life for me. Meeting June, spending time with her, makes me wonder whether Theo was right after all. Could I build a life apart from being a hit man?

“What about your parents? What do they think about all of this?”