Spotless

(Just so you know, I practice Spanish watching Dora the Explorer and playing GTA, so I know how to say backpack, whore, and weed. I hope you’re impressed.)

I like ostriches. There’s a certain depth to their gaze,” he mused quietly.

I’m sorry for being a little tense, Island. I suppose I’m not used to having guests in the front seat. My clients usually ride in the trunk, you know.

I had sometimes met guys who looked like they worked out a lot; however, overly conservative social boundaries had restrained me from tearing their shirts open in public to check the goods.

I processed his words, my lips searching for his clumsily in the dark. I felt his fingers squeeze my neck. And that douche choked me out.

Here’s one secret no one will tell you about getting laid after a date. DON’T TALK. Most girls blame either their looks or excessive timidity for their virginity. This is only true to an extent. These girls are also horribly annoying.” —Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean, 101 Tips to Lose Your Virginity after 25

Never in my life had I wished so hard for a thousand-foot-wide asteroid to change its course to hit someone directly in the face. Granted, it would have wiped out the entire country and possibly caused an impact winter on Earth in the process, but the greater good of mankind was worth some modicum of sacrifice.

Understatement of the year, although I highly doubted March was trying to lure me under the sheets. If he was, then it probably qualified as the second-worst attempt at seduction ever in the animal kingdom—the worst one being, in my opinion, the way some octopuses tear their own penis off and throw it in their girlfriend’s general direction, only for it to swim toward the lady and latch onto her body. No. Just no.

I had seen this in a ton of movies; it always worked. “You’ll have to kill me first!” March’s bluffing skills far outweighed mine: I hadn’t expected him to merely shrug and point the gun at me instead. “As you wish.

March, you are the single most damaged person I’ve ever met, and I include myself in that statement.” “You’re not damaged, Island.” “I’m making small talk with a hit man.

March was nothing like him: his driving was smooth, slow, mindful of other drivers and cute animals crossing, and, to sum it up, completely lame. I mean, stopping on the side of the road to text? Who does that anymore?

As we drove through miles and miles of pine woods, though, I did start to mentally fill a scorching review of March’s chauffeur service. I had no choice but to give him a one-star rating, because this simply wasn’t how you drive when you carry guns and rifles in your car.

His eyes plunged into mine in a way that made me pray I had been right about him not being psycho-killer material. His low, dangerous voice sent an unpleasant chill all the way down to my knees.

As Dries stared at “his” Cullinan the way a pedophile stares at a five-year-old,

My accomplice clearly had unresolved issues with March, because he was encouraging him to satisfy his own mother. (Just so you know, I practice Spanish watching Dora the Explorer and playing GTA, so I know how to say backpack, whore, and weed. I hope you’re impressed.)