She didn’t respond. Instead she tilted her hips toward him and his shoulders quivered under her arm. He moved against her entrance and gave an upward thrust, sinking himself fully in one move.

Ava sighed and clenched him.

“Better?” he asked, holding completely still.

She moved against him, needing him to get in motion. “No. More.”

“More?”

She shoved her hips at him. “Yes. Now.”

He held still. “Open your eyes, Agent McLane.”

Her eyes flew open and she glared at him.

A slow smile crossed his face. “I just wanted to be sure I had your attention. Didn’t want you to forget who was in control here.”

Her hips pressed against him again. “You are. Now go!”

His brown eyes narrowed. “Are you just saying that?”

“Dammit, Mason!” She thumped him on the chest.

“You’re ready to move in with me? For good?”

“Yes!”

“We’ll find our own place and let our old places go?”

“Yes! You don’t need to get me into this position to ask me that! I love you. Everything’s good. Now please, move!”

He threw back his head and laughed, making her heart leap to see him so happy. Her man letting go was a rare sight indeed.

“Love you, too, Agent McLane.” He kissed her deeply and got to work.

16

Troy was so tired, he couldn’t see straight.

He consistently couldn’t see straight, he amended. He was used to his vision doing wacky things, but it usually rectified itself within a few moments.

He’d overdone it last night. He’d made every preparation he could and thought through every possible outcome, but it still hadn’t prepared him for dealing with Joe Upton’s dead weight.

Maybe it would have been easier to kill Joe by hanging. Then he could have walked where I needed him to go.

But setting the right scene was important.

His back had seized up, and he’d taken some leftover prescription pain pills. They’d put him to sleep and given him odd dreams. He’d dreamed he couldn’t get Joe out of his house. He’d pulled and pushed and tried everything he could, but the big man wouldn’t budge as he lay naked on the tarp. Upon waking, he’d been in a minor panic, his heart racing as he believed he’d left the man in his home.

Now he stared at himself in the mirror in his bathroom, blinking, trying to get a clear image. The clippers lay on the counter and he picked them up, testing the weight. Some of Joe’s hair fell out of the blades and into his sink. Short black reminders of yesterday’s events. He tapped the clippers on the sink’s edge, ridding it of the rest of the hair and rinsing it down the drain.

Evidence in his home.

He didn’t care. By the time the police pulled their heads out of their asses, and searched his house, it wouldn’t matter. It’d be too late.

Bridge Killer.

Troy snorted. People didn’t kill bridges. He didn’t know whether to be honored or amused. He lifted the clippers to his hair and ran them straight down his part. Brown hair floated around him. He brushed at his head and studied the strip of scalp in the mirror. Crooked. And uneven.

He’d done a half-assed job on Joe. The man had refused to hold his head still and had twisted and turned at every cut. He’d thought about doing it after he slit the wrists, but he wanted Joe to experience the shame and panic over what was about to happen. The head shaving spoke volumes between the two men.

His own shaved head needed to be even, not raggedy and half-done like Joe’s. If he went out in public, he didn’t want to give people a reason to stare.

He buzzed another strip on his head and then spent the next fifteen minutes trying to get every bit off. His clippers weren’t the greatest, and reaching the back of his head turned out to be an exercise in patience and agility.

At last he was bald. He ran a hand over the short stubble, wondering how fast it’d start to grow back. He neatly cleaned up the hair with a tiny broom and tray.

You’re not done, said the female voice in his head.

Swearing under his breath, he strode to his kitchen and removed a utility knife from the multipack he’d bought at Home Depot. Would the police try to trace the one he’d left at Joe Upton’s home? Probably. Where would it lead? To every Home Depot in the Portland metropolitan area? He squinted at the silver tool in his hand, looking for serial numbers or some sort of identifying mark. If there was one, he couldn’t see it.

It doesn’t matter.

Troy unbuttoned his shirt, holding his own gaze in the bathroom mirror. His head looked pale and too small. He’d never realized how much color he had in his face and neck. Now he looked ill. He gave a grimace. Wasn’t that ironic?

His shirt dropped to the floor, and he popped the blade out of its hidden slot by sliding the lever on the handle with his thumb. He eyed the sharp silver triangle. This was going to fucking hurt.

Six strokes. Go quickly. No flinching. Her words encouraged him.

Exhaustion poked at him, suggesting he do it later. Perhaps another nap. He shook his head and gritted his teeth. He flattened his pec with his left first finger and thumb and drew the blade down his flesh in a smooth pass.

His brain screamed and tears flooded his eyes. He blinked them away. Blood flowed from the cut, and he pressed a towel against it to slow the blood.

Joe Upton hadn’t bled.

Don’t stop! she begged.

The towel fell onto the counter as he swiftly made the rest of his cuts. Fire burned on his chest, and he dropped the open blade into the sink. Pain. Pain. Pain. He mashed the towel against his chest with both hands. He wanted to fall to the floor and curl up in a ball.