It’s kind of funny to think of my mild mannered, buttoned up and a little nerdy father running with a motorcycle gang. He probably had a coronary when Mr. Johansson told Dad he needed the extra help because of the Wulven Kings. I bet the look on his face was priceless. I giggle over that as I twist apart another Oreo and cram the chocolate pieces into my mouth, only to jump clear off the table and nearly choke when I hear, “You always eat your cookies like that?”
I spin around and search the dimly lit room for the voice, and when my eyes land on a dark corner and the silhouette of a man, I have to fight the urge to scream.
“It’s just me, Sofie,” Snipe says with a small smile as he steps out of the shadows. “Don’t need to freak out and call for help.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” My heart is pounding in my ears, and at first it was because I wasn’t alone when I thought I was, but now it’s for an entirely different reason.
“You scared of me, Sofie?”
I shake my head, a small smile pulling at my lips now that I know he’s not a murder trying to sneak up on me. “You surprised me, but I’m not afraid of you.”
“No? Not even a little?”
“Not the least bit.”
Snipe walks over slowly, a touch of swagger to his gait until he stops on the side of the table, across from me. Those hazel eyes, almost a marbled green and gold and brown, search my face for a beat before they glance around the room, giving me a chance to unashamedly check him out with decent lighting and no distractions.
His hair is so red, a fire engine red with natural orange highlights, and the light beard he’s sporting matches it perfectly. Snipe’s eyes are so pretty, so striking and unique they make me think of stained glass, and they’re surrounded by the thickest orange lashes I’ve ever seen. And the rest of his face? Snipe is beautiful in an edgy way, with the sharp lines of his nose and jaw a contrast to soft pink lips, his porcelain skin covered in freckles but hidden by the scruffy beard.
And the man works a leather jacket and jeans like he was born to do it.
Snipe isn’t wide or bulky like some of his friends, but his build is athletic; six-foot-one or two, probably two-hundred and fifteen pounds, and I’d have to be blind to miss the obvious ripples of defined pecs and a six-pack underneath that snug white t-shirt.
I wonder if he has tattoos.
Mac and Gus have a few that I could see. Some on their hands, a matching one on the side of their necks, and a few of the other guys I saw have them as well. The one in the ball cap was well on his way to covered, the dirty Viking had a couple, but I can’t tell if Snipe has any. Cliché or not, I find the tattooed biker bad boy very attractive and if this particular bad boy fits that description, I’ll be in even more trouble than I already am.
“Is this where you keep the bodies?”
I blush as Snipe meets my stare with a knowing smirk. Looks like I just got busted checking him out.
“No.” I shake my head and fidget with another cookie. “There’s a morgue down the hall where we keep them while they’re waiting for the next step.”
“Next step?” he asks as he does a slow turn, taking in the entire room before he starts walking along the wall full of chemicals.
“Depending on the case, the body goes to the morgue first to wait for my dad to either do an autopsy or start the embalming process. Both of those take place in here, as does the postmortem makeovers, and once we’re done, they go back to the morgue and wait for whatever their final arrangements are.”
“Postmortemmakeovers?”
Snipe smirks as he arches a brow at me, and I can’t help but giggle. “Maybe that’s not the best way to put it, but once my dad and I are done, my friend Harlow preps the body for the funeral. Hair, makeup, outfit; she handles all of that and makes the dearly departed look as close to living as possible.”
“So, no bodies in here unless you’re working on them.”
“Right.”
I watch Snipe continue inspecting the chemicals, the various containers and tools on the counters. His gaze wanders over the cupboards, occasionally peeking inside one or two, checking out the sinks and tubs, then scanning the desk as he comes around to my side of the table.
Snipe stops next to me, his back to the cold steel, propping his perfect butt on the edge and resting against it as he grins. “And I’m assuming it doesn’t faze you that your Cookies are sitting in the same place a dead body was a little while ago?”
My face heats as I look away and bite my lip.
I never really thought about how that would look to someone who doesn’t work here.
Well, I mean, Ihavethought about it, but not since I was in school and got made fun of for being theweird girl who helped her dad play with dead people. The other kids were never very kind when it came to what my dad does for a living or the fact that I’ve always assisted. I was pretty much shunned, considered an outsider and a freak because we owned the funeral home, and sometimes my classmates were really mean with what they’d say. At one point, they even started a rumor that my mom left because my dad was into necrophilia.
Kids were mean, I was a freak, and my only real friend through all of it was Harlow, even though she was incredibly popular and had tons of other friends.
Eventually I stopped listening to what other people said and came into my own, and by the time I was in high school, people lost interest in me and my morbid lifestyle, caring even less after graduation, so this sort of thing hasn’t really come up since then.
