Twist the Knife (Lost Kings MC #24)

Who am I kidding? Even if Jigsaw can somehow manage to teach me to fuck like a goddess, the only man I’ll ever attract is bound to be in the death business too. Or he’ll be a freaky weirdo who wants me to give him access to bodies to play with like my first boyfriend.

My schedule isn’t really family friendly, either. Do I even want to raise kids in this house? My brothers and I all grew up here. And I was exposed to some terrifying stuff at an early age.

One thing at a time.

Improve bedroom skills.

Try dating.

Then worry about the rest of it.

I finish a few other morning chores, then head downstairs.

“Morning, Dad,” I say, stepping into the prep room.

He’s wearing all the protective equipment today. A stench that even the state-of-the-art ventilation system and action powder can’t contain assaults my nose. I find a stick of odor blocker and dab it under my nose, then slip into my own gear.

“How was the rest of the party?” Dad asks, the respirator making him sound like a sci-fi villain.

“Fun.” At least the parts I remember were pleasant.

“Jensen brought you home with no issues?”

“Yes, he was very nice.” He didn’t even flinch when I propositioned him.

“Good.”

I gesture to the table. “What do we have here?”

My father casts a sad look at the black body bag on the table. “Unattended death. He’d been there a few days. Too decomposed to embalm.”

“How sad.” Unattended death. No family to find him for days.

That’s what’s going to happen to you if you don’t figure yourself out and get better at sex.

“We’re going to need to use a pouch and have the service as quickly as possible,” Dad continues. “Can you start on the arrangements for me? The family should be here shortly. It’s a mother and her daughter. Be gentle with the mother, she’s very emotionally fragile. He was her last sibling.”

I haven’t met them yet, but the weight of their grief is already pressing down on me. “Yes, of course.” I’ll have to think of a nice way to let them know we’ll be placing him in a disaster pouch inside his coffin to contain all the fluids and that there is no chance of an open casket.

“The daughter identified the body, so she’s aware of the condition,” my father adds.

“Poor woman.” How awful to have that be the last memory of her uncle. But how kind of her to spare her mother the pain.

Who will do that for me one day?

Probably no one.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jigsaw

The long ride to Margot’s place soothes my eager soul. Twisting the throttle gives my hands something to do other than burn to touch Margot’s skin. Paying attention to the road and surroundings keeps thoughts of peeling off her clothes at bay.

That all goes to shit the second I see her.

Prim and pretty, Margot steps off the porch and onto the asphalt of the parking lot behind the funeral home. Last time I saw her she was wearing teal and pink. Now she’s dressed in a light-pink, short-sleeved cardigan, with a thin matching pink shirt underneath, and a full, pink swing skirt with layers of ruffled lace swirling underneath.

I rest my helmet on the seat of my bike and tug my gloves off.