Single Lady Spy 01 - The End of Me

the teensy packet under the tissue box. I took one of the tissues and pretended to blow my nose, as I pulled off my heels. I flung my purse in the opposite direction of the belladonna and started to pull clothes off. My back and feet weren’t killing me, as I assumed they would be.
    When I stepped down, my feet spread back out. They hadn’t hurt when I was wearing the heels, but being barefoot was nice.
    I struggled with the zipper on the halter and the clasps of the bra. My fingers were weak.
    I killed a man.
    My first kill; he was dead and I was alive. I killed him to survive. I was no better than Servario, or Coop, or my father.
    I dropped my clothes to the floor and stepped into the ridiculous shower. The whole room was ostentatious, but the shower was like Extreme Home Makeover.
    Six showerheads lined the wall with double-rain showerheads above and steam jets. I turned it all on, as hot as I could take, and tried to let it wash off some of the bad things I let them put on, and in me. I squeezed disturbing amounts of body wash into my hand and started to scrub. I used my nails, raking them over every inch of me. I washed a second time before starting on my hair. I scrubbed until there was nothing left but false lashes, floating on the floor for the drains.
    Under the hot water and hiding in the steam, I let it out. The tears mixed with the rain from above and my back slid down the tiled wall.
    I slumped and rocked and let it hurt for the minute I could give.
    The problem with only having a minute to succumb to the greatest pain you've ever been in, is it hits like a truck.
    I was curled in a ball and rocking back and forth when he stepped in with me. He lifted me into the air and cradled me against him.
    "Not so tough, now are you?" he asked.
    I sniffed and sobbed and let him hold me, "I've never killed anyone before."
    He kissed the top of my head, "If I wasn’t so angry with you for the way you played me, I would say it was the best hit, I have ever seen."
    I didn’t take the pride he was trying to pass me. I ignored it all. I finished crying and looked up at him.
    He set me down, "You okay?"
    I frowned and wiped my face, "Do you care, if I'm not?"
    His eyes were greenish under the light, set off by his tanned face. He shook his head, "I don’t want to."
    I swallowed my hate and nodded, "I sort of assumed that."
    His eyes narrowed, "You are the most dangerous kind of woman in the world."
    I snorted and shook my head. I stepped under the water again, covering my breasts.
    His words turned to a whisper, "You make me want to be worthy of you. That’s a dangerous effect to have, on a man like me."
    I kept my eyes closed and tried to block out the fact, that again he had said the nicest thing ever spoken to me.
    "I don’t want you to be anything but mine," he said and stepped closer, taking the water from me.
    I looked up into his eyes. They had darkened like a storm had rolled in, and he looked like the most dangerous man in the whole world. The difference between us being, that HE was one of the most dangerous people in the world and I was a yoga-addicted widow.
    His arms wrapped around me, pulling me in. He bent and kissed the top of my head, "I don’t want to have to kill you to make this feeling go away, Evie."
    His words made me instantly sick. I was at my threshold for disturbing shit.
    "Don’t make me love you," he muttered, "Because it will end badly for us both." He finished washing and left the shower.
    The trembling housewife was back instantly. I held myself and tried to come up with a plan.
    When I left the shower, my clutch was emptied onto the counter. I had assumed he would go through it, but I sort of expected him to put it back like he hadn't. My clothes were gone and in their stead was a sexy, silk nightgown. I sighed and stepped into the body dryer on the wall. I lifted my arms and pressed the on button.
    I ran my hands through my hair, maximizing the hot air's effects. I needed to be a bitch. I needed to nag him and whine, and make him see the real me. I had the ability to drive my husband into the arms of every woman we knew. I was badass at not being loved.
    The hot air spared something inside of me. Something that made me want to finish it. The death of the fat man was a disturbing guilt that ate at my insides, but the survivalist in me was ready to let that one death slide. She was ready to finish this and get her family back. I liked my survivalist's instincts.
    I slipped on the