Gypsy Freak (All The Pretty Monsters #2)(7)

My eyes move to the damaged side of his face as I start gently dabbing the solution directly onto the wounds. He doesn’t even flinch.

“I’m afraid not. I’m still in debt,” he says, his eyes narrowing as I pull a suture kit from my purse.

Sometimes the satin isn’t enough to close up the wounds, and sometimes it’s too much.

“Time is ticking on by,” Anna says on a huff.

There’s no good angle to stitch the large cut on his forehead, so I plop down in his lap, straddling him as I pull out the sterile, already threaded— He tenses under me, and my eyes fly up to his. “I’m so sorry. Do you have anything to deaden the skin with? I can’t believe I was just about to—”

“I don’t need anything,” he tells me, still feeling tense. I suppose he doesn’t like needles.

I forget normal people don’t stitch themselves together so often without any deadening agents. Then again, he doesn’t fit the criteria for normal either, given the obvious.

Giving him a small warning, I make the first pass with the stitches, and feel better when he doesn’t even blink. I guess he’s been desensitized to pain as well.

“Is this something you usually do from someone’s lap?” he asks me flatly as I lean forward, concentrating solely on what I’m doing.

“Not usually,” I state, realizing now why he’s so tense. “I’ve never done this on someone else before, aside from my mother on occasion.”

He remains a block of stone under me, and now I see it’s because I’m in his lap and making him really uncomfortable.

“Are you really gay or was that a lie like everything else? That’s the important question she can’t remember to ask, apparently,” Anna states, causing his brow to furrow and makes the stitching process harder.

“Anna,” I groan, hurrying the stitches along so I can get up and help him be comfortable again.

Why does she think he’s gay? Is that why he’s so uncomfortable with me in his lap? It’s not a sexual thing; I’m stitching him up.

Vance’s lips twitch, even as he scrubs a hand over his mouth to make them stop. “I’ve given men a whirl to try and appreciate sex again with something new. Not my cuppa,” he answers.

“Okay, now that I have a mental image of him in my head with another man, I’m extremely turned on. Ask him for the favor,” Anna states dreamily.

I don’t. I’ll have to find someone else.

“What favor?” Vance asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Absently, I answer, “If you’re this uncomfortable with me just sitting in your lap, I doubt you want me asking you for this favor.”

I finish the stiches and tie them off before cutting away the needle. When I start to stand, he grabs my hips and drags me against him, forcing my legs to spread wider. I end up abruptly straddling him more thoroughly.

Swallowing a little thickly, I try to ignore the fact he’s certainly into women. Now that I’m pressed right against him, I can feel how hard he’s grown under me, and my breaths come out a little shaky.

Straddling him in this way leaves my eyes lower than his, so he has to look down at me. I’ve never seen a more cunning look so close, and it’s…intense.

“What’s the favor?” he asks again, his grip still firmly holding me in place.

I look away, unable hold his gaze while I answer. Which I don’t get to do, because Anna is blurting shit out before I can use my very well-rehearsed, carefully worded speech.

“We want you to fuck me while I’m borrowing her body,” she says with all the ineloquence I made her promise not to use. “Because you’re pretty, gentlemanly, and have this alpha vibe I really like. Since you’re not gay, why not?”

He finally glances at her, a blank expression on his face, and…then back at me. His grip grows a little tighter as he closes his eyes and seems to be searching for patience.

I snap a glare at Anna, who simply grins at me.

“You jest,” he finally says. I notice his eyes fluttering open from my peripheral.

Toughing out the awkwardness, I meet his eyes at last and hold his gaze. “Anna, give us a second,” I tell her without looking at her.

She fortunately vanishes without argument for once, and Vance tilts his head like he’s studying me.

“Gypsies don’t allow ghosts to possess them,” he says the second she’s gone. “It’s a very dangerous road to give any ghost a powerful gypsy—”

“Since my mother died and her spirit went into hiding, I’ve done a fantastic job of consistently screwing things up,” I say quietly in interruption, swallowing thickly.

His expression grows more serious as his lips thin.

“I know it’s weird to ask something like this—”

“You have no idea just how unusual of a request this is from a Portocale gypsy. Weird is quite the understatement,” he volleys in a dry tone, even as his gaze dips briefly and his grip tightens more, pulling me even closer. “So you’re doing this because you enjoy screwing things up?” he asks, that regular condescension back in his tone.

“No,” I tell him impatiently. “I’m an idiot for thinking I’ll find my mother’s killer when I can’t even find her death spot—”