DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The commodious tepee with hand-stitched scalloped trim and fairy lights domed the bed of mandala embroidered duvets, Aztec patterned pillows and tasselled scatter cushions. A brass double-tier chandelier with multi-coloured glass holders and battery-operated candles hung from the centre poles to give our makeshift home a romantic touch. The lap-sized wooden tray on the knitted pouffe, with rolling papers, crushed marijuana and a box of matches, is a bit of an eye sore.

My date smoked weed when I met him. I will not influence his attitude to life. I have no desire to. If neurotic habits reduce stress, then routine patterns are justifiable.

Hell, I might take his systematic approach to life to distress.

God knows I could do with an escape from reality.

According to Brad, who had never camped a day in his life, an indoor camping party in the living room is the epitome of fun.

He bought supplies at Boutique Glamping to set the idyllic scene whilst I popped to the store across the road to overbuy refreshments.

I might have laughed when he threatened to lunge the uncompromising tepee out the window earlier. I had never seen anyone get so worked up over basic instructions before. I even offered to give him a hand—hold one side of the material for him to assemble the framework—but his ego did not appreciate the assistance of another. He wanted to prove to himself that he could do it. And he did, after three failed attempts. He is very proud of his efforts and gloated for the rest of the night.

Brad's friend and co-worker, Joshua, swung by earlier to drop off an overnight bag. I am guilty of lingering in the hallway when the pair conversed indistinctly in the foyer. I am unapologetic for listening to their tête-à-tête. If you want to act suspicious in the vicinage of other people, you can bet your ass that I am going to be intrigued.

Alas, I did not understand syndicate jargon. The men talked in code, a secret language to confuse potential eavesdroppers, or most specifically, yours truly.

I left them to it and ordered pizza on the takeaway app.

Still, as I rearranged the pillows on the floor and chose a movie for us to watch, I could not shake the fact that Big Guy was keeping something from me.

I started to wonder why, despite the efforts of probing, he'd look me in the eye and lie when I asked if everything was okay.

Perhaps it is a white lie, though, to protect my feelings. I had lost Cleo this afternoon in the most barbaric act of theriocide.

Brad had mentioned DNA profiling to establish the cat's killer. Josh may have a lead. It is feasible that he relayed updates.

But I should know if there is a potential suspect.

It is my right to be aware of lurking danger if it is life-threatening.

Or, maybe I am overthinking the matter.