Read Online Last Call (Bad Habits Book 3) by Staci Hart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Staci Hart
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picture of one the last time you were here. Your entire profile is public, did you know that?”
The tingle found its way up to my face. “No. No I didn’t.”
Steve chuckled. “Anyway, just let me know if you want a little something. And sorry if I smell like formaldehyde. I swear, it won’t wash out.”
I raised an eyebrow in surprise, part of my brain relieved at making the connection to the smell while the other was really glad I’d met Steve in such a public place. “I thought you made furniture?”
“I do. Taxidermy furniture. You know, stuffed chairs, beds, divans.”
I had been looking forward to telling Patrick what his medium was. Not anymore. “Wow, that’s … fascinating,” I said flatly.
Steve nodded, looking really proud of himself. “I’ve always loved dead things. My mom stuffed her schnauzer, Mitzi, when she died, and man, I was so into it. I used to keep her in my room. Like, I love the idea that you could preserve something forever.”
I turned on my bartending skills, which are largely pretending skills, looking for an opening to leave. “It’s cool you get to do something you love for a living.”
“Right? Not everyone gets to have a job they love, you know? But I get to work with my hands. Create something that makes a statement.” He leered a little. “Plus, who knew you could sell a potbelly pig ottoman for three thousand bucks? The market is growing, and I’m ahead of the curve. The Kardashians are about it right now. They bought four pieces from me last week.”
I blinked and cleared my throat, morbidly curious and genuinely shocked that this seemingly normal guy could have such a high creep factor. “So, ah. Where do you get them? The dead animals?”
He shrugged. “All over. The things you learn. Like, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a dead grizzly bear? Shipping from Alaska is insane, especially for hazardous materials. I’m sure you can imagine. I just got a shipment of dead armadillos from Arizona for an order of custom purses. People just can’t seem to get enough of them.” He smiled, and it was a nice smile, for a serial killer.
“So, who buys these purses?”
“Texans, mostly, but also some hipsters who eat steak.” He sat back in his chair. “So, you’re a bartender?”
I tried to answer without reacting physically. “Yeah, for what seems like forever.”
“Are you in school?”
My least favorite question. I shifted in my seat. “No, no school. You?”
He shook his head. “I have a business degree from NYU. I mean, everyone should have a degree, right? If you don’t, you just end up working at a movie theater or drugstore or something. Gotta prove you can finish what you start, you know?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, or seem to realize that he’d basically just called me an idiot. “Anyway. my art is all I’ll ever need. Can you imagine working a job in some cubicle on Wall Street? That’s like the place where dreams go to die.”
I sort of laughed. “Yeah, but … novelty furniture? That can’t last forever, can it?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Why not? Taxidermy is an ancient art. It’s not going anywhere.”
“I dunno. Just seems a little irresponsible to count on that as income,” I answered honestly, dragging the awkward conversation down a flight of stairs.
He scoffed. “And bartending is, what … stable?”
My eyes narrowed at the dig, but I smiled. “Has been so far. I mean, I don’t make three thousand a pop pouring shots, but at least I don’t smell like death.”
He seemed confused. “Well, what are you passionate about?”
“Is whiskey an option?” I joked.
Serial Killer Steve didn’t laugh. “No.”
And then, my mouth took off with no fear or foresight. “How about teen movies from the 90s? I mean, it’s not nearly as exciting as having my hand up a dead grizzly bear’s ass all day, but it’s got to count for something, right?”
He made a face, finally catching
The tingle found its way up to my face. “No. No I didn’t.”
Steve chuckled. “Anyway, just let me know if you want a little something. And sorry if I smell like formaldehyde. I swear, it won’t wash out.”
I raised an eyebrow in surprise, part of my brain relieved at making the connection to the smell while the other was really glad I’d met Steve in such a public place. “I thought you made furniture?”
“I do. Taxidermy furniture. You know, stuffed chairs, beds, divans.”
I had been looking forward to telling Patrick what his medium was. Not anymore. “Wow, that’s … fascinating,” I said flatly.
Steve nodded, looking really proud of himself. “I’ve always loved dead things. My mom stuffed her schnauzer, Mitzi, when she died, and man, I was so into it. I used to keep her in my room. Like, I love the idea that you could preserve something forever.”
I turned on my bartending skills, which are largely pretending skills, looking for an opening to leave. “It’s cool you get to do something you love for a living.”
“Right? Not everyone gets to have a job they love, you know? But I get to work with my hands. Create something that makes a statement.” He leered a little. “Plus, who knew you could sell a potbelly pig ottoman for three thousand bucks? The market is growing, and I’m ahead of the curve. The Kardashians are about it right now. They bought four pieces from me last week.”
I blinked and cleared my throat, morbidly curious and genuinely shocked that this seemingly normal guy could have such a high creep factor. “So, ah. Where do you get them? The dead animals?”
He shrugged. “All over. The things you learn. Like, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a dead grizzly bear? Shipping from Alaska is insane, especially for hazardous materials. I’m sure you can imagine. I just got a shipment of dead armadillos from Arizona for an order of custom purses. People just can’t seem to get enough of them.” He smiled, and it was a nice smile, for a serial killer.
“So, who buys these purses?”
“Texans, mostly, but also some hipsters who eat steak.” He sat back in his chair. “So, you’re a bartender?”
I tried to answer without reacting physically. “Yeah, for what seems like forever.”
“Are you in school?”
My least favorite question. I shifted in my seat. “No, no school. You?”
He shook his head. “I have a business degree from NYU. I mean, everyone should have a degree, right? If you don’t, you just end up working at a movie theater or drugstore or something. Gotta prove you can finish what you start, you know?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, or seem to realize that he’d basically just called me an idiot. “Anyway. my art is all I’ll ever need. Can you imagine working a job in some cubicle on Wall Street? That’s like the place where dreams go to die.”
I sort of laughed. “Yeah, but … novelty furniture? That can’t last forever, can it?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Why not? Taxidermy is an ancient art. It’s not going anywhere.”
“I dunno. Just seems a little irresponsible to count on that as income,” I answered honestly, dragging the awkward conversation down a flight of stairs.
He scoffed. “And bartending is, what … stable?”
My eyes narrowed at the dig, but I smiled. “Has been so far. I mean, I don’t make three thousand a pop pouring shots, but at least I don’t smell like death.”
He seemed confused. “Well, what are you passionate about?”
“Is whiskey an option?” I joked.
Serial Killer Steve didn’t laugh. “No.”
And then, my mouth took off with no fear or foresight. “How about teen movies from the 90s? I mean, it’s not nearly as exciting as having my hand up a dead grizzly bear’s ass all day, but it’s got to count for something, right?”
He made a face, finally catching
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