Hunting is not a sport. In sport, both sides should know they're in the game. (Paul Rodriguez)

It’s so much easier to be in control when you don’t care.

“It’s Nick, right?”

“Yeah, but most people call me Nicky.”

“Are you twelve?”

“No.”

“Do I detect a little Italian descent?”

“Um, my fatha’s fatha was Italian but I don’t know much about him. He was a pretty seedy cat.”

“Oh yeah?” I was interested, legitimately interested, and not just because of the body he had unveiled. “Are you in touch with him at all anymore?”

“No, he’s in jail. He was anyway. I don’t know where he is now. He’ll probably rot and die there, he did a lot of bad stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Ah, I’d rather not get into it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want you to think that all Martinez men are that bad.” He winked with a greasy sort of smile that seemed really appealing at the time.

I turned back to my book and began reading the stupid sentence I had started over a dozen times. “So you’re not bad then?”

“You sound disappointed.” This amused him more than it dejected him.

I shrugged as I read on.

“Senza freno senorita.”

I thought I was being rather sly as I slid my eyes gracefully from my book to him in a sideways glance. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He smirked. I turned the corner of my mouth up in a mischievous smile.

“Maybe I’m more like my Italian grandfather than I like to let on.”

I pretended I didn’t know that “senorita” was a Spanish word. There was an intense moment as he leered at me with an evil sort of smile like I was his prey but I returned his stare with an equally intense look. He didn’t realize that he wasn’t the predator. Maybe I didn’t realize that he was.