Navessa Allen

“It’s called a balaclava,” I told her.

“And what did I say?” she asked.

“Baklava. One is a mask. The other a delicious desert.”

Maybe I was already dead because kissing Aly felt a lot like heaven.

The woman was down for kinky sex, knew how I liked my coffee, and was more than willing to aid in the murder of a rapist. What had I done to get so lucky?