Blood is Black in the Moonlight

I don’t care if he hates it; I can’t do this anymore. I don’t have another one left in me.
He leans back in the chair, with concern in his eyes. “So, what are you going to do if you’re not DEA anymore?”
I lay the money down for my cup of coffee. “I’ll find something to do.” I grab my black leather coat off the back of my chair and leave putting that life behind me.
Chapter 2
14 years later, Tampa, FL.
Our clothes are wadded up and strewed across my bedroom floor, along with a crumpled condom wrapper on the nightstand. I gulp scotch from the bottle on my nightstand and douse my cigarette in an overflowing ashtray with butts sticking up like outreached arms. The man in my bed is a lean 20-year-old college student with short coal-black hair and a fair complexion. I met him two months ago at a Tampa Comic-Con doing a security detail. I admired his courage to ask me out despite me decked out in that intimidating SWAT gear. So we exchanged each other’s phone numbers. I think he’s a good kid, but I can already tell he is the sort who falls hard, and to be honest, I can feel myself falling for him, but I have to get a hold of that shit because I will just end up hurting him.
He smirks at me, reaching under the sheets, between my legs massaging me. My knees clench together as his fingers slip inside. “Somebody wants to go for round two,” I giggle.
He flashes a mischievous smile. “What on earth gave you that idea?”
I grip his large instrument while slipping my tongue into his mouth. “You’re hard as a rock down there. Time to soften you up again. Now get me another condom, you blue-eyed nympho.”
He gazes into my eyes, smiling. “Do you think we could ever be more than just fuck buddies?”
My God, here it comes.
My eyes turn upward. “Shit! I fucking knew it. If that’s what you’re after, get the hell out!”
His eyes widen. “Why not? We click so well together?”
I turn my head to the side, narrowing my eyes. “The last guy I was with got hurt in ways he didn’t deserve. I don’t want that for you. You deserve better than me.”
A timid smile slides across his lips as he fidgets with the sheet. “I’m sorry. I just feel connected to you.”
I glower at him and tilt my head to the side. “We have nothing in common, kid. You’re just a cock for me to ride. Either fuck me or get out.”
I know that was harsh, but it’s for his own good because if we go steady, I will just hurt him like I did my husband. He’s a sweet guy and doesn’t deserve me. 
He climbs on top of me, sliding between my thighs. “My bad.”
“Damn right.” Wrapping my legs around him and just as he begins thrusting, my cell rings. “I’m sorry, Greg. You’ve got to pull out. It’s work.” He lets out a groan and rolls of me. My fingers clumsily fumble through the clutter, knocking over empty whiskey bottles.
Damn it!
I find my phone lying in the midst of bottles scattered on my nightstand. “Go ahead, LT.”
“Lobos, we got another DB down at the port.”
Greg inches his fingers inside me and shoves his head between my legs. My body jerks as I grab a wad of the sheets. Biting my lower lip, a quivering gasp escapes.
Shit, this kid has a way with his tongue.
“Devi, you alright? Why are you breathing so heavy?”
“Why—” I gasp as the muscles tense in my legs
“—why can’t this asshole take a holiday?”
“You can ask him when we catch him. Get your ass down here.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m on my way.” After hanging up, I open my legs wider running my fingers through his short brown hair. I am tempted to let him finish me off.  I’m on the verge, but I have to go. “Greg, you’re going to have to pull your tongue and fingers out of me. That was work,” I say, tapping him on the head. He raises his head, and I yank the sheets back, catching a whiff of our musk. Greg sits on the edge of the bed; he kisses my neck tenderly, grasping a handful of my breasts. He tries to lure me back in bed, and it's working, but I can’t give in, work calls. I giggle at him and force his hands down to my lap. “Seriously, stop, I need to get dressed.”
He backs up and sits next to me. “Sorry, you’re just so addicting.”
I smirk. “Well, like anything, I’m only good in moderation.”
Something tells me I’m going to regret all that whiskey we drank earlier, a headache is already building.
“Devi, I noticed a female grim reaper tattoo with roses growing out of her skull on your back and a similar tatt sleeved on your right arm. What do they mean?”
“Santa Muerte, a silly Mexican tradition. I got it because I thought it would protect me in Iraq, and well, I guess it worked. I’m still breathing.”
I lied to him. I got this tattoo when I was infiltrating the Cartel. The tattoo is one of their symbols, and they gave it to me as part of the initiation when I first killed for them. However, I added my own customization to it: black eye sockets with a stitched mouth and bright red roses growing from the temple of the skull. I made Lady Death beautiful again. So sick of criminal organizations in my country using her to justify their evil.
I stand up, slipping on my black panties, and black jeans. I grab my crimson red button-down with a black dragon slithering down the side of the shirt. When I was