“The pictures!” he proclaimed, tossing his hands up. “The pictures online. The gossip all over the net... They all say—”
“We all know what they say.” Nick’s voice was dangerously low.
Rick fell silent for a moment. “What’s going on here? I need to know so I can be ready with damage control.”
“Meeting’s over,” Nick proclaimed. “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll call you later.” He began ushering him out of the kitchen.
“We haven’t finished...” Whatever else he said trailed away as Nick pushed him toward the front of the house.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I went back to the tea to cradle the warm mug between my palms.
A few seconds later, Nick reappeared. “He’s an asshole. I’m sorry.”
“If you spent all your time apologizing for the assholes of this world, you’d never do anything else.”
He barked a laugh.
Instead of stopping beside his coffee, he kept walking, closing the distance between us and raising my awareness of him by one thousand percent. My breathing stopped when his toes bumped mine. I stared, frozen, when he leaned close, holding my gaze hostage with his. Thought seemed to flee my mind, and all I could do was stand there as currents of unnamed energy coursed through my limbs, tingling my fingers.
Just before the tip of his nose brushed the side of my cheek, he straightened, reaching into the cabinet above my head. A golden honey bear appeared in front of me.
I blinked, my mind so hazy from his closeness I could barely understand what was happening.
“Don’t you want this?” he asked, his voice like sandpaper.
Fingers tightening on the mug, I nodded but didn’t reach out.
Amusement sparkled in his already gorgeous eyes, giving him a playful air. Pulling back, he popped the top and added some to my mug.
“Tell me when,” he whispered.
“When,” I whispered back after he’d added some of the sweet syrup.
I held my breath again, anticipating his coming close to put the bear away. Instead, he set it aside and moved across the room, giving me ample space.
Disappointment befell me.
“Eat up,” he said, gesturing toward a plate with a large silver dome covering it that I hadn’t even noticed before.
“I don’t normally eat breakfast.”
“Eat.”
Raising an eyebrow, I challenged. “If I don’t?”
“Think of it as punishment for eavesdropping.”
I gasped. “You knew?”
“I’m a lot of things, Zo. But stupid ain’t one of them.”
“I never said you were stupid,” I muttered.
Pulling the dome off my plate, he crooked a finger at me. I found that little beckon quite sexy, and the bottom fell out of my stomach.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Nick seemed not to realize his affect, or rather... it seemed that my plate was doing to him what he managed to do to me.
“I miss bacon.” He sighed sadly.
Picking up his mug, he moved away from the plate to lean against the counter.
The dish was filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and some kind of vegetable hash that looked pretty good. Lifting the fork, I tried a bite and was impressed.
“What did you eat?” I asked, taking another bite.
“Fish and steamed vegetables.”
I made a face.
“At least I still have coffee.” He hugged the mug.
I snickered into my food.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?” he said after a few quiet minutes.
“Ask you what?”
“About what you heard?”
“Am I allowed?”
Cocking his head to the side, he gave it a heartbeat of thought. “You can ask me anything you want, angel.”
My stomach dipped again. Butterflies erupted to life inside me, making me forget all about the food. “You aren’t mad I was listening?”
He shook his head.
“Why?” I blurted. He was totally knocking me off balance. I worked so hard to maintain that balance. How come it was so easy for him to make me wobble?
“It’s just a feeling I have,” he said, vague.
“This isn’t some cheesy soap opera. That’s not an answer.”
His mug made a clinking sound on the white countertop, and his hands slid into the pockets of his sweats. Strolling forward, he tried again. “Because I want you to trust me. Because there’s something between us, and I want to know what it is. Because when the alarm went off last night, all I could think about was if you were okay.”
By this time, he was right beside me, his body heat brushing my front and his size making me feel small.
He reached for me, and I felt time reduce to slow motion. Nervous energy sprang up as I anticipated his hands. Afraid of what he was making me feel, I turned toward my plate, shoving an entire piece of bacon into my mouth.
The abrupt change in direction didn’t deter him. As he caught my shoulders, pulling me around, my eyes squeezed closed.
I stood like a statue, ignoring the bacon hanging out of my lips, pretending to ignore his closeness, hoping he would go away.
Nothing happened.
Eventually, one eye cracked open, and I gazed up.
He was staring at me, patient amusement clearly on his handsome face. Cracking open my other eye, I focused on him, slowly taking a step back.
Hands back in his pockets, he bent swiftly, like a lion going in for the kill.
Holy shit, he’s going to kiss—
His lips closed over the end of the bacon hanging out of my mouth. I felt his teeth tug the strip, slicing it clean through. Pulling back, he chewed, his eyes slipping closed.
“So fucking good.” He moaned.
My heart was pounding as though I’d just run twenty miles. My hands were trembling, and all I could do was stare at his lips, which were slick with bacon grease.
“You’re going to pay for that!”
“How’s that?” he asked, still chewing.
Grabbing the hem of his white shirt, I yanked it up. He gasped, and I cackled because finally, I’d caught him off guard.
A choked sound stopped my glee.
Dear Lord in heaven. His abs.
Sad food sure did a body good.
Still holding up his shirt, dividing my gaze between his chiseled abs and face, I stuttered. “I was going to say there goes your perfect abs,” I said, glancing back at them. I wanted to run my fingertips over all those ridges. “But they’re still there.”
“Maybe you should check again,” he teased.
Gasping, I dropped his shirt and stepped away.
Chuckling, Nick pushed up onto the counter to sit, motioning with his chin. “Eat. It’s going to be cold.”
I picked up the fork, avoiding him. I really needed to stop. Clearly, having my eyes anywhere on him was very dangerous. I mean, I thought he was going to kiss me just a minute ago!
Get a grip, Zoey!
“Your agent wants you to do a movie you aren’t interested in?” I asked, wanting to distract myself.
He made a sound. “It’s not just any movie. And it’s based on true events.”
I forgot I wasn’t supposed to be looking at him. “It has something to do with your family? Your mom?”
His voice was quiet. “Not just my mom.”
I didn’t want to press, so I waited until he was ready to tell me.
Eventually, he answered, “It’s about my grandmother’s murder.”
She didn’t know?
Shock transformed her movements into wooden, automatic gestures. Slowly, the fork lowered from her mouth until it jangled onto the plate, forgotten.
“Y-your grandmother was murdered?” Her voice was incredulous.
“You really didn’t know?”
Her brow wrinkled. “Why would I?”
“My family is pretty well known in Hollywood.”
Her eyes turned
down, and I could practically see her searching her memory for anything she might know. Still confused, her eyes swung back to mine. “Preston?” she questioned. “The only other Preston I know of is a director, a man.”
Ah, so it was the name throwing her off. “David Preston is my father.” I agreed.
Slowly, she nodded. “I think I have heard that before.”
Having a famous director for a father wasn’t what my family was famous for, though. “But it’s my mother’s side that’s well known.”
Coming around the island, Zoey hopped up onto the counter as I had moments before. Her sneakers swung gently as they dangled over the floor while we faced each other.
“My grandmother is... was Deborah Ascott.”
Zoey repeated the name to herself, eyebrows coming together beneath the fringe of her bangs. Recognition dawned. “The famous actress from the eighties?”
“She was famous in the seventies too.” I informed her.
“Right!” She pointed into the air, recalling. “She did that iconic cult favorite slasher movie!” Snapping her fingers, she murmured, “What was that called again...?”
“Moth to A Flame,” I told her.
Hands falling into her lap, a funny look crossed her features. “Right.” Her voice was hollow.
“Zoey?”
She didn’t seem to hear me call out to her as she stared off into space, raising her hand to grasp her upper arm and rub up and down.
Hopping off the counter, I went to her, crowding into her space and settling my hands on either of her hips. “Zoey.”
She blinked, awareness filling her eyes. “Oh, sorry.”
“What happened?” I demanded, pointedly looking at where she was still rubbing. “Are you hurting somewhere?” I reached out to touch the spot.
Flinching back, she nearly fell over trying to get away. Obviously, she didn’t want me to touch her. I did anyway. Wrapping my arm around her, I bent forward to scoop her up. Her cheek bounced off my chest, my fingers tangling in her hair.
“Be careful.” I warned. A shuddering breath rippled her chest, and even though I didn’t want to, I pulled back. “What happened?”
She shook her head, refusing to meet my gaze. “Nothing. I just remembered...”
Instinctively, I shifted closer. Even though I knew she was perfectly safe, I felt I had to make sure. “Remembered what?”
A few seconds passed, making me frown.
Her throat cleared. “What I heard about your grandmother.”
“I never met her. My mom was only twelve when she was killed.”
Sympathy filled her eyes, and her fingers slid over my cheek, cupping the side of my face. “How awful.”
Her sympathy didn’t make me uncomfortable. I liked it. It made her touch me.
“They say I take after her,” I confessed quietly. “She’s where I got all my acting talent.”
“She was a legend.” Zoey stated. “Right up until—” Her eyes rounded.
“Until she was murdered.” I finished, stepping back. “The way she died made her even more famous.”
It was the kind of famous no one wanted to have. To be remembered for your slaughter and not all the success that came before it.
“It was on a movie set right?”
I nodded. “She was filming the sequel to Moth to A Flame.”
Clasping her hands in her lap, she asked, “Is it really true what they say happened?”
Leaning back into the counter, I crossed my arms over my chest. “They were filming the final scene of the movie. Everyone was there. The cameras were rolling.” I began, feeling myself slip into that day as if I were there. As if I hadn’t been told this story a thousand times, but I’d been a witness instead.
* * *
Giant cocoon-shaped objects hung from the ceiling, swaying back and forth very slightly as if a gentle breeze carried through the dark house.
Moonlight cast upon the light-colored objects, but it was too dark to know what was inside. Her nightgown brushed against her ankles, either urging her on or warning her to run away.
She couldn’t run anymore.
Too many people had died. He would keep coming to her, just as he promised. Like a moth drawn to a flame—until the moth was burned up or the flame went out.
Out in the hallway, the creaking of the stairs proved she was right. Her heart accelerated to the point of pain, her feet quickening farther into the bedroom until she bounced off one of the hanging bundles.
Grabbing it for balance, she turned and looked.
A bloodcurdling scream rattled the darkness, piercing the entire night.
“Ahhhhh!” she screamed, shoving away the cocoon and backing away slowly. The bundle swung toward her, providing an ample view of the corpse wrapped inside.
Her eyes were open, her face frozen in horror. Blood soaked her cheeks, and her blond hair was tangled in the plastic wound around her mutilated body.
Another shriek filled the night, and she tripped over her nightgown, falling onto the floor. Rolling over, she crawled, bile rising up her throat and tears streaking her cheeks. She crawled until something hit her back.
Squealing, she leapt up, only to come face to face with another wrapped corpse. Her boyfriend. And there was a knife still stuck in his skull.
Her feet pounded over the sound of her whimper as she weaved through the other dead bodies, rushing for the door. Out in the hall, she stopped, coming face to face with the killer who was obsessively drawn to her.
“You should have died!” She raged. “I killed you before! You should have stayed dead!”
His faceless, expressionless head tilted to the side. He had no hair. No skin. Nothing but shiny pale rubber coating everything above his neck. The shirt beneath the open zip hoodie was ripped and bloodied. The hem was burned from a fire he’d somehow survived.
The hiking boots he wore left bloody prints on the carpet as he strolled close, promising another gift of death downstairs. She backed away, feet tangling in the gown, thinking of all the bodies he’d hung in her room and wondering why he couldn’t just die.
He came closer.
She stepped back.
Moonlight bathed her outline from behind, and her shoulder blades hit the cold windowpane.
“Stay back!” she screamed, holding out a hand to ward him off.
He came so close she could feel his chest with every breath he took. Bending low so they were eye to eye, he stared at her without saying a thing.
Fumbling with the curtain, she grasped the knife hidden inside. Moonlight glinted off the shining, silver blade when she lifted it high above her head.
“Die!” she ordered, consumed with all the rage of the people he’d killed before her.
His hand caught her wrist just before the blade could penetrate his skull. The sound of her bones cracking and the way she crumbled to the floor was shockingly real.
“What are you doing?” she screeched.
The knife clattered onto the hardwood, and he released her wrist to wrap a large hand around her throat. She choked and gagged, grabbing at his hand, her eyes bulging.
“What’s happening?”
A few whispers floated from the set.
“Steven,” our heroine croaked, reaching toward the dark.
“It’s good. Keep rolling!” the director called.
The killer lifted her anew, sliding her up the window and pinning her as she fought.
“Help!” She gagged. “Help!”
He pulled a knife from inside his hoodie, plunging it right into her middle.
She gurgled and slumped, would have crumpled if he hadn’t still been gripping her neck.
“Cut!” the director yelled. “What the fuck was that? You know she doesn’t die—”
The killer turned, bringing her body with him like a rag doll. The blood-drenched knife dripped onto the floor when he pointed the blade at the director.
“What’s going on?” he said, his voice suddenly confused and sca
red.
He plunged the knife back into the heroine, directly into her heart. The sound of her sternum cracking with the trauma made everyone scream. Pulling the blade out like it had been speared into butter, he stabbed her again and then again.
Her body fell at his feet, her white gown now stained with crimson. Her surprised, glassy eyes matched those of the bodies hanging in the other room, but hers were more lifelike... because hers were real.
Before anyone knew what was happening, the killer dropped the knife by the body and jumped out the window, plunging himself right through the glass.
People ran after him, gazing down into the yard below.
He was gone.
Never to be seen again.
And the heroine who was supposed to burn the moth with her flame? In the end, it was her flame that went out.
* * *
“They said it was some crazed fan who somehow managed to get onto the closed set. The actor who was originally playing The Moth was found knocked out and tied up in a closet,” I said quietly, feeling hoarse from recalling that day. “He killed her right there. Everyone stood by watching because they thought it was part of the scene...”
Gentle arms sliding around my torso made me jolt. Grabbing her by the shoulders, I looked down, blinking when I saw her gazing back. Relenting instantly, my arms fell at my sides, and she leaned into my chest. Her hand rose and fell against the center of my back in a soothing repetitive way.
“Your family must have been absolutely devastated.”
I nodded. “It was my grandfather who took it the hardest. Watching his wife murdered right in front of him.”
Zoey pulled back, though her hands remained on my waist. “He was there?”
“He was the one directing the film. The one who told them to keep going with the scene.”
Her hand covered her mouth, eyes shining with disbelief. “He was the director?”
“Steven Price. Famous director of eighties horror who eventually became part of the worlds he created.”
“I-I didn’t know that.”
“My mother lost both her parents that day. One to death. One to madness.”
“He went mad?”
“You don’t know?” I asked, partially surprised.
She shook her head. “No. It was so long ago... before my time in Hollywood.”
“But you know my grandmother?”
Moth to a Flame Page 15