Because of the Dark: A Dark Standalone Romantic Suspense Novel (The Dark Series Book 4)

by Danah Logan

  He pops the button of my shorts, and inwardly I want to make a joke about how he's so good at opening a girl's pants, but I can't manage to form the words. I'm pretty sure a low chuckle escaped me, though.

  If he heard it, he didn't show it. He pulls the comforter back, and before either of us can get in, my dog jumps up and moves to the far end of the mattress.

  Kiwi sighs. "At least she's leaving enough space for both of us."

  I get in first, and when we're both—all three—tucked in, Kiwi lies on his back, and I'm nestled into the crook of his arm.

  I have no idea what I'm going to do.

  Why is it so fucking hot?

  We don't have AC in our apartment, but it's late September, which means the nights are in the low forties. I shouldn't wake up drenched in sweat. My attempt to turn is blocked from both sides. What the—?

  I pause and assess the situation further. Usually, the inability to move would send me into an immediate sense of panic, but there is none. A body is pressed into my back, arms wrapped around my stomach while my face is pressed into…fur. Peace settles over me. I'm sandwiched between my dog and best friend, both radiating more heat than sitting in front of our firepit midday in August.

  Last night begins to come back to me.

  Aw, fuck, there goes my happy place.

  I start pushing against Echo, and she grumbles at me—the dog seriously grumbled.

  "Move over, girl." I shove harder, and she jumps up, bolting off the bed, but not before stepping on Kiwi and me in the process.

  "Owww…" comes a groan from behind me.

  Finally having more space, I pull away from the other heat source and sit up, swiping my tangled hair out of my face. My fingers touch something wet, and I let out a string of curses.

  "Jeez, Roe-Roe, I know you're not a morning person, but this is a bit extreme, even for you." Kiwi turns on his back, rubbing his hands over his face.

  "She drooled all over my hair," I whine. "I have dog slobber all over my head." I'm somewhere between losing my shit and crying. Still assessing if I can fix the damage with dry shampoo, my bedroom door opens, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Echo bolt out into the hallway, knowing precisely that she's the reason for my current mood. Mags appears, holding a mug between both hands, taking in the scene in front of her.

  "You need to wash it." Her remark makes my frustration rise even more, and I fight the urge to kick my legs in a temper tantrum.

  Of course she can read my mind.

  I climb over Kiwi, who is now sprawled out with his hands behind his head, and pass my other friend on the way to the bathroom.

  "Psych-major freak," I hiss at her in passing, which makes her grin as she brings her coffee to her lips.

  I take my time, fully aware that Kiwi probably has to piss like a horse. But like he pointed out, I'm not a morning person. Actually, you could say I am diabolically evil in the morning—especially running on less than seven hours of sleep and zero caffeine.

  Mags has the bedroom with an en suite, which leaves me to use the hall bathroom. I'm not complaining; it beats living out of my Jeep or my living arrangement before that. I'm grateful for everything I have.

  How long will it last?

  I'm drying my face when someone—Kiwi—hammers against the door. "OPEN UP!"

  "Go use Mags's bathroom. I'm not done," I shout back.

  "Kingsley!" Kiwi's exasperated use of my full name makes me snicker. Mags doesn't let anyone use her bathroom, and I mean anyone—not even her own sister. She is a weirdo when it comes to that.

  When I don't respond, a low thud sounds against the bathroom door. I picture him hitting his forehead against the wood. I count to twenty, being extra salty, before unlocking the door.

  Kiwi immediately pushes in and stalks to the toilet.

  "Jeez, you could at least wait to whip your dick out until I'm done," I laugh, following his movement in the mirror.

  "Fuck you, Roe-Roe," he murmurs as he relieves himself, and it sounds like a waterfall in my small bathroom. "You've seen my dick more than anyone else," he adds when he tucks said man part back into his shorts.

  I just shake my head as I rummage for my moisturizer in the cabinet next to the mirror. He's not lying, but it has never been in the way most girls see a dude's privates.

  Growing up together, his grandma took care of me whenever Mom worked. I slept at his place, or he at mine, more nights than I slept alone. Especially after my sister… I refuse to go back there.

  We'd gotten ready together in the mornings so much that we had a routine between who showered, who got the sink, etcetera. Neither of us wanted to get up earlier to have privacy. Kiwi's interest in his own gender was evident from an early age—the age when it would've become inappropriate for us to see each other naked—so neither parental figure in our lives objected. Mom was glad I wasn't alone when she worked herself to death—literally.

  Kiwi steps up behind me and waits for me to meet his gaze. "I'll wait for you in the kitchen so we can talk."

  Talk.

  I nod and watch him leave the room. My small bathroom suddenly seems like a vast black hole with no way out. A cold shiver runs down my spine, and I know I can't avoid it any longer.

  He is coming here.

  Mags and Kiwi are sitting at the kitchen table with steaming mugs in front of them. I glance around. "Where's Echo?"

  "Where do you think?" Mags huffs out a laugh, and I sigh. I don't have it in me to go back to my room and kick her out of my bed. Last night was an exception—a huuuge exception. I love my dog, but she is not allowed in my bed. She rolls around in the dirt whenever she can, no clue if that has anything to do with her breed or if she's simply a major slob, but I'm not having sand, twigs, and dried leaves in my bed.

  I grab my favorite I don't like mornings mug, fill it to the rim with liquid energy, and sit down across from Mags at the table. Taking a sip, I look at her closely and tilt my head. "Spill it."

  Mags's gaze jerks up.

  Yeah, bitch, I've learned some tricks from you over the last year.

  All the times I had to help her study micro-expressions and body language have started to pay off. Some of the shit stuck with me.

  Thankfully, she doesn't try to be evasive or deny it. "I may have given Wes your name." Her admission is so low I have to strain my ears, but I hear it. My jaw drops, and before I can say anything—or lose my shit—she continues. "I didn't realize it until he walked away, and I thought about the conversation again. He tried to hide it, but there was a fraction of a second where he displayed surprise—when I mentioned your name."

  Micro-expressions, I'm telling you.

  My mind goes blank. I don't know what to do.

  "I'm so sorry," Mags whispers, and I peer over at Kiwi.

  He sits with a grim expression, both hands wrapped around his mug so tightly one would think he's trying to break it.

  "Kiwi." I want him to look at me.

  As his eyes find mine, the concern is written all over his face, like the neon billboard where my previous place of work advertised what we offered inside.

  As we stare at each other, I search for the right words.

  "King?" Mags draws my attention back to her.

  I wrinkle my forehead in question. I'm still not happy that she revealed my name to Wes, but that's the least of my worries.

  "I'm really sorry."

  I know she is, and I'm not mad at her. She is not the whack job with stalkerish tendencies running from her past. I force a smile on my face. "It's fine. It wouldn't have been hard for him to find out anyway—he knows where I work."

  "True. But still—"

  I wave her off. "Wes is not important at the moment."

  "Oh?" Her brows knit. "What else happened?"

  "I got a message from my sister."

  "Your sister? As in, the bitch who wouldn't come to her own mother's funeral? That sister?" She purses her lips.

  "That's the one." Needing to do something an
d suddenly feeling extremely thirsty, I take a large sip of my coffee before continuing. "She warned me that he is on his way since I am no longer on the move."

  "He?" Mags scowls as she repeats the word slowly. Kiwi and I never use his name because of who he is (you never know who is listening in), and Mags has adapted to our habit. She's the only other person I've confided in about my past and what I did. I wait for it to click. "OMG, he! What is he doing with your sister? How? And why would she tell you? I thought you hadn't spoken to her in, uh…years." She doesn't mention my mother's death, and I appreciate that.

  "I have no idea what's going on, Mags." I'm as confused as the rest in this room.

  I glance over at Kiwi, and on cue, he says, "Roe-Roe wants to leave."

  "What?" Mags's wide eyes ping-pong between us. "Why? Is it so bad that he's coming here? I mean, yes, you shouldn't have stayed, but—"

  "He's not the most stable person," Kiwi interjects.

  Mags ponders that. "What does that mean? I mean, besides all the shit he has done to you."

  I sigh. "He's not going to like whose attention I have since last night." I really don't want to get further into my fucked-up past. I want it to stay there—buried.

  "But he helped you," Mags tries again.

  I scoff. "Just because he took care of E, doesn't mean he cares about me. He likes control. For all I know, he'll call it in as a favor, and God knows what that'll be."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  King.

  She's all I can think of over the weekend. Who is this girl?

  Saturday, I searched the student directory for hours. Not one female student with the first name King attends the school. Eventually, I resorted to compiling a list of every chick whose first name starts with a K and comparing them to social media accounts in Kai's friends list. With my online presence being limited to seventeen friends, one of them being Den and the rest teammates, I'm looking through my manwhore of a roommate's profile and followers now. There's no one named King or with a photo remotely resembling her or her other two friends: Maggie or Devon.

  Fuck.

  I want to go back to the bar, but we have a mandatory team meeting at Coach's house every last Saturday of the month. His way of keeping his players close (or in line, as the team jokes). But if I'm honest, I enjoy those evenings at his old log cabin-style house. It's outside of town and up a mountain, and you can only reach it with four-wheel drive and spiked tires once the first snow hits. I bought my bike when I arrived in Stonebriar, but after the first snow, my parents shipped me the 4Runner. I didn't want to bring it—being part of the past and all—but I needed a car that would work here, and I couldn't afford a new one.

  Sunday, I inflict an extra-long torture session, aka running and weight lifting, on my body until I wobble to the locker room on shaky legs. But I needed to pass the time somehow until five when The Grizz opened.

  Walking through the front door of the bar, my heart is hammering against my chest. My face is flushed, and I swipe my hands on my jeans in nervous anticipation. I'm acting like a complete idiot. She—King—almost plowed me over with her Jeep, then threatened me with a fucking knife. But here I am, tongue out like an obedient puppy, waiting for his treat.

  She would be a treat, that's for sure.

  The place is still mostly empty. Behind the counter are two dudes I haven't seen before. Neither King nor her friend is in sight. Shit.

  I saunter up to the bar and plant my ass on one of the stools. The older guy walks over. He's tatted up his neck and down both arms, his long beard is way past the socially acceptable length of attractive, and his unwashed hair is tied back in what I learned is a man bun. Ever since I lost a bet to Kai over winter break, I have had the same hairdo. Losing the bet, I was supposed to shave my head, but thankfully we never defined how much, and I got away with the sides. But when I started tying the rest back, the jersey chasers got out of control. Chicks apparently get all wet for a guy with a girly hairstyle.

  "What can I get you?"

  He leans his tree trunk-like forearms on the bar top in front of me. This dude is in such a contrast to the high-end interior and the rest of the staff—all younger college-age kids, from what I've observed.

  "I'm looking for King." I don't see a reason to beat around the bush. Plus, I don't play games.

  His features shift, and I straighten my shoulders automatically. With his mouth pressed to a slit, I notice his fingers curl into fists.

  A burning sensation spreads through my chest. Why is this guy reacting this way? Is there something going on between them? Why I care, I'm not sure—but I do.

  "Why are you looking for my employee?"

  Employee?

  "You're the owner?" My eyebrows shoot up. I'm briefly distracted from my mission by this inked mountain being the owner of the place.

  "You got any problem with that, kid?" he sneers at me.

  I don't like the way he calls me kid, but going all alpha on him will get me booted out on the street.

  "No problem at all." I relax my posture. "So, King? Is she working tonight?" I glance around as if she might jump out of the back room, arms extended like, Here I am!

  "She is not here."

  No shit.

  It takes every ounce of self-control not to drop a sarcastic remark. "When is she scheduled to work?"

  He cocks his head and gives me an up and down examination I haven't seen since Katherine Rosenfield, the fallen queen of Westbridge High.

  Mental note, I need to ask D if there is any new scoop on her.

  I wait for him to answer my question, but he never does. He turns to the side and calls out to the other guy, "Dean?"

  "Boss?" Dean answers immediately.

  "Give Wes here what he wants on the house, but that's it."

  Translation: don't answer his questions. Wait, how does he know my name?

  "Hey!" I call after the owner, but he ignores me and disappears into the back corridor.

  Dean eventually makes his way over to my end, and I order a beer, not bothering to ask for King.

  Guess I'll be a regular here from now on.

  My hermit days at the townhome are over. Too bad.

  I keep my eyes open on campus. Every time I see a dark-blonde head with long hair, my stomach vaults, then the girl turns, and the fluttery feeling turns into a clenched, I got sucker punched in the stomach sensation.

  This is fucking ridiculous, but I can't help that my curiosity is growing with every waking moment I'm in the dark about her.

  I spend the next few nights at The Grizz. I head there directly from practice, and Kai is starting to give me a weird look. He's probably not wrong with whatever he's thinking. I'm beginning to feel like a stalker, and for the first time in years, I almost wish I could ask Lilly, with her skills, for help. Almost.

  On Tuesday, I took over a high top table in the back of the bar. It had great visibility of the entire room and gave me privacy. After getting approached by several girls the first evening, I decided on a low(er) profile. I started keeping my hood up, which made me feel even more like a creeper. But without my blond man bun on display, girls seemed to not be as interested. Glowering at every chick like a psycho may have helped as well. No one glances in my direction by Wednesday.

  I've already been here my usual two hours, and I'm about to head out when the energy in the room changes. My eyes find her immediately, and my pulse speeds up as if I sprinted a mile. It's past ten, but The Grizz doesn't close until two. It seems she's covering the closing shift, or someone else had to leave.

  Jesus Christ, why do I put so much thought into this?

  King is wearing a similar top to the one she wore last week, but instead of shorts, her toned legs are covered by black skinny jeans, the look completed with black Doc Martens. My cock twitches in my jeans, and I shift in my seat. It appears he forgot the near-death experience we had meeting her the first—and second—time.

  Her spine is stiff.

  Grizz—Tattoo Guy's
name, as I found out—probably called her the minute he left the front room on Sunday. It's so not weird to name a place after yourself in third person—it totally is.

  She doesn't look around and, instead, heads straight to work. She greets some of the customers who immediately approach her—mostly males—and gets busy. When one of them leans over the counter to hug her, my hand clenches around my beer.

  What the hell? I have never been the jealous type. I don't know her. Plus, she threatened me just a few days ago.

  I watch her from my spot in the corner, knowing that if I approach her, it would end in me most likely getting banned from the bar. But witnessing her smile at one preppy college douche after another, after they basically eye-fuck her, is grating on my nerves. I'll need more beer if I stick around.

  After about thirty minutes, I conclude she definitely knows what she's doing. She mixes the drinks without ever looking at a recipe book. And none of them look the same, yet the customers all look like she's handed them liquid gold—or flashed them her perky tits.

  I wouldn't mind that either.

  At one in the morning, I call it a night. I have an early practice and have fulfilled my need to spy. Every time she laughed at something the other bartender said or smiled at a customer, my chest straightened. Her entire face lit up, and I want that reaction directed at me.

  Why? No fucking clue. I have other priorities right now, and girls—correction, a girl—was at the bottom of that list. I shake my head at my own idiocy, knowing very well I would be back tomorrow.

  The need to uncover the mystery around King is consuming my every waking moment. I even slacked off in practice yesterday, which I haven't done in the last two years. How does she know me? Why does she carry a creepy knife? I peer back over at her—a knife she is currently using to carve an orange into fancy-looking spiral slices. Wait, no, that is a different creepy knife.

  Why does this get me even harder?

  I not so subtly readjust my groin region and get the side-eye from the chick a table over. I throw her my greasiest smirk and complete the show with a wink. She jerks away so fast she almost falls off her chair, and I fight the urge to high-five myself at the picture I'm displaying: dude lurking in a dark corner all night with his hood up and a hard-on.