What Lies Beneath The Flowerbed

by D. M. Thornton

  When the song ends, SoMo is on my Pandora and, by golly gee willikers, he’s singing words that have goosebumps crawling across my skin.

  Jesus. It’s hot in here.

  If you haven’t heard this guy, you should, because oh. My. God. “Ride” is amazing. And if Jett were here, and if he had his hands on me...I think it very well could be possible that he could ignite the flame that is holding firm at a sparkling sizzle.

  Ah, who am I kidding? I’m like the firework that’s a fucking dud. Light me up, shoot me off, and I crash back to earth with a fizzled shriek of puffed smoke. Oh well.

  I set my wine glass down on the sofa table behind me and stretch out on the couch. I think I’m going to just cuddle into my big, comfy pillows for a little bit, maybe read a page or two of my book. Okay, so I may have adjusted myself to where I’m lying with my legs turned to the side while my hips are straight. And I may have unbuttoned four buttons of my blouse, not the recommended three that Andi told me I should do, and my hair very well could be fanned out just so on top of my plush pillows, but what can I say? If Jett walks in, I want the first thing he sees to be me, waiting and ready. And then I want him to think, “Oh, fuck me. She’s gorgeous.” That might be a little farfetched, but a girl can dream, right? And you bet I left my front door unlocked...just in case I fall asleep, because I’m fucking tired right now, and it’s only 9:10.

  Goddamn, it’s only 9:10.

  Jesus, I’ve turned into a fucking sap. What is wrong with me? No. Don’t say it, I don’t need to think the words, let alone hear them. No, I said stop. Stop it right there.

  Ugh! I know! I’ve gone completely, one hundred percent, batshit crazy for this guy. And I don’t do feelings...remember? But for some reason, this guy has me feeling all sorts of fuzzies. Quick, someone grab me a barrel. A big, fat barrel of wine. Why? So I can fucking drown myself in it, that’s why!

  Okay, enough. I’m done going on a damn tangent about something that may or may not happen. Nope, not gonna keep obsessing over absolutely nothing. I’m done.

  Peace out.

  * * *

  You know that feeling that you get when you’re sleeping, but you know what’s going on around you and you can’t seem to wake up? It’s like sleep limbo—not awake, not asleep, but stuck in the middle. And as you float to the surface of being awake, you’re telling yourself that you’re going to open your eyes and still look as hot as you did when you fell asleep, because you weren’t planning on falling asleep to begin with, but you tried to position yourself so you wouldn’t move a muscle just in case you did happen to fall asleep.

  But, in all reality, your eyes fly open with a jolt that follows the jerk of your muscles. And when all of those movements come together, everything goes flailing around like you’re doing some God awful Russian dance, in which then your fists and knees nail the hot piece of ass that quietly cuddled up to you while you were sleeping in hopes that he didn’t wake you. But in the end, you wake him, because you just clobbered him in the chin and in the nuts.

  Yep. That just happened. And the icing on the fucking cake...there’s a trail of drool running down my chin. What. The. Fuck?

  Thank goodness for fast reflexes, because if it hadn’t been for Jett’s hand grabbing my ass, I would have fallen right off the couch. He pulls me back into him with the hand that’s on my bottom while the other hand cups his balls.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice coated thick with sleep.

  Jett chuckles and pecks my lips with his. “No worries, sweetheart.”

  “What time is it?”

  Jett lifts the hand that’s on my ass and glances up as his wrist. “Two.”

  “Oh,” I say. “You came.”

  “Of course. I told you I would.”

  There’s a long pause, because I can’t form any coherent words that wouldn’t make me sound stupid. I just stare into his eyes. Eyes that are such a beautiful light blue—it reminds me of the sky when the clouds part after a storm. Eyes so crisp and bright that it almost makes the blue transparent. The more I gaze into them, the more my surroundings fade away and I forget all my sins. Would he think they’re sins? Would he understand the logic behind the things that I do? Would he still...

  Whoa there, pony. Of course he would think they’re sins; he wouldn’t understand...not one single aspect of it. And for jiminy sakes, he would arrest me in a nanosecond, which is exactly why I need to stop thinking crazy and change the subject in my head.

  “I was trying to stay awake, but apparently, I was not so successful. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I got here a little later than I thought, and when I saw you, I didn’t want to disturb you, but I didn’t want to leave either. You looked so peaceful. I couldn’t help myself, I needed to be beside you.”

  Jett kisses me, slow and passionate, not hungry like he has done before. Which is lovely, by the way. And I fall right into him, molding against his toned chest as he takes my mouth. He moans and so do I, but as crazy as it might sound, I would love nothing more than to just talk. Yes, I said talk, which we all know that I’d much rather not get into deep conversation with anyone other than Jaz and Andi, but hey, I said it was crazy. And like I’ve said before, this guy is doing some batshit crazy things to me.

  I dunno, do you think it’s possible for someone like me to change? Can someone like Jett help me find the road to healing, or will I always want to rip out the guts of the people who hurt and torture others, then stuff them like mummies before I bury them under my flowers?

  Yeah, you’re probably right, there’s no hope for me. But that doesn’t quiet the voices in my head that tell me maybe, just maybe, there’s a small chance that I could be free of my demons. Being around Jett has already pulled things out of me that I never thought in a million years I would experience...let alone want to experience. And yet, whether he knows it or not, Jett has a way of making me feel safe.

  Oh lordy, how is it that I feel safe with a cop? A homicide detective at that. It would be so easy for him to march me down to the police station and lock me up for life.

  But would he?

  Well, of course he would. This isn’t a fairytale romance right here, for cryin’ out loud. This is real life and the reality is, Jett is a cop, and if he knew what I do, he’d have no choice but to turn me in. I mean, he is the law after all.

  So, I suppose there’s really only two options. Keep doing what I’m doing and hope like hell that I don’t get caught, or I stop cold turkey and hope like hell that any evidence of my previous victims doesn’t surface.

  Did you just laugh, too? Ha! Yeah, me too. I guess that means I’m still a serial killer.

  I’m so into my own head that I don’t realize that I have sighed out loud. Jett pulls back, our lips separating in a loud smack, and smiles at me. “Was that a, ‘Jett’s a brilliant kisser and I’m walking on pink fluffy clouds’, or a ‘Dear lord, put me out of my misery this is the worst kiss ever’ sigh?”

  I chuckle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to sigh out loud.”

  “Well, shit. I guess that means that was a terrible kiss,” Jett teases.

  I nudge his arm and giggle. “Absolutely not. It was lovely, I promise. My brain is going a mile a minute, that’s all.”

  Jett pulls me up as he sits, placing my legs into his lap. He removes my heels and drops them to the floor, and begins to massage my feet.

  Oh boy, here we go again.

  But I do better this time. I let loose the anxiety that’s been resting heavy on my shoulders and relax, and I must say, getting a foot rub is very pleasurable. I could get used to it...I think.

  “And what is that pretty li’l mind of yours thinking about?” Jett asks, digging his thumbs into the ball of my foot in firm, circular motions.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” I wave him off with my hand. “But, oh, that feels nice,” I purr.

  See what happens when I stop acting like an uptight twat? I actually relax enough to enjoy my feet being touched.
Seriously, why did I balk at this before?

  “You like that?”

  “Mmhmm.” I moan. My eyes close on their own and my head grows heavy.

  Damn, this is nice.

  One of Jett’s hands travels up my leg in a smooth caress, then dips between my thighs where his finger finds the dimple in the back of my knee. I jolt upright from the sudden poke into the pressure point and swat his hand away with a giggle

  His voice drops into a deep whisper. “Sorry.”

  I open my eyes to see him grinning at me, so I meet his smile with my own. “Is that an, ‘I’m ready to jumpstart your ignition in hopes that I can rev it to life,’ or an ‘I’m going to annoy the crap outta her’ kinda poke?”

  Jett guffaws. “Touché.”

  “So, Jett, how was work today? Was the DB what you were hoping for?”

  Why that just blurted out of my mouth is beyond me. What the fuck was I thinking? I’m trying to fly under the radar, not go right through it and set off the signal alarms. Jesus, this man is gonna be the death of me in every which way possible.

  “No, unfortunately not. It was gang related, so not at all related to my Lucky Charm Serial Killer.”

  Those words crawl over my skin like a spider in the night.

  Lucky Charm Serial Killer.

  And to top it off, he said, my Lucky Charm Serial Killer. Okay, I know I shouldn’t. It’s the worst idea I’ve ever had in my whole entire life, but do you think that I can shove the words back into my mouth? Nope. No fucking chance.

  “How did you come up with that name? Lucky Charm Serial Killer?” I let the words roll off my tongue to get a taste for my new nickname.

  “We always name the cases we’re working on. Sometimes it’s picked by the way they kill their victims, where the bodies are found, or because they have a signature move that makes them stand out. Or, sometimes, if there is not much else to go by, the nickname will be given based on any evidence that might be in the file.”

  I nod. “Interesting. So, which one of those applies to the Lucky Charm Serial Killer? Have you found dead bodies in a huge bowl of cereal?” I laugh in spite of myself.

  Wowza, I’m a sick fuck.

  But to my surprise, Jett laughs too. “You’re too funny.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “No, though that would be something interesting, and highly entertaining to walk in on.”

  I grimace at the thought. I merely made a poor choice with such a lame joke, but Jett legit thinks it’s funny.

  “Hey, you said it,” he says, cocking his brows to match mine.

  “I did, but after I said it, I was mortified that I did. But you talk like it’s no big deal.”

  Hmm, maybe that’s a check mark in my favor. And c’mon, you don’t believe for minute that I was mortified, now do you? Hey, I’m just trying to play my squeaky-clean, goody-two-shoes role.

  Jett finds humor in finding dead bodies in a bowl of Lucky Charms. Check.

  “Gray, when you’ve been doing what I do for as long as I have, you become detached and desensitized. You have to, otherwise this job will kill you.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “I love my job, don’t get me wrong, but it’s an emotional one. I got into this to help people, but then I was cock punched when I got out into the real world, where there are cop haters and death on a daily basis. You want nothing more than to get the bad guys off the streets and to keep the innocent safe, but it doesn’t always work out that way. There are a lot of politics involved, and seeing innocent people die...well, it can do a real number on you emotionally. Overall, as horrific as some of these cases are, you have to stay light, and a good sense of humor is a huge part in surviving this gig.”

  I nod my understanding.

  Jett wants to get the bad guys off the streets...just like me. Check.

  Jett hates seeing innocent people die. Check, check.

  “Okay, so if it wasn’t a bowl of Lucky Charms that inspired the name, what was it?”

  Honest to God, I have no idea why I insist on burying myself my own grave. I need to shut my piehole and get on with fucking him already, because this is only going to get me in trouble. But it’s obvious...I’m an idiot.

  Jett nuzzles his nose beneath my ear and nips at my lobe then drags his teeth along my jawline. “A single, teeny-tiny piece of evidence. It’s the only evidence that we have. This is not the typical case of a serial killer. There has yet to be any bodies found. But yet, people are dropping like flies around here.”

  “Then how do you know that it’s a serial killer? Isn’t it possible that these people decided to run away?”

  Shut up.

  “Yes, it’s more than possible. But I have a hunch that it isn’t.”

  “You’re basing everything on a hunch? Wow, isn’t that kinda ballsy?”

  I really need to shut up.

  “Like I said, when you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you start to know the signs. And this isn’t the typical missing persons case. There’s a pattern here. Each victim has been a young male, ranging between the ages of twenty-one to forty-two. All have been Caucasian and have been in trouble with the law.”

  “So? How does that prove they aren’t just missing? Maybe their consciences got the better of them and they couldn’t live with what they did, so they fled?”

  Shut the hell up, Gray.

  “Yeah, don’t think so,” Jett insists with a shake of his head.

  “Why not? It seems logical to me,” I fire back. I sit up straight, tucking my feet beneath me, ready for a debate on something that I really, truly need to mind my own business about. But, now I’m too intrigued or irritated...I can’t tell. Either way, this is where I need to shut it.

  “True, it’s logical, but men don’t think that way.”

  “Uh? So, what you’re saying is, men only think with their dicks then?”

  Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

  There’s a slight pause before Jett chuckles. “Well, that’s true, in most cases, but not all. Look, there’s a handful of men out there that are deep thinkers...not many, but some. The majority of the male species stay on the surface of thinking. We only go in depth if it’s absolutely necessary, but in all respect to everyone around us, we act like we give a shit when we really don’t. We just want things to be simple and not very thought provoking. Unless it’s required for our jobs, we will only put enough effort into things that will get us by, and we’re problem solvers, but if that means we have to sit there and hear every ounce of detail about the problem itself, we tend to lose our train of thought. In which case, the problem will never be resolved because we lost interest after having to listen to the first few sentences of said problem. And we’re very shallow. We think about ourselves almost all the time, and even though we think about others, it’s more on how those others will benefit us. So pretty much, we’re selfish creatures that want everything made easy, and at the end of the day, we just want to sit in front of the TV, drink a beer, and get a damn blowjob.

  “So, to really answer your question, men like to run away from their problems, but none of them would voluntarily run away because they came to the realization that what they did was bad. That’s their issue to begin with; they didn’t have a remorseful bone in their body to start with. And if they had, they wouldn’t have done what they did in the first place. People who do what they did have no soul, no conscience, so in return, have no reason to flee when they don’t even believe that what they did was wrong.”

  I’m speechless. It’s as if he’s talking about me, for I am not remorseful. I’d like to think that I have a conscience, but I suppose that’s highly questionable since mine likes to steer me onto the path that leads to flowerbeds full of dead bodies.

  But each and every one of them deserved it.

  Words are flying through my head like a race car at the Indy 500. There’s so much more I want to say, but is it even important? No, because they more I open my mouth, the more likely something I say will toss out a red flag. It�
�s crucial, at this point, for me to zip my fucking lip and throw that key into the deepest ocean. But, again, I’m obviously two crayons short of a box. Because I just can’t help myself.

  “So, what single piece of evidence did you find that led to the Lucky Charm Serial Killer name?”

  Jett shakes his head while his lips press into a firm smirk. “I can’t say. Because the case is still open, I’m not allowed to talk about it. In fact, I’ve probably already said too much.”

  I bite my lower lip. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and a thin layer of goosebumps prickle my skin. Maybe it’s because Jett’s lips graze my neck and his palm cups my breast. Or maybe it’s because I have officially driven myself to the paranoid factory where they specialize in sending people straight to the looney bin. Me and all my goddamn questions!

  I mean, really, what is the likelihood that he’s talking about me anyway? There are so many other serial killer weirdos out there besides me. It has to be someone else. Besides, I’m careful. I have never left even the most minuscule shred of evidence...ever. For fuck’s sake, I’m Gray. I don’t do anything half-assed, and I do it right the first time. Okay, minus Brian Harvarti...that was a big ol’ fiasco, but in the bigger picture, I’m anal as sin and have full confidence in myself that not a single soul will ever know who I really am. Then why is it I feel like I’m under a microscope, and the person that is looking at me through the lens is sitting next to me...on my couch...in my house?

  Chapter 37

  Gray

  Unfortunately for my students, I have been a mean, cranky bitch today...more than I have ever been. I barely made it through the day without strangling a kid, and that’s all because my mind is solely focused on trying to decrypt all that Jett said to me last night. Deep down, I think there’s a cryptic message that’s just for me to figure out? This must’ve been what my mother felt like on a daily basis. Strung out and paranoid. All I can say is I’m glad the day is finally over.