I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs off to handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She’s witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it’s one of the downfalls of representing a social pariah.
Come back, Marietta. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the only one getting embarrassed.
The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face.
“Oh my god, it’s so awesome to meet you!” she exclaims, nearly shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move.
I smile wide and gently take the book.
“It’s awesome to meet you, too,” I return. “And hey, Team Freckles,” I tack on, waving my forefinger between her face and mine. She gives a bit of an awkward laugh, her fingers drifting over her cheeks. “What’s your name?” I rush out, before we get stuck on a weird conversation about skin conditions.
Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass.
“Megan,” she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My hand trembles as I carefully write out her name and a quick appreciation note. My signature is sloppy, but that pretty much represents the entirety of my existence.
I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile.
As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face. Someone is staring at me. But that’s a fucking stupid thought because everyone is staring at me.
I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but the feeling only intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing beneath the surface of my skin while a torch is being held to my flesh. It’s… it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I feel the apples of my cheeks heating to a bright red.
Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing reader, while the other half is on the crowd. My eyes subtly sweep the expanse of the bookstore, attempting to scope out the source of my discomfort without making it obvious.
My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A man. The crowd shrouds the majority of his body, only bits of his face peeking through the gaps between people’s heads. But what I do see has my hand stilling, mid-write.
His eyes. One so dark and bottomless, it feels like staring into a well. And the other, an ice blue so light, it’s nearly white, reminding me of a husky’s eyes. A scar slashes straight down through the discolored eye, as if it didn’t already demand attention.
When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and looking back to the book. My sharpie has been resting in the same spot, creating a big black ink dot.
“Sorry,” I mutter, finishing off my signature. I reach over and snag a bookmark, sign that too, and tuck it in the book as an apology.
The reader beams at me, mistake already forgotten, and scurries off with her book. When I look back to find the man, he’s gone.
“Addie, you need to get laid."
In response, I wrap my lips around my straw and slurp my blueberry martini as deeply as my mouth will allow. Daya, my best friend, eyes me, entirely unimpressed and impatient based on the quirk of her brow.
I think I need a bigger mouth. More alcohol would fit in it.
I don’t say this out loud because I can bet my left ass cheek that her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger dick instead.
When I continue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and rips the plastic from my lips. I’ve reached the bottom of the glass a solid fifteen seconds ago and have just been sucking air through the straw. It’s the most action my mouth has gotten in a year now.
“Whoa, personal space,” I mumble, setting the glass down. I avoid Daya’s eyes, searching the restaurant for the waitress so I can order another martini. The faster I have the straw in my mouth again, the sooner I can avoid this conversation some more.
“Don’t deflect, bitch. You suck at it.”
Our eyes meet, a beat passes, and we both burst into laughter.
“I suck at getting laid, too, apparently,” I say after our laughing calms.
Daya gives me a droll look. “You've had plenty of opportunities. You just don’t take them. You’re a hot twenty-six-year-old woman with freckles, a great pair of tits, and an ass to die for. The men are out here waiting.”
I shrug, deflecting again. Daya isn't exactly wrong—at least about having options. I’m just not interested in any of them. They all bore me. All I get is what are you wearing and wanna come over, winky face at one o’clock in the morning. I’m wearing the same sweatpants I’ve been wearing the past week, there’s a mysterious stain on my crotch, and no, I don’t want to fucking come over.
She flips out an expectant hand. “Give me your phone.”
My eyes widen. “Fuck, no.”
“Adeline Reilly. Give me. Your. Fucking. Phone.”
“Or what?” I taunt.
“Or I will throw myself across the table, embarrass the absolute shit out of you, and get my way anyways.”
My eyes finally catch on our waitress and I flag her down. Desperately. She rushes over, probably thinking I found a hair in my food, when really my best friend just has one up her ass right now.
I procrastinate a little bit longer, asking the waitress what drink she prefers. I’d look through the drink menu a second time if it weren’t rude to keep her waiting when she has other tables. So alas, I pick a strawberry martini in favor of the green apple, and the waitress rushes off again.
Sigh.
I hand the phone over, slapping it in Daya’s still outstretched hand extra firm because I hate her. She smiles triumphantly and starts typing away, the mischievous glimmer in her eye growing brighter. Her thumbs go into turbo speed, causing the golden rings wrapped around them to nearly blur.
Her sage green eyes are illuminated with a type of evilness you would only find in Satan’s Bible. If I did a little digging, I’m sure I’d find her picture somewhere in there, too. A bombshell with dark brown skin, pin-straight black hair, and a gold hoop in her nose.
She’s probably an evil succubus or something.
“Who are you texting?” I groan, nearly stomping my feet like a child. I refrain, but come close to allowing a little of my social anxiety to air out and do something crazy like throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the restaurant. It probably doesn’t help that I’m on my third martini and feeling a tad adventurous right about now.
She glances up, locks my phone, and hands it back a few seconds later. Immediately, I unlock it again and start searching through my messages. I groan aloud once more when I see she sexted Greyson. Not texted. Sexted.
“Come over tonight and lick my pussy. I’ve been craving your huge cock,” I read aloud dryly. That’s not even all of it. The rest goes into how horny I am and touch myself every night to the thought of him.
I growl and give her the filthiest look I can manage. My face would make a dumpster look like Mr. Clean’s house.
“I wouldn’t even say that!” I complain. “That doesn’t even sound like me, you bitch.”
Daya cackles, the teeny little gap between her front teeth on full display.
I really do hate her.
My phone pings. Daya is nearly bouncing in her seat while I’m contemplating googling 1000 Ways to Die’s contact information so I can send them a new story.
“Read it,” she demands, her grabby hands already reaching for my phone so she can see what he said. I jerk it out of her reach and pull up the message.
GREYSON: About time u came to your senses, baby. Be over at 8.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I really fucking hate you,” I grumble, giving her another scowl.
She smiles and slurps on her drink. “I love you too, baby girl.”
“Fuck, Addie, I’ve missed you,” Greyson breathes into my neck, humping me against the wall. My tailbone is going to be bruised in the morning. I roll my eyes when he slurps at my
neck again, groaning when he rolls his dick into the apex of my thighs.
Deciding I needed to get over myself and blow off some steam, I didn’t cancel on Greyson like I wanted to. Like I want to. I regret that decision.
Currently, he has me pinned against the wall in my creepy hallway. Old fashioned sconces line the blood red walls, with dozens of family pictures from generations in between. I feel like they’re watching me, scorn and disappointment in their eyes as they witness their descendant about to get railed right in front of them.
Only a few of the lights work, and they just serve to illuminate the spiderwebs they’re crawling with. The rest of the hallway is shadowed entirely, and I’m just waiting for the demon from The Grudge to come crawling out so I have an excuse to run.
I would definitely trip Greyson on the way out at this point, and not one inch of me is ashamed.
He murmurs some more dirty things into my ear while I inspect the sconce hanging above our heads. Greyson said in passing once that he’s scared of spiders. I wonder if I can discreetly reach up, pluck a spider from its web, and put it down the back of Greyson’s shirt.
That would light a fire under his ass to get out of here, and he’d probably be too embarrassed to talk to me again. Win, win.
Just when I actually go to do it, he rears back, panting from all the solo French kissing he’s been doing with my throat. It’s like he was waiting for my neck to lick him back or something.
His copper hair is mussed from my hands, and his pale skin is stained with a blush. The curse of being a redhead, I suppose.
Greyson has everything else going for him in the looks department. He’s hot as sin, has a beautiful body and a killer smile. Too bad he can’t fuck and is a complete and utter douchebag.
“Let’s take this to the bedroom. I need to be inside of you now.”
Internally, I cringe. Externally… I cringe. I try to play it off by jerking my shirt over my head. He has the attention span of a beagle. And just like I suspected, he’s already forgotten about my little blunder and is staring intensely at my tits.
Daya was right about that, too. I do have great tits.
He reaches up to tear the bra from my body—I probably would’ve smacked him if he actually ripped it—but he freezes when loud banging interrupts us from the main floor.
The sound is so sudden, so violently loud that I gasp, my heart pounding in my chest. Our eyes meet in stunned silence. Someone is pounding on my front door, and they don’t sound too nice.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asks, his hand dropping to his side, seemingly frustrated by the interruption.
“No,” I breathe. I quickly tug my shirt back on—backwards—and rush down the creaky steps. Taking a moment to check outside the window next to the door, I see the front porch is vacant. My brow furrows. Letting the curtain fall, I stand in front of the door, the stillness of the night closing in on the manor.
Greyson walks up beside me and looks over at me with a confused expression.
“Uh, you gonna answer that?” he asks dumbly, pointing at the door as if I didn’t know it was right in front of me. I almost thank him for the directions just to be an ass, but refrain. Something about that knock has my instincts blaring Code Red. The knock sounded aggressive. Angry. Like someone had pounded on the door with all their strength.
A real man would offer to open the door for me after hearing such a violent sound. Especially when we’re surrounded by a mile of thick woods and a hundred-foot drop into the water.
But instead, Greyson stares at me expectantly. And a little like I’m stupid. Huffing, I unlock the door and whip it open.
Again, no one is there. I step out onto the porch, the rotting floorboards groaning beneath my weight. Cold wind stirs my cinnamon hair, the strands tickling my face and sending shivers racing across my skin. Goosebumps rise as I tuck my hair behind my ears and walk over to one end of the porch. Leaning over the rail, I look down the side of the house. No one.
No one on the other side of the house, either.
There could easily be someone watching me in the woods, but I have no way of knowing with it being so dark. Not unless I go out there and search myself.
And as much as I love horror films, I have no interest in starring in one.
Greyson joins me on the porch, his own eyes scanning the trees.
There’s someone watching me. I can feel it. I’m as sure of it as I am about the existence of gravity.
Chills run down my spine, accompanied by a burst of adrenaline. It’s the same feeling I get when I watch a scary movie. It begins with the beat of my heart, then a heavy weight settles deep in my stomach, eventually sinking to my core. I shift, not entirely comfortable with the feeling right now.
Huffing, I rush back into the house and up the steps. Greyson trails behind me. I don’t notice he’s in the middle of undressing as he walks down the hallway until he steps into my room after me. When I turn, he’s stark naked.
“Seriously?” I bite out. What a fucking idiot. Someone just banged on my door like the wood personally put a splinter in their ass, and he’s immediately ready to pick up where he left off. Slurping on my neck like one would slurp jello out of a container.
“What?” he asks incredulously, splaying his arms out to his sides.
“Did you not just hear what I heard? Someone was banging on my door, and it was kind of scary. I’m not in the mood to have sex right now.”
What happened to chivalry? I would think a normal man would ask if I’m okay. Feel out how I’m feeling. Maybe try to make sure I’m nice and relaxed before sticking their dick inside me.
You know, read the fucking room.
“You serious?” he questions, anger sparking in his brown eyes. They’re a shitty color, just like his shitty personality and even shittier stroke game. The dude gives fish a run for their money, the way he flops when he fucks. Might as well lay out naked in the fish market—he’d have a better chance of finding someone to take him home. That person is not going to be me.
“Yes, I’m serious,” I say with exasperation.
“Goddammit, Addie,” he snaps, angrily swiping up a sock and putting it on. He looks like an idiot—completely naked save for a single sock because the rest of his clothes are still thrown haphazardly in my hallway.
He storms out of my room, snatching up articles of clothing as he goes. When he gets about halfway down the long hallway, he stops and turns to me.
“You’re such a bitch, Addie. All you do is give me blue balls and I’m sick of it. I’m done with you and this creepy fucking house,” he seethes, pointing a finger at me.
“And you’re an asshole. Get the fuck out of my house, Greyson.” His eyes widen with shock first, and then narrow into thin slits, brimming with fury. He turns, cocks his arm back and sends his fist flying into the drywall.
A gasp is ripped from my throat when half of his arm disappears, my mouth parting in both shock and disbelief.
“Since I’m not getting yours, thought I’d create my own hole to get into tonight. Fix that, bitch,” he spits. Still sporting only one sock and an arm full of clothes, he storms off.
“You dick!” I rage, stomping towards the large hole in my wall he just created.
The front door slams a minute later from below.
I hope the mysterious person is still out there. Let the asshole get murdered wearing a single sock.
Chapter 2
The Shadow
T he screams of pain bouncing around the cement walls are getting a tad annoying.
Sometimes it sucks being the hacker and the enforcer. I really fucking enjoy hurting people, but tonight, I have no goddamn patience for this whiny asshole.
And normally, I have the patience of a saint.
I know how to wait for what I want most. But when I’m trying to get some real answers and the dude’s too busy shitting his pants and crying to give me a coherent response, I get a little testy.
“This knife is about t
o go halfway through your eyeball,” I warn. “I’m not even going to show you any mercy and shove it all the way through to your brain.”
“Fuck, man,” he cries. “I told you that I just went to the warehouse a few times. I don’t know anything about some fuckin’ ritual.”
“So, you’re useless is what you’re saying,” I surmise, inching the blade towards his eye.
He squeezes them shut as if skin that’s no thicker than a centimeter is going to prevent the knife from going through his eye.
Fucking laughable.
“No, no, no,” he pleads. “I know someone there that might be able to give you more information.”
Sweat drips down his nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His overgrown greasy blonde hair is matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess it’s not actually blonde anymore since most of it’s painted red now.
I had already cut off one of his ears, along with ripping off ten of his fingernails, severed both Achilles heels, a couple of stab wounds in specific locations that won’t allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly, and too many broken bones to count.
Dickhead won’t be getting up and walking out of here, that’s for damn sure.
“Less crying, more talking,” I bark, scraping the tip of the knife against his still-closed eyelid.
He cringes away from the knife, tears bubbling out from beneath his lashes.
“H-his name is Fernando. He’s one of the operation leaders in charge of sending out mules to help capture the girls. He-he’s a big deal in the warehouse, b-basically runs the whole thing there.”
“Fernando what?” I snap.
He sobs. “I don’t know, man,” he wails. “He just introduced himself as Fernando.”
“Then what does he look like?” I grind out impatiently through gritted teeth.
Haunting Adeline (Cat and Mouse Duet Book 1) Page 2