Haunting Adeline (Cat and Mouse Duet Book 1)

by H. D. Carlton

  Which means he had to have found out about the hands.

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Humm? Some pretty dangerous men are after me because of you, ya’ know? If I end up dead because of your psychotic jealou—”

  “Let me stop you there, baby. Because you seem to forget that I had a gun in your pussy not too long ago. Did you think teaching you how to act right is the only lesson I’m teaching with that?” She quiets. “If you think low-life criminals are scarier than me, then I haven’t been clear enough, have I? Next time you place them above me, I’ll be sending their heads to your doorstep next.”

  I crack my neck, the flare of anger residing now that Addie has closed her pretty little mouth. She’s starting to learn, but I hope to God she never stops talking back.

  I do like to punish her.

  “I-I don’t even know why I’m talking to you,” she finally stutters out. “You’re a sick, deranged individual. And I already made another police report against you, asshole.”

  Lies. The last report she made about me was the night she pretended to call when I stood outside her house. She was attempting to scare me away, but once I called her out on it, she followed through with the threat. My girl doesn’t back down from a challenge.

  I walked back to my car with a stiff cock and a smile on my face. I don’t back down, either.

  A bark of laughter bursts from my throat before I can stop it.

  “That’s funny?”

  “That’s sexy. But we both know that’s not true.”

  I’ve been deleting them since she started making them and sent a guy in to destroy any physical evidence. The policemen will recall going to her house, but the second they try to investigate—if they ever got off their asses, that is—they would have nothing to go off of. Not that stalking cases are ever taken seriously anyways, which is why so many women end up murdered.

  She growls and hangs up on me, and I can’t keep in the fucking laughter. Especially when I pull the feed up and see her stomping her cute little feet around the house mumbling to herself, probably berating herself for even picking up the phone.

  The fun has only just begun, little mouse.

  Chapter 20

  The Shadow

  T he bass from the music is all-consuming. It feels like the beat is coming from inside my chest. I never quite got used to the volume in clubs.

  I make my way through the throng of grinding couples, drunk girls shaking their asses, and obnoxious douchebags wearing too much cologne with a mountain of gel in their hair. Oh God, one even has his button-up parted so he can show off the gold chain dangling on his hairy, overly tanned chest.

  Scarface is a role model very few manage to do justice to when they imitate him. They can stick their faces in a pile of coke but don’t exhibit the same finesse while doing so.

  My hood is pulled over my head, concealing my identity as I make my way up the metal stairs. The same metal steps Addie climbed up not too long ago with another man’s hand wrapped around hers.

  I enjoyed sawing off that hand and would definitely do it again.

  When I reach the landing, I stop short. On the half-moon couch is Max with his legs spread and a waitress bouncing up and down on his lap while his head is kicked back with his eyes closed. Her skirt is hiked up, and her thong pulled to the side, baring her pussy eating up Max’s cock for all to see.

  I arch a brow, unimpressed with how low she has to bounce. Addie would never have that issue.

  A pair of twins sit on either edge, receiving their own treatment from a girl.

  Sighing, I step back in the shadows, pulling out my gun and screwing on the silencer piece. The bass is milder up here, but a bullet zipping by your ear will draw anyone’s attention.

  I take aim and shoot, the bullet an inch away from Max's head.

  Immediately, he dives for cover, pushing the poor girl off him and onto the floor. She yelps, covering her body as she scrambles up and makes a run for it.

  “Hey,” I say calmly. She freezes, while the twins move into action, reaching for their own guns while Max quickly yanks up his slacks to cover his now flaccid dick.

  “I’d appreciate it if you tuck the guns back in your pockets along with your dicks. None of you are my type. Unfortunately for you, I only have one, and she’s got pretty light brown eyes and a penchant for dangerous men.”

  When one of the twins doesn’t listen, continuing to pull out the gun and take aim, I fire off one shot next to his head too. He drops the gun and raises his hands.

  I turn my eyes to the three girls. “I want you beautiful ladies to see yourselves out and never speak of this again, yeah? I have the memory of an elephant, especially with faces.”

  These women will never see the wrong end of my gun, even if they do tell, but it sure as hell would make my life a lot harder if they knew that.

  They all nod and run out of the room like there’s a Rottweiler nipping at their bare asses.

  “Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck is security?” Max spits, a hand resting on the gun in the back of his pants.

  “Security from this club?” I laugh. “You know, for someone who has some pretty seedy business dealings, you’re a cocky son of a bitch for not having your own damn guards.”

  Max sniffs with indignation. I smile wider, realizing that he’s still struggling with loyalty and that pesky power vacuum now that the Talaverras are wiped out.

  “Couldn’t get any loyal guards?”

  “Mind your fucking business,” he snaps. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  I trot over to where he’s sitting and take a seat next to him, sighing as if I just sat on a beach chair on a private island with a piña colada.

  And then I press the cold metal of my silencer to his temple. I’m riding on the fact that at least these two bozos will show him a shred of loyalty.

  “Does it freak you out when someone pops up out of nowhere and threatens your life? I’ll admit, I was a bit more direct, but the intention is the same.”

  The twins’ eyes shift to each other.

  “What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

  “I’ll tell you why I’m here when the three of you set those purdy little guns you got riding up your assholes on the table there,” I say, nodding my head towards said table.

  The twins look to Max for direction, and when he nods, they listen.

  Oh. Goodie. He does have two people that have a shred of loyalty. Let’s see how long that lasts when someone who is clearly in over their head is running the show.

  A bead of sweat drips down Max's forehead as he follows my directions, nearly throwing the weapon on the table from his anger. The other two follow suit, one twin picking his up from the ground and the other sliding his out from the back of his pants before setting them on the table with Max’s. Slowly and gently. Indicating this isn't their first rodeo where a gun is in their face.

  “Adeline Reilly and Daya Pierson. Those names ring any bells in those empty heads of yours?”

  Max's eyes round at the edges slightly, enough to reveal recognition.

  “Never hear—”

  “Here’s the thing about liars,” I cut in. “I really don’t fucking like them. They kinda make me twitchy actually. Do you want me getting twitchy when my finger is on a trigger?”

  Max’s lips tighten into a hard line.

  “Your girl was involved in my best frie—”

  “And here’s the thing about assumptions,” I cut in again, grinning when Max snarls with irritation. “They’re baseless, and most of the time, you’re really fucking wrong. Addie doesn’t have anything to do with Archie's death. But I do.”

  Max's head jerks towards me but is deterred by the gun still firmly pressed against his temple. He grits his teeth, his chest heaving with fury. I smile as his body trembles.

  “What, is Addie an ex or something? You get jealous she wanted Arch instead?” Max hisses. Man, those two really were besties. They sound exactly alike w
hen laid on their deathbed.

  I shrug, unbothered. “I did get jealous, but she’s certainly no ex. Your best friend was a shit person. You sorry pieces of shit may get off on slapping around women but can’t say I find enjoyment out of that.”

  “I will fucking kil—”

  “You’re not going to do shit,” I interrupt for the third time. “You’re a tadpole in an ocean of sharks and you have no fucking idea who I am, but you’re about to learn.”

  When Max's eyes meet mine, I flash my teeth, pull out my phone and click the play button on the awaiting video.

  Max’s father sits in a chair with a gag in his mouth. Sweat and tears run down his face as he looks at the camera with all the fear humankind has ever known.

  The two of them are as close as a father and son can be, sharing the same interests in drugs and tossing around women for the hell of it.

  His father rambles behind the gag, pleading for his life. I have no plans to kill the man. While he’s a shitty human, he wouldn’t be any good to me dead. Not when he’s going to be the leverage hanging over Max's head.

  I came awfully close to walking in here and shooting them all dead, but then I’d have to kill all their families too, and my girl doesn’t like it when I do that.

  Now that Addie’s on their radar, the more of them I kill, the more enemies I make not only for myself, but her too.

  Exhibit A—the dickhead who has my gun pressed to his head because I killed his best friend.

  I don’t have the goddamn time to deal with small fish when I have Great White’s floating around in my ocean. Too bad for them, I’m a fucking Megalodon.

  “What did you do to him?!” Max shouts, jerking forward towards the guns. I grab his arm and haul him back against the booth, a breath of air puffing out of his chest from the force.

  “He’s not dead, so settle down. No need to yell, my ears are sensitive.”

  Colorful expletives spill from his mouth, but I ignore them and tap the silencer on the underside of his chin hard enough to make him bite his tongue.

  “As long as you leave Addie and Daya alone for good, daddy dearest will continue to live a long, healthy life. I don’t want to see a goddamn hair out of place on either of their heads, you feel me? I know everything about you, Max, and your two helpers over there too. I know where you eat, sleep, and shit. And I will watch you until some other sorry asshole puts a bullet in your brain. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin' down?”

  His blue eyes narrow into slits, glaring at me heatedly. It’s the equivalent to throwing a bunny at me, but whatever makes the asshole feel like Elmer Fudd.

  I stop the video of Max's sniveling father and stand, keeping my gun trained on him. Specifically on his dick. Most men would rather die than live without a dick.

  “We have a deal, Elmer?” His brows plunge at the name, but he doesn’t question it. Having a gun pointed at your family jewels changes your priorities sometimes.

  “Yes. As long as you let him go.”

  I flash a wide smile. “He’s already on his way home.”

  I turn to leave, walking back over to the staircase before his voice stops me once more.

  “Hey! You never said who you were,” Max calls from behind me, his voice still packed full of unbridled anger.

  Turning to look over my shoulder, a feral grin curls my lips, and I say with a wink, “You can call me Z.”

  And then I see myself out, laughing from the look on their paling faces.

  “Mr. Forthright, welcome to Pearl,” the blonde woman says, ushering me into the dimly lit foyer. She’s dressed in a plain black blazer and skirt, with nondescript heels and her hair pulled back into a tight bun.

  Shit looks painful.

  A serene smile is on her face, but her bright blue eyes are missing their sparkle. The baby blue color is lifeless, and it’s my first clue that she’s seen too much in this place.

  I enter into what looks like a foyer with gold tiled flooring, black walls, and an obscene chandelier. Gold framed pictures of the founding members of the gentlemen’s club line the walls.

  Or, in other words, a bunch of fucking rapists line the walls.

  Men in business suits, smiling at the camera and probably still riding the high from raping a little girl or boy. They all look the fucking same to me.

  I walk down the hallway, the creepy men staring at me from either side the whole way down, while music with a heavy bass emanates from somewhere ahead of me.

  I’m keeping the earpiece tucked safely away in my jacket until it’s needed.

  It took five minutes to get in this godforsaken place because Detective Fingers from security wanted to thoroughly investigate my asscrack. I had to spend several minutes lecturing him about what would happen if his fingers brushed up against my asshole one more time.

  After walking down Rapist Alley, I walk into a massive room filled with couches and poker tables. Men lounge on the couches with women draped over their laps and shaking their asses or tits in their faces.

  At the back of the stage, a woman is currently humping a pole while men are throwing dollar bills at her. A full bar is off to the left of that, where several men in business suits sit, drinking glasses of alcohol. Probably fifty-thousand-dollar Scotch that tastes like ass.

  Then again, they probably enjoy that taste since they think their own farts smell like flowers.

  Women in scantily clad clothing roam the room, delivering drinks, and pretending to laugh at their lame jokes and—what the fuck?

  Ten feet from me, a woman stands at a poker bar holding out her bare arm while an asshole stubs out his very lit cigar on her skin. My face drops when I see that asshole is Mark fucking Seinburg.

  Goddamn it.

  Smoke sizzles from her flesh, but she doesn’t move an inch. In fact, she doesn’t even flinch.

  Anger punches through my chest. I force myself to stay calm as I walk over to the table, acting more interested in the game than I am in the girl.

  As I get closer, I notice she has a blank look on her face, much like the hostess that greeted me.

  The smell of burnt flesh fills the area. One dickhead even waves his hand in front of his nose dramatically, as if it’s her fault it smells. She drops her arm and just stands there, a glazed look in her eyes. After closer inspection, I notice that the entirety of her arm is covered in burn scars. Old and fresh. All in different stages of healing and plenty of fresh burns from tonight.

  Mark shoos her away, and she robotically turns and walks off, as if she didn’t just have a cigar stubbed out on her flesh.

  She’s drugged.

  And after looking around at the women, I realize they all are.

  Not only does it keep them compliant, but they probably won’t remember the majority of the shit that goes down in here.

  My mask stays in place, refusing to crack from the anger swirling in the depths of my chest. Keeping my eyes on the table, I approach the men.

  “Gentlemen! Who’s winning tonight?”

  Five pairs of eyes turn to look at me, all with snide looks on their faces. I can tell what they’re thinking without them even saying it.

  Who are you? What gives you the right to speak to us?

  “I am,” Mark chirps, and I literally couldn’t have planned that better myself. It’s like God opened up His hands and dropped that fine piece of blessing in my lap Himself. “Do you play, boy?”

  What I really want to do is smack the shit out of him for calling me ‘boy’ when I’m a thirty-two-year-old man, but instead, I offer a devious smile.

  “Sure do,” I say.

  Mark looks over at a bald man and tips his chin up. “Let him have your spot.”

  The table seems to go silent. I keep my expression calm as the bald man stares back at Mark with a blank expression. But he doesn’t have his eyes on lockdown. Anger sparks in his brown pools, and he looks at Mark much like how I really want to. Like he wants to kill him.

  It’s for the best really. He wasn
’t a good poker player anyways if he couldn’t even keep his anger in check.

  Calmly, the man stands and places his cards down. Royal Flush.

  He would’ve won that round.

  I keep my face blank, not unveiling the smile that’s threatening to emerge. I would feel bad for him if he didn’t get off on hurting women.

  Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t feel bad at all.

  While Mark was burning his cigar on the waitress’s flesh, this bald man over here was adjusting himself. He wasn’t the only one, though, and I made sure to note every one of their faces for later.

  The man gives Mark and me one last look before walking off without a word.

  The valuable little lesson that came out of that embarrassing spectacle was that Marky-Mark here has power. Whatever weight he pulls, it’s enough to give him superiority over the common folk.

  Wonder how many little boys’ and girls’ lives it took to get that far.

  “What’s your name, boy?” he asks.

  “Zack Forthright,” I lie easily.

  “Name’s Mark Seinburg. I’m sure you already know who I am, though. How long have you been playing poker?” Mark asks as they restart the game, brushing over his narcissism like the notion of me not knowing who he is isn’t an option.

  I know exactly who he is, but not for the reasons he thinks.

  “Since I was a kid,” I answer truthfully.

  My father was a professional poker player, and he taught me how to master a poker face. Something that has been crucial to my field of work.

  He’d sit me on his lap as a little boy, teaching me the game, and then show me his cards as he played with his friends. Testing me to see if I could keep a blank face. He lost a lot of games doing that.

  But he truly believed I wouldn’t learn how to master a poker face unless I knew what it meant to play the game. He’d whisper in my ear, point out my tells, and teach me how to not only read and understand facial expressions but micro-expressions.

  During that time, my father never truly lost any money. After my lesson, I’d run off and play, and he’d win all his money back plus some. It took me a couple of years to master a poker face and even longer to master the game itself, but he made me play against him once I did.