Hot Honey Kisses: 3:AM Kisses 17

by Addison Moore

  “The guy?” Her eyebrow hooks into her forehead, and she looks every bit the smoking vixen I know her to be. If I’m being honest, I’ve always thought Serena was stunning, even when I probably shouldn’t have. “What if a woman did it?”

  “There certainly are enough women suspects to make this happen. It’s so violent, though, I guess my mind didn’t go there.”

  Serena slips down the bed, her head precariously close to my stomach, and I can’t help but shed a dirty grin. “I’m going to do you a favor and tell you something you should never forget. Never, ever underestimate a woman.”

  A chuckle rumbles from me. “I’m afraid that’s one lesson I keep learning over and over.”

  “Ooh, sorry. I’d ask what your ex did to you, but I’m not interested in having a threesome with her. Only you and I are invited to this party. That story will have to wait for another day.”

  All thoughts of Carmella up and evaporate just like that. It’s just Serena and me, a far easier, far better combination in every single way.

  “I promise you this, Serena—I will never, ever underestimate you.”

  “I knew you were wise. Now, let’s see how happy you can be.”

  Serena dives down lower and lands her mouth on the happiest part of my body and makes me far happier than I could ever have imagined.

  Yes, Serena Maxfield is one woman I will never underestimate, not in bed, not in life.

  I’m going to deeply appreciate her instead.

  Craig Carter. That’s the dude’s name. One call to Marlin was all it took. I didn’t tell him about the incident with Serena, but only because I wanted a piece of that idiot first. Nobody touches Serena and gets away with it. Okay, nobody but me.

  I’ve always felt that Serena was mine. Not in a perverse ownership type of way, but in a she’s-my-person type of way. It’s why I’ve always gravitated to her whenever we were in the same room. And now that I know that kiss was the reason we unraveled all those years ago, I want to bind us up, heal us, and take us to new places I never imagined we would end up.

  I scratch the back of my head a moment as I walk up the dirt road leading to the Hollow Brook Acres Lumberyard.

  Do I want a serious relationship with Serena? My heart ratchets up in my chest as if giving its opinion. A relationship with her—out in the open? While Marlin shoves his rifle at me to examine, up close and personal?

  Hell yes. I don’t even need to think about it.

  On Monday, the homicide detective in charge of Barry Larson’s case hauls Serena and me into his office and has a nice, amicable chat with us in which he informs us that we are indeed the only viable suspects at this point and then charges us with two things. Do not leave town. Do not collect two hundred alibis.

  I get it. The police are running on empty. The town is walking on eggshells. Summer is barreling to an end. Fall semester starts up in less than three weeks and, rumor has it, parents are ready to storm the university. Yes, Serena and I make wonderful scapegoats. Now, all they need is a motive, and we’ll be banished from Hollow Brook. Hello, prison life. I don’t need a map to know we wouldn’t be the first innocent people to grace those bars.

  I head into the cool mobile home that acts as an office, and an older woman with glasses so slender you wonder how she sees out of them at all looks up at me, her affect perennially bored.

  “Hey there, I’m looking for a Craig Carter?”

  “Out back in the barn, stacking wood. Does he owe you money?” She gives a sly smile as if she knows this is a damn good guess.

  “No, actually, I’m an instructor at Whitney Briggs, and someone told me he might be able to assist with some summer internships I’m trying to set up for the students.” I have never been so glad to have such a great cover. And to think, I almost turned down the offer to teach. How different things would be for me right now. I wonder if Serena and I would have found our way to one another regardless. I’d like to think so.

  “That’s a first.” She gets back to the computer screen in front of her, and those tiny spectacles reflect a cobalt hue.

  I head out back and find a burly man in a tank top chucking wood, stacking it every which way into an oversized metal slot. Fall will be here before you know it, and that wood right there will be heating our homes.

  “Craig Carter?” I put on my cheeriest tone, my friendliest face as he straightens to greet me, and I spit out my spiel before he has the chance to shoot.

  “Whitney Briggs?” He makes a face, looking around the grounds. “I don’t know. This is a dangerous place. I’d hate to see those kids get maimed. More than that, I’d hate to see them get in my way.” He walks over to an oversized white cooler and pulls out a beer. “You want a cold one?” He tilts it my way, and I shake my head.

  “Thanks for the offer, though. So, no students?”

  “Nope. I’m not up for the challenge you might say. Damn hot girls at that school, though. Send a couple pretty ones and I just might change my mind. The things I could do.” He knocks back half his drink, and my blood boils at the thought of him doing anything to Serena.

  I blow out a deep breath, just trying to control my temper. I’ve got two choices as I see it. I either do my damn best job to coax some kind of a confession from him like a good little lawyer or simply jump in and beat the living shit out of him.

  “I know it. They are pretty hot.” I slap the back of my neck as if swatting a fly. “They’re pretty rattled, though. That murder a few weeks back took place at the bar across the street. Too close to home for a lot of them. You hear about it? Some guy shot in the chest—found in the alley.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He bobs his head as if he had a vague recollection. The guy is full of shit. “I knew him.” Maybe not so full after all. “Good guy.” He shakes the remainder of his beer. “Had a bad habit of sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted. Didn’t know when to quit. You ever get like that? Mess with something just because you can’t seem to let it go? All the damn idiot had to do was give up the fight, but he just kept going on ahead.” He glares at the axe lying adjacent to me on the ground as if he just thought up a new use for it. And just like that, I see a vision of my bloodied head lying in that heap of firewood.

  “All right then.” I start to take off. “I might drop by in a few weeks in the event you’ve changed your mind about the students.”

  “No need. I’ll be moving to Pittsburg soon enough. Try to ask the front desk in the fall. Wait until I’m long gone, would you?”

  Moving. I stare at him a good long while as I feel the window closing in on my opportunity to kick his ass. The lawyer in me says let it go. After all, he’s thrown me more than my fair share of bones, and I still need to pick through them.

  “Will do. Good luck with the move. And sorry about your friend.”

  “No worries. I’m not.”

  I take off and sit in my car a while. Craig Carter isn’t sorry about Barry’s death. Neither is his own sister—the one sitting on a pile of money now that he’s dead. Serena made it sound as if Belinda Johnson, the yoga instructor, wasn’t too sorry either.

  I pull out my phone and text her.

  You busy? I pepper it with every emoji under the sun in an effort to try to get her attention before I hit send. The last thing I want her to think is that this is some kind of a booty call. Do people still say booty call? My God, how I would love it to be a booty call, but right about now, I just need her safe. Besides, it feels good to know that I can talk to Serena, have her attention at the drop of a hat each and every day. I need that. I need her. My insides swim at the revelation. I need Serena. I care about her. Deeply.

  She texts right back. At work, taking a quick break. I see your emoji game is strong. What’s up?

  I can’t help but smile. I start in and spill every last detail about my visit with Craig Carter and wait for her response.

  The dancing ellipses light up as she writes.

  Pittsburg?

  Of all the things she pulled out
of that conversation, she chose that.

  Does Pittsburg ring any bells? I shoot back. I know it does, or she would have simply noted he was leaving town.

  No. Nothing at all.

  Guilty. We make small chitchat, and I tell her I’ll see her in a bit.

  Serena knows something. She’s hiding something from me. I shake my head wistfully as I make my way back onto the main road. That’s what I love about her. She’s forever keeping me on my toes.

  Love about her?

  My adrenaline fires up ten times stronger than it did when I thought Craig Carter was about to drive that hatchet through my forehead.

  “Wow,” I say as I come to a complete stop.

  I’m in love with Serena Maxfield.

  And just like that, it feels as if a weight has lifted off my chest.

  I’m in love with Serena.

  Well, I’ll be damned.

  And as soon as Marlin finds out what I’ve been doing with his sweet baby sis, I will be just that.

  I Love You to Death

  Serena

  Pittsburg!

  Gah! I knew it. I knew, knew, knew it. As soon as Shep mentioned it, I pictured Craig—who up until now was simply known to me as Dirty Dude Number Two—nevertheless, I pictured him boot scootin’ his way out of town with Hannah Johnson. Hannah was the head bitter bride who was there the night of the murder. It makes sense. Once Shep and I discovered that Barry was her infamous ex, it shined a bright bitter light over why she might want him shot dead in an alley. Doesn’t every jilted bride want her good-for-nothing betrothed to be bumped off the planet in a violent and perhaps humiliating manner? Okay, so she did the jilting but still. There is murderous intent buried in there somewhere nonetheless.

  That’s exactly why as soon as I put killer and killer together, I signed up for a gym membership—and for the very next yoga class that Hannah’s shady sister, Belinda, will be teaching so I can pump her for more homicidal info. I tried to google Hannah to pinpoint her locale but couldn’t seem to do it. I figured I had gleaned so much info from Belinda the first time without putting in a real effort, I’d try my luck again before I gave in and took the info to the police.

  “Hot yoga?” Harley looks as if she’s about to lynch me. Her dark hair is swept up into a perky ponytail, and she’s got the requisite yoga mat tucked under her arm. Unlike me, Harley actually participates in the sport—wait, is yoga a sport? Unsure—and uncertain I actually care. That’s not the point. The point is, we’ve both donned our yoga pants and tank tops for the occasion—in other words, we’re dressed as we would be on any average day.

  “I guess it is hot yoga. How horrible can it be? I mean, it’s hot outside, so we’re already used to it, right?” I steal a moment to glance out the window at a manmade lake while mat space grows quickly scarce in the oversized studio.

  “Serena”—Harley says my name tight while closing her eyes as if she’s reached the edge of the universe with me—“they heat the room to over a hundred degrees, and they keep the humidity up to forty percent!”

  “So, in other words, it’s exactly like our dorm room in the summer. Come on, you little pansy, before I get you some cheese to go with that whine.”

  “Fine”—she hisses as we tread in past the perfectly toned bodies—“but you owe me.”

  “Name your price.” There’s always the off-chance she could ask for something completely reasonable. “I have zero problems making all of your dreams come true.” I never said I wasn’t above lying. There is a murder investigation in the balance, for Pete’s sake. One in which I am the number one suspect! It wasn’t Shep who was tussling with Barry Larson, slapping him with my lips. It was me. If the suspect list were reversed, I’m sure Harley wouldn’t have a problem dispensing a tiny white lie.

  “Great,” she whispers, rolling out her personal mat while I pick up one of the extra mats they have in a pile next to us. “We’ll do a double date. You and Shep with Tyson and me—The Sloppy Pelican and a movie.”

  I choke on the flood of protest begging to dislodge from me all at once. “Shep and I don’t date,” I say it lower than a whisper. “We’re keeping things below deck for a while.” As in an eternity.

  “Below deck?” Harley arches a devilish brow. “Sounds perfectly kinky,” she roars like the insane person she’s turning out to be. Honestly, if she keeps this up, I’ll have to sleep with one eye open. There is a murderer running loose, and for all I know it’s Harley. She was present the night of Barry Larson’s unfortunate demise. And by the way, if I thought I was pissed at Barry that night for getting in my way, I’m ten times more livid over the fact he got himself killed and managed to pin the blame on me.

  “No double date.”

  “You owe me. It’s non-negotiable. So tell me, Serena, does Shep like to venture below deck?” She glances down at my thighs for a brief, yet raunchy moment.

  “Let’s just say West Virginia is his favorite state.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I knew he was perfect.”

  Oh, he is, but I’m still too stubborn to say it.

  Belinda saunters into the room, and instantly the buzz dies down, and all eyes are feasted on her impeccable form. She’s fit and tan. Her brown hair clings tight in neat little ringlets that she quickly pulls back into a perfect bun without looking. She swoops into the first position and makes it look effortless—so does Harley, but when I attempt to parrot the contortion, I don’t even get halfway down before I begin to arch my back and groan like an eighty-year-old granny. And in defense of eighty-year-old grannies everywhere, there are about six of them in here handling these moves like the geriatric badasses they are.

  The torment goes on for what feels like fifteen excruciating days in the ass-crack of hell. I’ve sweated out my body weight, and not one ounce was due to the extraneous maneuvers I refused to endure. After about the fourth pose—okay, second—I decided one of us in the room needed to live to tell the horrific tale, thus I’ve dubbed myself the necessary survivor.

  Harley rolls up her mat, and all I can see from this angle are her tiny little pink toenails manicured into perfect squares like the Chiclets gum I used to shake at the end of the grocery store line to make my mother insane. Who knew that death rattle would eventually drive her thousands of miles away from her children?

  “Hey”—Harley wags her bronzed foot in my face, and I’m quick to bat her away—“this place is clearing out. Don’t you have a bone to pick with someone?” She ticks her head toward Belinda. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  I muster the strength to lift my soaking wet body off the mat of doom and somehow manage to shuffle my way to the front of the class where Belinda is singing softly to herself, hopping from one leg to the other while filling her gym bag with the superfluous props she brought to mock us in our misery. This will be the last time I do something akin to an alligator stretch with a stuffed green gator leering at me with his beady button eyes.

  “Hey, Belinda”—it comes out breathless as if the next words out of my mouth were going to be call 911, and, my God, they might be—“just wanted to say hello.” I pull my lips north in some unnatural rendition of a psychotic smile. “Not sure if you remember me. I’m the—”

  “Waitress.” She grins hard as if we had actually met under pleasant circumstances. “I’m glad you made it out here. Although, I can’t say I’m too surprised. The entire place is littered with Briggs girls trying to get into their best shape for the summer. Oh, who are we kidding? It’s for all of those frat boys running around loose.” She gives a cheeky wink. “Hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  “Oh, I did.” NOT. Hell to the no. This was abject, pure, medieval torture, and I will never subject myself to it again. But telling the truth is beside the point at the moment. “I just wanted to thank you for all your hard work and let you know that I’m extremely impressed with how limber you are.”

  She belts out a laugh with far too much energy after all the demonic aerobics that went on. “Thanks. I l
ike to keep myself at the top of my game. My man appreciates it, too.” She hikes a shoulder at me flirtatiously. “There’s a reason he’s sticking around.”

  “That’s nice. I bet he’s a real keeper.” For the life of me, I can’t figure out how to segue this conversation to her killer of a sister. “Has Hannah managed to move on? You know, after that whole bridal party debacle? I felt so bad, seeing her in that wedding dress knocking back one drink after another until she was almost blackout drunk.” I bet Craig Carter waited until she was good and wasted before he made her pull the trigger. He totally strikes me as the kind of a devil who would make a woman do his dirty work.

  “Hannah?” Her upper lip curls in disgust, and I can’t quite figure out what that means. Is she disgusted by her sister?

  “Let’s just say Hannah has sworn off men for the next millennium. She’s all about cats and needlepoint from here on out.” She averts her eyes. Her voice is curt with sarcasm.

  Wait a minute…

  “It sounds like you get along with your sister about as good as I do with mine!” Liar, liar, West Virginia on fire. Lex and I get along great now that I’m no longer lying to her about which university I attend and the fact I work at a bar. “Sisters.” I shake my head, trying to garner an ounce of camaraderie with her. “You can’t live with them. You can’t—”

  “Oh, hon, I can live without ’em.” Belinda flings a towel over her shoulder and laughs. “Hannah and I have never been close.”

  “You might think so, but I saw you right there by her side supporting her the night of her freedom-fest. It takes a real sister to dress like a bride and show up to a bar. You’re practically a hero in the sister hall of fame.”

  Her expression sours while scooping up her gym bag. “I wasn’t exactly invited to that party. Hannah was so toasted by the time she arrived, I doubt she even realized I was there.”