Devil In Her Bed

by Amarie Avant

  “What is it?”

  “I just laid eyes on my stalker, Lincoln. Let me go,” I argue with him as we stand in valet.

  “No. I will not allow you to run after a deranged wanker. You don’t know if he’s armed and dangerous. Tell me what he fucking looked like Siobhan, so I can handle it!”

  “Handle it? I don’t need you handling anything for me.” I give another yank of my arm and he lets go. A tiny, satin box goes sailing from the inside of Lincoln’s blazer.

  It falls open, and a teardrop diamond sparkles in the sunlight. The engagement ring is for me. Stiff jawed, Lincoln picks it up.

  Tears fall in torrents down my cheekbones. I have to tell Lincoln the truth. “Lincoln, I'm not over him and I don't think I'll ever be. What am I saying? Hosea wasn't a phase. He was my life. So, really, I cannot love you. I'm sorry.”

  Lincoln stands there, biting his lips, eyes a dark rage. Again, I apologize to Lincoln for not loving him the way I thought I did. My eyes track the parking lot and the busy street. The stalker is gone.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Stalker

  The last piece of Siobhan I own is due to the tracker on her cross necklace. That’s how I followed her to Monterey and back home. Turning the darn tracker off would have been comparable to the loss of one of my limbs. Every so often I glance at it just to know where she is.

  So what, this was my only vice, besides Hosea refuses to stop mentioning her. Either way, I haven’t followed her in ages, not since San Antonio.

  Although I murdered Glenny as a means to cleanse myself from such an all-consuming obsession, in the back of my mind I knew Siobhan still needs me. Her eyes are still pleading me to help, just as she had done after Sammy’s car accident.

  How many times had I thought that Siobhan would come to me?

  And indeed, she has come home to me.

  Fuck, will this be another case of job abandonment? I have given the medical center almost a year and a half of my time. The hiring manager almost didn’t want to take a chance on me due to long lapses in my work history. But he saw something in me. Since then, I’ve picked up extra shifts when needed. Only assisting Grant with stealing medication on occasion. Yet, here I sit in the lobby of The Ritz-Carlton, submerged in my addiction.

  How ironic I grabbed the old, green hoodie from the back seat of my car, and placed on my Dodger cap before stepping inside. This was the very outfit I wore the night we met. The night Samuel died.

  I wear sunglasses over my eyes because somewhere online I’d learned that sociopaths didn’t blink and my old therapist tried to paint me as much. Though I don’t consider myself in such a bad light, I agree that I have a dissimilar disorder which causes me not to blink. Sunglasses also makes it easy to watch her from afar.

  I close my eyes and imagine her in his arms once more. The two of us together, lying in our bed.

  My eyes open and Siobhan is watching me. The corners of my mouth twitch. She sensed me because our connection is that strong.

  She stands.

  I stand.

  I set the burner phone in my seat, and promptly arise, moving toward the nearest exit. This is her chance to place the pieces of the puzzle together, and rid herself of Lincoln Zager once and for all. The parting gift, the cell phone, I left her is just the start.

  ***

  An unfamiliar, unmarked navy blue SUV is parked on the opposite side of the street I live on. I reach over to the side compartment, and grab the Glock from inside and wedge it in the under band of my belt before getting out.

  I whistle while stepping toward the gate surrounding my house. Two Rottweiler-pit mixes are lazily lying in the front yard. They don’t wear collars. I don’t need the liability of them mauling someone to death, and the motherfucking cops coming to me for recompense.

  Hell, a few years ago, I lost Cyrus to a beat cop after the damn dog had taken out a little kid playing in the yard a few blocks down the street. Cyrus was but a child himself, only a buck-ten in weight but what a promising beast he had been.

  “Tskkk, tskkk, tskkk,” I say, unlocking the padlock. “You lazy bitches.”

  The lethargic dogs eye me wearily and look away. They aren’t as lively since the death of their old mate, Rotty.

  “You miss Rotty, don’t you?” I frown, reaching down to scratch the side of Boss’s head. “Lincoln’s coming, I can feel it in my fucking bones. He killed Rotty. You all have his scent. We’re gonna get ’em.”

  Boss regards me with a listless glare as a response, and then lays his head back onto the cement.

  These lazy dogs will strike when someone other than myself comes into the yard. And since I’ve trained them of Lincoln’s scent, they'll tear the fucking pasty Brit alive.

  I start up the steps to my two-bedroom home.

  In the house, I turn on the two televisions, bolted against the wall in the living room. One screen blares with the football game and the other screen is dissected in various panels of my home, exterior, interior, and basement.

  I head toward the kitchen. I turn on the stove and grab two cans of beef stew from the dingy, off-white cupboard and two bowls from the opposite cupboard. Humming Kaleo’s “Way Down We Go.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lincoln

  Transforming into a lying, fucking wanker wasn’t my intentions when I met Siobhan Lowe. She had these beautiful, sullen chocolate brown eyes. Nothing about her screamed easy. As a man with scars, I read her well. Aware of her brokenness, I coveted just the thought of mending her heart.

  Had she not come with strings attached, she’d be mine, all mine from the get go.

  But nay, I had lied. I had to lie to this amazing woman because she was frozen in the past, and didn’t comprehend that I should’ve become her present, her future. Major cock-up on my end.

  I don’t love you… The words are ringing in my bloody eardrums. I guess I did this shit to myself, falling in love with Siobhan when she was never mine to have. I’ll forever be the fucking wanker who lied to her about not knowing of the stalker. Almost a year and a half ago, Bernard had placed a rush order on the dog collar and found out that the bloody monster was a Rottweiler-pit mix. That was the end of the line there.

  We didn’t have much to go on until the bloke rerouted Siobhan’s surveillance system to his own feed. Fitzpatrick found the arsehole entirely too easy. By that time, I was fucking knee deep in love with her. At first it was all primitive lust. She was in no way easy and her story intrigued me. The mind-blowing sex was incredible. On the day I was in her bed, and Siobhan held a gun up to me, that’s the day I fell. So many emotions ran through me as I talked her out of this despondent mindset. I had held her in my arms and she cried to me.

  And I fucking fell arse over foot.

  Bloody hell, for ages my only hope was that Hosea Murrell died the moment he left their bed. If he isn't, the thought of knowing I could've saved his life sooner will eat me alive. And Siobhan will hate me more for it.

  Hosea Murrell is dead. He better be bloody fucking deceased.

  Damn, if I close my eyes now, I recall the look of distrust in Siobhan’s gaze as she held her .357 Magnum to my face. Can’t go back to that. There was nothing left to do but fall deeply, madly in love with her in that second that she clung to me. In that moment, I had to choose between just a wee more time with her or tell her we mapped the fucker’s IP address.

  Then a wee more time continued and continued. The fucker sent a Christmas card to Siobhan, and we were in the clear to live our lives. We have lived our lives. And now I’m too much of a selfish wanker to just let her go.

  I have never murdered before. Never gave a fuck about someone enough to be placed in the situation where retaliation was warranted. But Jeffrey Peterson just came out of the woodwork, and it is time to get rid of him for good.

  Now, I’m in a dodgy area of Los Angeles. Fog blurs the stars in the sky. There’s a light on in the front room of the tiny home across from us. A short, beefy outline is v
isible from the makeshift curtains.

  Regardless of Siobhan’s ability or inability to forgive me, I made her a promise. I was so mesmerized with her love that I lost sight of my declarations to her.

  “You ready to finish off Peterson and those mangy beasts?” Bernard asks, glaring out the windshield.

  I take a deep breath. This was to be my Christmas gift to her. Telling Siobhan that the psychopath who’s been stalking her will never do it again. The engagement ring would come right after because I loved her enough to commit murder.

  Stiff jawed, I nod. “Fuck yeah. You get a dog. I get a dog. If that loser, Jeffrey, has company…”

  “Bloody hell,” Bernard cuts in. “After all the fucking years, Lincoln, you wouldn’t so much as get into a kerfuffle with the blokes at the pub for becoming a little too rowdy. But I get it, you’re the only one that gets to do in Peterson.”

  He pulls around to the alleyway, and stops behind Peterson’s home. Silently, we get out of the SUV and move toward the cinderblock gate. I pull myself up and assess the backyard before jumping over. Bernard does too.

  Then there’s loud, boisterous barking. Each dog runs along the opposite side of the house to the backyard.

  Bernard takes the beast to the left. I target the beast to the right. The dog gets a snug bullet in his fat head. I place my silencer down at my side as we move toward the steps.

  My breathing is tempered. Bernard picks the lock while I hold up a flashlight.

  Bernard opens the door, alert glare sweeping left to right before entering. He clears as he goes. There’s a bedroom to the left and one to the right, both dark and unused. We work our way to the front of the house in seconds.

  “So you brought company?” Jeffrey Peterson says, seated on a La-Z-Boy in the middle of the living room. A Glock is cradled in his lap.

  “Yeah, Bernard here loves to get down and dirty. And I’m here for you.”

  “Well, it’s just me, bro,” Jeffrey imitates. He sets the gun down on the floor and arises. “You could’ve knocked. And thanks for killing my precious dogs.”

  “That was nothing.”

  He cracks his neck. “You’ve got good moves. You were a worthy opponent in Willow Bluff, Lincoln. But you should know, whoever comes out the victor in this fight doesn’t matter. Ultimately, I will win the war.”

  Bernard chuckles. “War? Wot war? Fucking daft pillock.”

  “Pill? Pill—what are you saying?” Jeffrey arches an eyebrow, genuinely interested in his opinion.

  “Barmy.” I shrug. “He called you barmy. Pillock is the British slang for an idiot.”

  “Funny. My doctor has a more scientific diagnosis, but I’ve been told I was a crazy creep all of my life. So words don’t hurt me.”

  “Well, I don’t give a bloody fuck,” I tell him, though I’ve already been fully versed on his diagnoses. Conduct disorder as a teenager due to antisocial behaviors. Schizoaffective was what the army psychologist had diagnosed him with, and indicated that he never should have served a single day. Then the army gave him the boot and stripped him of every single stripe. But I didn’t give a shit about his mental state.

  “No more chitchat,” I add. “I’m gonna beat you to a bloody pulp and kill you. Then that’s where Bernard comes in to clean this shit up, and any evidence of me being here. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds like you’ve got everything squared away.” Jeffrey charges at me with that.

  Fists interlocked above my head, I bring them down onto his mid-back. His head lunges into my chest at the same instant. I slam down once again. My back hits the wall. He issues tiny shots to my ribcage. My elbows are locked in, leaving no room to get a hit in edgewise.

  My mind is disconnected from the pain. All cognition channeled on finding an opening. I reach down, hook my arm underneath his neck, and bring my knee into his mouth. Then once again into his privates with a force so powerful. I condone punching a wanker like this in the balls. But, bollocks, I would have been down for the count.

  Jeffrey lets go, stumbling backward. His mouth is bloodied as he laughs. “Ain’t got no problems down there,” he says.

  “C’mon, Lincoln,” Bernard speaks up, craving action.

  Jeffrey and I go bloody knuckles, pound for bloody pound. My fist slams through stucco as he moves in the nick of time. His steel-toe boot sails past my shin, when I jump up. None of the techniques I’ve learned over the years in Indonesia are penetrating because I’m fighting off of bloody hate.

  This barmy motherfucker has tried to suck the life out of the woman I love.

  Though he doesn’t have the height factor, Jeffrey reaches to the side and captures me into a side headlock. We are parallel from each other. I reach out for his opposite arm, a common defense technique.

  Down to the floor we go. I move in the direction he’s going so as not to constrict my blood flow. Then I reach my arm up, and bring us both backwards. Slamming us into the wood floor, with a thud. I scramble to my feet. Jeffrey has climbed up to his knees when I kick him square in the mouth. A few teeth come flying my way, and blood sprinkles onto my black trousers.

  Jeffrey falls back. I reach down and grab his chin, forcing him to look me into the eye. “I’ve allowed you to live way past your expiration date, mate.”

  “I’ve got a gift for Siobhan,” Jeffrey says through jagged gasps of air and blood.

  “Yeah, mate?” I say, arm confining him about the neck.

  “It’s in the…”

  “Bollocks, she isn’t going to get it.” I squeeze harder.

  “Base… base… Hosea…”

  Did he just say Hosea? I let go of my hold. My fucking lip hits the floor. “What is it!”

  “Hosea.” His cackles transform into a fit of coughs. “Now don’t you go having a hissy fit, ‘cause Hosea Murrell ain’t dead, baby.”

  I am the worse bag o’ shit.

  “Lincoln.” Bernard’s voice is full of warning.

  This was to be the end of Jeffrey Peterson’s terrors. I came here strictly to murder Jeffrey Peterson. Bernard was just the mate to cover it all up. I have never been a killer, but hurting someone I love is my breaking point. It’s been ages since I’ve seen red flash before my eyes due to a travesty of injustice. I never place myself in the position to bloody give a fuck, but I’m way past my breaking point. Having an innocent life to deal with is Bernard’s breaking point.

  Hosea. Murrell. Is. In. The. Basement.

  Bernard presses the limits as a force-retired federal agent for Homeland Security. At forty-two, he’d gotten hurt on the job. It was only right to offer my old pal from Arlington a top-notch job on my security team. He’s always been legit.

  If I murder Jeffrey Peterson, what am I to do with Hosea?

  I’m not the bloody fucking law. I can’t just leave the scene and call 9-1-1, allowing the authorities to handle the situation.

  And if they handle the situation, there’s no amount of begging or pleading to Siobhan to forgive me for my trickery because she’ll know soon enough that he didn’t die.

  The air is knocked out of my lungs with a single thought: Hosea Murrell gets his woman back.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Siobhan

  It’s almost 2 a.m. on Thursday morning, and I haven’t slept a wink. After the argument with Lincoln yesterday afternoon, I had returned to the restaurant with Tamara. She noticed how frazzled I was and we promptly went to her house to talk. I’d told her about Lincoln and me over endless bowls of ice cream. Lincoln hadn’t attempted to call me. And I was too worried to call him. A few hours ago, I received the call that Hosea was alive and had just been taken to the hospital.

  The air is so stark and so clean, it’s almost scentless. Tamara’s borrowed bomber jacket is draped around my shoulders, and I clutch my arms around myself in a self-comforting hug. Legs locked about the knees, I stand here, unable to move from in front of the double doors.

  The doors are only operable by Cedar Sinai staff, and Hos
ea Murrell is on the opposite side.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee?” Mom implores, rubbing my arm. Her and Dad have taken turns nodding off on the chairs in the lobby, which is less than twenty yards from where I have determined to stand and wait.

  “No.”

  She opens her mouth to say something else, but ends up having to cover it for a big yawn. “Siobhan, Hosea will be okay. We have prayed and prayed, let the doctors work on him, all right?”

  “I am.” Stock still in the same spot.

  “Oh God,” she grumbles, striding to the row of chairs. “Deon, talk to your child.”

  “Shhh,” Dad says. “I’m on the phone giving Lincoln directions to which waiting room we’re at.”

  “Giving him directions!” I snap.

  Lincoln has been gone for hours. The last time we spoke, I’d shot down his love. But now, my eyes narrow in consideration. The guilt I felt while telling Tamara the story of us has washed away because it was here at the hospital when I decided to review the cell phone my stalker left me.

  “He’s already here…” Dad begins.

  Mom interjects, “Yes, girl, and fix that tone. Lincoln was speaking with that no-good Detective Ortiz for half the night. And this is the damn thanks he gets from you and that fat old bastard!”

  “Shania, you’re cussing,” Dad says.

  “Well, you always cuss. I felt it highly necessary to punctuate my words.” Mom turns back to me. “Siobhan, what’s the matter with you, Lincoln saved Hosea.”

  I almost begin to laugh, but it hurts too bad. It’s too late to speak of theories anyway, because Lincoln is here, before us, in the flesh. The three of us stand in the corridor archway. Christmas lights are streamed about, white tiny lights flickering on none other than the liar.

  He steps toward me. On instinct, I move two paces back. My mom plays the fool and slowly heads over to sit with my father.

  “Siobhan, we must discuss a few things,” he says.

  “I’d say we have a lot to talk about, but my buddy, Jeff, brought me up to speed.”