I was halfway out of the door when I remembered, and I figured the last thing I wanted to be was smelly while around Killian, so I spun and headed back into the house to apply some. I made it halfway into the living room before a wave of nausea overtook me, making me sway on my feet a bit. A weird sense of déjà vu came over me, and my eyes fell to the floor. The linoleum floor was clean, and yet my stomach was in knots. Why?
Shaking it off, I went into the bathroom and ran the deodorant along my armpits, and was out of the door the next moment, my messenger bag snug over my shoulder. The instant I left the house, the déjà vu left, and I was alone with my thoughts as I walked to the Tribune.
The phone in my bag started to ring, and I had to pause in my walking to dig it out. The sucky part about wearing leggings as pants was that they usually didn’t have any pockets. Then again, most women’s clothing didn’t seem to have pockets. The fashion industry must have something against women being able to fit cell phones into pockets. Probably because they wanted us all to buy purses. The only reason I had my messenger bag was because my laptop fit snugly inside; if I didn’t have that bag, I’d just carry my phone in my hand or even leave it at home. I would not fall prey to the false purse-buying economy, like Callie had.
It was someone I didn’t want to talk to. I pointedly ignored it.
Once I was at the Tribune, my laptop unpacked and charging at my desk, I found Killian by the coffee maker in the back. His office was large enough that he could have his own private one, but I knew he liked coming out and overseeing us. Watching me. It was a habit of his I used to hate, but I now sort of liked.
Okay, I definitely liked it. Having eyes on me was not something I enjoyed, mostly because people were assholes and rude. I was only Stella the Freak to them. But to Killian? I was so much more, just like I was to Edward and Lincoln.
My eyes traveled along him, taking in the curve of his ass in his pressed work pants. The man knew how to dress to look good, I’d give him that. “Can I talk to you?” I asked, watching as he added sugar to his cup and stirred. How long had it been since I’d had a cup of my own? I used to go to the coffee shop to write my articles, got in the habit of buying myself a large black coffee while I wrote, but it’d been a long while. The coffee shop just wasn’t the same anymore, which was sad.
Nothing in my life was the same.
Killian was quick to nod. “Of course,” he said, gesturing for me to follow him once he was done. I debated on taking a mug from the cupboard and pouring myself some, but I was a snob when it came to coffee. Coffee from a cheap machine like this was never as good. Plus, since I liked my coffee black, it was easier for me to taste every imperfection.
I decided against it, trailing him into his office. Once we were seated, I met his eyes. Each and every time I stared at him, I was amazed at how easily I could lose myself in his emerald gaze. Such a pretty stare, the color put mine to shame, heterochromia aside.
He took a long, slow sip of his coffee. “How are you?”
What I should do was ask him how he was, but I decided to get straight to the point, as I did have some actual work to do. I should consider myself lucky because he was letting me work more hours now, now that Sandy was gone and the owners didn’t want to hire a replacement. I didn’t get any of her workload though, thank God. I could barely juggle my own articles now, which made no sense to me. I mean, I had a serial killer for a boss and two more killers as my boyfriends. If anything, I should be writing more.
But…I wasn’t. It was like I lost my mojo. My spark. Whatever had kept the obsession alive and inside of me all these years couldn’t keep the flame ignited and focus on my dating life, apparently.
“Fine,” I brushed off his question. “I forgot to ask you something last night.”
Killian nodded. “Okay. Fire away.” He leaned back in his chair, watching me with a heavy gaze. A gaze that reminded me of the look on his face right before he’d kissed me last night. Right before he’d drowned me with his passion and his urgency. It wasn’t fair, giving me a look like that while we were in his office, when I couldn’t leap over his desk and taste his lips again.
If people here started to think we were dating…I could only imagine the comments. These people were cruel; they never held anything back, especially when it came to me.
“I want to have dinner with you, Edward, and Lincoln,” I said, speaking it as more of a statement rather than a question.
“Are they both okay with that? They don’t seem to like me very much,” Killian remarked with a grin. A grin that said I’m normal, not I’m totally the serial killer the national news has been talking about for the last two weeks. His mask was so good, even I believed it sometimes, and now I knew the truth.
I rose my shoulders once. “They’ll do it because I asked them to.”
“Technically you didn’t ask me. You just told me, but I would be fine with it, as long as I have some assurance from you that your other boyfriends aren’t going to hogtie me and have me for dinner.”
It was only because the glass door was closed behind me that I said, “They’re not cannibals. And they don’t hogtie their victims. They chain them up in their basement.” A thrill shot through me when I remembered what I did to that woman, to Destiny. How hot and bothered it had made me. How badly I wanted to do it again, but Edward and Lincoln wouldn’t let me.
“Okay, let me amend what I said: as long as I have some assurance that they won’t chain me up in their basement,” Killian spoke with a grin.
“I wouldn’t let them,” I said, speaking the truth. Neither man would dare lift a finger against Killian, and the same when it came to Killian and them, because they each knew I cared for them all. If any one of them went against our agreement, I would drop them fast.
Or, in theory I would, at least.
Killian chuckled. “Just tell me when it is, and I’ll be there with bells on.”
I held in a frown. I wasn’t sure why he’d wear bells. Was it an expression? Whatever. It was one I didn’t understand, and I wasn’t about to try to. My mind was already preoccupied with the when aspect of this dinner to pay much attention to anything else.
Not wanting to stay in his office for longer than I had to, lest the others start to think something’s going on, I got to my feet. “I’ll let you know when it is. Hopefully soon.” I started for the glass door.
“Hopefully,” Killian echoed, though I knew his enthusiasm for the dinner was faked. He was trying, though, and I supposed that’s all that counted. As long as the three guys tried to get along, didn’t erupt in a fistfight over me, I’d be happy.
As happy as I could be, anyway. Which, lately, had been pretty fucking content. I almost felt normal.
I made it to my desk, and the man whose desk was beside mine—someone I never cared to learn the name of because the first week when I’d started here, he kept going on and on about my eyes and how cool they were, and then when I didn’t fawn all over him like he was probably used to, he’d called me a bitch—gestured around my desk, “Your phone was ringing while you were gone.”
I sat down, wondering who could have possibly called me this early in the morning. Edward and Lincoln were both at work, I knew, because tonight was our night together. They very rarely called me or even texted while they were at their day jobs. So then who…
My thoughts trailed off when I saw who the missed call was from. The one person I didn’t want to talk to, the one woman in this entire world who could make my day go from good to awful. From okay to downright horrendous.
My mother. Again.
The lovely Margaret.
I clicked to listen to the voicemail, flinching when I heard her voice. So grating, so cold. The very opposite of motherly and warm. Not all mothers were like her, I knew, just like all families were not like mine. I had been born unlucky, born into a family that pretended like I didn’t exist half the time because I stained their sterling white reputation.
“Stella, this is yo
ur mother.” As if I didn’t already know. As if phones these days—and for the last decade and a half—didn’t have caller-id. “I have no idea why you’re not responding to my calls or my texts, but I need to know if you’re bringing your date to the rehearsal dinner.”
The rehearsal dinner? Had she mentioned this to me before? Honestly, I couldn’t remember it ever having been brought up. Maybe I just blocked it out—that seemed likely, given how much I hated my mother and my family. Bree could disappear off the face of this earth and I wouldn’t care one bit. Not even a little.
Then again, I was just cold-hearted, wasn’t I?
“I’ll need to know his name, because the place cards need to be printed tomorrow. Call me back as soon as you get this message.” My mother sighed into the phone, not bothering to hide her displeasure at having to leave all of this on a voicemail. “It’s next Wednesday, Stella. Next Wednesday. Please call me back as soon as you get this with the details. If not…I suppose I could have and guest printed on the place card, but that feels so trashy.”
Trashy? I was pretty sure nothing about my sister’s wedding was going to be trashy, because Bree would never stand for it. It was a good thing this was a message and not my mother on the other line, because I would’ve said something then. Something I might’ve regretted instantly.
I should call her back, but honestly I didn’t know who I would bring. I’d been putting it off for so long now, I’d forgotten. So instead I texted her, told her that there are actually two men I have to decide between. To which I got a buttload of texts in response, all of which I only replied back with: I’ll let you know by tonight.
Tonight I’d see Edward and Lincoln, and I’d bring it up to them, see whichever one of them really wanted to go. Probably Edward, since weddings weren’t Lincoln’s thing. Just a guess, but the big, muscled, scowling man didn’t seem like the kind of person who enjoyed weddings.
I turned my phone off before sliding it back into my messenger bag. I didn’t have time to respond to each and every one of my mother’s texts. The woman had to learn that I wasn’t at her beck and call constantly. I didn’t live under her roof; she had no hold on me. I was my own woman, and I owed her no explanations for my decisions.
Running my fingers over my mousepad, the screen to my laptop lit up.
This was going to be a long day, I had a feeling.
Chapter Eight - Edward
The minute I got home from work, I hopped in the shower. I did a quick rinse of my body to wipe off the sweat I’d gathered during the day, put some shampoo in my hair and a fast scrubbing, and I was out the next moment, a large towel wrapped around my abdomen as I brushed my teeth.
What could I say? I always got excited on the nights when I was going to see Stella.
After I got ready, I had to figure out dinner. It hadn’t been easy, giving her the pills without her knowing. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if the pills were working, because sometimes I had to crush them up. She probably wasn’t getting the correct dosage, but soon enough it would be water under the bridge, because I’d help her see the truth.
The truth, meaning how she killed her best friend.
Not a good truth to see, but Stella couldn’t keep living like this. She couldn’t. I wouldn’t let her.
I was bent over the sink, spitting out a mouthful of minty paste when Lincoln appeared in the hallway, his dark eyebrows drawn together, his black eyes full of rage. It was an expression I knew all too well on Lincoln, one he wore often—though it had been less often since Stella had come into our lives. Or since I dragged her into our lives.
“We have a problem,” Lincoln spoke. “I have a problem.”
I set my toothbrush down, turning to face him. I did not like the tone in his voice, nor did I like the word problem. “What is it?”
“I got a call today.”
I waited. Surely that wasn’t all he was going to say. That explained nothing. How the hell was a call a problem? A phone call could have come from anyone. It told me nothing about whatever problem we—or he—had.
I blinked. “Are you going to tell me who called, or should I start guessing?”
He glared at me. It was a glare I’d received countless times in my life, on numerous occasions. And just like all of those times, it barely affected me. “Here’s a fucking hint: it’s someone we both know, and someone we never wanted to hear from again.”
That…could include a great number of people, as I would include all of the women Lincoln and I had taken home before Stella in that number. Although, we never gave them our numbers, or our last names, and we weren’t on any social media sites, so someone would have to go through a lot of digging to find us.
Which, I realized, meant one thing.
One group of people who could find us regardless of where we were or what we were doing. A group of people I owed everything to, and the same group of people who’d raised Lincoln from a wailing baby into a stern, tough adult.
Our fucking family.
His, technically, but I liked to consider them mine as well. Semantics.
My stomach hardened. “Tell me it’s not who I think it is.” The look Lincoln gave me was all I needed to see to know I was right. A member of the family did call, and judging from his expression, it hadn’t been a good call. “What did they want?”
Lincoln stormed into his room, furiously starting to take off his uniform. Now would be a good time for some physical relief, but Stella wasn’t here. I watched as he tossed his uniform onto the carpet, giving me his wide back.
“Well?” I asked, crossing my arms over my bare chest. “Aren’t you going to tell me what the problem is? What did they want, Lincoln? I know they didn’t call just to check in on you.” They never called unless they wanted something.
No, not just wanted. Needed.
“Oh, you don’t say?” Lincoln mocked me, turning to glare at me, hurling daggers with his eyes as if I was the one who caused all of this. “You really don’t think Markus called just to check in on his older brother?”
Ugh. Markus.
No one liked Markus. He put Lincoln’s dick behavior to shame.
“He said we’ve been using the family’s connections too much without giving something back,” Lincoln said, his lips thinning as he frowned. A pensive scowl. “They want me to do a job for them. I have one week to decide.”
One week?
“And he said no details about the job?” I asked. “Nothing about how long it would take, what it would involve, anything like that?” I watched in horror as Lincoln shook his head. That damned family and their secrets. I’d had enough of them, as had Lincoln, which was why we moved away and started our own lives.
All we did, just to get dragged back.
“He said nothing. He just wants my agreement.” Lincoln sighed, the anger releasing with the same breath. “I don’t want to do it, but I don’t see any other choice.”
“There has to be a way. Maybe we can—”
“Maybe we can what? Run away? Try to skip town? They know about Stella,” Lincoln cut in. “And I’m sure they know where she lives. They did their homework. You know they won’t hesitate to use her against me, against us, if they have to.”
“Markus said nothing about me?” I wondered why I hadn’t gotten any calls, but then again, Markus never really liked me much, because I wasn’t part of the bloodline. As if killing was a special skill passed down from father to son.
Lincoln said, “No. Only me.”
We stared at each other for a bit, neither of us moving. I didn’t know what to say, other than: fuck. And not the good kind of fuck. Not the I have Stella tied up to my bedframe fuck. This was bad. This could be very, very bad.
“We can’t leave town,” Lincoln said. “No matter where we go, it would only be a matter of time until they found us. We wouldn’t have Frank to…” To use to dispose of our kills. “We just can’t. I don’t want to drag Stella into all that, and I know you don’t, either.” Truer words he’d never s
poken.
I didn’t want to drag Stella into the mess that was his family. She knew a little about it, how we met, what the family taught us—basically, how to get away with murder—but she didn’t know all of the details.
“What are we going to do?” Lincoln asked me, showing a hint of something he never revealed to anybody: uncertainty. Anxiety. Total worry. I hated that he felt like this, and I wished I could make it all better.
But I couldn’t. This was not something I could bake a pie for.
The only thing Lincoln still wore were his pants, and with slumped shoulders, he wandered to the foot of his bed, sitting down with a heavy sigh. “I need time to think.” Though he didn’t say what he truly meant, I knew his hidden meaning. He didn’t want to see Stella tonight, even though it was our night.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll figure something out tonight. Let me just…let me get dressed and make Stella something.” Now that I had pie on the brain, maybe I could just make her one of those. Apple? Strawberry? Hmm. A pie would take a while. Maybe the pie would have to wait for another night.
In an hour I had a muffin cake made, cinnamon sugar swirled on top, her pill crushed inside. I packed it up and took it to her house. She’d probably be getting ready for us, she’d probably be excited and happy to spend the night with us—who could blame her, after having a date with Killian last night? But I’d have to crush all that, because of Lincoln’s damn family.
I pulled into her driveway, grabbed the cake and went to her front door. She never locked it when she was home and expecting me, so I walked right in, setting the cake on the counter. I found Stella in her room, standing before her mirror, working to untangle the knots in her hair. How she got knots in her hair while it was up in a bun was beyond me. I could tell it had been in a bun all day today from the kinks in its brown lengths.
Sick Twisted Minds (Cruel Black Hearts Book 3) Page 6