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Him
I crouch behind the headstone four rows back and listen to her mumble in her sleep. She’s been lying on those graves for more than an hour, dead to the world. No pun intended.
My phone vibrates from the grass beside my thigh, the screen alighting with a notification from the walkie-talkie app. I shove my wireless earpiece back into place and click the button to make Decker’s responses play automatically on arrival.
“Hunt, now I understand why you’re so into her. She’s morbid as fuck.”
Prick.
From first thing this morning, this so-called friend has been a pain in my ass. He’s commented on her tight jeans and the coat that apparently starves his view of her tits. He’s criticized her driving, her mental stability, and her judgment for sleeping with me.
He’s ogled her, made dirty comments and filthy promises. He’s poked, teased, pushed, and I’ve withstood it all. But pretty soon I am going to break—his neck.
I press the response button on my screen and whisper, “Concentrate, motherfucker. Have you noted the names on those gravestones?”
“I’m all over it. Once we get home, I’ll have answers for you.”
Good. I’m ru
“Do you think her tits are real?” Deck asks. “I’ve only seen her with a jacket on, but she looks too top-heavy for her figure.”
I don’t know where that piece of shit is hidden, but I raise a hand over my shoulder, above the shelter of my hiding place, and shoot him the bird.
Laughter echoes into my ear. “I think I’ve discovered a new favorite game. Teasing you about this chick is fun as hell.”
I press the response button and mutter, “Teasing me will get you killed.”
I chance a glance over the thick stone resting place of Doug Smith to find her lying in the exact same spot from ten minutes ago. She hasn’t budged, only the cadence of her mumbled words has changed.
She’s having a nightmare, and if she doesn’t wake up soon she’ll get soaked by the approaching black clouds.
“How long are we going to sit around playing with our dicks?” Decker asks.
I slump against the headstone and massage the bridge of my nose. “If you’re playing with your dick,” I whisper, “maybe consider cutting communication for a while.”
“You know what I mean, lover boy. I’m happy to support your somnophilia, but I’m going to draw the line at spending the night in a cemetery.”
“Somnophilia? What are you—”
“Hunter.” Her voice cuts off my question.
I freeze. Not moving. Not breathing.
“Hunter.” This time it’s a scream.
“Don’t panic,” Decker says in a rush. “She’s still asleep… probably balls-deep in a nightmare about your tiny dick.”
I ignore his blatant death wish and scour the ground for something to throw. I have to wake her up. Not because of the nightmare. Not because of the impending rain. I have to wake her because… Fuck. Just because.
I crawl to fetch a pebble a few feet away, then turn and launch it close in her direction. The projectile hits a nearby headstone with a thwack, and her legs jolt.
I slide back against my hiding place and wait as a drop of rain hits my cheek.
“Stay down. She’s awake,” Decker mumbles. “She’s getting up.”
Water hits my nose, my jacket, my jeans, the drips falling with lethargic frequency.
I clench my fists, fighting the need to see her, to read her expression and get a clue as to why she called my name. Was it really a nightmare? Does she know of my intentions? Can she feel me nearby?
I remain hidden, every inch of me on alert, as the rain settles in.
“She’s on the move. Headed toward her car,” Decker adds. “I’ll be right behind her.”
I hear a rush of footsteps, the release of a car door, and the thwack of it closing. There’s the purr of an engine, then the crunch of loose asphalt.
I grab my phone and press the button to talk. “You better be all over her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“My pleasure.”
Fucker.
I wait until the sound fades, then dash for my car parked outside the fence on the other side of the cemetery. I’m behind the wheel within minutes and speeding through the streets seconds later.
Adrenaline makes me her bitch—pounding heart, racing blood and all. I’m so entirely fucked up because I know this shit will end badly, and yet I still love the game of cat and mouse.
The trill of an incoming call from Decker hits my speakers, and I co
“She’s driving toward the I-5. I think we’re going home.”
“Okay.” Fuck. She hasn’t met with anyone. Not even a goddamn boyfriend. “Stay on her, and let me know if you run into any trouble. I’ll make sure to keep my distance.”
I end the call and sink into my seat. This excursion hadn’t been the epiphany of information I’d needed. I have the address of the house she stopped at when we first arrived, and the names on the headstones. But I expected revelations.
And now I have to rely on Decker to do more digging. He’ll have less than a day before I have to quit playing nice with her to ensure I get the answers Torian needs.
She will hate me. Fight me. And I’m a perverted motherfucker for the way my cock pulses at the thought.
Over the passing miles, Decker keeps in contact, giving me updates when necessary. “We’ve reached the highway.” “We’re at Tacoma.” “I just passed Olympia.”
I follow, along with rain that switches from a light dusting to a heavy downpour and back again. I play out the conversation I’m going to have with her once this turns sour—the threats, the lies, her physical abuse.
My dick appreciates the mental stimulation, even though I’m not thrilled to be sporting wood on the I-5 with no relief in sight. Not for a few hours, at least. By then I’ll be back in Portland in the shitty bar, waiting for her to arrive with Brent’s keys. I just have to pass her somewhere in between now and then.
I have every intention of spending the night in her bed. I’ll beg, borrow, and steal to get between those sheets. Or more accurately, I’ll bluff, intimidate, and manipulate.
Old habits die hard.
Night descends, and boredom grows. The taillights in front of me brighten the highway like a switchboard, and I become tired of the radio silence. I haven’t heard from Decker in more than forty minutes, which isn’t normal.
I dictate a message, press send, then wait some more. Once another five minutes pass, I succumb to the update deprivation and place a call. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. I’m a little on edge thinking we might have a problem.”
“What is it?” I press down on the accelerator.
“We could have a tail.”
“And you didn’t think to call me?” Fuck. “Where? What car?” I scan the passing vehicles, even though I have to be miles behind him.
“It’s a black Mercedes. I noticed it a while ago, but it hung way back. Now he’s being obvious. Every time she slows, he slows. If she speeds up, he’s right there behind her.”
“Have you got eyes on the driver?” I pass car after car, exceeding the speed limit without any shits given.
“I’ll take a closer look.”
There’s silence, nothing but the slush of water beneath my tires.
“Damn it,” he snarls.
“What?” My chest pounds, and I grip the steering wheel tighter.
“He’s got tinted windows. I can’t see dick. But he’s retreating now that I’m riding side-saddle.”
“Don’t hound him. Keep back and watch. I don’t want her thinking she’s boxed in. I’m going to make a call and see if I know who’s responsible.”