Cheesy, I know, but true.
Within a half hour, I was at my usual table at the coffee shop, sipping a steaming cup of black coffee, nearly burning the roof of my mouth. Just how I liked it. I had my laptop open, sitting on the table before me, my blog open. I’d given a little hint to Sunday’s article, and my followers were going crazy.
They loved the Angel Maker. The nickname, not the actual person, since no one knew who the person was yet.
A sensational crime like this, and whatever was surely to come next, I knew he’d have to get caught. A killer who displayed his victims like that craved the limelight, and those who stepped out of the darkness and into the light willingly were always the ones society was fascinated with. Ted Bundy came to my mind first and foremost. Someone who wanted to be immortalized, someone who thought he’d never get caught. Someone who wanted fame above all else. Someone who made himself out to be more than he was.
I wondered then how many serial killers were active in the world, how many had died from old age or disease and gotten away with all of their killings. What use was solving cold cases when new ones popped up every single day, practically every second?
The door to the coffee shop opened, and I flicked my eyes away from my laptop, watching as a man walked to the counter. His gait was familiar to me, but I couldn’t say from where. I watched him in between answering comments, waiting until he got his order and went to another table on the other side of the shop. Short brown hair, green eyes. Cute. Maybe only a few years younger than me.
I stared at him perhaps a bit too long, for his eyes darted up, meeting mine. It was at that moment I knew who he was—I’d seen him before, in this very coffee shop. We had a habit of coming around the same time each day.
He didn’t like being stared at. The moment our eyes met, he abruptly stood and walked out of the shop. I watched him go, confused and wondering why the heck he would sit down for only five seconds before leaving.
Unless…unless it had something to do with me. Was I rude? Should I not have stared? I know I didn’t enjoy being looked at and studied like some science exhibit. Still, strangers met eyes all the time, caught each other staring constantly. Humans were curious by nature, so it was something we all should’ve been used to.
I couldn’t get the man out of my head, even as the time passed by and I packed up and headed to the Tribune. Those green eyes felt familiar in the strangest of ways. A burning need to figure out how I knew him surged through me, but I knew I’d never have the guts to talk to him should I see him again. I wasn’t the kind of person who could walk up to a familiar-looking stranger and strike up a conversation about the weather. I was awkward, too much so.
No, the man would have to remain a mystery for now.
I emailed Killian my article for approval fifteen minutes before the deadline. I got to the offices early, which never happened. Most often I had to email my articles while I was still in the coffee shop and run to the Tribune. Today I was weirdly out of tune, maybe because of last night.
Because of the dead girl.
What would Edward and Lincoln do with her body? They had to have a system, considering neither of them had acted too worried about the naked and bruised body while they were with me last night. Almost like this happened all the time.
Was I signing my death warrant by wanting to see them again? Would I be the next one to meet her end at one of their hands? I should probably be scared, but I wasn’t. I was almost eerily calm about the entire situation, and that should’ve rung some warning bells. Mostly for me, because people shouldn’t be okay with stumbling across a dead body, regardless of the context.
I was…not normal. There was something wrong with me. There had to be. What other explanation was there? Why else did I feel so empty but full when I was near Edward and Lincoln? It was almost like they completed me—ridiculous, because no person could ever truly complete another. We were all whole beings, just assembled differently.
Maybe I was too different.
We gathered in the back of the Tribune for our meeting. The same old boring stuff was talked about. What the Tribune’s goals were for the following week, how we could improve sales in the community, blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t really interested in any of it, but I had to pay attention, because this job was how I got most of my money, even if it was part time. And now there was a possible serial killer on the loose in our city, I didn’t dare lose this job. I had to write about him. I had to.
When the meeting was over, I returned to my desk, fiddling with my laptop charger near the wall. I couldn’t help but overhear the others talking—about Sandy? Ugh. When the hell would everyone get over that washed-up, desperate woman? I had no personal problem with divorcees and middle age crises, but ever since I’d heard her drag Killian into the restroom at the bar and attempt to give him a blowjob, I was quite disillusioned with her.
In fact, if I never saw Sandy again, it would be too soon. Much too soon.
So I ignored the others, glued my eyes to my laptop. I would not be a part of the office gossip, because I had a thousand other things on my mind. More important things than Sandy and where she was.
It was a bit strange, though. Sandy was never one to miss work, even if she was hungover. She always drowned herself in multiple cups of coffee and stumbled around the office wearing sunglasses. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever seen her take a sick day, let alone two in a row. Maybe she was just embarrassed about how she’d acted at Killian’s party.
But it didn’t matter, because I didn’t care about Sandy.
Someone moved beside my desk, leaning his hip on it, doing that thing where you half sat/half stood against something. Killian’s hazel eyes were on me, his arms crossed. As usual, he wore a button-up shirt—today’s color was a dark blue, which looked a little odd with his red hair. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. It was an attractive look, I would admit. But it did hardly anything for me.
After Edward and Lincoln, I didn’t think any other man could ever do anything for me.
“You ready for tonight?” Killian asked.
“What?” It was when he gave me a warm smile I remembered—we had a date. Right after work. Shit. How the hell was I supposed to focus on him when I couldn’t get my mind off Edward, Lincoln, and the dead girl in Lincoln’s bed?
Could I cancel?
Hmm…he’d probably hate me if I canceled. I had to suck it up and do it, and then tell him it was nice, but I never wanted to do it again. Do it smoothly, nicely, so he wouldn’t fire me after.
I tried to give him a smile, but I wasn’t sure if it looked right, so I let it fall off my face. “Yeah, of course,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Yuck. Enthusiasm was an emotion I had rarely, usually only when I was doing something involving my articles, my blog, or researching serial killers.
“Good, because I have a long night planned for us.” Killian went off on a long list of things he wanted to do with me, involving dinner, a movie, and something else I drowned out. Killian was a nice enough guy; he just wasn’t for me.
He wasn’t Edward. He wasn’t Lincoln. He wasn’t what I wanted.
What did I want? What did I need? I wasn’t sure if I could put it into words. I needed more than a normal man. I needed someone abnormal, someone who could handle me as I was. If that someone turned out to be two someones, then who was I to deny it?
I wanted Killian gone, so I said, “Well, there’s still a few hours before the official start to our date, so will you let me get back to work, boss?” Hoping I sounded fun and lighthearted, I watched Killian’s reaction.
He laughed, his nose wrinkling. “All right, all right. Get back to it.” He started to walk away, shoving his hands in his pant pockets as he called over his shoulder, “And I better not see you on your blog.” He winked, and I was sure the wink was supposed to make me feel giddy inside.
I didn’t feel giddy. I felt…bored. What I wanted to do was get out of here and see Edward and Lincoln again. Going
on a date with Killian was the last thing I wanted to do. No offense to him, but he was the last person on earth I wanted to spend a whole afternoon and night with.
God, what if he thought he’d get lucky? What if he tried to do what he did at the Christmas party again, only this time I couldn’t fake a laugh and get him off? I had a sudden thought then: I could always tell Edward and Lincoln, and they could take care of him.
Look at me, so casually suggesting murder, as if murder was something I thought about all the time, every day and every second of my life. It wasn’t. At least, not murders that stemmed from my own thoughts. Other people’s murders, yes. Yes, I thought about those a lot, especially the body found in that basement.
As Killian asked if anyone wanted lunch, that he was eating out, I was caught up in my own thoughts. How long would it be until we knew who he was? Or would he be unknown, even decades later, like the Zodiac Killer? For some inexplicable reason, I wanted to know who he was. I wanted to meet him, to stare into his eyes and see.
See if he was anything like me.
Chapter Nineteen - Killian
I wasn’t sure how this date would go. Of course, I knew how I wanted it to go, but how I wanted things to happen versus how they actually happened were often two extremely different things. I was a planner—and I was usually good at planning—but when Stella entered the picture, it was like my mind flew out the window and I lost all sense. I couldn’t explain it.
Stella was unlike anyone I’d ever met before. She sailed under most people’s radars, and the only thing that drew attention to herself was her eyes, which she was born with and she couldn’t change. I supposed she could’ve gotten colored contacts or something, but why hide what nature gave her? Her eyes were beautiful, the most entrancing pair of eyes I’d ever seen.
I knew enough about her to know I’d royally fucked up at the Christmas party last year. I knew alcohol affected me; I knew once I started drinking, I only stopped once the night was over, so really, I should’ve known better. Everyone thought I had been unhinged because of my recent breakup with Julie, but I wasn’t.
The fact of the matter was that by the end of our relationship, I didn’t care about Julie at all.
Long before it was over, I’d met Stella. I wasn’t one to believe in love at first sight—more like lust at first sight—but with Stella, I felt it. I knew deep down she was supposed to be mine. We were supposed to be together. I didn’t even ask myself why she couldn’t realize it, because I knew I hadn’t been the model of good behavior around her.
And then at the bar, on my birthday, when I had thought I was finally making some progress, I went and fucked it up again. Why couldn’t I ever catch a break? I’d wondered, which had then led me into the bathroom with Sandy. But as Sandy had knelt before me and worked to undo my pants, I couldn’t stop thinking about Stella, even with my mind scrambled with alcohol, so I stopped her. Eventually. It took a few minutes, but I did.
By the time I was out, I’d seen her talking with some man at the bar. Some stranger. Like he could give her what I couldn’t. Like he was different from me. What would it take for Stella to realize I was meant for her, and she was meant for me? I’d thought, depressed. It wasn’t the first time I had such thoughts, but I hoped it would be the last.
But the truth was, I knew what I had to do, long before that moment.
I had to get Stella alone, away from her laptop and her articles. Had to spend time with her one-on-one to show her that I wasn’t a bad guy. I would worship her like a goddess, treat her like a princess. Like a fucking queen. No other man would ever kiss the ground she walked on like I would. Like I did.
It was perfect when she’d mentioned she wanted to see the crime scene. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Offering to drive, going with her, watching her trail around the house, hugging close to the yellow caution tape, had been a sight. She was so gorgeous when she was focused on hunting a killer. A little journalist on the prowl.
Going with her to the coffee shop, finding out where she spent a lot of her time, had been priceless, though I hadn’t been too happy to see that green-eyed guy watching her. I knew a lot of people had to look at her, because she was so striking, and I felt strangely protective of her, as if she was already mine to protect.
Soon. She would be soon. I would make it up to her, make her forget my mistakes. And I would swear off alcohol, though it was a little late for it.
Stella hadn’t exactly dressed up for tonight, but I didn’t expect anything less from her. I knew she was the dry shampoo sort of girl, and I was more than fine with her hair buns and her leggings. I wouldn’t change her, and the only reason I’d asked her to stop writing about serial killers was because the owners of the paper had asked me to.
Now, after that body, they wouldn’t make another peep for a while. The popularity of her articles would skyrocket, and maybe I could even get her a full-time position at the Tribune.
I’d read and reviewed the article she sent me for the Sunday paper. It was…enlightening in ways I never anticipated. Her mind truly worked differently. I was constantly amazed at her.
And the Angel Maker? What a catchy phrase. I knew it would catch on to the major news outlets soon, which is why I had her article uploaded to the website before we left the Tribune. If anyone should get to nickname this killer, it was Stella. She deserved it, with all the work she put into her articles and her blog.
I would never admit aloud that I’d read her blog, though. I didn’t feel it was right. Her blog was her personal space, and until I was welcomed into it, I didn’t want to intrude. I would not make the same mistake again.
Stella and I sat at in a dark booth at one of the restaurants in town. The theme of this particular one was the Wild West, and it had pictures of cowboys on the wall, along with spurs and bison heads. I had no idea if the bison heads were real—a little disconcerting if they were—but the bread loaves this place gave out before the meals were amazing.
“So,” Stella said, peeling the bread crust off before eating the softer inner part, “what do people normally talk about when they’re on dates?”
Honestly, I could just sit there and watch her eat, but I knew that’d be creepy. I was trying my best not to seem like an overzealous, eager boy when it came to Stella. Not sure how well I pulled it off, if at all.
Her words slowly sank in, and I said, “Normally they get to know each other. I guess we’re ahead of the game there. Wait a second, does that mean you haven’t been on a date before?” The prospect of no one ever taking her out before was startling and, bizarrely, reassuring.
I liked hearing it. It was like she was mine already—though I still thought I saw her leave the bar with that guy. She wasn’t that kind of girl, I knew, so maybe they just left at the same time. She definitely wouldn’t have gone home with a stranger. Stella was so much smarter than that.
And, anyway, if there was someone she should go home with, it was me.
“People don’t really like me,” she said. “So why would anyone want to take me on a date?” When I gave her a crazy look, Stella added, “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. I’m not making it up.”
I didn’t doubt it. “That’s just so surprising.”
She shrugged the moment our salads came. Another way this place got you full before your entrees came out, but it was okay. I was starving.
“Why?” Her voice was quiet, unsure. This woman needed a confidence boost, and if I had to be the one to give it to her, I would. I would shower her in endless compliments if I had to, until she finally realized how special she truly was.
And if other people didn’t see it, fuck them.
“You’re amazing, Stella. You’re one hell of a writer. Anyone who reads your stuff knows you put passion into your work. You’re driven, hard-working, even if you do push your deadlines sometimes,” I spoke with a smile. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met before, and I mean it in the best way possible.”
“I’m on
ly different because of my eyes.” Stella ran her hands along her arms, looking depressed, like she would rather be talking about anything else, anything other than herself. It was almost like she wasn’t comfortable in her own skin.
I would change that.
“Your eyes might be a part of it,” I admitted, “but not the only reason. The way you talk about your eyes, it’s like you hate them.”
She slowly mixed her salad, picking out the croutons before eating the rest. “I do.”
Now it was my turn to ask, “Why?” And truly, I wanted to know why. They were beautiful eyes, even if they were different from any I’d seen before. By the end of the night, I would make Stella realize different did not necessarily mean bad.
Sometimes being different was good.
If everyone in society was alike, there would be no creativity, no movies or books. It was our differences we had to celebrate, not our sameness. Who the hell woke up one day and wanted to be average, to blend in with everyone else? Who wanted to stand in a lineup and be the exact same to every person you stood near? I didn’t, and I certainly hoped Stella didn’t. And if she did, I would make her see the truth.
“People only want to get close to me because of my eyes,” Stella muttered. “They think it’s cool or something. They don’t want to be close to me because of me.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because once they do get to know me, they leave.” Stella bit her bottom lip before bringing a forkful of salad to her mouth. “I only had one friend through high school, and she’s still my only friend.”
I nodded, remembering. “Right. You’ve mentioned her before. Callie?”
“Yeah. Callie has been the only one to stick around.”
Pushing my salad bowl to the side, I leaned on the table, wanting to close the space between us. “What if other people tried to get close to you, but you were too closed off to let them in?”
She looked at me then. Really, really looked at me. For a split second, I thought she really saw me for who I was, but then she looked away, and I knew she hadn’t seen me. “I think it’s hard to find someone I want to be closer to. I’m…weird, Killian. You know that. Stop pretending you don’t see it.”
Cruel Black Hearts: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance Page 13
