by Lake, Keri
As much as the sight of him had me giddy as hell, the thought of stupid bitches with death wishes stamped out any possibility I’d go groveling to him. “No.”
“Get in the fucking car, Lucy.”
“Go to hell, Jase.”
His jaw shifted, cheek dimpled just enough to confess his amusement, and he shook his head. “So goddamn stubborn.”
“Look, it’s sweet … you showing up here like a knight in shining handcuffs, but I don’t need you and your confusing little mind games. Save yourself the trouble. I’m out of here tomorrow.”
“Out of where?”
“Here. This city. Away from all the creepy psychopaths who seem to like hounding my ass.”
He nodded, staring through the windshield as if contemplating doing exactly that before glancing back to me. “You’ve got five seconds to get in this goddamn car.”
Frowning, I slid the duffle bag over my shoulder, preparing to bolt. Good thing I’d swapped his boots for my Nike’s. “Or what?”
Rubbing his hand across his chin, he breathed hard through his nose. “I’m sorry, okay. I didn’t want you to leave. You called my bluff.”
Shit. I wasn’t expecting that, and for a moment, I stood dumbstruck, completely blindsided by the apology. The obnoxious horn of the bus broke my thoughts, as it slowed to a stop behind Jase’s car.
“Please. I’m asking you nicely. Get in the car?” His brow winged up as if to tack a warning to the question.
What did I have to lose? Better yet, what did I have as an alternative? Lip caught between my teeth, I opened the passenger door, tossed my bag in the back, and plopped down on the seat. “Just so we’re clear. I’m still pissed at you.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, throwing the car in gear. “I’m still pissed at you, too.”
The tires squealed as he hit the gas.
* * *
I climbed the staircase to the apartment, with Jase on my heels, toying with the strap of my duffle bag when I finally reached the door.
With one step into the apartment, my body froze in place, and a ripple of surprise hit me like a gong mallet. The rims of my eyes burned with the oncoming tears, but I blinked to hold them back.
The pedestal table and chairs had been moved in front of the window, a white tablecloth draped over it. The dim glow of the candle in the center of the table flickered against the wall, and two plates had been set out. Beside the candle sat a medium-sized white box.
Jase walked past me to the table. The sleeveless muscle shirt and athletic pants he wore seemed a bit too casual for the ambience he’d created.
I nudged my head toward the table. “What’s this?”
His gaze flicked toward the table then to mine again. “Happy birthday.”
Biting the inside of my lip, I inched closer, feeling immature, guilt-ridden, like an errant teenager who’d disobeyed and found herself facing the wrath of an angry parent. “Look, I know you’re a guy, and you don’t understand the bond between girls and all that.” My traitorous eyes sprung tears, and I swiped them away before they could fall. “It was dumb … and … I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Nowhere I felt safe.”
“I should’ve taken you.” Voice calm as he spoke, he crossed his arms over his chest, bunching those muscles in the tight shirt again and drawing my attention toward the veins in his arms. “I shouldn’t have kicked you out.” At his lurch toward me, I backed up, and he halted his steps. “I’m not asking you to forgive me, Lucy. I break shit. I drink too much. And I say shit I don’t mean when I’m pissed.”
“How did I piss you off?”
He held out a hand to me, beckoning me with his fingers. “Come here.”
With reluctant steps, I crossed the room until beside the chair.
A brush of his hand against my shoulder stiffened my muscles, and when he lowered the hoodie off my head and pushed my hair away from my neck, my lips parted with anticipation.
“I didn’t like that you left,” he whispered in my ear. “Don’t do it again.”
Damn his voice and that annoying zap of pleasure that shot straight to my stomach. I kicked my head to the side without looking at him. “Don’t give me a reason to leave, and I won’t.”
A strange feeling washed over me as he pulled the chair out, allowing me to sit, and I realized what it was. No one had made a fuss over me for my birthday in years. I’d never had a man celebrate with me, and I shrank a little at the attention.
He pushed me closer to the white box and came around to his chair, opposite me. Lifting what appeared to be a remote on the table beside him, he pressed a button. A soft amber glow hit the corner of my eye, and I turned toward it, through the window, my eyes narrowed on the lights across the lot.
At the adjacent construction site, a tower crane had been lit by what must’ve been thousands of white Christmas lights up its mast and along the arm of it.
“It’s no Eiffel Tower, but it’s … something.” His laugh brought a smile to my face, and I pressed my fingers to the cold window, still mesmerized by the sight. “Took me three hours to get those fucking lights strung. Almost fell off the jib twice. The workers are going to go ape-shit when they see it tomorrow.”
“Paris.” A chuckle burst from my chest, and I turned, catching his stare. “No one’s ever done anything like that for me.”
“No one’s ever made me want to do something like that.” The way he glanced away made me think of a shy little boy inside of that large body, and for a second he was the boy from my memory.
I lowered my gaze to the white box. “Can I look?”
At his nod, I opened the lid and licked my lips at the squares of strudel. “You bought me makovník!”
“Found a bakery that sold them. I didn’t know if you drink wine with it, or not. Guess I’m adding my own spin to your birthday traditions.”
Settling my hands in my lap, I allowed the smile begging to escape. “Thank you.”
“Will you stay?” His brows came together in a frown, as though he anticipated I wouldn’t and prepared himself for the rejection.
“Well …” I smiled. “It’d be rude not to.”
37
Detective Matt Burke
Detective Burke stared at the mug shot on the screen with his teeth gritted. The little bastard in the image, Jase Hawkins, bore a striking resemblance to his old man, Anthony Hawkins. Forensics had processed the fingerprints from the motel room shooting, and the match was staring back at him, taunting him to punch the screen.
“What’s this?” Anderson asked over his shoulder.
“The motel room we searched yesterday. That’s the kid. The one with the girl.”
“Jase Hawkins.”
Even the name slid down Burke’s spine like rusted nails on bone, and he twisted around in his seat. “How do you know him?”
“About a year back, I worked his case. His grandmother and brother were burned inside the house.”
“You think he did it?”
“He was our only suspect. Unfortunately, he went missing. All traces of the guy just …. disappeared.”
Burke crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s the son of Anthony Colombo Hawkins. Nothing but a petty thief. The guy who killed my partner, Willis.”
“No shit.” Stretching his neck, Anderson stared off at the screen. “Following in his old man’s footsteps, I see.”
Burke clicked on a photo of a kid wearing a skull mask, standing on top of a tower crane with the dizzying Detroit background behind him. “Crazy fuckin’ kid with a death wish.”
“These kids and their goddamn stunts. 'The fuck are their parents, ya know?”
“Yeah. Anderson. I’m in. For Friday. Count me in.” Burke couldn’t even look at Anderson. Didn’t want to see the guy's reaction at what he’d just resigned himself to do.
“I’ll let them know.” After a pause, Anderson cleared his throat. “You get any other tips on that slaughterhouse gig?”
Shaking his head, Burke twisted
around in his chair to face him. “Nah. Lab identified narcotics, some Hedonic shit in that e-cig. No match for the prints. Could’ve belonged to anyone.”
“No doubt. Probably belonged to the bitch who called in the tip. Was probably trippin' on the shit. Seeing things and took off.”
Burke narrowed his eyes on Anderson, whose gaze disappeared behind a coffee cup. “What makes you think it was a woman who called the tip?”
The coffee cup jerked slightly before lowering away from his face, and Anderson waved his hand in dismissal. “Man. Woman. I’m just saying, whoever called in the tip.” He pushed away, patting Burke on the shoulder as he passed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Burke answered, his thoughts rewinding to when Anderson had first offered to check out the slaughterhouse for him.
He’d never once told Anderson that anyone had called in a tip at all, or that it’d been a woman.
* * *
Something just didn’t sit right with Burke, as he descended the stairs to the basement of the Thorn Apple Valley Slaughterhouse.
The stench of meat and mold clung to the air as he hit the gravel, his flashlight cutting through the darkness as he trailed the beam over rotted wood and crumbling walls. The place had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
Some had said the slaughterhouse was haunted, and even though he didn’t believe in that shit, he couldn’t deny the eerie feeling that crawled over his skin as he approached the sump pit across from the boiler. Closing his eyes, Burke sent up a quick prayer that he wouldn’t find anything, that his suspicions about Detective Anderson were unfounded and he could go home with a clear conscience.
He angled his flashlight down into the rusted walls of the pit, catching the reflection of light on the water, which sat low, about two feet below him. He blew a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging, at the flat darkness that bouncing back. Though the pit’s diameter was wide enough to accommodate a body, he surely would’ve seen something at that depth.
As he lifted his flashlight, a blip of white caught his eye, and he returned the beam back to the water. He squinted, trying to see past the glare at the surface, and crouched lower. Some kind of object sat just below it.
Looking around, he caught sight of a rotted piece of wood near the staircase and shuffled over, bringing it back to the hole. Lowering the stick to the water, he jabbed the object along its side, trying to push it against the wall of the drain to lift it out of the water.
The object bobbed beneath the surface and spun around, and a set of white milky eyes stared back at him.
“Fuck!” Dropping the stick and the flashlight, Burke kicked back away from the pit, his heart pounding in terror at his ribcage, and he slapped a hand to his chest as if to stave off a heart attack while fast breaths left him momentarily dizzy. “Jesus Christ.” His whole body trembled.
The head had been severed from its body. The eyes had begun to decay in the water, and its skin had turned a bluish, whitish tone.
Through deep breaths, he slowly calmed himself.
Fuck.
If he told Corley, he’d know that Burke hadn’t investigated it himself. That he’d told Anderson.
If he didn’t report it, the death would never get reported, and the head severer would roam free.
He ran a shaky hand over his brow, sitting in darkness as his brain scrambled for an answer. In the chaos of trying to decide what to do, a single question sat at the back of his mind.
Why had Anderson lied?
38
Jase
Sipping a bottle of water, I leaned against the kitchen counter, studying the curve of Lucy’s ass while she made me lunch. “What’s this called again?”
She glanced back at me with a smile. “Rezancová polievka.”
“Rezancová polievka.” I made a pathetic attempt to copy her accent, and she giggled. “What’s in it?”
“Chicken and noodles.”
“So, chicken noodle soup.”
Her body twisted around, and my dick lurched. The way she raised the spoon in her hand, she looked like some kind of domestic porn star in my long T-shirt. “I’m trying to insert a bit of culture into your life here.”
“Yeah, I was kinda hoping to insert a bit of culture into you, too,” I said under my breath, but the dimples in her cheeks told me she’d heard me.
“I have a question for you,” she said.
“I’m not surprised. You seem to have an endless supply of them.” I lifted my bottle, waving it in the air. “Go on with your question.”
“Where do you go—at night? I mean, I know you party sometimes. But … the blood. This isn’t about some asshole giving you trouble at the bar, or psychos shooting up the place. You’re … hunting them, aren’t you?”
My jaw shifted, and I set the bottle on the counter beside me. “Are you asking questions you want to know the answer to, or are you asking because you think you should?”
“Both?”
A hiss startled her, and with a gasp, she spun around to the soup, boiling over in the pot. I lurched forward, and from behind her, I took a hot splash to the hand as I flipped the burner off and the bubbling broth receded.
Hand to her chest, she laughed. “Holy shit, I thought it was going to spew everywhere!”
After wiping my hand with the towel, I tossed it to the counter and stayed standing behind her, studying the contour of her neck. Running a finger across her nape, I moved her hair out of the way and licked my lips. As if sensing my intent, she tilted her head to the side, allowing me access, and I buried my face in her hair, inhaling her flowery scent.
“You smell so good.” I wanted to bite down into her flesh just to see if she tasted as good.
Her back arched against me the moment my lips made contact with her skin, and I gripped her shoulders as I dragged my lips down to the base of her neck.
She twisted around, arms circling my neck, and I reached down past the tight curve of her ass, hoisting her up onto the adjacent counter. Our mouths slammed together in a violent kiss, and she cupped my face, as I stood wedged between her thighs, my fingers bruising her hips.
My cellphone buzzed inside my coat, and I almost ignored the damn thing, except that Lucy pulled out of the kiss, like she expected me to answer it. With a groan, I patted my pocket, noticing an extra lump, and along with the phone, I slipped the SD card that Dax had given me at the bar out of my coat. The text on the phone was from Dax, too. Just two words.
I’m sorry.
I frowned, staring down at the card, and without a word, I left Lucy in the kitchen and shot back into the bedroom, grabbing the camera from the nightstand. I slipped the card in, and a video file popped up.
Not daring to breath, I pressed play.
Screams cried out from the camera, as the scene opened to a basement. A small room with shelves. The person filming scanned the shelves, showing all sorts of torture contraptions I’d seen in some BDSM clubs. Whips, cat-o-nines, paddles, caning sticks. Others, too, that looked like old fashioned farming tools, including a rusted throw-crook.
My stomach turned.
The camera panned back to a naked girl, whose face was covered by a sack. Her arms and legs had been tied and her large breasts bounced with force. Her alabaster skin was covered in what appeared to be blood. Whether it was hers, or not, I couldn’t tell. Couldn’t make out any lacerations.
A computerized sounding voice spoke above her suffering. “That’s it. Take her. Take her hard. She wants this. She came here with you for a good time. Show her a good time.”
The sack was slowly peeled back, and crystals of ice gripped my chest.
Olivia.
The camera danced around the girl, and I watched, waiting, praying that my brother wasn’t the one hurting her.
The view widened from the angle of her head and revealed a male slamming into her, brutally raping her on camera.
Please don’t be Reed.
The camera panned up his body, painfull
y slow, until it reached his bowed head.
“Show the world who did this to her.” The computerized voice spoke again. “Show us your face.”
“Yes, Pasák.” He lifted his head, and I dropped the camera, stumbling backward.
Bridger. My brother’s friend.
“Is everything okay, Jase?” Lucy’s voice broke through the shock still wracking my body.
I grabbed the camera from the bed where it’d fallen and stalked past her. “I have to go.”
* * *
I kicked the front door of Dax’s two-bedroom apartment open and searched the living room, the kitchen, the bedrooms. He was nowhere. My pulse raced, and I’d broken into a sweat on the drive over.
Hands on my hips, I stood thinking for a moment, trying to catch my breath as panic washed over me. Where the fuck would he go?
From Dax’s bedroom, a breeze coming in through the opened window had my stomach twisting in knots.
The roof.
I climbed out onto the fire escape and up three stories to the roof.
Off in the distance, Dax sat crouched with his back to me. I could just make out a pair of legs poking out to the left of him, not his but belonging to a body that lay before him. Unmoving.
“Dax,” I said, taking careful steps toward him.
He didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just remained crouched where he was.
“Dax, listen. I saw the video. Don’t do anything stupid, man.”
“Too late,” he mumbled, and as I came around to the side of him, I let out a sharp breath.
Bridger lay on the ground, his face beaten and bruised, so bashed up, I couldn’t even make out where his eyes were. His nose had detached from his face. Only the stump of his hand, and that flashy shirt he’d worn the night of the party, identified him.
Beside him, Dax sat rubbing his knuckles together. Blood trickled from an unseen wound down his arm.
