Moth to a Flame

2. CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Landon

Marshall’s block is silent by the time I get there. I drive around in search of a parking spot and find one fast in one of the back alleys.

People appear from around the corner when my phone buzzes. I grab it from the console, just as the two men in jeans and dark sweatshirts cross the street.

Until these two slow as fuck jerks move along, I read the message from Moth to a Flame’s Chief of Operations.

Beverly: Company policy says no digging into our subscribers’ accounts for personal use.

Among her many responsibilities, she’s notified whenever anyone abuses their access to our database and violates our privacy policy, then fires their ass.

Two weeks. That’s how long it’s taken the system to alert her about what I’ve been doing.

Very bad. I’ll have someone get on it tomorrow.

Me: Okay, and?

I imagine her green eyes narrowed at the screen. Her hand tugging at her long red hair while her wife asks her what’s wrong.

Beverly is sharp and smart. She’s been with me since I was twenty-four. Back then, the thirty-four-year-old woman believed in the idea of Moth to a Flame. She believes in it to this day.

She won’t let anyone mess with it, including me.

Beverly: One word—lawsuits. A few more—don’t want them on my record and yours, boss. Or to have it fuck up getting listed on the stock market.

She’s right.

Don’t give a fuck.

Me: Don’t tell anyone about that and nothing will happen. Simple.

Beverly: I won’t. Delete these messages too. I’ll set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. We’ll talk.

The street clears of people. When I get out of the car, Beverly sends me a question mark.

Ignoring her won’t make her stop. If anything, it’ll make her show up here. I could shut my GPS down, but it’ll be too late. She already has my location. No doubt about it.

Me: No need for a meeting. No one’s suing anyone.

Especially if they’re dead.

Me: Unless you’re going to sue me for being overprotective of our subscribers. That’s all I did. Looked out for a woman who seemed na?ve.

Looked. In the past tense. Yeah, right.

Beverly: That’s it? You’re looking out for her?

Me: Looked. Yes.

Sort of.

Beverly: Landon, are you lying to me?

Way I see it, there’s no use telling her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God.

I’m not going to kill Regan. I don’t feel like I will. She isn’t in any danger from me.

If I intended to kill her, I would’ve said something to Beverly or my best friend and Chief of Finance, Vince. I would’ve never let it get that far.

No. Regan isn’t in danger, not today.

Someone else is, and see if I give a fuck about his life.

Me: No. Why aren’t you with Faith? Already bored after one year of marriage? Thought you two were in love.

Beverly: My wife is fine. It’s you I’m worried about.

The closer I get to Marshall’s apartment building, the less amused I am by this back-and-forth. My heart beats faster. I’m more furious as I recall his conversation with Regan.

She handed him a piece of herself, and he chose to talk about the weather.

He insulted her.

He looked at her.

He’s a dead man.

The knife I jammed into my hoodie’s pocket is a temptation I can no longer ignore. I still stop to reply to Beverly.

Me: I’m okay. Again, if growing a conscience is a punishable offense, sue me.

Beverly: Fine, as long as you don’t forget this. One scandal and Moth to a Flame is dead. No stock market. No jobs. No future. Nothing.

The stock market. It’s the second time she’s brought it up, and I should care. I don’t. Not anymore.

Being subjected to constant scrutiny seemed like the best route to fuck myself over and make me hate my company for good. I’m the one who started the whole process.

I didn’t obsess over Regan back then. Didn’t let myself want to possess…things.

A burning awareness catches inside me.

My company is mine.

So is Regan.

Me: Nothing will happen. Good night.

The dots blink, and before I know it, she replies with: Go home, Landon. Faith says she has someone to hook you up with who isn’t one of our subscribers. She’ll send you the details tomorrow.

Hard pass. There’s no one and there will be no one for me.

Other than Regan. The woman I’m here for.

I pocket my phone, slip on my gloves, and head into Marshall’s building as if I own the place. The lock on the door to the building is broken, and after climbing one flight of stairs and picking the lock on his door, I’m inside.

He’s sleeping. Fucking sleeping on the couch while I’m burning up on the inside. The white glow from the television illuminates his face, and I snarl as I watch him.

The man who dared tell Regan the meaning of her name didn’t matter is snoring in his boxers, a bag of nuts dangling from his fingers.

He’s drooling, on top of everything else.

Such a busy man. He’s had far more important things to take care of than listening to Regan.

He can keep doing them in hell.

My first impulse is to launch at him. Jab the knife down his throat. Get the job done, deliver the evidence of my devotion to Regan. Anonymously, of course.

For now, I won’t.

I’m not that reckless. I might not have killed a man before, yet I do know this. He might not be alone here. He might be married. Might have kids. A lot of our subscribers are cheaters. We’ve received complaints about that in the past.

As the owner of Moth to a Flame, I could give a fuck less. Unless they’re physically hurting other subscribers, I don’t condemn them for being unfaithful. I run a website, not childcare.

But, as a man who’s about to commit a felony, I care. I care a whole fucking lot. Last thing I need is someone walking into the patriarch —ha—of the family getting slaughtered.

I’d have to kill them too. That’d be messy, and I’m not here for it.

I’m here for him.

I scope the apartment, treading lightly to silence the sound of my boots on his cheap linoleum floor. No kids, thank fuck, but there is a woman. She lies beneath the covers of the only bedroom in the apartment, her blonde hair splayed on the pillows.

Maybe he isn’t cheating on her. Maybe they have an open relationship. Whatever. None of my business. Come tomorrow, they’ll be nothing.

As quietly as possible, I close the door behind me and return to the living room. I stand between the sleeping Marshall and the coffee table, staring down at him.

It really is too bad that I can’t stay here longer. What a disappointment. The feeling is strong as I grasp the handle of my knife. I’ll have to be efficient to not risk the woman in the bedroom waking up.

That’s fucking unfortunate.

That’s also life.

My jaw tics. My hand clenches tighter around the knife.

No one messes with my girl but me. No one looks at her but. Me.

Wrath and obsession and killer instincts mix into a dangerous concoction.

They can push a man over the edge. Make him do all sorts of crazy things.

Other than kill her that is.

My hand goes to his mouth first. The blade nicks his throat at the same moment his eyes fly open.

A drop of blood glistens on the metal.

We’re off to a great start.

“Hi.” I grin.

The wicked smile must reach my black eyes because he tries to scramble back. Between me and the cushions, he’s not going anywhere.

“You stuck your nose where you shouldn’t have,” I whisper, slicing another half inch of his throat.

His lungs expand, and then he roars into my glove, his slimy fingers closing on my wrist.

One shake of my head and he freezes.

So obedient.

Pathetic.

“She may not be Regan…” I jerk my head to the bedroom, raising my eyebrows. “But she matters to you.”

His pupils are blown by the time I finish my underlying threat.

“Thought so.” He’s silent as I continue carving a red necklace on his throat. “I won’t touch her, as long as you play nice. And by nice, I mean shut the hell up while I kill you.”

Two tears roll from the corners of his eyes. Interesting. Didn’t see that one coming. He was oozing confidence when he talked to Regan.

Doesn’t look that way anymore.

“Regan is mine.” I’m close to his face, needing him to hear me. “No one else is allowed to look at her.” My lips stretch. “While they’re alive.”

His body breaks out in shivers, and the trickle of tears has transformed into a flood. I smell something rancid. One glance at the damp spot on his boxers solves the mystery for me.

Peeing himself. What a great way to depart this world.

“Goodbye.” The knife does the rest of the talking for me.

His blood gushes on the collar of his shirt and the cushion.

Taking a man’s life should’ve bothered me. My stomach should’ve churned, at the very least. Except this isn’t my first encounter with death. Not to mention this feels a lot like justice.

A sense of triumph fills me. Uplifts me.

Maybe loving something isn’t such a bad thing after all.

I wait out his shudders. The spasming. For the rising and falling of his chest to slow to a stop.

Locating a bag is the next item on my to-do list. A gift isn’t really a gift if it’s not wrapped, is it?

I’m in his kitchen, plucking a black trash bag out of one of the drawers.

My nose scrunches in a derisive gesture. Yeah, not the best I could’ve chosen for Regan.

First impressions are everything.

I’ll make the second one count.

There will be a next time, and I’ll do better then. A velvet box for her. My Regan.

Not yours.

This voice isn’t my dad’s. It’s mine.

Ignoring it, I crouch next to Marshall’s couch for the second time tonight. My knife slides seamlessly beneath his eyeball. I carve and slice, twist my wrist.

One, two, three and…

Pop .

First green eye is out.

I examine the white, gooey thing in my gloved hand. Who would’ve thought, two hours ago this thing leered at Regan. Now, it’s in my palm. Disconnected from its dead owner.

I drop the eyeball in the bag, remove the second one, and add it to its sibling. Both land down the bottom in a squishy bloop .

The lady in the bedroom will have a nice surprise waiting for her in the morning.

By then, I’ll be long gone.