Moth to a Flame

4. CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Regan

“Friend?” I scream into his palm. “What friend?”

Nothing I say makes any sense. It’s just a bunch of mmm s and aaa s. Mojo sticks his nose between our legs, doing that cute whiney voice when he’s begging for attention.

I get it. I really do. To him, it probably looks like the man is hugging me. Rosemary and I hug each other all the time. He’s used to it.

In fact, it feels like he’s trying to be a part of our forced hug. I’d tell him to attack but my mouth is sealed.

I’m too far from home. My sister won’t hear Mojo and look out the window. She won’t run down here to see what’s wrong.

I’m fucked.

Fucked.

I promised myself I wouldn’t go through this again and look at me.

Panic clutches at my chest. My heart races so fast I’m two seconds from having a stroke.

Worse still, I like it.

I like him holding me.

“Calm down,” the stranger whispers, and I refuse to be attracted to his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

My back is pinned to the man’s front, and my arms are glued to my body.

There’s no reaching for my gun. He won’t let me.

Fighting him off is the only option I have left. I give it everything I have, bending my elbow as much as possible to try to wrangle myself out of his hold.

“Shh.” His fingers flex on my belly, his palm applying pressure to pull me closer to him. He’s hard, and even that doesn’t terrify me. What’s wrong with me? “Did you hear me? I said I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

My nostrils flare, dragging air into my lungs. Fainting won’t do me any good. It would be bad. Very, very bad.

“Blink once if you understand. If you promise not to scream.”

He’s asking. Not ordering, asking.

Ten years ago, Lester didn’t ask. He demanded.

He didn’t fold me into his arms like this, either. Like I matter. He held me at knifepoint.

This stranger behind me uses his body alone.

He can break me in half with how strong he is.

Still, I don’t fear him.

He could’ve dragged me to an alley by now. Kicked Mojo or strangled him to assure I won’t be saved.

Raping me would’ve been so easy for a man his size. He’s not overly muscular from the little I could gather. He’s just broad and lean. Powerful.

Yet here I am. Here, instead of being beaten and raped. He doesn’t reach down to my leggings. Doesn’t start ripping my clothes off.

I suck in as much air as possible. Slow inhales. Here. I’m breathing. I’m alive.

He’s not going to hurt me, exactly like he said.

“Well?” The man turns my face to him.

His dark eyes are partly amused, partly curious. His cologne and the smell of the ocean envelop me. And…now that I can breathe, I smell it. A faint, underlying scent of copper.

Mojo lets out another one of his whines, pushing my shin with his snout.

“Blink and I’ll release you.”

I have my gun. If this stranger tries anything, I’ll just shoot him in the head.

One blink.

“Good girl.” He doesn’t hesitate before he releases me. Doesn’t grope me this one last time.

I’m free.

“What the hell was that?” For some inexplicable reason, my gun remains concealed. “Who are you?”

“Landon. Nice to meet you, friend.” His smirk is annoying. Annoyingly beautiful. I keep my hand where it is, refusing to shake his. I don’t crave it. Impossible. “You?”

In some of the books I read and the ones Dad writes, this is the moment the badass heroine pulls out her gun and empties it on her attacker. Gray matter dribbles out of his head. Blood splatters paint the collar of his shirt red.

I should be able to see the street behind him through the hole I’ll make in his face.

I don’t do it.

No matter how huge he is, how he handled me with so much ease, nothing about him gives off rapist vibes.

It could be a mistake, giving him my name. I do it anyway. “Regan.”

“Regan. Hear me out.”

But I’m not done. He did touch me without my consent.

“No, you hear me out.” I take a step closer. I really shouldn’t stab a finger at his chest. His solid, made-of-stone chest. “You didn’t answer my question. What the hell was that?”

“ That as in…” The nerve on this man. He raises an eyebrow at me, a pale, blond, no, platinum-blond eyebrow. I haven’t noticed the unique color until this moment.

Like I haven’t noticed the strands of the same platinum-blond hair peeking beneath his hat.

Doesn’t matter.

“As in grabbing me.”

Woof!

I lower my voice into a harsh whisper. For Mojo’s sake. And to stop this man from smirking at me.

“As in, slapping your hand on my mouth.”

Your manly hand that smelled of pure sin. That felt like the hottest gag on the planet.

Regan, focus!

These thoughts will be the end of me. They’re a culmination of twenty-five years of never being intimate with a boy or a man in a good way. It’s a balloon that Landon is about to pop.

The look he’s giving me. The man can’t wait until I burst.

“That’s a crime.” I stab at his chest again, then drop my finger. “You could go to jail for that.”

“Did you suffer?” His hand rises, his fingers a mere inch from my cheek.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question, Regan.” He darts his tongue out, licking his lips as if my name is food and he loves the taste. Perv. Hot, infuriating perv. “Did. You. Suffer?”

“No.” The answer comes out of me before I’ve realized I said it. “Don’t do that again, though.”

I’m angry and I’m calm. Too calm. This man disarms me, and I’m not scared of him. The opposite. He makes it easy to confront him.

Wow.

“I don’t know.” The pads of his fingers make contact with my cheek, and I forget how to breathe. “Way I see it, if what I did”—his fingers trail lower, a light press to my jaw—“made you feel good, there’s no reason for me to stop.”

“It felt good to you . I just didn’t suffer.”

Mojo mewls. Traitorous dog, calling my bluff.

“Liar.” Slowly, his lips stretch wider into a grin. His teeth are white and perfect.

Maybe I could ask him to fix me. Maybe he could do the roleplaying scene with me and cure me once and for all.

Maybe he’ll say yes.

No, fuck no. Where has your sense of self-preservation gone?

“Am not.” Yes, I am. But if he asks me if I have butterflies fluttering in my stomach, I’ll keep lying through my teeth. “I’m going home. So, stop touching me.”

A bit more pressure on my jaw. Then lower. He’s searching for my pulse point.

Please, don’t find it. Please, don’t see how good you make me feel.

“Where’s home?” His voice is husky. Smooth. His fingers slide into my hair, parting the strands.

I can’t, won’t , tell him where I live. As the daughter of Cooper Everglow, renowned horror author, I was taught better than that. “Russia.”

“Russia.” Landon barks a laugh, a warm one, which is weird. “You’re a long way from home, little lamb.”

“What’s with the little lamb ?” Since this is obviously the last time I’ll see him, I have to know.

“Only a lamb can tempt a wolf like you do.” Pulling me by my neck, his lips press to the top of my head.

He sucks in a breath, making a voice in the back of his throat.

While I’m suffocating in his presence.

It lasts for a second, or a million, then he lets me go and stalks off.

I don’t call after him. I don’t chase him and tell him I’m not actually from Russia, that I live just down the road.

I don’t.

But poor Mojo is love-stricken, yanking me in Landon’s direction.

“Mojo, traitorous baby, come back. We’re not going there.” I tug lightly on his leash without hurting him. Just enough pressure to get our sweet boy to turn around.

Eventually, he does. Big brown eyes gaze up at me, his tail flailing slower and slower.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve fallen for a stranger.” Landon is out of sight, and I still whisper. Mojo barks once. “No, we can’t go with him. No, again, don’t give me that look. You saw him go. He left, all right?”

Another miserable bark.

“Mojo.” I squat to his level, my skin still burns wherever Landon touched me. “I agree, buddy. He was hot and intimidating in that non-intimidating way, and he was”— sigh —“wonderfully dark. But he’s gone, and I’d really like to go home. Could I bribe you with a treat, maybe?”

At that, my nephew-dog comes alive again, and we head back home.

As soon as Mojo and I climb that last step and make it into the hallway, he breaks into a run toward my door. He’s huge, so he covers the distance in a second, sniffing at the rug on my doorstep.

“Mojo, hold on!” I whisper-shout, running after him with my arm stretched out.

My heart hasn’t settled yet after meeting the stranger, Landon, in the street. The butterflies are still alive in my stomach, just as they were when he stepped into my line of sight.

I push all thoughts of him aside and follow Mojo. No, I’m not thinking about the tall man with the black eyes and the sharp jaw. How he grabbed me and hauled me into his chest and how it didn’t feel bad.

None of it is as important as keeping my shoulder in place and not choking Mojo simultaneously.

I’m with him at my doorstep in record time. The dog sniffs whatever’s there, as if he’s on a treasure hunt or something.

It takes me a little longer to notice what he already has.

“What’s that?” His teeth are latched onto the trash bag. When I put my hand out to him, he releases it with a disappointed huff.

There’s something in there. Something light, that has Mojo yapping like I’m denying him his treat.

His paws claw at my leggings, almost tearing the thick fabric.

“Oh my God, Mojo, you funny dog. Relax. What’s in this bag anyway?” I’m curious. So curious that I would’ve peeked inside right here in the hallway.

Then again, Mojo could jump at whatever’s inside and eat it.

I can’t let him just have anything. He’s my nephew. “Let’s get you home, buddy.”

Mojo stops his clawing and yapping, his eyes huge and pleading.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I pat his head. “It’s just…You should eat things that are good for you. Like the treat I promised. You want that?”

He wags his tail enthusiastically, and I smile. I walk him into Rosemary’s apartment as quietly as humanly possible, leaving him there with two treats instead of one for being such a good boy. For reassuring me that Landon isn’t a bad guy.

I slap myself inwardly. I can’t afford to obsess over the first man I’ve ever been interested in. A man I’ll probably never see again.

He was the one who walked away.

Right.

Anyway.

The bag.

Behind the safety of my locked door, I go over to the table where I left my laptop. I shove it aside and place the trash bag there.

Squish.

My brow furrows, my curiosity reaching an all-time high. “What kind of food makes a squishy sound?”

Spoiled tomatoes maybe.

Either that or I’ve been thrown into a scene from a horror book.

My teeth run along my bottom lip as I consider the possibilities.

This couldn’t be Lester sending threats to my doorstep. They cut off his communication to the outside world since he tried and failed to send someone to kill me.

What else?

Hmm.

A bloody body part would make a squishy sound.

Cool. So cool.

I mean, not cool, but yes, yes, it’s cool. If it really is the case, I could be living inside of my favorite genre. Not as a victim.

The victim of the story is in this bag.

They’re there, and I’m here, with Jigsaw. I’m empowered and strong and could blow a person’s brains out.

Landon is the exception. The rest better not mess with me.

Unable to wait a second longer, I speed-walk to my kitchen, fish out latex gloves from one of the cabinets, and haul ass to the table again where I take off my sweater. It’s hotter in here the more excited I get.

With both black gloves on my hands, I pry the bag open.

“Let’s see what we have here.”

The contents of the bag don’t smell like food leftovers.

Then I dip one hand into the bag.

My pulse jackhammers as I close my hand around the thing .

“Holy shit.” This thing I’m holding is squishy, all right. Squishy and slippery.

Gulp .

What should I do next? Do I take it out?

As if I have a choice. I’m already holding on to what I suspect is a body part.

Nothing else to do but whip it out of the bag in one pull.

“Holy shit,” I repeat the moment I see this thing. “Holy. Shit.”

An eyeball. I have my hand curled around a fucking eyeball.

With a note pinned to it.

A thin, black hair band keeps the soaked piece of paper in place.

This is fucked up.

I’ve definitely been forced into one of my books.

So why doesn’t it feel wrong? Why am I drawn to the scribbling on the note?

Because whoever left it here, they left it for me.

Me.

They could’ve dropped it at Rosemary’s doorstep. They didn’t.

This is mine.

The thought of waking her up and telling her this happened crosses my mind. I file it away for later. Depending on what’s written on the note. Whether it’s a game or a threat.

She’ll want to take it to the police, and I’m not so sure I want to do that.

Not yet.

Despite wanting to read it badly, I don’t get to it right away. The person who delivered me the eyeballs might be watching me through my windows, getting off on my reaction.

Gifting me eyeballs is all well and good.

Invading into my personal space, less so. Only one man has ever violated me. Stomped over every sense of privacy and self I ever had.

Never again.

With an eyeball I can’t seem to let go of, I go over every window in the apartment. I roll down the blinds, barricading myself from the outside world.

The eyeball doesn’t slip out of my grip.

Back to the table.

“That’s it, no more things to do.” My voice shakes. Totally normal, given the circumstances. This is the first real eyeball I’ve ever touched. “Hmm.”

No response from the eyeball as I place it on top of the trash bag. Careful not to tear the soaked note, I remove the hair band. Put it aside.

“Unharmed,” I appraise the tiny piece of paper.

I’m even more careful when I flip it, squinting my eyes at the smudged words. The ink almost didn’t survive the journey.

He wasn’t good enough for you.

My eyebrows shoot down.

He? Who’s he?

Lester? Someone got to him in prison and did this for me?

It can’t be Dad, even though he threatens to kill him on the anniversary of my rape every year.

The sweetest man I know grips my shoulders every year in September without fail, looks me dead in the eye, and tells me, Say the word, Regan, and I’ll hire a man to kill him. They’ll go slow too.

My answer is always, I wish, but no thanks, Dad. He probably gets raped in prison a lot. Pedophiles always do. I’m good.

I protect Dad because the perfect crime doesn’t exist. Dad may be rich and no one will miss a monster like Lester.

However, one slip-up, one detective who believes in justice for everyone, and Dad will be the one who’s locked up.

I made him swear that he wouldn’t dare try, so no. If this is Lester’s eyes, this can’t be from my father.

As I pick one eyeball up and twist my hand to look at it, I find the iris. Jade green.

Now I know for sure this isn’t Lester, either. My rapist has brown eyes. I could never forget that.

As dark as it was that night in the park, as terrified as I was, I remember his eyes. His stare. Evil. So evil. He was enjoying himself, the bastard. Soaking in my pain, in my terror. And as if his penis wasn’t enough…

A shudder breaks through me. My hand flies to Jigsaw, dirty fingers locking around the metal.

Little lamb.

The stranger’s voice is in my head instead of my sister’s. The memory of his lips ghosting my ear is a vivid one.

Magic. Dark magic, I mean. That’s what it is, this calm that blankets me.

Landon’s eyes weren’t green, either. They were black. This isn’t a part of him on my table.

Relief washes over me at that. I shouldn’t feel anything toward Landon.

And yet I do.

Wherever he is, he’s alive.

It only leaves two men who I’ve been in that kind of contact with. We have men clients, lots of them. It’s not them. None of them has ever flirted with me. No one’s ever asked me out on a date.

The men on the dating and hookup service, however…

I snatch the other eye, and I have my answer.

Marshall. Marshall had green eyes. Both of them.

Clayton had one blue and one green. Kind of hard to miss that.

It means someone knows I’ve been talking to them. Someone’s been stalking me.

That someone doesn’t approve of me dating, or just of me dating Marshall.

Well, that explains the ghosting.

There’s not a sliver of compassion or sadness in my heart as I put the eyeballs down. I still think it’s cool, to have them brought to me. As much as I’m sorry that Marshall had to lose his life for me to get this present.

I’m also kind of jarred that I have a murderous stalker.

Not afraid, though. He could’ve come at me in the street just now when Landon wasn’t around.

Jigsaw is always concealed when I’m outside. Mojo isn’t that intimidating when he doesn’t bare his canines. No one’s supposed to know that Rosemary and I trained him to attack any threat. To bite hard.

That he’s as badass as Stephen King’s Kujo , if not more so.

I’m safe.

Rosemary, the protective older sister she is, wouldn’t agree. She wouldn’t approve of the eyeballs.

Nothing good would come out of telling her or our parents about it. They’ll lose it. Hire security and alert the police about a psycho stalker killer.

They’ll rob me of the sense of freedom I’ve worked so hard to gain. It’d taken me a full year to sleep in my own apartment and not Rosemary’s once we moved in here. Two to start walking outside at night.

Having security and people fretting over me will convince me that I have something to fear.

I don’t. I have everything under control.

These eyeballs are mine. Maybe I’m a little screwed up to consider them a gift. Maybe that night in the park stripped me of some of my sanity.

Good thing I stopped seeing my shrink five years ago. She would’ve had a field day with this.

“Welcome to your new home, Eyes,” I say as I move around the apartment.

Empty jar, ethyl alcohol. That’ll keep Marshall’s eyeballs protected until I decide what to do with them.

That is, if I decide to do anything at all.