13. “You hate yourself, Everleigh Lennox, because you don’t hate me.”
13
“You hate yourself, Everleigh Lennox, because you don’t hate me.”
Chapter Playlist:
“Breathe Into Me” – Red
“I’m So Sick” – Flyleaf
EVERLEIGH
Come on, Evie! Cherry whines, slapping her wings together while I reach for the popcorn. This is the fifth horror movie you’ve watched in a row. At this rate, you’re going to dream about chainsaw-wielding clowns, and I refuse to be your emotional support pixie for that!
More like I’d dream about you becoming some creepy doll like my personal poltergeist, I mutter.
Aww, that’s really sweet of you, but I don’t vibe with porcelain. She ruffles my hair from where I’m sitting on the same couch in my mind, nonchalantly talking to the figment of my imagination while beyond tipsy. Besides, I’m already your pixie poltergeist.
Can’t argue with that.
Taking another swig of vodka, I glue my eyes to the screen and soak in the sight of Sam fucking Carpenter bringing the blade down and landing the quote: “Don’t fuck with a serial killer’s daughter”. The original will always be my favorite, but I have a major crush on Melissa Barerra. And Jenna Ortega. But who the hell doesn’t?
Oh, I like Gale Weathers. Cherry flits back and forth behind me, her wings occasionally brushing against my head. Beautiful bitch was a force of nature. Never let anything stand in her way.
Sounds familiar.
Is that your third bottle, Evie? Can you even see the screen?
I shake my head, knowing I must look like some drunk zombie couch potato, sitting here in some old, baggy pajama pants and a cami while eating popcorn and pushing vodka back.
It’s the only thing that helps with this goddamn chastity belt. And the butt plug.
At one point, I was rolling around on the carpet, trying to dislodge the plug but was ultimately unsuccessful. I swear he fucking superglued that thing in there. I must have looked like a cockamamie tomcat on crack dragging my ass around the room or bucking and flopping like a fish out of water. I swear I practically heard his laughter. Just in case, I flipped the bird a few times for good measure.
I swear I have never been hornier in my life.
So, what’s next? Cherry slumps onto the couch, picking at her red-painted fingernails. Jason? Freddy? Leatherface? Oooh Quiet Place? Or how about The Purge?
Wish I could purge him from my system.
Yeah, good luck with that. You’re more likely to win the lottery…while getting struck by lightning…and bitten by a shark during Sharknado. Oh! Let’s watch that next! She kicks her feet like a child.
Just as I’m ready to agree to her proposal, the doorbell rings. I jump, the popcorn bowl flying and scattering the kernels all over the place. Great. I don’t even care, not with the swirling mass that is my brain right now.
I’ve been watching the door all day. Hyperalert. Listening for every sound, but it’s only been my neighbors moving back and forth to or from work, etc.
Acheron wouldn’t ring the doorbell.
No, the bastard’s probably got his own damn key and would just stroll right in.
A fist pounds a couple of times, and a deep tenor says, “Miss Lennox, it’s the police. If you’re home, please open the door.”
What. The. Fuck?
Hmm, police handcuffs. You should suggest that when Acheron comes back . Cherry does a little twirl.
Throwing on my cardigan to hide the outline of my boobs—and the bite marks—, I hurry to grab my iced mocha drink on the table. Not that it will help much.
I open the door, just a small gap. A hard knot grows in my throat as I eye the two officers and one man who is clearly a detective.
The officers are young, one with a fresh buzz cut and a sharp jawline. The other sports a mustache that looks like it’s trying too hard to be impressive. Both have that stiff, no-nonsense posture that screams “rookie trying to look tough.”
The detective, on the other hand, is older, with graying temples and deep lines carved into his face like a roadmap of jaded exhaustion. Wrinkled, cheap suit and a trench coat draped over his shoulders. He’s seen a lot but shows up anyway. His sharp eyes take me in, making the knot in my throat tighten.
“Miss Lennox,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “We need to ask you a few questions regarding the incident at the nightclub.”
My stomach twists. I hesitate, gripping the edge of the door. “Full disclosure, I’m not entirely sober,” I say, forcing a small smile. “So… this might get interesting. Bear with me please.”
The detective raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “We’re looking into the death of a young man named Jacob Howe. Were you at the club that night?”
I nod, my stomach twisting. “Yeah, I was there.”
“Did you know him?”
“No,” I say quickly.
The detective pulls out an evidence bag containing a phone. “Then why does he have your number? And a text from you that says, ‘This is my number’?”
My shoulders sag, and I glance down at the iced mocha in my hand, wishing it were something stronger. “I met him that night. So I didn’t really know him. We danced, had a drink, and exchanged numbers. That was it.”
The detective’s eyes narrow slightly. “Witnesses saw you with the victim going to the third level of the club.”
“He worked there,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Said he knew a quiet spot. We kissed, I texted him to set up a date later, and… that was the last time I saw him.”
My shoulders sag, and I lower my head, letting guilt settle over me. I know they’ll interpret it as sadness, but I can’t help it. And it’ll work in my favor.
The detective’s tone hardens. “We have reason to believe Mr. Howe didn’t hang himself. He was strangled. And the cameras show you standing in the middle of the club, watching the victim while the rest of the crowd was running.”
“I wasn’t exactly sober that night either,” I slur, lifting a finger. “And I was shocked. I mean, I was looking forward to our date. I couldn’t believe what happened. I did run, though. Right outside to my car.”
The detective nods. “Yes, we have footage of you at the doorway. Not the parking lot. Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill Mr. Howe?”
Cherry’s voice whispers in my head. Tell them the truth, and they’ll lock you in a psych ward faster than you can blink. Then Acheron will find you and turn it into some twisted doctor-patient roleplay.
I suppress a shudder and shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. He seemed like a really nice guy.”
The detective studies me for a moment. “Are you having any problems, Miss Lennox? A jealous boyfriend who might’ve targeted him?”
I laugh bitterly. “No. I travel a lot for work. I don’t have time for a boyfriend. And I lost my fiancé a few years ago.”
The detective’s expression softens. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. Listen, last night shook me up pretty good, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my drinking alone and watching horror movies on a Saturday night.”
The detective nods. “Thank you for your time, Miss Lennox.” Then, he hands me a card. “If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”
I murmur a thanks and close the door. As soon as the latch clicks, I slide down against it until the pressure of the butt plug reminds me of its unwelcome presence.
Groaning, I haul myself back to the couch and collapse, grabbing the remote. Horror movies it is—at least until the devil decides to grace me with his presence.
I moan, stirring out of the swirling pitch-blackness from the touch of leather brushing my cheek. I’m still lying on the couch, gripping the remote.
The last thing I remember was finishing the vodka, finishing the mocha, finishing the next movie before I finally crashed. Now, I have a splitting headache.
“You disappoint me, Little Quill. I expected better than?—”
I go ballistic. In one second, I’m Netflix zombie to a category five hurricane of thrashing limbs, flying fists, and screeches and curses through gritted teeth. Acheron growls and gets his arms around me, but I don’t stop kicking and crying, knocking over the coffee table and the ottoman.
“Calm down! For fucks sake!” Acheron snarls and slams me down onto the floor, pinning me there.
I land one solid kick to his jaw, and he rears up before the glinting pupils of his mask bear down on me, vowing retribution. I choke on a gasp, then double down, kicking and hitting and hurling all sorts of curses, ones I swear I didn’t even know, but I’m sure my subconscious pixie does.
“Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!” I scream at him right before he mounts me, his pelvis effectively pinning mine while he grips my wrists and holds them over my head. He’s so fucking strong, I can’t even buck.
My breath heaves and cleaves, my blood storming, my heart ricocheting in my chest as he leans down and says low in my ear, “Somebody needs a spanking from Master, doesn’t she?”
He realizes that’s not a punishment, right? Cherry laughs, and I imagine drop-kicking her ass. Ow!
“Spanking? Is that all you’ve got?” I spit, my arms writhing, head thrashing. “I expected better from the self-proclaimed God of Art. You think a spanking is punishment?” I rear up, stabbing my nose at his mask. “Try being interrogated by Detective Discount Columbo while wearing your chastity belt masterpiece.”
He pauses. Tilts his head. Our heavy gasps only seem to thicken the tension between us.
“What was that now?” he asks, his tone lifting with surprise and amusement.
“Yeah, I lied for you. While you were out playing Picasso, I was busy covering your ass with the police, you ungrateful jackass,” I huff and turn away, not wanting to focus on the gorgeous new mask he’s donned for tonight. More decorative. More intricate. The blood drops are always a theme, but this time, rubies are encrusted in sinuous, flowing patterns.
“Oh, Little Quill…”
The softening of his voice, the tension depleting in his shoulders, and his hands releasing me before he trails his fingers along my bare arms, summoning goosebumps…they’re all my undoing.
I fall apart. I break down. Hard.
A second later, I’m curled up into a ball, gripping his vest, and sobbing into his chest. His strong arms come around me, holding me close. And the raging boner does not escape me.
Cherry is singing “I Won’t Say I’m in Love” from Disney’s Hercules …but only the Muses part, but the sound of my cries covers it up. Mostly.
“Mmm, there now,” Acheron says, stroking my hair.
“I hate you,” I mutter.
He chuckles, captures my jaw, and tilts my face up. My vision is blurry, but all I want to do is look away. Can’t face him. Because he can read everything.
“No, you don’t. You hate yourself, Everleigh Lennox, because you don’t hate me. And that eats you up.” He rubs his lips along mine, and I shiver. “Do not deny your desires, sweet girl. Do not shame them either. Today proved you know who you belong to.”
“Today proved I’m crazier than a BookTok girl defending her favorite morally gray villain while ignoring all his red flags.”
Oh, honey, hums Cherry, we need to get you a mug that says ‘It’s not a red flag. It’s a love language’.
Acheron chuckles darkly again, and I moan, “Please take it off. And take the other thing out !” When he narrows his eyes, I blink back tears and whisper, “Please?”