Wicked Stalker (Captives of the Onyx Brotherhood #1)

One

Eve

Cole’s hands grip the blonde’s ass through her tight white skirt. They haven’t noticed me yet, and I watch, frozen, as he pulls her against his crotch. Grinding on her. He’s tried that move on me more than once, but I never let it get far. He’s always sweet about my shyness and says I’m worth the wait.

Guess not.

There’s nothing shy about the blonde. She presses into him, pink fingernails digging into his back. His hand slides lower, under the hem of her skirt and up again. I can’t see where his fingers go, but the breathy moan she lets out gives me a clue.

That asshole. He said he was going to the gym.

He groans, a deep, feral sound I’ve never heard come out of his mouth, and a sharp lance stabs deep in my chest. It snaps me out of the weird, voyeuristic paralysis I’ve fallen into, and I run, round the corner and into the safety of the grimy bathroom.

Someone turns the thumping beats up louder, and the floor vibrates as I sit on the closed toilet, arms resting on my thighs. A chorus of cheers follow, and I close my eyes against the tears trying to escape .

Cole and I got together eight months ago, and I was really starting to like him. I thought he felt the same. I’ve been trying to be less prudish, but it’s hard. He said he could cope with the lack of bedroom action if it meant we could be together. And now I know why.

I should march out there, rip the girl off him, and scream in his face. But who am I kidding? I won’t. I’ll send him an angry text, then pack his stupid things neatly into a box and leave them outside my door. Confrontation isn’t my thing.

Talk back to me again, and I’ll slap you into next week.

Thanks, Mom.

Maybe they’ll have sex tonight. The ugly thought knocks the wind out of me, and I take a deep breath even though the bathroom stinks of stale vomit. All frat houses are disgusting, but this one seems worse than most. I’d never have set foot in here if Billie hadn’t persuaded me into it.

“Eve! Where the hell are you?”

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. No sense in avoiding her. Billie is a bull terrier, sniffing out trouble and drama wherever it hides. “In here.”

The door bangs open, slamming into the wall, and Billie marches in, nose wrinkled at the stink.

“Ew. It’s gross in here. The fuck are you doing?”

Tight auburn curls frame her round face, and her forehead creases as she studies me. “Eve?”

I sniff and swipe at my eyes as she crouches next to me, balancing the cup of sweet, sticky punch on her knee. The three ill-advised cups I drank earlier churn in my stomach as the sickly-sweet smell hits me. “What happened?”

I could lie, tell Billie I don’t feel well and want to go home. She’d be disappointed but call an Uber anyway. But why should I? A tight thread of anger sneaks past the hurt. He's the asshole, not me. Why should I cover for him?

I swallow. “It’s Cole.”

Her lip twists. She never liked him, even when he was being super sweet. She called him slimy.

“What about him?”

I close my eyes, braced for the explosion. “He’s out there.” I jerk my head toward the corridor. “With another girl.”

Her mouth drops, and her voice is a dangerous hiss when she speaks. “Are you serious?”

I nod, cheeks heating with weird, misplaced shame. I wasn’t enough for him. The little intimacy I’ve been able to offer—more than enough to send me to Hell in my mom’s eyes—couldn’t satisfy Cole.

The feminist part of my brain screams at me but does nothing to chase away the hurt.

“I want to go home.” I force myself to meet Billie’s blazing blue eyes. “Let's watch Love Island and get drunk.”

Billie’s face softens at the mention of my favorite show. Growing up with a TV locked to Bible channels meant the world opened up once I left for college. Now, the trashier and more ridiculous the reality show, the better.

“Sure.” Billie smiles, but it holds a dangerous edge. “There’s just something I need to do first.”

Oh no.

“Wait. Don’t…”

Too late. She jumps to her feet, drink in hand, and pulls me along in her wake. She strides up to the happy couple—the blonde’s top is now half off her shoulder, revealing a hot-pink bra—and flings her drink all over Cole .

The girl shrieks, jerking back, and Cole splutters, wiping his face. A bright pink stain covers his crisp white shirt. He snaps, “What the fuck?”

He stares around, searching for the culprit, and freezes when he sees me. We lock eyes.

The girl shoves her finger into Billie’s face. “You bitch. I’ll–”

Cole steps in front of her, pushing her back. “Fuck off, Brittney.”

Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”

“You heard. Get out of here.”

She stares between the three of us, brow creased, then her eyes widen. “Oh. I get it. This is her.” She looks me up and down. “The frigid little princess. Have fun with that.”

She readjusts her top, gives Cole one last scathing look, and strides off.

He turns to me. “Eve. I’m so sorry. She doesn’t…”

I hold up my hand. “Save it.”

I turn to go, but he grips my shoulder, fingers digging in. “I said I’m sorry. She’s just a stupid slut.”

“You’re the slut!” Billie steps in, voice loud enough to wake the dead.

“Fuck off. This is none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t—”

Their voices raise, and people drift in to watch the fight, nudging each other and laughing. I turn away, shoving through the growing crowd and down the stairs. The thumping music pounds into my brain as I crash through the front door and into the blissfully cold January evening.

I sit on the low, red-brick wall at the front of the house to wait for Billie. She’ll realize I’m gone eventually. Cole might even still be breathing when she does, if he’s lucky .

A car revs out on the road, and a bunch of people standing around it cheer. Movement to the right catches my eye, and three drunk guys barrel past, two of them laughing as they balance a keg between them. looks at me curiously and pauses, but then his friend pulls him onward.

My phone buzzes in my jean pocket. Billie tried to get me into a short skirt, but I refused. We compromised on me borrowing one of her tight, low-cut tops, and I’ve spent the whole night tugging it up, sure my tits are about to escape. I pull out the phone, keen for a distraction.

MOM: Great Aunt Mathilda has the flu. Add her to your nightly prayers.

I shake my head. I haven’t prayed in years, but Mom refuses to accept it. And just who the heck is Great Aunt Mathilda? I frown, sorting through distant relatives trying to place her until Billie plonks herself down next to me.

“There you are. You missed all the fun. Two random girls threw drinks over that asshole as well, and now he’s mad as hell. We’d better go. I’ll call an Uber.”

I laugh at the image as she pulls out her phone. We don’t talk, just sit in companionable silence until the car pulls up. Loud Indian music blasts out as the driver opens the door with a grin. “Ladies.”

Billie smiles back and puts on a mock-posh accent. “Good evening. Thank you so much for the lift.”

Plastic covers the seats, making me glad for my jeans. I catch sight of my face in the drivers’ mirror and quickly look away—puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks, streaked mascara.

Billie notices my glance, tuts, and pulls out her emergency makeup kit. She never leaves home without it. I let her fuss as we drive, listening to her stream of random chatter, until suspicion takes root in my gut.

“Wait. We’re going home, right?”

“Shush. You’ll make me smudge.”

I bat her hand away and look out the window for the first time. Not our street. Instead, a seedy part of town—rough bars and strip joints. “What the heck? Why are we here?”

“It’s not even nine. We’re not going to mope.”

“I want to go home.”

“And we can. After a few drinks.”

It’s like talking to a cheerful rock. I try another tactic.

“And where exactly are you planning on drinking? Do you have two fake IDs hidden in that bag too?”

“I’ve heard about a place.”

“Oh, really.” The car pulls to a stop, and I wave a hand at the skanky street. “It looks lovely. The perfect place for a murder.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen. Everyone goes here.”

She exits the car, and I pause to take a deep breath. The driver clears his throat. I could ask him to take me home. Tell Billie she can stay here by herself if she doesn't want to come. Curl up with Love Island and drink the half-finished bottle of white wine sitting in the fridge.

It’s the sensible thing to do.

“Come on!” Billie yells.

But what’s the point of coming to college if I play it safe all the time? With an angry huff, I get out of the car.

Billie claps her hands. “Yes! Let’s get smashed. Maybe we should egg Cole’s house later. Ooooh, or scratch that stupid car of his.”

His ugly yellow pride and joy. A tight curl of amusement hits me at the image, and I smile for the first time this evening. “So, where are we going? ”

“Here.” Billie points with a flourish to a nondescript bar. A faded neon sign declares “Barry’s,” and a lone doorman waits behind a velvet rope. He gives us a flat stare.

“Really?”

“I know it looks shit, but they don’t card you, and Ashley from my art class says it’s fun.”

“Ashley from your art class. So not ‘everyone,’ then?”

She grins guiltily. “Let’s go.”

As we approach the doorman, my stomach flips over. This is wrong. What if he asks for ID?

But so what if he does? I don’t want to be here anyway. It’s not like they’ll call the cops. Will they? No. Of course not. In the town I grew up in, if a kid tried to sneak into a bar, they’d drag you into the back room and call your parents. Everyone knows everyone. of the main reasons I chose a school right in the heart of California.

The doorman raises one thick eyebrow, gives us a quick assessment, and waves us through. My chunky ankle boots stick to the ancient-looking wooden floor as we enter.

Warm air hits me as we squint around the dimly lit space. It’s larger than I expected, and much busier. long bar sits against the back wall, with patrons lined up three deep.

Tables and booths hold an eclectic mix of drinkers. Billie doesn’t look out of place in her tight blue dress and heels, but I don’t feel underdressed, either. A couple of people glance our way, but none linger.

All eyes are trained on the right side of the room.

A low stage stands there, the type small local bands use on Saturday nights. But instead of music, a man’s voice comes over the speaker. “Try looking in your purse.”

Two people stand on the stage, a middle-aged woman in a business suit and a tall man. I take him in, from his torn black jeans and heavy boots, up to the vintage Metallica T-shirt and tight silver hoops decorating the side of one ear. His black hair falls in a messy, choppy design, and tattoos snake up his arms. Black, geometric lines.

A goth type. The sort my mom would make us cross the street to avoid, muttering about Satan.

The woman on stage rummages in her bulky pink purse, then a huge smile spreads across her face. “No way!”

She pulls out a card and holds it up so everyone can see. In the bright lights, a signature in marker pen is visible. “It’s mine!”

The crowd claps, impressed but not amazed.

The man turns to face the room as she steps offstage clutching her card. half of his lips curve up in a smile, and it strikes me that he’s handsome. Really handsome. The sort you never see in real life. He’s younger than I thought at first glance, too. Under thirty, for sure. His dark eyes flash as he surveys the room.

“That was just a warm-up. I need a volunteer. Who wants to be my glamorous assistant?”

A horrible certainty strikes me, and I turn toward the bar. “Let’s get a drink. I want…”

“She will!” Billie’s voice booms through the room. “It’s her birthday. She volunteers.”