Chapter 8
“Surveillance is my love language.”
“I’ve been thinking about getting my GED,” Kit said as Darius pulled into the San Corvo University parking lot. “Or something.”
Darius glanced over. “Tired of the trophy boyfriend lifestyle?”
“Hardly.” Kit scanned the parking lot, even though it was too early. None of the students were the hot, blond murderer he was looking for. “Here’s the thing—I don’t want to take classes, so I’ll need a tutor, right?”
“Right,” Darius said dubiously, craning around to back into a parking spot.
Kit paused, lost in thought. Why did Darius look so hot backing into a parking space? Did everyone look that hot doing that?
Maybe he should practice during his next driving lesson with Carla.
“A tutor,” Darius prompted.
Kit shook himself from one fantasy into another. “So, I’ll ask James to hire me a super sexy tutor! Won’t that be fun?”
Darius laughed, turning off the car. “Are you seriously saying we don’t fuck you enough?”
“I didn’t have any complaints.” Kit tapped his chin in mock contemplation. “But now that you mention it…”
Laughter still warming his face, Darius kissed Kit’s cheek. Then he turned to his cell phone to check in with Bishop.
Kit tried to get comfortable. They were fifteen minutes early, which was enough time for Kit to get bored but not enough time to do much about it.
Unless…?
“What trouble are you thinking up?” Darius asked, though by all appearances his attention was fixed on the campus parking lot. He looked luminous, the afternoon light bringing out the gold beneath his brown skin.
Kit wanted to lick that perfect jawline.
“Nothing,” Kit said, in a sing-song voice that only highlighted the lie. God, he could use a fuck right now. If only they were slightly less public.
They were parked at the far end of the parking lot, waiting for Holden to get out of his last final before winter break.
Like a couple picking a kid up from school.
Dementedly domestic. They were even on their way to a weekend trip together, to the same remote house where Darius took fake dead photos of Kit.
Bishop and James would join them after abducting Melissa Vespers.
Kit couldn’t quite get comfortable, even when he unbuckled his seatbelt. Which meant he was nervous, probably. Noticing his physical state was easier than identifying the emotions behind the fidgeting.
“You seem tense,” Kit said, scooting around to lean back against the door. He swung his feet over the console, careful of the gear stick, and rested his heels on the firm pillow of Darius’s thigh. “What are you thinking about?”
Kit sucked at emotions. But he was great at deflection.
And that wasn’t a lie. Darius did seem tense—and surprised to be called on it.
“I’m not used to this,” Darius admitted, settling a broad hand on Kit’s ankle. “Waiting on the sidelines, while somebody else does the dirty work.”
Kit relaxed as Darius rubbed the patch of bare skin between jeans and sock. “Bishop and James have done jobs without you before. That’s how I met them.”
Darius paused, as if ordering his thoughts. “I didn’t know about those jobs, unless they told me later. We never used to check in with each other, the way we do now.”
“What do you mean?” Kit asked.
Tension bled away with each movement of Darius’s warm hand. Darius was large and strong enough to pin Kit down without a thought. Kit liked that, but this tenderness was nice too.
“We weren’t a group before you came into the picture,” Darius explained. “We knew each other, sure. We were friends. We worked with and around each other. But six months ago, I would have laughed my head off at the idea of texting James every day.”
“You text James every day? What about?”
Darius’s grin was wicked. His hand slid up Kit’s shin. “Mostly you, which I assume is the answer you’re fishing for.”
Kit feigned a pout. “Only mostly me?”
“Shameless,” Darius said fondly. He released Kit’s ankle. “I have a present for you. Open the glove box.”
“What’s the occasion?” Kit asked, drawing his feet back over to his side of the car. He tapped the glove box. Savoring the anticipation, he wondered what was inside. Maybe a slutty outfit, if James or Holden were involved. “It’s not my birthday.”
Darius raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know your birthday, Trouble. I have to give you presents every once in a while, just to hedge my bets.”
Kit liked the sound of that. “Actually, you’re right. Today’s my birthday. So’s tomorrow, and the day after. And the day after that.”
He cracked open the glove box—and exhaled with the gut-punch of dread, excitement, gratitude, resignation.
The handgun was small, with a dark matte finish. Kit withdrew it carefully, keeping the muzzle pointed towards the dashboard. “Is it loaded?”
“No. We can practice with it at the safehouse, while we wait for James and Bishop.” Darius rested his wrist against the steering wheel. He seemed to be looking out at the parking lot, but his attention warmed Kit’s skin like sunlight. “You don’t like it.”
Kit almost protested. When people received gifts, they were supposed to appreciate them. To smile and say thank you.
But Christ. Maybe not everything had to be a secret.
“I know I literally asked for this,” Kit said, instead of pretending. “I don’t dislike it. I just feel complicated.”
He turned his wrist slowly, adjusting to the weight.
The gun fit his palm perfectly. Kit wanted to protect himself, instead of just running.
Instead of just relying on other people.
Instead of risking other people getting hurt.
A weapon had seemed like a good idea, but now that he had a gun, Kit couldn’t help feeling inadequate.
The gun didn’t make him any less afraid.
“You? Complicated?” Darius reached over and ruffled Kit’s hair. “Never would have guessed.”
The gun didn’t make Kit less afraid, but Darius did. Replacing the gun in the glove box, Kit said, “Thank you. I mean it.”
“I know,” Darius said, softer. “I’ve got a few holsters for you in the back. You can try them on and see what feels comfortable. And there’s one more thing you should know.”
“Oh?” Kit twirled a strand of hair around his finger. He liked that quiet hunger in Darius’s eyes.
Darius caught Kit’s hand, and stroked his thumb against Kit’s palm, right where the grip had rested.
“That handgun has a tracking device. It will also send me an alert if you fire it.” Darius lifted Kit’s hand to his lips for a barely-there kiss.
“So, text me a warning before you target practice without me.”
Heat swooped through Kit’s stomach. He felt decidedly less complicated about this development. “Aw, honey, that’s so sweet of you. Surveillance is my love language.”
“Thought you might like that,” Darius said, grinning. Then he grabbed his phone. “One second.”
Kit’s phone buzzed at the same time as Darius’s. He swiped it open to a text message from Holden, sent in a group chat to both of them.
Devoted Admirer: don’t act weird, but someone is watching you from the school side of the parking lot
Fear spiked through Kit. He bit it back on reflex. Buried it beneath another question.
Kit: when did you change your name in my phone????
“That’s hardly the biggest issue here,” Darius muttered, typing back.
Darius: Take a photo.
Three photos came through immediately. They showed a middle-aged white man in a full tweed suit, sitting on a bench. He had round glasses, thinning hair, and a phone in his hand, which he appeared intently focused on.
Another attachment followed—this one a video clip of the same man, zoomed in based on how blurry the video was. Kit would have thought the video was paused, except for the wind ruffling the man’s gray-blond hair. After ten seconds, the man crossed his ankles. Then the video ended.
“Am I missing something?” Kit asked. “This is just like, a professor.”
“I’m sure Holden will explain his suspicions any moment,” Darius said, typing. He didn’t sound so sure.
Darius: I’m as paranoid as the next guy, but I need more than this.
Devoted Admirer: every once in a while he glances over at you
Devoted Admirer: he’s not a professor. The linguistics department is the only one that cosplays as professors like that
Then Kit’s phone rang with a call from Devoted Admirer. Kit couldn’t help glancing out the car window—where he couldn’t see anyone anyway.
“Hello, Devoted Admirer,” Kit answered. “What’s the deal with Mr. Tweed?”
“Hello, darling.” The usual honey clung to Holden’s words, until he turned more serious. “Look, I’m not going to bullshit some explanation. I don’t have one. I just have a hunch this guy is sketchy.”
Darius remained quiet, eyes lowered. Kit could imagine what was going through his head, because he had some of the same questions.
Holden wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy person. Kit believed one thing about him—devoted admirer was an understatement. And Holden had behaved himself, mostly, since he moved into Darius’s apartment.
But he still could be plotting something.
Or he could be telling the absolute truth. Besides, there was one more thing Kit believed about Holden. The guy had a knack for sensing danger. The sort of instinct Kit admired and envied.
“I believe you,” Kit said.
Darius sighed and asked Holden, “Can you follow him without getting caught?”
“Unless he gets into a vehicle,” Holden said.
“That’s all I need.” Darius’s car keys jingled. “I’m driving Kit to the next parking lot over. Let us know what this Mr. Tweed—” He gave Kit a small grin. “—does when we leave. Then follow him until he enters a vehicle or building.”
“I’ll get the plate number, or the room number,” Holden said, still serious.
“If you can,” Darius said. “We’ll have James follow up with the surveillance. It’ll just make his job easier if you’re tracking the target.”
“Don’t call Mr. Tweed a target yet,” Kit said, buckling his seat belt. Sure, Mr. Tweed looked suspicious. But calling him a target preemptively might sound like a kill order to a certain cuddly psycho. “Holden, don’t do anything stupid.”
“Who, me?” Holden said innocently, then hung up.