Chapter 3
Sly
Joey lived in a nice little house. Not gonna lie, I didn’t expect that the first time I drove up here.
It wasn’t a mansion, but it wasn’t a shack either.
A small two-story with a garage, a cute little front porch, and grass so green it looked like he bribed Mother Nature for it.
There were flowers, too. Bright ones, lined up neatly in little pots.
It was all too pretty for Joey. Way too pretty.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Men can keep flowers.
Men can bake sourdough bread, knit sweaters, and start indoor herb gardens if they want to.
Equality, baby. But Joey? No. Joey was not the type of guy who gave a single fuck about living things other than himself.
Which could only mean one thing: someone else was keeping those plants alive for him.
A housekeeper. A woman. I audibly gasped. “A girlfriend.”
The thought made me gag inside my helmet. There couldn’t be a woman stupid enough to look at Joey, who was the human equivalent of Axe body spray mixed with expired energy drinks, and say, yes, I want that one. Goosebumps prickled down my arms.
The idea of him actually having a girlfriend made me itch under my jacket. Who the hell would willingly sign up for Joey? He was a bully, a show-off, rude down to his core, and, yeah, I’ll say it, gross. And not just on the inside.
He’d gotten this haircut a while back, some half-assed undercut with bleached tips, and it made him look like a rejected boyband extra.
The guy still wore ripped skinny jeans. Skinny jeans.
Ripped. Like it was still 2012. On top of that, he always had tank tops that were three sizes too small clinging to him, probably just so he could flash his muscles around like a discount gym influencer.
Sure, he was big, and yeah, he worked out, but it was the way he carried himself that made me roll my eyes. Everything was about the performance, about who was watching, and I couldn’t stand it. It had always been that way, even when we were kids.
I work out too, I’ve got muscles, but I don’t shove them in everyone’s face.
Exactly…I’m modest.
Okay, maybe I do flex for April, but that’s different. She appreciates me, and I’m loyal to her. Joey strutting around in tank tops isn’t romantic or hot. It’s desperation.
I was still in my April daydream when headlights flashed across the street and a car turned into the driveway.
“Shit,” I muttered, yanking my visor down.
Joey was home.
Punctual as ever. I crouched lower in the shadows, watching him get out, strut up the walkway, and unlock his door like he owned the place—which, okay, he did, but he didn’t deserve to.
And then he went inside. But the weird part? He didn’t turn on a single light. Not one. The house stayed pitch black.
Why the hell would you walk around in the dark on purpose? It was dark outside. It was dark inside. Was this his new thing? Was he trying to be mysterious? Or maybe he tripped the breaker and was too stupid to call an electrician. Or maybe he was trying to ruin my plan.
Shit…did he actually figure out that some psycho was going around killing his friends? No. Joey’s not that smart.
Which meant he was actually walking around the house in the dark on purpose.
What a loser.
“Great,” I grumbled. “Super considerate of you, Joey. I schedule a murder and you go wandering around like a raccoon.”
Fine. If Joey wanted to do his little raccoon impression and lurk around his house in total darkness, I’d just have to adapt.
It’s not like I’m not good at sneaking around in the dark myself.
Fuck, am I a raccoon too?
I mean, they’re adorable but feisty, and they can get totally aggressi—focus, man!
The front door was out of the question. The porch light was motion-sensitive, and I wasn’t about to step into a glowing spotlight.
For a second, I actually had a vision. Me showing up with a pizza box, ringing the bell, Joey opening the door all clueless, and then me pulling out the knife, surprising him.
He’d trip over his own feet, crack his skull on the floor, and boom, another accidental death for the books.
Honestly, it could’ve worked. But this wasn’t just another kill.
This was the grand finale, the last name on my list, and it had to be special. It needed to be more fun, memorable.
So I circled, keeping to the edge of the yard, annoyed at every little detail of his perfect suburban setup.
I kept moving, muttering under my breath like some lunatic live commentator. “And here we have Joey’s backyard, a true suburban masterpiece. We’ve got the perfectly arranged patio chairs he probably never sits in, the little grill he definitely doesn’t know how to use, and, oh look, string lights.”
I sighed, getting more annoyed with every step I took.
The sliding glass door came into view, and of course, it had one of those cheap little latches people think counts as security.
You could open that with a strong wiggle or a butter knife.
Or in my case, sheer spite. I crouched down, gave it a few nudges, and the thing popped open with an ease that actually offended me.
“Wow, Joey. Really making me work hard tonight. Great job.”
Sliding inside, I was hit with an intense smell immediately.
A mix of protein powder dust, stale cologne, and underneath it all, a sharp blast of burnt food.
The whole place reeked of a men’s locker room.
I nearly gagged in my helmet, shaking my head because, of course, this was Joey’s natural habitat.
I moved slowly, letting my boots land softly on the tile, my knife loose in my hand, visor fogging slightly from my own breath. Every sound I made felt louder than it should’ve, and my pulse somehow throbbed louder in my ears than usual.
My heart was thudding way too fast and way too loud, almost like it was trying to break out of my chest. Nerves clawed at me, and for the first time on my killing spree, I had to ask myself if I was actually scared.
With the others, it had been effortless.
Every strike pumped me full of euphoria, leaving me buzzing and high with pure adrenaline.
But now, standing here with Joey somewhere in the house, all I wanted was to turn around, walk back out the door, and pretend this whole thing never happened.
But, no. I had to go through with this, and I needed to make it perfect.
I crouched down low, scanning the space, every muscle tight with anticipation.
He was here somewhere. Moving around in the dark like some wannabe badass.
Maybe he was upstairs and had now turned on a light, and maybe he was standing in front of the mirror flexing.
The thought of him flexing alone in his house made me snort, which I immediately regretted and had to clap a hand over my visor to muffle the sound.
Which didn’t do shit, obviously, since my hand never actually cupped my mouth. It only made another sound I hoped Joey didn’t hear.
I slid further into the living room, listening for any sounds. But there was nothing. No voices, no TV, no music.
I decided then that he had to be upstairs.
Where else would he have gone? I saw no stairs leading down to a basement, and when I came through the back door—which, TMI, I hope one day a woman would let me enter through hers—he wasn’t around either.
I moved up the staircase one step at a time, careful not to put too much weight into my steps, but the damn wood still creaked.
My grip on the knife tightened. My palms felt slick inside the gloves from nervous sweat.
I forced my breathing to slow, but it didn’t matter.
My pulse was hammering, loud enough I swore he could hear it from wherever he was.
At the top, I froze. A glow came from the end of the hall. It was a bright light that drew me closer immediately. He had to be in there. I crept forward, and by the time I reached the doorway, my chest was tight, my visor fogged, and my fingers ached from how hard I was holding the knife.
Being a serial killer wasn’t easy, and I mentally patted myself on the back to encourage me. To keep going and end this once and for all.
You can do this, man.
I could hear movement in the room, and when I leaned in just enough to look inside, I was met with a scene I could only roll my eyes at.
Holy shit…he’s actually standing in front of a mirror, flexing!
What. A. Dick.
And I was right! Ha! Maybe I should try my luck at the lottery.
He stood there with his back to me, shirtless and in tight, white boxer briefs, with his arms raised, biceps thick, shoulders pulled back as he flexed from one angle, then another, like he was some trophy-winning bodybuilder.
His chest swelled, veins traced down his forearms. He curled his arms tighter, then spread them wide, admiring himself with a smug half-smile.
I wanted to sneer and gag, but my eyes wouldn’t look away.
Damn, he’s one handsome fella.
I mentally slapped myself hard across the face.
No. No way. I wasn’t doing this. I wasn’t standing here admiring Joey fucking Elrod. He didn’t deserve anything but my utmost disrespect and hate.
But then my brain betrayed me again. Those shoulders are massive. That chest is solid. And his arms—fuck, his arms look like they could snap me in half—
Stop it, my voice hissed in my head. Stop thinking nice things about him. He’s the enemy. He’s disgusting. You hate him. You’ve always hated him.
And yet…damn.
How am I supposed to take that big fucker down?
I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached, and the sudden realization hit me that I was jealous. But that wasn’t even the craziest part. I was admiring him. So much so that I actually wiped the corner of my mouth with my tongue because I started drooling.
Uh, I mean…not drooling. Definitely not drooling.
I was betraying myself in the worst way possible, and it fucking burned.