Chapter 3
HARPER-RAYN
Instant coffee sloshes in my save a hero, fuck villains instead mug as I trudge through my small apartment and collapse into a miserable heap on my couch.
Today sucks, and it’s all my fault.
Actually, fuck that. It’s not my fault, it’s Laith’s fault.
Laith and his stupid monster, elephant trunk of a cock.
After insisting that he was still going to come and rock my world despite my request for a raincheck, the bastard never showed up.
And though it was my intention to spend my night trying to forget about the weird black rose left on my autopsy table and how my skin crawled with unease, I had started to like the idea of him coming over.
Okay sure, his refusal to let me have my way made me want to throat punch him, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that being alone probably wasn’t in my best interest. If I were going to forget about what happened in the morgue, then Laith was the quickest and easiest solution.
But noooooo. Apparently he didn’t feel that showing up on my doorstep was necessary, and what’s worse, he didn’t even have the decency to text.
I waited up for him for over an hour, and at that point, I realized how pathetic I was.
An hour is way too long to spend waiting for a man.
Though when it comes to Laith Mitchell, a dick appointment is a guaranteed good time.
He better have a mighty fine reason for bailing on me.
From when I spoke to him in the Uber, it should have only been ten, maybe fifteen minutes before he was pounding on my door.
Instead, I was left to fend for myself, wondering if the sound of the breeze on my bedroom window was something more, or if the dark shadows in the corner of my room were more than just a pile of laundry.
Had Laith been there, he would have eased my mind and the fears that took root within me, even if all he did was come over and crash in my bed. He has a calming nature, and last night, I could have used that more than I’ll ever admit.
I’ve never been the girl who’s afraid of the dark.
To volunteer for the night shift at a morgue, you’ve got to have tough skin, but that doesn’t mean that shit doesn’t get to me every now and then.
There have been cases that have rattled me to the bone.
I’ve seen bodies appear on my table mutilated beyond comprehension.
I know what kind of evil exists in the world.
I know just how dark it truly gets, and though there was nothing more than just a feeling and a simple black rose, I was rattled.
Sure, seeing Laith wouldn’t have diminished what I felt, but it would have gone a long way in making it just a little easier to shake.
Shit. I hope he’s okay.
It’s not like Laith to bail without a word.
I texted him a few times last night and again this morning, but so far, I’ve gotten crickets.
To be fair, there’s a high possibility he simply fell asleep and is enjoying a sleep-in.
It’s way too early to send out a search party.
He works long hours as a criminal lawyer, so I don’t blame him.
When he’s working a case, shit can sometimes get heavy.
Nobody gets that more than me. But one thing’s for sure, if I’m wrong and he shows up on my table after being in a car wreck because he was coming to console me, it will shred me to pieces.
Damn it.
This whole situation is beyond fucked up.
Not to mention, I’m hyper fixated on Laith bailing instead of focusing on the real matter at hand—the person who was in the morgue.
My gut is screaming stalker, but the second I admit that, it becomes real.
I’d prefer to be living in delusion and pretend it was all in my head.
Forget about it and convince myself that it was a one-time thing, that it’s not something I’ll ever have to worry about again. But that could be a dangerous game.
My skin crawls with the thought, and as I start to feel uneasy about returning to work tomorrow night, a knock sounds at my door.
My head swivels toward the sound, and my brows pinch as I try to figure out who the hell it could be.
There are a few options. Laith coming over to grovel for forgiveness, my best friend, Izzy, though I have no idea why she’d be here.
She usually texts before she shows up, just to make sure I’m home first. And option number three; the black-rose gifter.
Unease trickles through my body, and I hesitate for just a moment, not wanting to answer the door.
I don’t really feel like being sliced and diced today.
I have my mother’s wedding anniversary dinner tonight with her new husband, and I can guarantee that there will be more than enough slicing and dicing going on there.
On the other hand, if I were to be brutally murdered, then I’ll have a pretty good excuse to skip out on dinner. However, I’m sure my mother will still find something to complain about. Even in death, I’ll never be good enough.
Another knock sounds through my apartment, and my best friend’s voice comes booming after it. “Don’t you dare leave me out in this hallway, you cum guzzling thunder slut. I know your bitch-ass is in there.”
I let out a relieved breath, feeling the shakiness fade from my body as I get to my feet and put my villain mug down on my coffee table. I wasn’t expecting just how uneasy that unexpected knock made me.
“There has been zero cum guzzling,” I call out, shuffling toward the door before glancing through my peephole to confirm it’s really her.
Though had Laith actually shown his stupidly gorgeous face, I can assure you, the cum guzzling would certainly not be at an all-time low.
I’d have a whole daycare in the pit of my stomach.
I find Izzy standing on the other side, her arms loaded up with bags of clothes while a to-go coffee cup balances on top, and judging by the way she’s intently watching that cup, there’s a good chance it’s about to decorate my hallway.
Hurrying to unlock my door, I grab the handle and yank it open before diving for the coffee just in the nick of time. “Woah,” I say, both of our eyes going wide.
“Holy fuck,” she mutters, pushing past me into my home and dumping the bags of clothes on the ground at our feet. She looks down at the red marks the bags left on her hands and arms. “Who would have known bags of clothes would be so heavy?”
A scoff rumbles through the back of my chest. “I think the bigger question is, why the hell are there three massive bags of clothes on my floor in the first place?” I ask with amusement as Izzy takes the to-go cup out of my hand.
I start glancing over the bags, wanting to peek inside, when Izzy starts her explanation. “You’ve got that anniversary dinner for your mom tonight, right?” she questions. “I came to make sure you didn’t go looking like a drowned rat like you did last year.”
I place a hand to my chest. “Oh, how so very thoughtful of you. But unfortunately, your expertise on the matter is not required. I’m quite fond of looking like a swamp turd when I visit my mother. Her disapproval is such a reward. How will I possibly loathe myself without it?”
Izzy laughs and shoves the door with her ass, letting it swing closed.
The second I hear the soft thud, I reach back, flick the lock, and slide the bolt into place.
“I don’t care how much you enjoy getting on your mother’s nerves, you’re going to look like a fucking goddess tonight, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. ”
“Iz—”
“Don’t even try to argue with me,” she says, kicking the bags deeper into my apartment.
“Besides, she expects you to turn up in your black ripped jeans and grungy cropped shirt. Imagine the shock on her face when you prove her wrong. Ohhh, and just think about her embarrassment when she has to face all her little country club friends after she’s spent the past year telling them what a disappointment you are. ”
Damn. She used the magic words.
“Fine,” I say with a heavy sigh. “But you’re not about to get me into some pink frilly piece of shit. Give me something sleek and sexy, and if it isn’t black, don’t waste my time.”
Izzy smirks and drops down to the bags, quickly unzipping the top and letting piles of black outfits spill out onto the floor. “Girl, this ain’t my first rodeo,” she says before fixing me with an exasperated stare, suggesting that I know better than to doubt her madness. And honestly, I should.
Izzy is a fashion designer and a damn good one at that.
We met back in the early days of college and have been inseparable ever since.
She specializes in women’s fashion, leaning more into evening wear and business casual.
However, every year, she dazzles the world with the most gorgeous line of prom gowns I’ve ever seen.
She’s a master at her craft, so if anybody is going to dress me for my mother’s ridiculous anniversary dinner, it’ll be Iz.
She pulls out one outfit at a time and lays them across my couch, mixing and matching heels to skirts and then trying the arrangements with different styles of tops.
There’s no doubting her skills. Every outfit she puts together is gorgeous, and despite not being my usual, I would wear every single one of them.
Izzy narrows it down to three different looks and stands back, surveying her work. “Hmmmm,” she muses, glancing at the outfits before looking back at me. “I can’t choose. All three would work for you. What do you think?”
Oh, hell no. She should know better than to ask my opinion on this.
I’m far too casual to know anything about what occasions require which outfits.
If I had it my way, I’d be leaving my apartment in a pair of jeans, my Nirvana tee, and my hair thrown up into a messy bun.
Maybe I would have gone the extra mile and left my hair down for a change, but it’s not likely.