18. Myles
MYLES
My chest tightens, and a flutter of something explodes in my stomach at his words.
It’s beyond fucked up that I give a shit about who or what he does at all, but hearing him tell me I’m the only one he’s done any of this with soothes some of the turmoil that’s been simmering in the back of my mind for the past few days.
“And the fact that you’ve kept challenging me tells me you’re as into it as I am,” he says, his tone knowing but not smug at all.
He’s not needling me about my kinks or how I seem incapable of not engaging with him. He’s just stating a fact. He knows I’m into it, the same as I know he is.
“Probably more, TBH,” I admit. “I’m the one who keeps initiating things and asking for it.”
“I’m the one who keeps accepting. It takes two to tango, as the saying goes.” He pauses for a few beats. “Does what you know about me change that?”
“Are you asking if I’m going to stop challenging you because you told me you’re sort of but not totally a psychopath?”
“Essentially.” I can hear the amusement in his voice, and it makes me smile.
The only surprising thing about his diagnosis is the fact that he told me about it at all.
I already knew there had to be something different about him because of the whole stalking thing and how he beat the snot out of those guys who jumped me.
I didn’t have diagnosed psychopath on my bingo card, but it doesn’t scare me the way that it definitely should.
And him telling me I’m the only person he’s ever found interesting is way more flattering than it has any business being.
Maybe it’s because I’m so used to being invisible and having people look through me that knowing someone like him, someone who literally can’t give a shit about people or their feelings, is fixated on me.
I’m not naive enough to think there’s anything beyond that between us. I understand he’s not capable of having any sort of real feelings for me beyond affection and interest, but it’s still heady as fuck knowing that out of all the people he’s ever met, he finds me interesting.
And knowing about him also makes confessing the shit that’s been weighing on me easier. He won’t judge me, and he even said he’d help if I asked.
I don’t know what I did to get on a psychopath’s radar, but I’m not mad that I did.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I know I should, and I’m pretty much just collecting material for my future therapist to write a book about how fucked up I am at this point, but I don’t want to.”
“Good, because neither do I.”
“I was thinking about something,” I say, my voice low and breathy.
“And what were you thinking about?”
“That maybe we could change things up a bit,” I clear my throat when my voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word.
“And how would you want to do that?”
The timbre of his voice is low and raspy now, and my dick goes half hard as tingles explode deep inside me.
Jesus H Christ. I’m getting hard just from his voice? I know I’m young and sex-starved, but this is getting crazy.
“I was thinking maybe you could initiate things.” I swallow as my mouth goes dry, and my voice comes out rough, like I’m trying to speak through sandpaper.
“And what would that look like?”
I lick my lips as my words get stuck in my throat. I’m not good at asking for what I want, and I’ve never had a conversation about sex with someone I’m actually having it with.
Gossiping with my friends is one thing, but asking the guy who’s fucking me to switch things up is completely different.
“Tell me what you want, Myles.”
Another of those shivers rips through me.
How the hell can he make my name sound so damn sexy?
I’ve never been a big fan of my name. It’s mine, and I’ve used it my entire life, but it’s old-fashioned and was a source of a crap ton of bullying and teasing when I was younger.
And for some reason, people have a hard time spelling it, so I’m constantly correcting them and double-checking any and all paperwork I get.
But hearing him say my name in that sex-drenched voice is enough to make my half-hard dick impersonate a steel pipe in about two seconds, maybe less.
“Instead of just waiting for me to go for a run at sunset,” I say in that damn breathy voice I can’t seem to get rid of. “Maybe you could start things when you want to.” I swallow when he keeps quiet. “And I won’t know about it until you do.”
The silence that stretches is torture, and I feel my face and neck heating uncomfortably the longer it goes on.
Did I misread the room? Is asking my stalker to switch things up from primal play and CNC to dubcon too far?
“Are you sure you know what you’re asking for?” The warning in his voice is clear, and the anxiety that was bubbling up in my chest dissipates in a rush.
“I’m sure,” I tell him.
I’ve thought about this all week and fantasized about it for way longer than I’ll ever admit to. I want it, and if this is the only time in my life I’ll get to explore that side of myself, then I sure as hell am going to embrace it.
“Challenge accepted.”
The burst of adrenaline that detonates deep in my chest almost takes my breath away, and so does the way my stomach swoops like I’m in a freefall.
“Now do you want to tell me why you’re afraid?”
I blink a few times at the abrupt topic change. “Huh?” I grunt at him with all the eloquence of a caveman.
“When you turned the camera around. You said you needed to talk to someone because you’re afraid,” he reminds me.
“Oh, right.” I huff out a strained laugh. “ That .”
He stays quiet, and I pull in a deep breath.
It’s not that I’m afraid of telling him.
It’s more that I’m afraid of saying it out loud.
So far the only people who know what I did are me and two dead men, and the fanciful part of my brain is freaking out and convinced that sharing it with anyone else, even him, will somehow make it more real.
“You said you know about the men who were blackmailing me,” I start, my voice wobbling with nerves. “And you’re part of the reason they’re dead.”
“I did say that.”
“How much do you know about why they were blackmailing me, or what they made me do?”
“I know a fair bit.” His voice is even and unbothered. “Not everything, but probably more than you think I do.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Now how about you tell me your side and fill in the blanks for me?”
“Yeah, okay.” I pull my knees up and hug them against my chest. “So I’m kinda into hacking. Did you know that?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
“Yes, Phoenix, I knew that.”
My chest and balls tighten when I hear my handle in that damn sexy voice of his. I’m so distracted by my body’s reaction to him that it doesn’t immediately register that he knows my hacker name, so he probably knows all about that side of my life.
Which makes sense if he’s a stalker. I’m not an expert in them or anything, and I’ve never had one before him, but I do know it’s common for them to seek out and gather all sorts of information about the people they’re watching. He probably knows more about the skeletons in my closet than anyone.
He's literally the only person I can talk to about any of this.
“At the beginning of the school year, I got an email from one of them, Jacob Fisher.” I pull in another breath to fortify myself.
“In it was a link to a private server, and the message said to click on the link, and I had twenty-four hours to respond before he’d go public with what he knew.
I thought it was a scam at first, and I deleted it and blocked his address.
An hour later, I got another email from the same address with the same link and a detailed breakdown of a hack job I did a few years ago that got a bunch of press and pissed off a lot of important people. ”
“The fake charity job?” he asks casually.
“You know about that?” I ask incredulously.
“I know about it.”
“How?”
“Let’s just say you’re not the only hacker I know.”
“Oh.” I chew on my lip for a few beats.
“What did you do with the second email?” he asks, circling the conversation back to what we were talking about.
“I ran a check to see how the fuck it got through when I blocked the address, and it brought me to the Kings’ system.”
“Then what did you do?” he says, giving me a nudge when I pause to sort out the mess of thoughts in my head.
“I poked around and found some shit they didn’t want me to see.”
“Like what?” His tone is carefully neutral, which is weird. But then this entire situation and conversation is weird as hell, so I don’t stop to question what he does or doesn’t know.
“Like files on high-ranking members of some of the other frats.”
“What kind of files?” There’s an edge to his voice, and that makes me pause.
Is he part of one of the other frats? Or does he work for one of them?
“From what I could tell, blackmail files.”
“Blackmail files?” His tone is dark but still controlled.
“Mostly videos and photos that were taken at events they’ve held or been invited to. And some audio recordings from plants.”
“What do you mean by plants?”
The quick question and sharpness of his voice only affirm my earlier suspicions that he’s connected to one of the frats.
“They’d get people to wear wires or give them bugs to plant in the houses or other places their targets might conduct business.
There weren’t a ton of details, just files full of what they collected, but it looked like they’d either pay the people who helped them or promise them future favors in exchange for their services. ”
The silence on the line feels heavy and uncomfortable for the first time since we started talking, and I hug my legs tighter and rest my chin on one of my knees.
“What happened when you found the files?”