Chapter 7
SEVEN
Carnivore - STARSET
I should leave Ronan Carter alone. And I will. I just need to figure a few things out. Which is why I’m currently sitting in the nursing home lot next to his apartment complex. People come and go from this lot often, making a new car not unusual.
I lean back in my seat, grabbing another french fry. If there’s one thing I won’t do, it’s sit anywhere for a period of time without snacks or something to chew on. If I’m bored, I need something in my mouth. I don’t fucking know why. Micah says it’s an oral fixation. Says I was breastfed too long or some bullshit. Only, I wasn’t breastfed. My moms adopted me when I was a year old since both my bio parents were crackheads and definitely weren’t putting titties in my mouth.
Titties in my mouth? Even thinking about it now makes my stomach turn. No thank you. I’m a dick man through and through. Well, dick and abs. And pecs and the Adonis belt.
I know Ronan has an Adonis belt. I saw it when he changed after killing Summerman. His body was smooth and toned, and I could see his muscles moving as he changed. I feel my dick start to get hard.
Ronan looks just like him , only older. Immediately, a bolt of anger shoots through me. How dare he make me remember?
Logically, I know Ronan can’t be Greyson. Greyson died 14 years ago, but every time I look at Ronan, I’m thrown right back into the past with fresh pain. It’s always fresh. Why is it always fresh when it’s been so long?
Damn Ronan. Damn him for doing this to me.
I check the time on my phone. I sent an email to Ronan’s landlord today from the higher-ups saying we’d gotten multiple complaints from the neighbors that strange smells are coming from apartment 3A, that there’s loud music at 3AM, and that it frequently sounds like someone is “humping the walls.” I requested that they please speak to the resident ASAP to resolve said issues.
But here it is, 11 AM, and Ronan hasn’t left yet. Maybe I’m losing my touch? I know the email didn’t go to spam. I made sure of that.
I toss another fry in my mouth and grimace at the soft, soggy texture. Then, I take my ball cap off and put it back on. I live with permanent hat hair, but I’ll take it. Not that anyone sees me with it off. I’m always called a surfer dude with my blond hair, hat, and tattoos. I’m still working on my blackout sleeve on my right arm.
I didn’t answer Ronan’s text from yesterday, and I know he’s stewing. I can feel the energy on this side of the line.
Why in the fuck is this fucking look-alike going after my kills? I found Summerman on my Letters To Santa website. Whenever things get hard, or I accidentally see the picture of Greyson in my hat, I scan the back pages of the website for filtered letters with trigger words. Letters that contain questionable requests or disclosures of abuse. I used to troll those letters and hunt the pedos attached, but I found they all had one thing in common: a judge had let them off easy. So, last kill, I went after the judge. In his own home. Which was a shitty idea ‘cause I’m pretty sure he had security that spotted me. Since then, I’ve downgraded to the pedos. It’s too much to do on my own.
So we’re back to the small fries. The letter I found this time was from a five-year-old girl, Caroline Summerman. She asked Santa to take their grandpa away because he plays grown up with her sister and makes her cry. So I tracked him down, played the role of a prepubescent girl, and then arranged a meetup in the woods. Then my mark was stolen right from under my nose and brutally killed by a tall, hot, slightly unhinged man who talks to himself.
What the hell.
Suddenly, the door to the apartment building opens. I flick my gaze to it and out strides the man himself. I’m struck again by how attractive he is, even from this distance. He’s big, almost as big as me, but has no tattoos that I can see. He has brown hair, nice cheekbones, and pale skin. He looks like my childhood all grown up, and I swallow harshly.
Ronan glances around, scanning the lot and the businesses beyond. As his gaze brushes over my lot, I drink in his fear. Ronan’s posture while looking for me sends a rush of blood to my groin. He knows he’s being hunted, but he can’t do a damn thing about it. Tingles of energy run through me.
Ronan hesitates for the briefest second, then steps toward the office building, which confirms one thing for me: he doesn’t have cameras set up. If he did, he would have done his scan before leaving. I watch him walk away.
I figured he didn’t have cameras. Everything I could find about Ronan online spelled one thing: paranoid. His social media accounts are highly private and don’t contain any face pictures. He has his friends private on social media and doesn’t share any personal details. And if he’s out here murdering people, then I’m going to assume he doesn’t want cameras on his place or on any of the neighbor’s places. Cameras can be seized, and search warrants can be written.
This makes my job a hell of a lot easier. I’m across the lots and to his building in no time. I stroll up the stairs, confirming by sight that there are no cameras.
Ronan’s door is locked, but I’m pretty proficient with picking locks. If someone asks, Ronan is downstairs getting something from his car, and I’m from a local hardware store. But no one asks, and it doesn’t take long.
And then I’m in.
The apartment opens up to the dining room and the kitchen straight ahead. The first thing I notice is that it's clean. It smells fresh, like lemons, and I can see the vacuum lines in the carpet, which surprises me.
I’m not sure why I expected the apartment to be full of horrors. I hate that this pleases me. This cheap copycat asshole doesn’t get to please me.
I stalk farther in. The apartment opens up to the master bedroom on the left and the living room straight ahead. Everything is decorated in cringe, mass-printed decor that screams cheap. There’s a huge print of some sort of cow over the couch that literally every middle-aged person who shops at Target has. But it’s still decor, which is usually a lot more than my one-night stands have.
I do a quick sweep to make sure no one is here, then slow down.
Ronan’s phone is on the dining room table, next to the same stuffed cow I saw the other night. I frown. Does he have a kid? And does he make it a habit to leave his phone when he goes somewhere? That’s unusual.
I’m glad I brought my tools. I grab my Graykey device out and hook Ronan’s phone into it so I can unlock it. Then, I sweep back to the bedroom, which I’m most curious about. I can’t help myself. What does the room of a fucking thief look like? Ronan’s room is pretty fucking basic, apparently. A bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. On the nightstand are headache medication, nausea medication, and a phone charger.
Does my boy have a sensitive tummy?
I snort. My boy . Sounds like I want him. I mean more in a he’ll-be-mine-when-I-drain-the-life-out-of-him kinda way.
I find the answer to tummy issues in the kitchen. Ronan has five different kinds of tequila on the counter and an empty bottle in the trash.
Oh, so he’s a lush. Drinking his problems away.
I can’t help but find myself getting even more interested. What can I say? The tortured poets get me every time.
I fucking hate to admit it, but his kills are poetry. He’s not sloppy, and he’s wildly efficient at getting rid of evidence. If he wasn’t my enemy, I’d be tempted to be impressed. But he’s still made a fatal flaw. He got me involved, and he wormed his way under my skin.
That’s not allowed to happen. When that happens, people die.
I pass by the pictures on his walls and can’t keep myself from looking to see if he has any by a pool. Any from over a decade ago.
But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. I’m losing my mind.
By the time I’m back in the dining room, Ronan’s phone is unlocked. Sometimes, it takes hours, days, or weeks to unlock a phone, but clearly, this one didn’t take much. Makes me wonder if it was even locked to begin with. Which is fucking weird.
I mess with the phone, downloading my cloning software, which takes a few minutes. I’ve only been here for a few minutes, but I need to hurry.
The thought that Ronan could come back and catch me here sends a thrill through me. It lights up my whole body, and I feel…fucking alive. My body hums with adrenaline. I’d love to see Ronan’s shock as it turns to horror, then anger. It’s what he deserves after fucking everything up for me.
I search for a place to put the tiny camera I brought as my program is working its magic. Ronan is paranoid, so odds are I won’t be able to get a spot that will see him. I settle on under his bed, up by the headboard. An unexpected thought catches me off guard: maybe I’ll catch the sounds of him jacking off, grunting as he gets himself off, his muscled body tense and deliciously tortured.
Christ. Blood rushes to my dick again. Where the hell did that come from?
I wonder what kind of porn he watches. I’ll find out when I go through his phone.
My dick is stiff and fucking painful, and I rub it through my pants. How dare he remind me of everything and then just prance around like he’s done nothing? I’d like nothing more than for Ronan to come back now so I can put him on his knees and shove my dick down his throat before I kill him. I’m sure he’d fight me, which would make things even better.
I’m throbbing. Fuck it. I yank my dick out and stand by Ronan’s bed, thinking about him tied down under me. The hatred he would spew at me as I jacked off over his face. The angry, dangerous killer at my mercy, watching my dick throb and get off to his helplessness.
I jerk myself harder, already on the edge, feeling the tingling thrill run through my groin. I’d come on Ronan’s face. It would be so satisfying to watch the cum bead up on his flushed cheeks. If he was there, his dick would be hard, and I’d edge him. I’d touch him while he was helpless and hating me, making him harder than ever. Swollen. So swollen and practically begging to come.
And then I’d leave him. Angry and wanting and completely unfinished.
I feel my balls tighten up, and pleasure shoots through me. At the last minute, I yank Ronan’s pillow away and come on his sheets. I spurt hot ropes over and over, coming harder than I have in forever. I mark Ronan’s bed. This is mine now. He’s mine now. Everything about him is mine. I toss the pillow back over my cum.
Ronan is mine to break. Mine to torture. Mine to play with. And when I’m done making him pay for reminding me of what I can’t have, he’ll be mine to kill. I’ll kill him as he looks up at me with those hate-filled, familiar eyes. Eyes that should be dead. Eyes that will get him killed.