Chapter 2
Is he… laughing at me?
Has this man really thrown his head back and found my sarcasm funny?
Because that’s not at all what I expected his reaction to be after I not only pointed a knife at him threateningly, but insulted him by calling him emo in not so many words.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it was just the first thing that came to mind when I turned to face the gruff voice trying to give me tips on how to discreetly get rid of my father’s body.
His throaty laugh is deep, smoky, similar to the sensation of running your fingertips over luxurious velvet. But not only that, the undertone of it is soft and rich at the same time. A tone comparable to the way dark chocolate melts on your tongue after your first taste.
It’s a comforting, yet captivating sound that feels familiar when you hear it. The sound begins to warm me from the inside out and I have no idea why I’m reacting to it the way I am either.
It’s as though I’ve heard it before, but I can’t place where.
He’s dressed head to toe in black, too.
Black fitted jeans, and a black fitted Henley that clings to his lean, muscular frame deliciously.
Okay, Heather, calm down.
Black Chuck Taylor high tops to match the white, low top versions on my feet.
I mean, Christ, even his hair is black. But that’s not all, he has a black and grey skull tattoo resting inside a black peony that covers the top part of his neck, with what looks like black paint bleeding down his throat.
As he hugs his stomach—still laughing—I get a better view of his hand tattoos.
One inked with a black rose, and the other, some form of purple flower I can’t quite place.
It’s the only piece of colour on his body from what is readily available for me to look at, no doubt travelling further up his arms and body to places I can’t quite see… but might want to.
What is wrong with me right now?
When my mystery man pulls both sleeves up, I’m able to see more of the ink work he has decorating his forearms. His left is tattooed with a Gothic-style castle, and the right arm has a demon and an angel fighting, with a moon and sun on opposite sides.
“Don’t laugh at me.” I snap myself out of the delirious trance of checking him out, jerking the knife further towards him. “None of this is funny!”
He holds up one hand in surrender, the other still pressed to his stomach as the deep rumble of his laughter begins to subside, and yet I can’t stop myself from focusing on the way the corners of his mouth curve up so appealingly it makes me want to kiss those lips and see—
Whoa!
What in the fresh hell was that?
“I’m sorry.” He glances at me with a beaming smile, and it’s only then I notice the colour of his eyes.
The brightest blue I have ever seen. So clear that from far away they almost look as though they’re the colour of the sky on a clear summer’s day.
Thick black eyelashes frame the almond shape of his eyes, causing the blue to pop even more.
“Wow,” I whisper to nobody but myself.
His eyes are an intoxicating shade I could get lost in, and I’m pretty sure many women do.
So why the hell do I get the slight hint of jealousy flowing thickly through my veins at the thought of him with other women?
I envy that women before me have had the pleasure to look into his eyes when he’s lying on top of them, and—
Yeah, okay, we’re not going there.
Not this time.
“I wasn’t laughing at you.” His humour finally subsides except for a few brief pops of air. “It’s just the insult you used; I haven’t heard that one from—” he cuts himself off.
“From?” I probe.
“Well.” He pauses briefly to think. “From anyone before, actually. It’s usually weirdo, freak, or some shit like that.” He shrugs unbotheredly. “I guess the dark clothing and tattoos don’t exactly help matters.”
“Just because you look the way you do doesn’t automatically make you a weirdo or a freak.” My eyes soften slightly at the thought of people calling him those kinds of names, and I don’t like it. Nor do I understand why I care so much.
I should be on high alert with the man standing in front of me, but for some reason…
that feeling of fear… doesn’t exist. I don’t know this guy at all, and the fact that I have my father’s body wrapped up in white, blood-soaked cotton sheets beside me—as well as the fact I’m standing in front of a freshly dug grave while this lunatic laughs—is wild to say the least.
“I wasn’t laughing at you though, I promise.” He crosses his arms, still resting his broad shoulder against the large oak tree a few feet from me. I had a feeling someone was watching me tonight too, and yet I ignored it.
Typical Heather.
“Who’s the corpse?” He jerks his chin towards the body beside me.
“Father,” I respond nervelessly. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that if he was going to call the cops on my ass, he would have by now, that’s for damn sure. But I still have to ask, “You gonna call the cops on me?”
“No,” he answers with lightning speed, almost as if he knew I was going to ask the question.
I narrow my eyes at him. “So, what are you even doing here then?” I make a circular gesture with my hand. “Whatever your name is. Standing around watching me—”
“—Bury a body in a random graveyard where I just so happened to be burying one too?” The smirk creeping up the corner of his mouth does something to me in that moment. It’s a simple action, sure, but nevertheless, it’s one that creates a stampede of butterflies swirling in my gut.
“I call bullshit.” I cock my hip out and rest my free hand on it. “No way.”
“Honestly, I swear.” He raises up both hands in submission before offering me his finger. “Pinky promise.”
I roll my eyes and huff out an exasperated breath. Which is so fucking stupid because for all I know this guy might want to kill me and bury me in the same grave I’m about to put my father in. “Yeah, for some reason, buddy, I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need to overcompensate; my dick’s big enough as it is without the unnecessary need to lie.”
I snort at that, lowering my knife. “Prove it then.”
He smiles broadly before saying, “By showing you my dick?” With a playful glint in his eye, he shrugs and begins walking towards me, both hands moving to the buckle of his black belt, and I groan inwardly with annoyance because I walked right into that one.
“I mean, if that’s how you want to start this thing between us, I can—”
I quickly correct myself before he can continue with the end of his sentence. “No, asshole, your body.” I huff when his grin grows even wider. “The dead body, smart ass.”
“Ah. Right.” He clicks his fingers playfully, winking in my direction. “Are you sure about not wanting to see my d—”
“Yes. Jesus.”
There’s something about this guy that looks awfully familiar, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is. I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen him before, and I know for a fact he doesn’t go to my school, because I would remember someone as handsome as him.
So, what is it?
“Do I know you?” I question, tilting my head to the side.
“I don’t know, do you?”
“You look… familiar,” I respond, stepping over my father’s corpse and circling to the right so I’m away from the open grave. Still keeping my wits about me to keep myself safe.
As he begins walking towards me, I raise the knife again. The steel tip glinting with the pink hue of the moonlight as he makes his way closer to my father’s corpse. He doesn’t stop, even with the threat of me stabbing him.
“You should put that away,” he tells me, raising two fingers to the side of the knife and angling it away from his face before he steps past me. “You could take somebody’s eye out with that thing.”
I jerk my head back in shock, frowning at the way he just ignores the threat to his life like that. I mean, my father isn’t exactly my first kill—there was that girl at my last school that pissed me off—but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t kill emo boy too if given the chance.
“And why don’t we put this” —he crouches down, pushing my father’s body into the eight-foot hole in the ground with a grunt— “here to keep it hidden from prying eyes. Yes?” He rests his forearms on his thighs; his hands draped haphazardly over his knees as he looks up at me with another one of his brilliant smiles.
Those eyes are killing me.
“I’ve seen yours, so how about I show you mine?” He winks, and I raise my eyebrow at him because I know exactly what’s coming next. “It’s big, I assure you.”
“Oh god,” I groan. “Quite the class clown, aren’t we?”
The unknown man stands to his full height, and I still have no reason why I’m entertaining this bullshit. I could just kill him and entomb him and my father together, which is what my brain is telling me to do.
My conscience, however, is the calmest it’s ever been.
Not a single fearful flutter in my stomach.
My nerves aren’t on high alert.
My heart isn’t beating aggressively against my chest, either.
Growing up with an abusive father meant I needed to be vigilant, prepared, and observant.
I had to be. There was no other choice. Because I knew the moment I let my guard down, I’d be terrified he would do something worse, and when he finally did—even though I never saw it coming—I was still prepared to fight until my last breath.
Except with this guy, I’m just… overwhelmed with the feeling of being able to trust him. Plus, his good looks are really helping the situation right now.
At least he’s not bad to look at.
I wonder if he would be up for some fun.
What the hell are you saying, Heather?
I ask myself.
What? He’s hot.
Oh great. Death by good looks. That’s a new one, even for you.
Shut up, he’s staring at you.
Say something, then.
No, you say something. He’s looking at you. Answer him, damn it!
“Huh?”
Smooth, Heather. Real smooth.
“I asked if you were okay? You zoned out there.”
“Apart from some creepy guy stalking—”
“I wasn’t stalking you,” he protests, shaking his head. “I was… watching you.”
“Oh, that’s a lot better.” I snort. “And the same thing.”
“Fine. So what? It’s hard not to look at someone as beautiful as you are.” He says those words so easily it makes me want to believe them.
“Are you really trying to pick up a killer at a boneyard?”
He shrugs playfully. “Maybe.”
“What an odd little meet cute this would be to tell the children.” I snicker, because this guy can’t be serious.
Maybe my danger radar needs retuning.
“Look, why don’t you lower the knife, and I’ll show you my—very dead—body?”
I narrow my eyes, assessing the situation for a few seconds longer before eventually doing exactly as he asked and returning my knife to the leather sheath attached to the belt of my jeans. “I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this, but” —I lift my arm, pointing my hand out beside me— “lead the way.”
I stay a few steps behind the guy, keeping my eyes on his back and watching for any sudden movement.
At least if he does try to kill me, I’ll have some space between the both of us.
I don’t even know this guy’s name and I’m following him deeper into the graveyard. Further away from the exit, and my car.
“You gonna tell me your name, Cape Fear? Or am I going to have to guess it?”
He barks out a laugh, looking at me over his shoulder as we walk. “Cape Fear, that’s a good one. Great movie, too.”
“You’ve seen it?” I fight the smirk of excitement on my face.
“One of my favourites.” He nods, slowing down his pace slightly. “De Niro was brilliant as Max Cady.”
“Right!?” I fully release my grin now. “The way he gave his character so much depth, and how he brought sinister to a whole new vibe. I swear to god he was really able to bring so much terror to that movie, and—”
There’s three things I realise in this moment.
One, I’m babbling, but that’s nothing new when it comes to talking about movies.
Two, I’m now walking side by side with Creepy McCreeperson, and three…
he’s looking down at me with a broad smile on his face.
But there’s something behind it. something… sad.
“What?” I ask, completely ignoring the fact this guy could possibly kill me at any point.
He gently shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Sorry. I get overly excited when it comes to that movie. Well, any movie really. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t, but… it’s Ricky. You?”
“Uh, Heather… Delaney.”
“Martin.” He tells me his surname, and I gasp.
Immediately stopping in my tracks, grasping his upper arm so he stops walking and I turn him to face me.
I can almost hear the inaudible groan he releases when he drops his head back and looks towards the sky.
His breath turning white in the cold night air.
This time it’s me who bursts into fits of laughter. “Your parents named you Ricky Martin?”
“It was before the singer became famous.” He sighs, closing his eyes and dropping his shoulders in defeat.
I bark out another loud laugh. “Oh. My. God. I can see it now.” I hold up my hands in front of me and slide them away from each other. “Killer Ricky Martin, called in for questioning. He really was ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’.”
My laugh becomes even more brazen now, echoing into the night like a morally black villain, and it’s been a significant amount of time since I’ve laughed this hard. The muscles in my face slowly begin to ache, my stomach too, and even though this probably isn’t funny to anyone else, it is to me.
When my eyes find his, he’s staring down at me from his gigantic height with warmth and colour to his once-pale cheeks, and the sight alone is… beautiful. One that can make you mimic the action just by looking at it. I don’t understand why he’s staring at me the way he is… because no man ever has.
“I’m going to tag you back for laughing at my name, you know that, right?”
“Whatever, dude.” I continue chuckling with every step I take. “Your name is Ricky Martin; I don’t think you have a leg to stand on right about now.” I snort playfully as I softly begin to hum Livin’ La Vida Loca by the man himself.