Chapter 6
We make our way back to the large, wrought-iron gates my car and his bike are parked in front of and I pop the trunk, picking up the medium-sized canister of gasoline I keep inside there just in case I run out on a deserted highway.
But since I won’t be needing it anytime soon, I may as well get some use out of the highly flammable liquid.
Because why not?
Why shouldn’t I help my new… friend?
I guess you could call him that. But if he is, why does the sound of the word ‘friend’ feel so… icky in my mouth?
Once I hand him the container, I slam the trunk and walk around to the passenger’s side door before yanking it open.
I don’t want to waste time being gentle tonight, because I’m excited about how the killing aspect of the rest of the night is going to go.
Tugging the glove compartment open, I rummage around inside for the box of strip club matches I know I have in there, and— “Gotcha, you little fire hazards, you,” I murmur happily when I find them.
Stepping back from being halfway inside the car, I slam the door and lock it, realising Ricky is now standing by his absolutely badass motorcycle.
“How many people have you killed? Y’know, before Patrick?
” I bravely ask as I stop in front of him.
Maybe this is the wrong time to ask a killer what his body count is, especially when he’s going to have you on the back of his very expensive looking bike soon.
But I mean… if he was going to kill me… he would’ve done it already.
Right?
Ricky opens up his black backpack and I gently place the gas cannister and matches inside of it—along with the keys to my car. “Around fifteen, I think.”
“Oh, so not new to the game, but like… experienced.” I nod, watching as he zips up the backpack then holds the straps open for me so I can comfortably slide it on my back.
“If you want to call it that, yeah. I guess you could say I’m a very experienced serial killer, Heather.”
The wink he gives me after he says my name turns my legs to mush, making me even more desperate to kiss him. I shouldn’t want to after he told me what he did back there. Someone killed the person he loved most in the world and all I want to do is jump his bones and kiss his face off.
Okay, look, I never once said I was a sane woman.
I’m honestly crazy.
Bat-shit in fact.
Have me fitted for a straightjacket already.
I’ve just never been able to let it out until I killed my father.
And the best part about his murder, is that nobody will bat an eyelash.
Ricky hands me his spare motorcycle helmet, but I realise it won’t fit unless I take out my space buns, so I pull up the clear visor and slide my arm through the hole.
“Will you help me take out my hair? Otherwise, it won’t fit.”
“Uh, sure. Yeah, okay.”
Is he nervous?
I smile up at him as I step closer. “It’s just hair, Ricky. No need to be so nervous, pretty boy.”
Ricky nods in understanding, rolling his lips between his teeth as he carefully begins pulling each of the small pins free from one of the buns—careful not to snag any strands—and I work on the other.
Each of us meticulously removing the copious amounts of hair ties and elastics I’ve used, one by one.
When we are both done, I toss everything in my back pocket and bend forward at the waist, shaking my hair out as well as groaning at how good it feels to not have my hair secured tightly anymore.
After a few moments I straighten up, raking my fingers through my long, blonde hair—tucking some behind my ears—and styling it the best way I can.
Ricky reaches out, his long fingers pinching the pink tips of my hair. “Cute.”
“Thanks.” I softly chew the corner of my bottom lip, at war with myself for how badly I want to smile, but also for the butterflies that haven’t left my stomach since I met him.
There’s something about him though, something familiar.
I don’t remember seeing him around town, or at my school though, so I’m not sure how I would know him.
“I meant to ask,” I begin as he helps me put on the motorcycle helmet.
“Do you live around here? I don’t remember seeing you at my school or anything. ”
“I just moved here with my mother; she lives on Monument. I had my first art class today, so maybe you saw me in the halls and didn’t realise?”
“Mr. Williams in room 209?” I test him.
“Isn’t he the math teacher?” he asks, tilting his head in confusion. “The art studio is room 302 and run by Mr. Mulcady,” he corrects me.
“Alright, fine. So you do go to my school,” I groan.
He chuckles, but it’s muffled slightly by the helmet. “Were you testing me, Princess?”
Ricky holds out his hand towards me and I take it, allowing him to help me climb onto—and straddle—his motorcycle safely. “I just thought I would remember someone as handsome as you attending my school.”
Shit. did I say that out loud?
“You think I’m handsome?”
Yep, clearly I did. Damn it.
I roll my eyes before I lock his gaze. “You know you’re hot, alright, you have this whole—” I think for a second until it comes to me. “—Eric Draven circa 1994 thing going on. All the black clothing, the tattoos, it’s kind of hot, and girls go crazy for that shit.”
“You mean girls like you, Miss Pretty In Pink?” I lean back slightly as he positions himself in front of me on the motorcycle, his hands curving the underside of each of my knees then jerking me closer towards his back.
My thighs rest securely against his, my chest to his back, and when he grabs both my wrists and wraps my arms around his waist…
I feel safe. “Stay close to me,” he says before turning the key in the ignition, and when the engine roars to life we both snap our visors down simultaneously as Ricky revs his bike, once, twice, three times.
“Girls like me,” I whisper discreetly beneath the safety of my helmet, so he doesn’t hear my admittance.
Even though my heart is pounding—pulse racing—at my words, the warmth of his palm as he rests it against the back of my hand brings a smile to my face. The way he gently entwines his fingers with mine—giving it a brief squeeze—wordlessly tells me he heard those three little words.
And that maybe, just maybe, he feels the same.
After a brief, but enjoyable, thirty-minute ride, Ricky cuts the engine when we stop at the desired location, and I use his shoulders for balance as I carefully swing my right leg over the back of the bike and step off onto the wet asphalt across the street.
We both remove our helmets, and he secures each of them on either side of the black handlebars.
A heavy baseline blares from inside the frat house, stealing my attention away from how handsome he is, listening intently to how the thumping techno music bleeds out into the surrounding area from the open double doors.
I look on as party-goers talk amongst themselves, drinking from red solo cups, and even dancing on the steps by the entrance.
Not a single one of them with a care in the world. Just enjoying the night ahead of them.
Free, and unsuspecting that three more are going to die tonight.
Even though I’m here to support Ricky in erasing the people who took the one he loves most in the world away from him, there isn’t a single part of me that is able to understand what he’s feeling in this moment.
“Are you alright?” I ask, looking up at him as I offer a gentle touch to his upper arm.
The smile he gives me is sweet, but with untold amounts of sadness resting behind his gaze. I can see the pain behind his eyes. The ache he’s held on to, but never released. As though doing so, it will make everything real for him, and that’s just not something he’s willing to accept right now.
Ricky slides his large hand into mine, bringing the back of mine to his mouth so he can place the gentlest of kisses to my skin. His touch is warm, inviting, and the swirling feeling in my lower stomach starts up again, begging for his plump lips to be pressed against mine instead.
“Let’s go.” He winks. “Stay with me, okay?”
“Alright.” I nod, allowing him to lead me towards the large, dark, wooden double doors of Gamma Nu’s two-story white building on the corner of Greek row.