Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Eleanor
He’s a triple threat.
T en days. That’s how long I’ve been hiding out at Hunter’s place. In that time, I have had exactly three pings for Christopher’s movements and zero for Jonathan. Christopher’s emails have gotten progressively more aggressive and desperate. His frustration at not being able to track me is getting to him. Plus, my lack of response to a man who enjoys the scent of fear is like a red flag to a bull. I do keep hoping he will give up so I can concentrate on why Jonathan changed his plans.
Hunter smirks from his position next to me at the kitchen island. The large white plates in front of us still have a few crumbs left from the sandwiches we devoured earlier. I cannot fault this man for his culinary skills, and I’m a little afraid of how my brain and body will sulk once I go back to regular takeout eaten alone in front of a computer screen.
This is coupley, right? Working next to someone? I slacked off on my homework on account of the period from Hell that, as predicted, disappeared the day after Hunter found me bleeding and in pain. But I will start making more of an effort, if for no other reason than Gail will be disappointed if I haven't. Then again, I slept with him—actual restful, peaceful sleep with another human being in the same bed. That is a first, and it’s disconcerting how easy it was for me to pass out sandwiched between the two males in this house. It’s equally perturbing that one of those males is a dog, since I wouldn’t have been caught dead in the same room as one just a few days ago.
I also haven’t forgotten Hunter’s assertion we should be practicing a little touching in the privacy of his apartment so we can appear to be the loved-up couple he’s led his entire MC to believe we are if we venture outside.
“What are you smiling about?” I wonder aloud, my fingers still against my keyboard.
“Tomorrow, Christopher is going to wake up to a shitstorm. His company will drop two hundred million dollars in value, and he’ll be forced to report a data breach to his investors. He’s going to be very busy for the next few weeks, giving us a little breathing room to figure out Jonathan’s next steps.”
Us. I still can’t shake my Hunter-shaped shadow, and as he keeps feeding me awesome home cooked food, I find myself not having the same desire to escape to my own space. On top of his good looks, he’s smart, and that is more appealing to me than anything he can do with his hands or tongue. Or cock. I have to assume his skill in the bedroom is where he will fall down, because if he lives up to what he promises, then he is fucking perfect—and that thought terrifies me.
There’s a ping from his laptop which has me glancing over at his screen. A Zoom meeting? “What’s that about?” I ask.
“It’s my book club.”
I blink. I have spotted him reading his Kindle at least an hour a day. Normally while he is laying on the couch with Charlie sprawled on his chest like a blanket. “You are part of a book club?”
“I am.”
“What do you read? Thriller? Mystery?”
He chuckles like there’s some massive secret. “Not exactly.”
With casual indifference to my burning curiosity, he slips off his stool and pops a bag of popcorn in the microwave, takes his laptop to the couch, and returns to grab a beer. “You want one?” he asks, tilting his head toward the open fridge.
I scrunch my nose. “No, thank you.”
“I have wine or gin somewhere.”
I tap my fingers on the side of my glass containing the brown fizz I’m a little obsessed with since arriving here. Dr. Pepper is something I have been missing out on. “I’m good with my soda.”
“You don’t drink?”
“I’m human—without fluid, I would die. But I’m assuming you mean alcohol, and the answer to that is no, I do not drink. At least, not often enough to count.”
The smell of warm popcorn fills the apartment. He grabs a glass bowl and empties the entire bag of cheddar popcorn into it. Cheddar is far superior than butter, and I hate him a little for getting something else right. He snatches a carton of vanilla H??gen-Dazs and a small spoon before taking his haul to the couch. I lift a brow in surprise. How very boring. He’s now slipped back down.
Hunter quietly hums to himself and connects to the Zoom meeting. Although he sits with his back to me and the screen is hidden behind the couch, there’s no mistaking Honor’s voice. He’s in a book club with one of the few people I can stand? I feel affronted and weirdly put out that I didn’t know and wasn’t invited, despite my reading only consisting of the latest tech advances and some alien podcasts I utilize as a guilty pleasure.
But Honor is a romantic at heart. Does that mean the gruff tattooed biker who licks vibrators reads romance?
“How’s Ghost?” Honor asks.
“I’m fine,” I shout. She already knows that, since she checks in with me twice a day.
“Hey! Are you joining us?”
Not likely. “I wasn’t invited.”
“Well—”
“No. I don’t want a pity invite to your cookie-cutter romance book club.”
Hunter snorts. “Stick around and you might get an education.”
I was about to retreat to my bedroom—Melissa miraculously got the blood off the mattress and changed the sheets—but disappearing now would seem cowardly, and I don’t want to give Hunter the satisfaction. Guess I am stuck here listening to two people who inserted themselves into my life debate the finer points of unrealistic couples and their idiotic choices that makes you want to strangle the pair of them. I’m basing this off the few romcom movies Honor made me suffer through on movie nights.
“Hunter, you made it! We missed you last week.”
That’s Helen Alderidge, Honor’s mother-in-law. I recognize her voice from the few times we’ve met. She’s a formidable woman who has my admiration for being a no-nonsense, drama avoiding, business guru. She’s a widow, but from the brief snippets Honor’s let slip, she is not lacking for male partners.
“Sorry, ladies, I got distracted. But I have finished the book.”
There’s a little chatter back and forth, all females except Hunter.
“What’s the likelihood serial killers really do have a secret network?” Honor asks.
Umm, what?
“They are typically lone creatures,” Hunter answers, “but in their case, they are ethical serial killers who bond over their hobby.”
“They are clearly soulmates. The author did an amazing job making sure only they could ever work as a couple. It goes beyond killing for the other; they are two very unique murderous creatures who can only be fulfilled by each other,” Honor adds in a soft voice.
What kind of romance is this?
“Did you see the twist coming?” Helen asks excitedly. I zone out from my own work and focus on a story I haven’t read or heard of, now morbidly curious of how this could be considered a romance.
“The lobotomized guy?” Honor asks. The what, now?
“That was a total surprise,” an unfamiliar voice adds.
“I saw it coming,” Hunter says.
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Of course he did.
“Was the ending satisfying? I wanted a little more, if I’m honest,” someone adds.
I peek over my shoulder. How many women are in this club?
“That’s the sign of a skilled writer. She left us wanting more but still tied up all the threads.”
“Almost all,” Honor says. “She cleverly left us with seeds of interest for the next couple in the series.”
Are they also serial killers? I bite my lip, wanting to ask, but that would give away my interest in what they are talking about. Pulling up a search engine, I hunt for serial killer romance books. I blink at my screen. Fuck me. I was expecting a handful of books, not for it to have its own dedicated area on multiple sites and a special shelf on a popular review platform.
“And what about the spice?” Helen asks with a low whistle. “There were some rather hot moments.”
Spice? Like chilli? Are they serial killers who enjoy food that burns the skin off their mouths?
“Dear lord, the restaurant scene,” Honor replies.
Clearly, two serial killers run a restaurant that serves spicy food. It’s an interesting premise, I guess. Not sure why it’s getting so much attention.
I try refining my search to serial killers who own restaurants and bingo, I think I have my book. I scan the reviews and frown at the mention of ice cream. Are they weirdly focused on food in this romance? I guess even serial killers need to eat and have a job to cover their more criminal activities.
“I almost died when he went down on her,” one of the women says with a chorus of affirmations. Is going down on a woman such a miraculous thing? Making it enjoyable might be tricky, but the act itself is basically him relocating his mouth between her legs. Hardly noteworthy.
“He had no issue tasting himself,” Helen says. “Now that’s a man.”
How would he taste himself? Are they talking about his cock? Unless he’s got joint issues, I don’t think that’s possible.
“Hunter, would a man be happy to go down on a woman and taste himself?” Honor asks.
How is she asking this with her mother-in-law in the same room? The code clicks. He’s tasting his own release. My body flushes, and my thighs clench as a throb pulses between my legs.
“Well,” Hunter begins as I strain past the whooshing in my ears to hear his answer. “We often read about a guy kissing the woman after tasting her, and if we get turned on by that, why shouldn’t it work in reverse?”
“Well said.” Helen giggles and gives a little clap.
Did he just pass some kind of book club test? All I can think about now is Hunter swiping his tongue through his release as it leaks out of me. Which is weird, as I’ve never had unprotected sex with anyone. My thighs clench at the rush of heat gathering in my core.
“At the end of the day, if he’s not man enough to reciprocate, then he has no business doing it.” I snort, then slap my hand over my mouth. Hunter glances over his shoulder at me. “Something funny?” he asks.
I debate making up an excuse about something I read online, but I don’t make a habit out of lying. Life is difficult enough without deceit. I spin on my stool and lean over his shoulder to stare into the camera. Sure enough, there are five women surrounding a table covered in snacks on the other end of his call. “In my limited experience, men rarely are willing to give as much as they take. They get off, then bam! they’re done.”
“Sounds like you need to pick your partners more carefully,” Helen says as she leans forward and grabs a little cake.
Perhaps she has a point, but these mythical men are so rare, only the beautiful and emotionally stable are likely to attract them, which rules me out.
“Maybe you should look a little closer to home,” Honor adds.
“I would if I was actually home and not forced to squat in a biker’s love pad.”
Honor shakes her head and laughs. “You are so smart, yet so clueless, when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Wrong. I don’t have a heart. You can’t be an expert in an organ that died years ago in a dark forest.
My lips thin as I make my way back to my laptop. I scan the reviews, and my eyes catch on one with a GIF of a retching woman. Seems like you shouldn’t read serial killer romance if you have a weak stomach. Blood and gore are going to present. Below it is a different GIF of a guy eating ice cream. What is with the damn ice cream?
“Oh no, you did not just—” Honor gags before the women collectively gasp.
My head snaps up as Hunter spoons vanilla ice cream into his mouth.
“I’m out,” one of the women mutters. “I can’t do it.”
Hunter snorts as I slowly turn back around. What. Is. With. The. Ice Cream?
I find the wording under the GIFs and finally put it together. Fuck. Me.