Chapter 1 #2
No! Fuck that! He deserved worse. Cut off his dick and shove it down his throat.
It’s not his fault that Kane’s crazy enough to shoot him.
But he shouldn’t have assaulted me.
Period.
If he is—was—villainous enough to assault a women who clearly didn’t want it, then fuck him. He deserved to get shot.
He deserved to die.
I tune out the voices as Sam’s phone call ends. From a distance, I watch as he and Kane spring into immediate action, discussing their next steps for the briefest second before working in perfect tandem to lift the corpse and carry it out the front door.
Both men hardly bat an eye at the gore. Or the death. Kane, I might expect that from, but Sam?
The boy whose cheeks dimple when he smiles—the one who holds me through the night to keep my nightmares at bay—the man I’ve grown to love more than a friend. It’s like I’m watching a stranger as he lifts the dead body into the back of his pickup truck and wipes his bloodied hands on his jeans.
Since when is Sam more comfortable with death than the daughter of a mortician?
While they strap a tarp over the truck bed to hide the body, I turn away from the window to find a mop.
There’s a dirty bucket and a discolored mop stashed in the back of the hall closet, and I dump out the dead spiders and dust bunnies to fill it with dish soap and water.
I stare at the suds as they appear and move on autopilot as soon as the bucket is full.
Carry it into the living room. Set it down beside the puddle of blood—no, beside the fresh trail of drops leading out the front door—and dunk the mop into the steaming water.
I don’t have a way to wring out the mop head, so I splash way too much water over the edge and smear bubbles in a wide arc.
Bubbles and blood. Blood and bubbles. A metallic scent in the air.
On my tongue. Covering the floor. The water turns red, the bubbles bright pink. Dunk and repeat.
Nothing gets clean. All I’m doing is spreading the evidence around like paint.
As I stare at the bloody mess, made worse by my poor attempt at cleaning, Kane appears from the doorway.
He doesn’t try to stop me from cleaning; rather, he slinks over to me and sweeps my hair off my shoulders, bunching it in his hands and quickly rebraiding it with the finesse of an artist, his dextrous fingers combing through the knots, separating the strands, and tying my red ribbon into a bow at the end.
Licking the pad of his thumb to wipe specks of blood off my cheek, he hums happily.
I can’t imagine what has him so chipper.
“I like seeing you like this,” he murmurs, answering my question on his own. He tugs at the bottom of his jacket, a small smile curving on his lips. “You look good in my leather.”
Ah, so it’s a man thing.
Sam appears a moment later, his expression stormy as he spots us. “You’re making her clean?”
“I’m not making her do anything.” Kane tosses a glare at Sam for a split second.
“But he’s right, sweetheart, you really don’t need to do that.
” Gently prying the mop from my hands, he lets it clatter to the floor before scooping me into his arms, damn near purring as I cling to his neck.
I catch him grinning as he shoulders past Sam to step outside.
“But we’re leaving evidence,” I protest weakly.
The blood. Our fingerprints. My dress and shoes and phone, lost somewhere upstairs.
Bullet casings. Witnesses. I tally up a list of potential problems based upon the crime docs my sister used to watch when she still lived with us.
There are too many of them for us to come out of this unscathed.
The police are going to identify us as soon as they step onto the crime scene and do the slightest bit of sniffing around for suspects.
Everyone at the party knows who we are.
The Dead Girl and her Murderous Men.
It almost has a nice ring to it.
Kane sets me down beside his motorcycle. “Don’t worry about that.” His expression softens as he attempts to smooth out the dimple between my eyebrows with his thumb. “Don’t worry about anything, Mercy.”
I’ve spent my entire life worrying about something, whether it be my mother’s health, my brother’s mean streak, or my own spiraling depression.
Telling me not to worry is like telling the wind not to blow or the sun not to shine.
It’s an impossibility. Drawing a breath, I consider telling Kane this but ultimately decide against it. He might try to prove me wrong. “Okay.”
That pleases him. “Yeah?” His face lights up instantly, and he backs me up against his bike, easily caging me between his arms. Lowering his head, he brushes his lips against mine.
“I’ll take care of you, Mercy.”
My heartbeat picks up as he kisses me soft and slow, like he’s savoring the idea of it: me needing him.
His breath is warm on my lips. “Won’t you let me?”
Gravel crunches nearby, and I open my eyes just in time to witness Sam’s fury. Jaw clenched, emerald eyes flashing, he grabs Kane’s shoulder and wrenches him away from me. “Get your hands off her!”
Kane can’t keep a smug smile off his face. “She likes my hands,” he quips, “among other things.”
That pisses Sam off. He clenches his fists. “Don’t you touch her.”
“She likes that, too.”
Sam growls. “Fuck!” His head snaps to me, like he’s waiting for me to deny it, but I can’t. Everything Kane is saying is true.
“I like both of you,” I admit softly, biting my lip. My cheeks warm. This isn’t exactly news, but both men light up like they’re hearing my confession for the first time. “I like it when you both touch me.”
The glimmer of hope in Sam’s eyes extinguishes once he realizes what I’m saying; I like both of them, not just him. Cursing under his breath, Sam clenches his eyes shut. “Jesus Christ, Mercy.” Groaning, he rubs the back of his eyelids. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
I can’t believe that he’s hard. Sam’s dick punches the zipper of his jeans, aching to break free. Kane notices it, too, unable to stop himself from laughing. “Fuck, Wright, I didn’t take you for a cuck. If you wanted me to touch your girl for you, all you had to do was ask.”
“That’s not—” Sam runs a hand through his hair, his gaze pinging between the two of us. “It’s not—fuck. It’s not like that.”
“It sure looks like that.”
Ignoring Kane, Sam closes the distance between us in a heartbeat.
He presses my body against the motorcycle and tangles his fingers in my hair while his other hand grabs my hip.
Panting, he covers my body, pressing his bare chest to mine and digging his erection into my stomach.
“Mercy,” he groans, our noses bumping. “Fuck, you look good.” He says it like he hates to admit it, the words burning like acid in his throat.
Then he kisses me, and it’s nothing like the gentle sweep of Kane’s lips.
Hot and heavy and desperate, pouring his desire into my body like gasoline, his grip tight, the heat of his body burning.
I didn’t anticipate wanting anyone’s touch after the events of the evening, but as Sam licks into my mouth and moans, I realize that this fire can burn through the fear and the pain and the what ifs.
With Sam—or Kane—or both, I don’t have to worry about what could have happened.
What matters is what’s real, and right now, Sam feels very real.
I whimper from the heat and desperation of his touch. This isn’t like him. He normally waits—forever, if he has to—for permission. Maybe he’s taking a page from Kane’s book. Maybe he’s realizing that he doesn’t have to be so careful.
All at once, he backs off, tearing his body from mine and turning his face away.
Chest heaving, dick hard, face flushed, he shudders.
“Shit. I’m sorry. Fuck.” It’s like he shoves all of his pent-up desire into a box and slams the lid shut.
He goes from slipping his tongue into my mouth one second to repenting for it the next.
“I’m so sorry, Mercy.” The fire in his eyes is doused by a wave of guilt.
“You shouldn’t let me touch you like that. I’m—”
Kane claps the top of Sam’s shoulder as he breezes past. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it all before.
You’re sorry. You fucked up. You owe her.
Which, to be clear, you do.” He bares his teeth as he sweeps me under his arm and pulls me into his side.
“I might have to tie you up, Pretty Boy, if you can’t keep your hands to yourself.
Or all of that…” Kane lifts the hand off my shoulder to wave vaguely at Sam.
“Messy shit you’ve got going on. Your aura is yellow, dude. ”
Since when does Kane read auras?
Rather than explain, he grabs the helmet off the back of his bike and fits it on my head, taking extra care with the chin strap. “Let’s get you home.”
I blink up at him. “What about the body?”
“Sam and I will take care of it.”
A wrinkle of annoyance flares inside my chest. So, what, he wants me to sit around at home while he and Sam do all the dirty work? I purse my lips and grab Kane’s chin. “You are not leaving me at home like some—” I search for the right word. “Child. You don’t have to baby me, Kane; I’m fine.”
The edge of his lips twitches as he fights a smile. “I’m not babying you. I’m being nice.”
“You’ve been through a lot tonight,” Sam interjects, clearly agreeing with Kane. They both want me to sit alone in my bedroom and wait for them to finish the job. “Let me—” He sighs. “Let us handle this part.”
I glance between the two of them. I’m outnumbered and outvoted, but I refuse to back down.
“This fucker—” I throw my hand out towards the body hidden in the bed of Sam’s pickup.
“—tries to rape me, and you want me to go home?” The echo of guilt in my head about the man’s death quiets, squashed by the anger boiling in my blood.
“Screw that. If you’re getting rid of the body, I deserve to watch him burn. ”
If they make me go home, if they lock me in my bedroom, I know that I won’t sleep.
I’ll replay tonight over and over in my head, running through all the possible scenarios, the outcomes, the what-ifs.
That man’s face—pretending to be Reaper—will haunt me.
He didn’t get away with hurting me, and I’m grateful for that.
But it’s not over until he’s erased from existence.
The gears turn in my head as I come up with a plan. I don’t know what the boys discussed, but I don’t care. I’m a Morningstar—handling the deceased is what we do.