Chapter 10
chapter
ten
CALDER
What kind of criminal are you? Outside of stalking, of course.
Shay’s message popped up on my phone right as I got home. It had been a long day and night, with a particularly abusive asshole refusing to sign the papers until persuaded. I pulled my black leather gloves off one finger at a time.
Damn.
That asshole’s face had broken my skin.
I have a running poll going in my mind. Are you a bank robber?
I shook my head as another message popped up, turning on the sink to wash my hands.
Shay was fucking trouble.
I washed the blood off my knuckles, watching the red disappear into the colors of the sink. This home was built by some architecture nut. The sink itself was custom built from stone cut out of red rock down in Southern Utah. It was red and orange with lines of gold.
Maybe it’s a Transporter situation—do you have hair?
Another message came through and I turned off the sink, then spun and leaned against it, facing a wooden, arched window. In the day, evergreen trees topped with snow would be in clear, vibrant view. But at night, up here in the mountains, it was just black.
Or, oh, wait, I know. You’re a drug runner.
I started to respond. Then stopped. What the fuck was I thinking? I’d already told her my biggest fucking secret. I needed to be out of Utah ASAP in case Shay decided to do the normal thing and call the police.
No, you’re definitely smuggling illegal animals.
Before I could stop myself, I responded.
You’re supposed to be afraid.
Maybe. Probably. I’m not really afraid of something bad happening. Might be too used to bad things.
I dragged a hand down my face.
That was what I feared.
I’d been keeping track of the questions she deflected or half answered. All of them pointed to something dark. Which meant this wasn’t a game to her, and she actually would meet me. It was trauma. It was maybe a little disassociation and self-sabotage.
This was dangerous.
But, fuck, I was curious.
What bad things?
Almost instantly, Shay sent a photo instead of answering.
Her shirt was off, an arm crossed to cover her tits.
Fuck.
She was a goddess. Something out of an old Renaissance painting, a worship of Aphrodite. Breasts like overripe peaches. Soft.
Bad fucking idea.
My eyes narrowed on something just off-screen behind her—a bottle of vodka. Was she drunk? I grabbed the bloody towel I’d used to dry off, tossing it in the hamper as I sent:
Go back to bed, Maniac.
I can’t.
Why?
Goddamn it. I cursed myself for sending a response. All that control I carefully crafted fucking shattered with her. But I wanted—no, needed—to know why she couldn’t sleep. Somewhere along the way, my curiosity had transformed into a carnal need.
I had a nightmare.
I sat on top of the covers on my bed, resting against the headboard. A floor-to-ceiling window that, like my bathroom, would show a forest of trees in the day, but now shone black. Next to me, a stack of research papers I couldn’t begin to understand, but had tried, because Shay wrote them.
Do you have nightmares a lot?
Maybe.
Before I could say anything, Shay messaged.
How does one become a criminal?
I’d never wanted to open up to someone before. I’d never talked about my hobbies. I’d never shared anything real.
But for the first time, I wanted someone to know me.
Shay didn’t wait for me to lie or deflect. Instead, she sent another question.
What does a criminal do for fun?
My hobby this week had been breaking fingers and noses. Especially, because of how fucked up Shay had gotten me.
Bake.
I sent instead. There had been a small moment in time when I’d dreamed of opening a bakery. But to open a bakery, you needed roots. The very purpose of my life necessitated I rip out any roots.
Will you bake me something?
I felt a smile tugging the corner of my lips.
What should I bake you?
Hmm. What’s the hardest thing to bake?
She was cute and teasing, and I thought again to that bottle of vodka. Was this what drunk Shay looked like?
Macarons and soufflés aren’t especially easy.
I want a macaron soufflé.
I laughed. It sounded foreign and wrong in my throat. When was the last time I laughed?
I didn’t have the right ingredients for whatever abomination a macaron soufflé was, but I could bake something.
I hopped out of bed and pulled out ingredients from the black, stainless steel fridge.
A stick of cold butter, sugar, cream, eggs…
my eyes drifted to the only thing I brought with me from town to town—an old, slightly ripped and stained photo I’d taped to the fridge.
Two gangly boys towered over a girl glaring and flipping off the camera.
In the fantasy life where I baked, maybe I had a good relationship with my siblings. I didn’t know my sister’s favorite food, if she was dating. My brother, Stone, I knew even less about. At least I knew my sister was a coroner who worked for the state.
Stone? He’d been out of jail for more than a year, and I had no idea what he did for money—but he refused any from me.
A notification buzzed, ripping my gaze away.
Why do you like baking?
It was the perfect combination of control and creativity. My stress melted away with each carefully measured and weighed ingredient. Since Shay entered my life, I’d been doing a lot more baking. I’d started noticing stray flour on my body anytime I was stressed or nervous.
Stress relief.
Are you stressed right now?
Was I stressed? There was a woman in my inbox that I should leave the fuck alone, and I couldn’t. I dragged two floured hands through my hair.
You owe me a question.
I don’t like opening up. When I open up to someone, they use it against me.
I paused just as I was about to break an egg, shell cold in my palm.
Now I felt compelled to share something real. Because I knew the pain that came with that vulnerability. When opening up felt like exposing raw nerves to the wind.
It was ingrained in the universe, the first law of thermodynamics.
You couldn’t take without giving something up.
And I realized right then how much I’d been taking.
You could say I was born into this line of work. My father was a bad man, and he worked for worse men.
Shay was silent a moment. And while the bigger part of me hoped she’d come to her senses and fallen asleep, another, vocal part reminded me that someone like her could never really want someone like me.
Then she responded.
That doesn’t seem very fair.
I stuttered at the response. No judgment. No hate. Just…empathy.
Then she gave me more.
I’m embarrassed that I stayed with someone who treated me so poorly for so long.
I quirked my neck to the left, then to the right, trying to work out the rage that tightened my muscles.
Failing.
Her ex-fiancé. Her not nice ex. The guy that had basically assaulted her for her first time.
Anyone who would let her go was already an asshole—but did he hurt her? Was he still hurting her? I’d tried finding his name out myself, but couldn’t find a thing on Shay’s fiancé. Which was unusual and unnerving.
I wanted to know his name.
But I knew if I asked, I’d ruin this.
So I responded with another confession.
My mother died because of me. My brother went to jail for me. I’ve done much worse things than stalking. I’m not a good person.
Almost instantly, Shay responded.
Sometimes I wonder how much scar tissue my soul can handle before all blood flow is cut off and I petrify. I worry that even though I can’t feel it, it’s still alive in me, trapped under layers of fascia, scraping away vital parts of me.
I rubbed my jaw, staring at yet another hint of the darkness she concealed. Even though I had no right to say it, I messaged her.
Make me a promise. When you need help, with anything, you ask me.
Less than a minute later, Shay responded.
Well, I do have a stalker. Maybe that’s something you can help with?
Another involuntary laugh escaped my throat. She was so fucking funny. I hadn’t laughed in…I don’t know how long. Years, probably. And now in the span of one night Shay had me laughing twice.
The oven dinged, and I placed the lemon poppy seed muffins I’d been making inside, then asked Shay a simple question.
What’s your favorite show?
In the time it took for Shay to answer, I cleaned up the kitchen, tossed the loose eggshells, and swiped away flour. And then my phone buzzed with an alert, but Shay hadn’t answered my question.
She’d sent a photo.
Fully naked from the top up.
I dragged a hand down my jaw, working the muscles on either side. Her nipples were edible, like raspberries on a tart. She had a small freckle next to her left one that I wanted to fucking bite.
Fuck.
I was toast.
I pressed my cock hard against the counter, trying to wrangle back a thought—any thought—beyond how fucking gorgeous she was and how painfully hard she made me.
Finally, I managed to send:
Didn’t think that was a hard question, Maniac.
Maybe I just wanted you to see it.
The levity from before shattered. I stood in the fractured pieces, too aware of why this couldn’t happen.
Go to bed, Shay.
No.
I told you, I’m not a good person.
And? Maybe I want bad. Maybe I want a criminal. Maybe there’s something enticing about a bad boy who wears it proudly, versus a good boy who hides his venom until it’s too late.
Rage burned my bones black.
Rage for her.
That someone out there could have hurt her so badly that someone like me was a better option. Someone who stalked her. Hacked her. Who broke people’s bones.
Before I could respond, Shay sent another message.
If you don’t want to meet, whatever. I’ll find some other criminal who doesn’t have such an annoying moral code.
I massaged my jaw with one hand, an icy certainty sliding through my blood at her words.
Here’s how this is going to work, little Maniac. First, you’re going to delete your fucking profile.
Because you don’t want me to match with anyone else?
Because I know the kind of men out there, and the fact that you haven’t blocked me or called the police lets me know you’re looking for trouble. And I’ll only let you find it with me.
One night, and she’ll get it out of her system. She’ll realize she needs someone normal.
And maybe after one night with her, I could get her out of my veins.
Delete your profile, and I’ll give you one night. Then you never do this shit again.