After a Killer (The Dinner Club #2)

Chapter One

Jonesy

I pull my shirt over my head, preparing myself to get into the plush queen-sized bed once the she-devil has removed herself from it.

She tugs the blanket over her shoulder tightly, rolling to face the opposite direction, as if she could stop me from yanking it straight off her.

She’s clearly digging her heels in. She’s not going to move, and if our history tells you anything, it’s that I have nothing I can bribe her with.

“I’m not sleeping on that camp cot again. I’m too big,” I say, tugging my boots off with the full intention to sleep in this room tonight.

Why our friend Lottie, a literal multi-millionaire, won’t buy a proper bed for her second spare room is beyond me.

And whilst she does have another bedroom, the errant pain-in-my-ass for the last fifteen years, Katie Murphy, always beats me to it when we stay here once a month for dinner club.

She doesn’t even have the good sense to come up with a reason as to why she should take the good room.

She just takes it, gives me the middle finger, and has a good night's sleep, unlike me.

“I don’t give a shit where you sleep. But it’s not here.

Bye.” She rolls over, pulling the puffy bedspread over her shoulder, her flaming red hair fanned out against the white pillow.

Annoyance seeps into my fingertips as I fight the urge to yank her out of the bed by her ankle.

Instead, I take a cheap shot that I know will crawl under her skin the way that she crawls under mine.

“It’s no wonder you can’t keep a boyfriend for longer than a month,” I spit. “As soon as they sleep with you, they must realize you turn into a fucking goblin at the witching hour.”

A stern middle finger shooting up in the air is her only response as I silently wiggle my ass at her like a six-foot-four toddler having a temper tantrum.

Once I’ve expelled enough frustration, I leave the room, slamming the door shut behind me, and head to the uncomfiest bed known to man.

I really need to talk to Lottie about this.

This fucking camp cot looks and feels like it’s meant for a pre-teen.

I flop myself in, the thick canvas of the cot creaking as I attempt to get comfortable.

My feet dangle off the edge, and the frame of the cot digs into my shoulder blades.

I let the thin sheet Lottie put out cover me and close my eyes, thinking of the plush blanket the she-devil had wrapped around her.

I toss and turn for an hour. All the alcohol I consumed at our monthly dinner party, which mostly consists of us playing games until someone is close to getting slapped, sits right on my chest. Do you know what no one tells you about your thirties?

Heartburn is a real thing. I used to sink beer after beer, no problem.

Now I have two glasses of merlot, and I’m throwing back antacids for the next two-to-three business days.

Fuck this. I’m too old for this shit.

I roll out of the bed, which sits less than a foot off the ground, and hear my knees crunch like a dead leaf being stepped on.

Sneaking out of the room, I look down the long corridor, not a peep from any of the rooms. Alfie and Mia went home, but Caleb moved in a few months ago, so he’s taken the second largest bedroom as his own.

I slip into the she-devil’s room and slide under the covers, sinking into the mattress. I feel my body relax for the first time in hours.

Heaven.

Brushing against her despite the queen-size bed, a small gasp escapes her lips, and a small part of me likes that I’ve frightened her.

She deserves it for pissing me off so consistently for the last fifteen years that we’ve known each other.

Because damn her and her perfect grades and her perfect red hair, thick thighs, and tight little body that has no interest in me.

I tell myself I don’t like her. Not even a little.

I tell myself she’s a know-it-all, smug, stuck-up princess who revels in getting the upper hand.

And worst of all, she’s a sore loser, even at stupid games like Monopoly or charades.

But truthfully, there’s a depth to Katie I’ve never met in anyone else.

I first met her when I was eighteen and knew right away she was special.

It wasn’t just that she was stunning, because that’s undeniable; it was that she was delighted by everything.

She had a presence about her that made everyone as excited as she was just to be there.

The years have passed, and she’s changed—we both have.

Now, someone who was my closest friend is someone who tolerates me at best, and can’t stand me at worst.

I feel her body shift, cowering away from me.

I’m big, broad, I know what I look like.

I’ve been in the US Army for the last fifteen years, serving my country by using my PhD in psychology.

The army gave me a full ride at Elwood University, where I met Katie on my first day.

I tell you, eighteen-year-old Katie Murphy made my blood pump round my body at two hundred beats per minute with only a smile.

Thirty-three-year-old Katie does the same thing, but now it's my blood pressure that is flying upward into dangerous territory.

“It’s me,” I concede, after I feel her grip the bedsheet. I’m not a total bastard. I don’t actually want her scared. Besides, I’m not sure I’d survive a freak-out attack from her. She’s likely to whack me around the head with the lamp.

“What are you doing here? Get out!” she snarls, her back stiffening more so, as if having me in her bed is somehow worse than a stranger.

“Can’t do it, princess. I can't sleep on that cot again. It’s somehow gotten even smaller.”

“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you.”

That’s where she’s wrong. Unless she’s happy to move, which I’d bet my left nut she won’t be. “By all means, the cot is free.”

“This is my room. I always sleep in here.”

As if a spare room in a friend's house could be classified as hers. And it’s not even true.

Every month, we race to this room after spending the evening getting each other drunker and drunker, and I’ll admit, the last six months I’ve been slower to react when I see her eyes darting toward the stairs.

It’s not because I want her to sleep well, or because she’s looked so tired lately.

But I’m tired too, and frankly, I’m sick of the cot. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.

“And now I always sleep in here. So make up your mind.”

She shoves me away, attempting to push me off the bed, but quickly draws back when she realizes I’m not wearing a shirt. The imprint of where her hand shoved me burns my chest.

“You’re naked,” she hisses.

“I have my boxers on, calm down. I don't want you anywhere near my naked dick, thanks.”

Even as I say it, it tastes wrong on my tongue.

She huffs out a low breath. “Get out, or I swear, this will be the worst sleep of your life. I’ll kick you all night long, I’ll—"

“Katie. Will you, for once in your life, shut the hell up?”

She tugs the covers clean off me, but even in the dark, I can see the way her eyes trail down my body. I give her a second to ogle before yanking the blanket right back over me, pulling her into my chest in the process.

She stiffens, the cotton shirt she wears as her pajamas riding up so the bare skin of her lower back is nestled against my abs. My hand splays against her stomach, anchoring her against me.

Katie Murphy is not wearing a bra.

Obviously.

She’s sleeping.

But still. My eighteen-year-old self is grappling with the fact that I have never been this close to her.

Okay . . . once. But we were fully dressed, and it was over in seconds.

This has been at least five times as long.

She’s not even wriggling anymore. And thank God, because it’s like I’ve reverted to being a teenager with my cock nestled between her ass cheeks; there’s no way I’m not getting a boner.

I don’t even like the girl, but I’m not immune to how she looks.

She’s not just beautiful. She’s sexy as hell.

The way her face shows every emotion only adds to how much I enjoy annoying her.

God, I wish I could see her face right now.

“Pretend I’m someone you can stand to be in the same room with,” I say. “Just for one night. I can’t sleep in that camp cot.”

“You don’t have to hold me.”

I smile, pleased that she’s hating this. “Pretend.”

“You’re infuriating. You know that?”

I shift carefully so she doesn’t feel how rock-hard I am against her, but in doing so, my fingertips graze the cup of her tit.

The cup of her tit. My cock swells, clearly ignorant of the situation at hand.

This isn’t some eager one-night stand ready to ride this rodeo through till morning.

This is lying down with a viper and hoping it doesn’t fucking bite me.

We both pause as I snap my hand away, only to pull too far down and hit the top of her panties. Lace. Lace panties.

Dear God, I feel my face blush like I’m some schoolboy whose teacher has bent down so I can see her bra.

This is Katie Murphy. The girl who has hated me since I ruined everything eight years ago.

The girl who fights me on everything. The girl that I’ve been in a petty dance of insults hard enough to bruise since she stopped being my friend and started being my competition.

We’re not even in the same field of psychology, but we’ve found a way to constantly undermine and accost one another in the form of board games and undercut comments.

I thought sneaking in here would give me the upper hand, but I’m flustered.

My hand is wiggling around at its own leisure, not knowing where it’s going to end up.

Eventually, she takes pity and grabs me, flattening my palm against her stomach whilst huffing loudly so I know she’s not happy about it.