Chapter 6
LIAM
Iheft open the window with a jerk and topple backwards. My arms windmill and I manage to grab onto the frame to steady myself.
A rock slips and tumbles six stories down to the sidewalk below.
Fuck, that was close. I bite back a laugh. What a beautiful night to fall to my death. The breeze, the stars, the stink of the city. It’s nice up here in the cool air as car horns and voices drift up from the world below. I ease the window further open and slip inside.
I take a moment for my eyes to adjust.
The apartment is nicely furnished. Splashes of color, paintings and art on the walls.
Lots of soft, feminine touches. Though there are a few ugly eyesores: sports memorabilia is shoved onto a shelf, prominently displayed.
Mets stuff mostly, a few signed bats, some graded cards in plastic cases.
Nothing makes me roll my eyes harder than a god damn collectible.
What’s the purpose of this shit hanging around?
Some kind of replacement for an actual personality?
Anyone who collects cards is a cretin.
I prowl into the apartment, pausing to run my fingers over the soft back of the couch. I lift up a pillow and sniff it, trying to smell her. My dick twitches when I catch a whiff of her shampoo. Ah, that’s my fucking girl. I pick up one long hair, her color, and run it over my tongue.
I’m about the biggest sicko cretin of them all.
But I’m not here for Regan.
I search methodically, starting in the living room. Under cushions, in drawers, behind the TV. I run my fingers around the baseboards and knock the floor searching for anything hollow. Under couches, chairs, behind pillows, anywhere that might reasonably hide a thumb drive.
Kitchen comes next. Clean, almost obsessively.
I have a feeling that’s the product of my sweet girl.
Though the cabinets are empty and the refrigerator is depression: takeout cartons, protein powder, frozen chicken breasts, and whole milk.
She hasn’t been gone that long, but already the place is turning to shit.
I swear to the sweet holy Lord, Kieren is the modern American Psycho, except so much more boring.
I almost wish he’d kill people in here. At least then it’d be interesting.
Why she stuck around, I’ll never understand it.
Home office-slash-gym is next. I don’t find anything useful. Photos of the two of them on the desk, one knocked over face-down. The weights look well-used.
Lastly, I slip into the bedroom.
Ah, fuck, Regan’s inner sanctum. Where it all happened. Years of them together, falling into a rhythm, learning how to share a life, then all that tosses away for one stupid fuck.
I shiver, trying to control myself. I want to tear the place apart, but I’m trying to take a soft touch, in case she decides to come home. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother pretending.
Not like Kieren isn’t aware we’re on to him.
Or maybe he really is that stupid.
Doesn’t matter. I drift to the bed and pause. I bend down to sniff the pillow on the left and almost moan from pleasure. It’s her side, all right, and it still reeks like her.
I bury my face in the sheets and groan.
Fuck, what is wrong with me? I have to shove myself back, panting hard.
I see myself with her, in this bed, wrapped in the blankets, tangling our bodies together, fucking her deep and making her scream as sweat pours down between her tits.
I see myself ruining her, breaking her, making her drool and spit and swallow, making her come so hard her ribs crack in half.
Bliss, god damn it, fucking bliss.
Get it together. I step back from the bed, trembling, and count to twenty in my head. One murdered Kieren, two murdered Kieren, three murdered Kieren, up until I’m thinking straight.
Back to work.
I comb the place meticulously. There’s nothing hidden.
The drawers still have some of her clothes and I shove a pair of her old underwear in my pocket as a prize.
I’ll likely wrap it around my neck and jerk off later.
Or I’ll toss it in the garbage if I’m smart.
I rifle through Kieren’s side and turn up old condoms, a porno magazine which is hilariously retro, but nothing worthwhile.
The bathroom’s the same.
I pause back in the hallway, thinking hard. If I were that bastard, what would I have done with what I took? But frankly, in this day and age, he probably has it stored digitally in some email address we don’t know about.
Or it’s already with the Baranovs.
I don’t want to leave. I’m tempted to spend the night in here, but who knows when Kieren’s going to come home. Besides, it won’t be good for my mental health, surrounding myself with Regan’s things and breathing in her smell like a fucking addict.
I stroll back out into the hallway, whistling to myself. A neighbor’s unlocking his door nearby and shoots me a puzzled scowl. I wink and wave casually as I leave, down the steps, which sure as fuck beats trying to scale the wall, and out into the night.
The Baranovs are going to be a problem. I suspect Finn and his siblings haven’t wanted to admit the extent to which the Russians are muscling into the City. I love the Whelans, but they’ve been in power for a while now, and they’re not used to war anymore. They’re not soft, but they’re content.
And sometimes contentment is even worse.
I’ll have to take more extreme measures soon if I want to find out how much Kieren took when he decided to stray after some Russian pussy. Once that’s done though—he’ll be fair game.
I wonder if Regan would appreciate his severed head as a gift.
Probably not.
Maybe just a finger?
I’m thinking about dismantling Kieren when I approach my building. I have one hand shoved in my pocket, idly wrapping my fingers around Regan’s panties, when I come to a halt.
I think my eyes are playing tricks on me, because it looks as though the girl herself is sitting in the lobby of my building.
But no, as I get closer, it’s definitely her.
She stands and brushes herself off, her back straight and her face carefully composed.
A thrill runs into my stomach and I think back to the offer Finn made: this girl could be my wife if I wanted her.
All it would take is a single call. Hell, a fucking text would do the trick.
She could be mine, and I want her.
That’s exactly why I have to say no.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” I tighten my grip on her underwear. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Her eyes cut sideways like she’s afraid someone might see us together. I like that she’s wearing work clothes: modest sweater, dark slacks, her hair down, her make up done with a soft hand. Very tasteful and professional. It makes my dick hard.
“We need to talk.”
“I doubt that’s true.”
“Seriously, Liam.”
“You’re here to have a conversation?” I move closer and lower my voice. I’m tempted to grab her by the hair and to shove her own undies into her mouth. I wonder how she’d look in nothing but some ropes around her wrists and a ball gag between her teeth.
“Why else would I be here?” Her cheeks are flushed though and I know she’s thinking the same filthy thoughts I am.
God, this fucking girl.
What is it about her? Why can’t I get her from my head? I force myself to stop fiddling with her panties and cross my arms over my chest. Stay calm, stay focused, don’t forget this is business.
“I assumed you were here to beg for my cock again.”
Well fuck. Did I really have to say that? So much for business.
Her cheeks flare red. “That’s not it. My dad—“
“Your father’s got nothing to do with all the very filthy things you let me do to you. But don’t worry, love, it’s only natural you’d come crawling back. If you like, I’ll make you crawl some more, right until you open your mouth and take my big, hard—“
She hisses at me. “Liam! Stop it. I’m not here for sex, okay?!”
It takes a lot of effort not to laugh like an absolute maniac. “Alright then, so you’re really just here to talk?”
“It’s about Kieren and some things my dad told me earlier. Can we please just talk?”
I should take her somewhere public. Somewhere I can’t ask her to get down on her knees and to sloppily take my hard dick between her pretty lips. Somewhere I can’t tongue her pussy until she screams.
Somewhere smart.
“Alright, love, come on up to my apartment.”
God damn it.
She hesitates. I want her to say no. Be a smart girl, love, and fucking run. But she turns and strides off to the elevators instead.
I can still turn this around. I touch the underwear in my pocket. Tell her to leave, promise to meet her tomorrow afternoon at some fucking Starbucks filled with nice, normal people with their nice, normal jobs. Anything other than what I’m about to do.
“Allow me,” I say, pushing the elevator call button. I hold the doors for her.
“What a gentleman,” she says, dry as bone.
Damn right I’m not, love, damn right.