Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
DAPHNE
He did it. The son-of-a-bitch did it.
I’m not surprised, but I wish he’d done it when I wasn’t so close to his victim. McArthur’s Jack and Coke splashed all over my shoes when he collapsed.
My phone rings as I sit curled up on the couch, Hawkeye at my feet on his back, his pink tongue lolling out while he naps. He wakes and dashes up my lap.
I nuzzle his fluffy coat before I finally get up the nerve to answer.
“So, was it a boy or a girl?” Guy asks.
A laugh slips out before I can restrain it. “I don’t know. They didn’t cut the cake.”
“Pity, I bet it would’ve been delicious.”
A tear slips, but I’m laughing. Am I going crazy? Has he driven me mad?
“I still don’t believe it,” I mutter.
“You don’t believe that I killed the man I said I was going to kill? That’s na?ve, Princess.”
Hawkeye waddles from my lap and down to my feet, his fluffy tail wagging in the air without a care in the world.
“I just… I can’t,” I murmur. “It’s hard to wrap your head around when you witness it firsthand. One second, he was standing there, and the next, everyone’s crowding around him, and before we know what’s happening, he’s being carted into an ambulance.”
“He’s dead, Daph. They posted it on the news twenty minutes ago. He died from anaphylaxis.” He says it so dryly, it’s like he’s mentally detached himself from the crime he committed.
“Anaphylaxis? Wait, his peanut allergy?”
“Yep,” Guy says with an infuriating streak of pride in his voice. I was the one who told him about the allergy. It’s not like Sherlock discovered it himself.
Does that make me an accomplice to murder? Am I Watson? Oh, God!
“But his EpiPen,” I say. “I saw his wife jab him with it.”
“It was a decoy. I filled it with peanut oil and stole his real one.”
Holy shit. That’s impressive. And fucking terrifying.
I sit up straighter against the couch and swing my legs around. The soles of my feet press into the plush carpet to keep me grounded. Hawkeye jumps down and darts toward the back door.
“Who the hell thinks of that?”
Shit. Those are inside thoughts, Daphne!
I clamp my hand over my mouth as Guy laughs.
“I can be creative when I have time to mull it over,” he says.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to shoot him?”
God, Daphne. What the hell? Am I seriously giving him suggestions on improving his murder skills?
“I don’t use guns,” Guy says. “My brother’s a doctor. He’s devoted his life to healing people with bullet wounds. I promised him I wouldn’t add to that.”
So, he’s a killer with a conscience. And a brother. Something about that makes Guy seem… less psycho. More human.
“So, the police spoke to you?” he asks.
“You mean, did I tell them anything? No. And yes, everyone was interviewed by the cops. That’s why it took me three hours to get home.”
“Tell me about it. Paint a picture.” His voice lifts in amusement, like he’s asked me to tell him a fucking knock-knock joke and not how I witnessed a murder. One he committed.
“What’s there to paint? I already told you. He collapsed. He spilled his drink all over my shoes. No way can I clean brown soda out of my white suede sandals.”
“Daph,” his tone pulls me away from my footwear and mentally into a moment I don’t want to dwell on.
“His wife gave him the injection. Everyone stood around waiting for a few minutes, but it didn’t get any better.
By the time the ambulance got there, he was in bad shape, but there were so many people surrounding him that I couldn’t see anything.
The EMTs thought he’d been injected with the EpiPen, so it took them a while to get him into the ambulance.
After that, we were instructed to wait for the police.
I was one of the last ones to get interviewed since they spoke with the family first, then my parents, then it was a hierarchy of whose time they could afford to waste the least.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t interview you with your parents.” And he sounds genuinely surprised. Maybe he forgot that the First Daughter doesn’t matter.
“They’re the important ones. Being a congressional aide means nothing. D.C. is swarming with them.”
“Sounds like you hate your job.”
I bite back a sarcastic laugh before it slips out.
“Not all of us have the freedom to do what we want. I didn’t get to pick my career.
Dad wanted someone planted in Furt’s office.
Having me sit there day after day reminds Furt that Dad has him by the balls.
My book accounts don’t bring in much money.
I didn’t want to go to law school like Dad.
I’m too fat for OnlyFans, so there goes my porn career. ”
Guy’s belly laugh forces a smile to my face, one I can’t tamper down, no matter how hard I try. It’s like there shouldn’t be a care in the world if he’s laughing.
“Don’t count that out yet, Princess. If you want to start a porn career, I’m happy to be your co-star.”
“But then you’d have to show your face. Are you ugly or something? Is that why you won’t show me what you look like?”
His dark chuckle shakes my lower belly. “Princess, you haven’t proven yourself worthy of seeing my gorgeous face. Patience is a virtue.”
“What makes you think I’m virtuous?”
“I’m hoping you’re not. Otherwise, we’ll have a boring OnlyFans.”
I don’t like the way my lower belly is flipping like a pancake at the thought of Guy in a masked porno with me. “Speaking of boring,” I say to divert the subject from porn. “Who were you today? A bartender? One of the Secret Service agents?”
Curiosity has me itching to know exactly who he was and if I’d noticed him. I checked every single person I interacted with, but none of them looked familiar. None of them felt familiar. I thought maybe hearing him speak, I’d recognize him, but he gave me nothing to work with.
“The less you know, the better, Princess. Did they find my gift for McArthur?”
“Gift?”
“It was poetic. I wonder if the police are going to leak the surprise I left him.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Do you?” Dark amusement tinges his voice, and it sends a shiver of excitement rushing through me.
What was Guy capable of?
“Tell me.” The words escape like a whisper, but there’s a satisfied sigh on the other end.
“Good girl.” My eyes close as those words purr in my ear. Goosebumps rise along my skin, and it’s like someone’s trailed satin across my flesh. My nipples pucker taut against my bra, and warmth blossoms between my thighs.
Hawkeye’s whine pulls me back into my body, and those big brown and blue orbs stare up at me with more love and playfulness than I deserve.
He whines again before scratching at the patio doors.
I hoist myself off the cozy couch and slide the door open. “Good boy.”
“Goddamn, that’s hot.” Guy’s gravely voice sucks my imagination into some sort of sick fantasy world with him groaning behind a mask as I fall to my knees and open my mouth to…
Nope. Not going there. My mouth goes dry as other parts of me get wetter.
“Not you,” I tell him. “Hawkeye.”
“Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Yeah, well. What can I say? I’ve always been a disappointment.” It was supposed to sound like a joke, but the bitterness in my voice says it’s not funny.
“I highly doubt that.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up. What did you leave on McArthur’s desk?”
“I’m coming back to that disappointing remark in a second.”
That’s what you think.
Guy clears his throat. “I left him a copy of the bill, covered it in peanut oil. And gunpowder.”
“Gunpowder? Okay, Guy Fawkes.”
“American Guy Fawkes.”
“You’re a real Yankee Doodle boy. I don’t know if killing politicians makes you American.”
“No, Princess. Hating politicians makes me American.”
He’s got a point.
Wait, no, he doesn’t. Well, maybe, but he killed someone. He doesn’t get points today. Not on my scoresheet.
Hawkeye barks as he chases a dragonfly across the yard, the bug darting out of snapping distance before zipping away. I wish I were a puppy. Life would be so simple and carefree. When do I get to eat next? Where should I poop today? Which squeaky toy do I want to play with?
Not, when is Guy going to kill again? Who is he going to kill? Am I on his V-for-Vendetta hitlist?
“Daphne?” Guy’s voice derails my train of thought. “You’ve gone quiet.”
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
The dragonfly darts away from Hawkeye before he snaps it up. He looks back at me with round eyes that say, ‘Look, Mom, see what I did?’
“Guy, I have about sixty tabs open in my brain right now. I don’t think I can pick just one to talk about.”
“Well, how about you close them and relax?”
Oh, if only that were how my brain worked. “Guy, I saw someone die today, who I knew was going to die. The police interrogated me. And worst of all, I didn’t get any cake. So, I’m not in relaxation mode tonight.”
“I’ll fix that,” Guy says. “Do you trust me?”
His question makes me pause. What’s he getting at?
“Maybe,” I answer honestly.
“Fair enough. Daphne, I want you to shut down all the tabs in your head. Let it rest for the night. I’ll take care of the cake. In the meantime, go upstairs and set up a bubble bath.”
I sigh but trudge up the stairs. “You know, self-care feels like a lot of work.”
Guy chuckles. “Well, sorry I can’t be there to do it for you, Princess.”
“Maybe you should. You’re the reason I’m stressed.”
“Well, hopefully my cake delivery will compensate for your stress. It’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Another food delivery?” Jesus, how high is Guy’s takeout bill? I barely earn enough to scrape by as a Scheduler for Furt, and I have no idea what Guy does for a living, but even I know takeout in D.C. is outrageously priced. A Big Mac is a luxury. God, I miss the dollar menu.
I wait for the water to reach the perfect temperature before I plug the drain and sprinkle lavender Epsom salts in the tub.
“So, we’ve got time,” I say. “What do you do besides kill people?”
“I can’t give too much away,” he says cautiously.