42. Vanessa
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
VANESSA
Cupid doesn’t come home until close to dawn.
He wakes me after his shower with heated kisses, setting my body aflame.
I don’t object to being woken early. Instead, I open my mouth to him, giving him access to sweep his tongue against mine and stoking the fire burning inside me.
He wastes no time dragging my sleepy body down to the foot of the bed before dropping to his knees and covering my pussy with his hot, soft mouth.
My body arches off the bed, grinding my pelvis against his wicked tongue.
With how enthusiastically he devours me, I have a hunch something big happened, something he wants to celebrate with me.
I don’t ruin the moment with questions, choosing to wait until we’ve had our fill of each other.
By the time he’s made me come three times and found his own release, he’s exhausted, collapsing on top of me.
His soft snores vibrate against my neck, tickling my skin.
I wrap my arms and legs around him, cradling him to my body.
My poor man, working himself to the bone with club business only to come home and work me over until he passes out.
It’s nearly time for me to start my day.
Instead of trying to squeeze out another hour of sleep, I stay awake, running my fingers over Cupid’s back and enjoying the way he moans contentedly in his sleep from my touch.
It pleases me to no end that I affect him as much as he affects me, his body responding to my caresses even in sleep.
Before my alarm goes off, I turn it off and slip out from under Cupid’s heavy frame. His thick brows pinch together with a groan of protest, but otherwise he remains unmoving. After tucking him in and kissing his cheek, I make my way to the bathroom, needing to confirm what I already feel is true.
In the bathroom, I open the hamper. Yesterday’s clothes are inside with Cupid’s on top, dirty and blood-splattered. I run my fingers over the dried blood on his jeans, shuddering.
The last time Cupid came home with bloody clothes was after he killed a man who attempted to abduct me. He fucked me stupid after revealing what he did, and I spread my legs wider for him, begging for more.
Did Cupid find the other traffickers and kill them too?
My mind drifts back to the bedroom where Cupid rutted me into the sheets hours ago like a wild beast claiming its mate, much like the last time.
Yes, he definitely killed one of those remaining men, if not all of them. He sleeps soundly because they’re no longer a threat to me. I don’t need confirmation from Cupid to know my theory is correct.
As much as I want to go back to the bedroom and curl around him, whispering a thank you with kisses, I need to get ready for class.
Living an extra thirty-plus minutes from campus means I have less time to lounge around in the mornings.
I’ll show Cupid how much I appreciate him when I come back home this evening.
Showered and dressed for the day, including my property cut, I breeze through my routine.
Last night, Romy stopped by with a bag full of regular makeup for me to use instead of the corpse foundation and showed me how to layer and blend to hide my fading bruise on my forehead. I’m applying the final touches on my contusion when my phone pings with a text message.
Romy’s name flashes across the screen, along with an image I barely glance at before opening my messages.
The mortician is a sweet woman—kind of quirky in her emo way. It’s easy to see why Crypt is enamored with her. Romy fits right into his dark aesthetic. She’s probably checking in to make sure I’m doing okay with my cover-up.
Opening my text thread with her, I see the image and gasp. It’s a picture of Romy, gagged and restrained to a steel medical table. She looks panicked, her eyes enlarged with distress and tears staining her fair skin.
My hand flies to my mouth to muffle my cry when I read the text message accompanying the photo.
If you don’t want your friend to be pumped full of embalming fluid, you need to come to the funeral home NOW.
I frantically type out a reply, my fingers trembling.
Who are you?
The response is almost instantaneous.
Vanessa Baby, you know who I am.
Only one person calls me Vanessa Baby.
My mind can’t compute as I type out the name I never would have suspected would do something as atrocious as threatening harm on an innocent person.
Boden?
Ding, ding, ding! You guessed right. Now, get your fine ass over here ASAP. I’ve waited too long for your return. You won’t like the consequences if you make me wait any longer.
My feet are already moving to the bedroom to wake Cupid and tell him Romy is in danger when my phone pings with another text, halting me in place.
If you tell anyone where you’re going, I’ll kill her. If you bring anyone with you, I’ll kill her. You say nothing to anyone and come alone. If not…
Another image comes through my cell. The photo shows his hand pointing a handgun at Romy’s temple. Her head is turned away, eyes squeezed shut as if she expects him to pull the trigger.
My fingers are shaking as I quickly type a response.
Don’t hurt her! I’m on my way.
Good. See you soon.
Sick to my stomach, I shove my cell into my jeans.
I stare at Cupid lying peacefully in our bed, oblivious to what is happening.
More than anything, I want to tell him, to let him know I can’t stand by and watch Boden hurt an innocent person.
I’d never be able to live with myself if Romy got hurt because I didn’t follow my ex’s rules.
Hustling out of the bedroom as quietly as I can, I shove my feet into my Converse. I go to open the apartment’s main door, only to hear Cookie whistling a tune in the stairwell and his shadow creeping up the wall.
Shit! Cookie’s coming up the stairs. He’ll stop me for sure.
Quickly, I close the door before the prospect comes into view. Cookie won’t come inside the apartment until it’s closer to when we need to leave, preferring to hang out on the third-floor landing. I still have time to escape another way.
Heading for the kitchen, I go to the back door leading to the fire escape. My heart is jackhammering in my chest as I peek out the door window to see if any of Cupid’s men are out in the alley.
It’s early, meaning the concrete yard and narrow road won’t be filled with a ton of bikers, aside from the ones standing guard.
I see two near the loading dock and one at the far end of the alley.
Just because I only see three bikers doesn’t mean there aren’t more walking the perimeter of the block.
I need to proceed with caution or risk getting caught before my feet hit the pavement.
Slowly, I open the door enough to squeeze through it. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb if I run down the fire escape. The noise alone will alert anyone outside. I need to make myself as unnoticeable as possible.
I crouch down, sliding down the steps on my butt before reaching the second-floor landing.
Looking in the windows of the second-story private bar, I spot no one, still too early for the floor to be operational by the crew.
I peek around the railing, searching for the bikers I saw earlier.
The two on the loading dock are busy chatting, and the one at the other end of the lane has moved out of sight.
It could mean the bikers on duty are doing a shift rotation.
I need to move quickly or lose my chance to run down the alley and out into the street.
Creeping along the railing, I slide down the next set of steps. My feet hit the pavement, but I don’t dare run. Not yet. Not until I know the crew members aren’t looking my way. I flatten myself against the building, looking down the lane both ways for signs of life.
No one comes into view. It’s now or never.
Before I lose my nerve, I dash for the nearest alley exit, praying the biker on guard has his back to me when I run into the street. Pumping my arms as hard as I can, I cross the perimeter, sprinting across the road to the next block.
By some miracle, I escape undetected by Cupid’s crew. I’m not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing as I race up the sidewalk, further from my protectors.
When I round the corner onto 4th Street, I nearly run over a man—he’s not MC, but a guy I’ve seen a handful of times walking the block.
The way he hangs around the corners of the abandoned brewery and how people approach him at random times of the day, I suspect he’s a drug dealer—not someone I respect, but he is someone I wouldn’t want to upset.
“I’m sorry,” I say over my shoulder as I keep running, unwilling to take the time to make sure he’s okay.
“Wait!” he calls after me with what sounds like concern in his tone. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
No kidding. I shouldn’t be doing any of this alone. Boden made it clear he’d hurt Romy if I break his rules and told someone what’s happening. I have no choice.
Ignoring my better judgment, I run the three blocks to Romy’s funeral home—a Gothic Victorian on the corner, taking up most of the block.
Climbing the front porch steps two at a time, I slam into the front door, fumbling with the turn knob before it swings open. I stumble across the threshold into the foyer, winded and worried, and tumble right into my ex.
He flexes his arms around me like bars on a cell, smiling smugly. “I knew you’d come.”