Candy Cane and Crave #2
She doesn’t make any comment, just smirks at me and sits still while I return the wheelchair to the hospital and walk back to the car. I half expect a remark when I get in the car, but even as I start it and during the entire drive to my house, Olivia remains perfectly silent.
When I park in front of my house and open the driver’s door, just as I’m about to get out, she reaches for me and grabs my arm.
“You’re not making me walk inside, are you?
” She asks and flashes me the same smile she did at the hospital during the questioning.
“You wouldn’t want me to fall and hurt myself even more, would you? ”
I barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes at her audacity. Yes, fine, I tried to kill her, but the attempt failed—she’s alive and rubbing it in my face is downright mean.
With an annoyed grunt, I pull my arm from her hold, get out of the car and walk around it to open the door for her. “I think that whole wheelchair stunt was unnecessary. Dramatic much?” I mutter the last part with a smirk.
Olivia glances up at me, still sitting in my car, looking like the embodiment of innocence and batting her eyelashes at me. “Dramatic? Me?” She asks, placing a hand over her chest, feigning offense like I’ve just wounded her delicate pride.
Sighing, I lean into the car to unbuckle the safety belt and gently lift her out of the vehicle. It feels weird to handle her this delicately while less than a week ago, the things I did were nowhere as gentle.
The worst part is that I’m so fucked in the head by her attitude and those sneaky smirks that I don’t know which one I enjoy more—treating her as an outlet to my twisted desires or like a delicate glass.
I carry her inside my house and set her onto the couch. Looking around, I wonder how to act around her. Now that she’s here, I’m at a loss.
“What’s going on in that big head of yours, hmm?” Olivia suddenly asks, her voice laced with sickeningly sweet, teasing undertone.
I can’t even look at her. Every time I do, I remember two things I’d rather keep out of my mind.
One: how fucking sexy she looks covered in blood, screaming and fighting back like a wild animal.
Two: how much I want to fuck the attitude out of her every time she challenges me with that smirk.
I swear, this woman will be the death of me if I don’t pull my shit together and start thinking with my head instead of my dick.
“Water? Coffee? Uh, food?” I ask and silently curse myself for sounding so goddamn stupid.
Just because this woman might be just as messed up in the head as I am, she hits me with, “ain’t you a cutie pie when you’re all flustered and confused?”
No, I am not. I’m not cute and last time I checked, I’m not a pie either. What’s with people calling others the weirdest food items just to get their point across?
“You’re a menace to society,” I grumble under my breath and run a hand through my hair.
Because she’s an absolute pain in my ass, of course, she hears my words, no matter how quietly they’re spoken.
Olivia grins at me and crosses her sexy legs. Fuck, no, stop, her legs aren’t sexy. But they are, shit, do I want to bite her thighs and run my nails over her smooth skin.
“I’ve been called many things, but I don’t think menace to society has been one of them. In fact, the last time I read an article about myself, I believe the title called me ‘arsonist out of control’ or something like that,” she announces proudly and the world as I know it stops right that moment.
“You,” I growl and take a step closer. “You’re the crazy fuck we’ve been chasing all this time?”
She rolls her eyes like I’m overreacting, “Babe, please, I’m nowhere near crazy.”
My jaw drops. Nowhere near crazy, she says. She just drops the confession about her being the very person who has set more than twenty buildings on fire in the past two years and still has the gall to insist she’s sane?
Just as I open my mouth, Olivia arches an eyebrow at me, almost like a silent challenge and grins wider. “Go on, threaten to arrest me, cutie pie. If I go down, you go down with me. Bet the cops will be stoked to catch their arsonist and the infamous Christmas killer.”
God fucking damn it, I should’ve killed her while I still had the chance. If only I hadn’t been in such a hurry and hadn’t skipped on her throat, the bitch would be six feet under and most importantly—silent.
“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do,” Olivia says cheerfully, uncrosses her legs and stands up to approach me. “First of all, let me point out that I’ve always admired your work—newspaper clippings and all that on my walls. I really, really, like your style. And those candy canes? Chefs kiss.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest and glare at her. “Get to the point.”
She rolls her eyes and twirls a strand of her hair between her fingers. “I’m getting to it, stop being such a buzzkill and let me speak.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I wait for her to explain what madness she is planning. The only issue is that there’s no explanation whatsoever—Olivia just stands in front of me and smiles innocently.
Time drags out and just to distract myself, I start counting seconds. When I get to five minutes, I’m ready to break the silence and remind her what I’m capable of, but she beats me to it by leaning closer and whispering, “You’re crazy, I’m crazy, we are a match made in heaven.”
I snort out a laugh and shake my head. “You meant a match made in hell?”
“Heaven, hell, tomato, tomato, same thing. What matters now is that for years, I’ve admired your work and there has been nothing I’ve craved more than meeting you face to face. I did, not as I planned, but we’ll fix it.”
“Fix it?” I ask although I’m not sure if I want to hear the explanation.
At this point, I’m fully convinced this seemingly woman is truly more fucked in the head than I am. While I might be a danger to society, she’s way worse than that. No sane person idolizes a serial killer, especially one that already tried to murder her and failed.
“Yep, fix it,” Olivia says and reaches out to run her fingertips across my jawline, dropping her voice to a mere whisper.
“We’ll become a couple. The heroic police chief that’s hiding poor little me from the big bad serial killer.
Society will see us as two people who found each other despite the horrors we lived through. ”
“And what if I refuse to play your games?” I ask. Seriously, she’s hot, but way too crazy for me.
Her gaze locks with mine, “I’ll rat you out, Mister serial killer.
Trust me, I’m losing less than you are. You can tell the whole world I set a few buildings on fire, but my punishment will be nowhere near as bad as yours.
After all, you’ve been quite busy, haven’t you?
How many victims are there—forty, fifty? ”
“Let me get this straight,” I force the words, clearly on edge. “If I refuse to pretend to be your boyfriend, you’ll tell on me? Do you hear how stupid you sound?”
“It sounds stupid only because you make it sound stupid,” Olivia rolls her eyes and suddenly wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her body close to mine.
“I didn’t say you’ll have to pretend to be my boyfriend.
” She bites her lip and leans a little closer to whisper, “I felt it pressing against me when you held me down before you stabbed me. Catch the hint, your knife isn’t the only thing I want inside me. ”