13. LYRA
LYRA
O kay, so this wasn’t my brightest idea, but one thing is for sure; the man sure knows how to fuck. Now, is he better than Maddox? I literally can’t decide. Both of them had me screaming their names. Both left me shaking. And both had absolutely no business being that good with their tongues.
What the hell is this? Most women search their whole lives to find a man who can put it down like they can, and when they do, they lock it down. Or trap them with babies. And here I am, finding two of them within a day of each other. That just doesn’t happen.
If it comes down to having to choose, obviously I would have to pick the non-murderous one, right?
Seems like the sane choice. But breaking the psychopath’s heart also doesn’t seem like a good idea.
Hell, letting the psycho killer fuck me in the first place wasn’t my finest moment, but how could I have resisted that?
You know what else wasn’t my brightest idea . . .
My gaze drops to the unconscious body on the floor of my apartment. Shit.
Said psycho killer lies at my feet, out cold, and I let out a sigh.
What the hell was I thinking? Don’t get me wrong, knocking the fucker out was a lot of fun, but what now?
I didn’t think this through. But there’s no denying that I have questions.
So many questions, a lot revolving around Maddox and if he happens to know that his apparent bestie is a hitman.
So, when an opportunity presents itself as flawlessly as this had, who am I to ignore that?
This is going to take a lot of effort. Though to be fair, I spend my days hauling heavy boxes of alcohol across my bar. That kind of training has to be good for something, right?
I let out a breath.
Hunter thoroughly rocked my world, and I don’t exactly have the energy for a full-body workout, but I have no choice now. I reach down and grab the fucker’s ankle.
I pull hard, and he slides along my hardwood floors like melted butter, and I pause as a stupid grin stretches across my face.
Maybe this isn’t going to be as hard as I thought.
I could use him as a human vacuum. Just push him all around my apartment, collecting shit along the way.
Though that little head injury isn’t going to last long.
I need to get him secured before he gets the chance to wake up and overpower me.
Propping my door open with my ass, I haul Hunter out into the hallway and attempt to take the sharp left toward his apartment. The sound of his head smacking into the side of my doorframe makes me pause and look up.
“Oops, sorry ’bout that,” I say with a muffled grunt as I try to maneuver him around the corner without inflicting any more damage. But let’s face it, this particular psycho killer is waking up with one hell of a pounding headache.
It takes a few minutes before I have Hunter in his own apartment, and as the door closes behind me, I push the dead bolt into place.
This is already as fucked up as it can get.
I don’t need anybody coming in here and playing witness, especially not Maddox.
Assuming they are actually friends and Hunter wasn’t just here to murder the guy I’ve been kinda seeing.
Who knows when it comes to Hunter Cole, but one thing is for sure, I’m going to find out.
Abandoning him in his living room, I take a quick look around and try to put some sort of plan in place. I grab one of the chairs from his dining table and drag it into the center of the apartment.
Then after rifling through his drawers and closets, I find what I’m looking for and turn my attention back to Hunter.
This is where the hard part starts, and it isn’t going to be pretty.
I start with his body, scooping my elbows under his muscled arms and hauling him up into the chair, taking it inch by inch. I get him halfway seated before crumbling back to the ground like a wet spaghetti noodle.
I start to break out in a sweat. There’s got to be an easier way.
I try the legs first, even try dragging him by the head, but when all else fails, I go back to my original plan.
Getting him seated on the ground, I drop down behind him in a low crouch, half straddled around his back as I clutch my arms around his wide chest, and with every last ounce of energy I possess, I haul his giant ass up onto the chair, only to end up squished in behind him.
But at least that firm ass of his is planted on the chair.
It’s a bitch of a job, but I get it done, and the moment I steady him on the chair, I start pulling myself out from behind him. Once my feet are planted on the ground, I scoop up the dark gray duct tape I found in his kitchen.
A stupid grin stretches across my face, and like the perfect little maniac, I start humming Another One Bites The Dust by Queen while I tape the fucker to the chair, making sure he’s not going anywhere. I use my teeth to rip the tape and secure Hunter in place.
I survey my handiwork with pride. Perfect. Except that nasty bump on the side of his face. He’s going to be feeling that for a few days, but that sounds like a him problem.
Certain that he should be starting to regain consciousness soon, I poke him in the chest. “Okay, asshole,” I say, watching his face for any signs of life. “Time to answer some questions.”
I wait a second, but Hunter remains slumped in the chair, giving me absolutely nothing, and I snap my fingers in his face. “Hunter. Hello? Is there anybody in there?”
Click. Click. Click.
Okay. This isn’t good.
Fuck. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe I hit him too hard, and in that case, it makes me no better than him. I’m a killer. A cold-blooded killer. I should be jailed.
Unease rushes through me, and I move in close to his face, only to feel his warm breath hitting my cheek. I let out a heavy sigh. Okay, I’m not a killer today. Good to know.
Waltzing into the kitchen, I fill up a glass of cold water, and without an ounce of hesitation, I toss it into Hunter’s face and step back, waiting for the cold water to work its magic.
Only the fucker still doesn’t move.
What the hell? That always works on TV.
I pace across the living room, Another One Bites The Dust more than forgotten. I’m running out of ideas here. I’ve come too far to give up now, and I can’t just leave him like this. What if he actually dies?
“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” I mutter to myself, pacing in front of his giant television as I promptly start to freak out. I’m definitely going to jail. I’m gonna lose Black Velvet and forever be known as the woman who let a man fuck her raw only to kill him two seconds later.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m gonna be somebody’s bitch, and I’m not sure I can handle that. I’m not cut out for prison life.
I frantically look around for something to help before my gaze collides with his fridge. There’s gotta be something in there.
Two minutes later, I’m throwing slices of hot pepperoni at his face frisbee style, before moving onto round two of dousing him with ice water. And when that doesn’t work, I let out a sigh and crouch down in front of him, getting right in his face.
“Alright, asshole. You’re gonna snap out of it and wake your bitch-ass up, otherwise, I’m gonna have to go find my largest dildo and ram it up said ass. It’ll be uncomfy, but it’s all I’ve got. And between you and me, being rammed by that thing unlubed would be enough to wake the dead.”
A groan cuts through the living room just moments before his face twists with pain, and I throw my hands up, elation rocking through me.
Looks like I won’t have to live out the remainder of my life behind bars after all, but then it occurs to me that I knocked out an actual killer and being alone in his apartment probably isn’t the best place to be.
“Oh shit.”
I scramble across the room, my hand closing around the hilt of a kitchen knife, and by the time Hunter is opening his eyes, I’m braced right in front of him, the sharp blade pointed toward him.
“The fuck?” Hunter grunts, taking a moment to find his bearings as he looks around and realizes I have him strapped to a chair. “Did you . . . fuck.”
He groans and grunts a little more, and I wait patiently, not really sure how to go about this.
He pulls himself together much quicker than I anticipated. “Savage, why do I smell like pepperoni?”
“Needed to wake you up.”
“Is that why I’m soaking wet?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His face scrunches, probably recalling the flying frying pan that hit him in the head. “Tell me, Savage,” he says as a slow smirk stretches across his face as though finding this whole situation amusing. “Do you always attack the men who make you come, or am I special?”
I scoff, irritation burning through me. “First off, there’s nothing special about you, and . . . I—I don’t trust you.”
“Okay. That’s fair. But why the fucking frying pan?”
“I know who you are, Hunter Cole.”
He just stares at me, his brow arched. “Okay, Lyra. I love me a little crazy. I even love me a lot of crazy from time to time, but what the fuck are you talking about? Of course you know who I am. I took you out, remember? Introduced myself while you called me a psychopath. Any of this ringing a bell?”
Okay. I was right to hit this idiot over the head simply for being this infuriating. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then please, Savage. Enlighten me, because I’m a little confused about how I ended up taped to this chair while a beautiful woman rages at me.”
I glare at him. “I’m not raging.”
“You’re raging.”
Fuck. He’s such a pain in the ass.
Letting out a breath, I try to find just a shred of control before I find something else heavy to chuck at his head. “I meant that I know who you are. What you do.” I level him with a hard stare, letting him know that the time for games is over.
He watches me for a moment, those pitch-black eyes calculating, then a smirk lifts the corner of his lips, and he scoffs. “You don’t know.”
I gape at him. Why the fuck did that just remind me of Joey Tribiani?