Chapter 29 Dread
DREAD
“Mr. Sharpe, can you comment on your relationship with Charlotte D’Amour? Why did she change her name to Reverie Adams? Does she still have a relationship with Lionel? How do you two make it work, since you’re the reason Lionel went to prison?”
The journalist shoving a microphone in my face has two seconds before he’s swallowing my fist.
I pause and look him dead in the eye, enjoying how he shrinks back. “Charlotte D’Amour doesn’t exist anymore. What the fuck kind of reporter are you?”
Leaving him stunned, I continue walking up the sidewalk to my dorm when another journalist—an older woman this time—shoves her microphone in my face next.
“Mr. Sharpe, what about Gabi Loren’s accusations against Charlotte for the disappearance of Mindy Sackler? Are you not concerned your girlfriend is following in her father’s footsteps and murdering innocent women like your mother?”
My fucking God, I actually might kill this woman.
I pause for a second time and settle an icy glare on her, watching her visibly swallow.
“Do you have a fucking meatball for a brain? Otherwise, you would’ve done your job and already discovered Gabi’s claims are unsubstantiated.
There’s zero evidence Reverie had anything to do with Mindy’s disappearance. ”
The woman juts out her chin, attempting to appear unaffected, though her stare is fiery.
“The same could be said about your accusations against Lionel D’Amour, yet that didn’t stop you from sending him to prison for over a decade.
Are you admitting you put away an innocent man, Mr. Sharpe?
What would your mother think about that?
Do you think she’d be disappointed in you? ”
My vision flickers, the sudden onslaught of fury like a punch to the chest. Even a few other reporters gasp, staring at the woman with outrage and shock. She doesn’t appear unapologetic in the slightest.
Considering I can’t commit homicide in broad daylight, I do the only thing I can do and let out a laugh, the insidious sound forcing her back with a startled look.
She must see the murder in my eyes. Maybe she’ll finally realize that between me and Reverie, the one most likely to commit murder is me, and the dumb bitch is currently giving me very little reason to spare her life.
I resume walking, and, for what might be the first time in her life, she’s smart enough not to follow me. However, the rest of the vultures do, though they seem to have enough self-preservation not to ask about Lionel, my mother, or Mindy’s disappearance again.
“How serious is the relationship between you and Charlotte, Mr. Sharpe?” one journalist pipes up.
“She’s going to have my babies someday. What do you fucking think?” I bark over my shoulder just as I reach the door, prompting the crowd of ugly birds to gasp and then spout off a whole new list of questions about our relationship.
She's going to be livid with that comment, but I’m finding it hard to give a fuck at the moment.
I don’t even know if she wants children, but if so, she’s sure as fuck not having anyone else’s baby, that's for goddamn sure. If not, that's great, too. I don't want Reverie for what her body can do for me. I want her for what I can do to her body.
I swing open the door, uncaring if I smack one of them in the face, and don't bother looking back as I snap, “And her fucking name is Reverie.”
I let it slam behind me before any of them can respond.
I’ve forgotten how much I hate them. They’re different from the sports journalists only interested in my career. These kinds are far more ruthless and have no issue prying into my trauma just to make a news headline.
I barge into my room, Reverie startling on my bed, where she lies on her stomach with her legs kicked up behind her.
My fuck, she's wearing tiny little shorts that ride up just enough to show the round apples of her cheeks.
Gasping, she swings her wide eyes my way, her pencil frozen above her homework. My fist is already in my mouth, biting on my finger while I physically restrain myself from sinking my teeth into the soft flesh of her plump ass.
God, I've already done so many things to her, but there's so much more I want to do.
My blood is on fire by the time I drag my stare back up to hers.
She finally trimmed her bangs, the wispy strands stopping just past her eyebrows, allowing me to see her features a little clearer than before.
I take in her copper eyes, long brown lashes, the light dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks, the dainty gold hoops in her button nose and septum, and those full, pink lips I’m so goddamn obsessed with kissing.
Fucking hell, she’s breathtaking.
How one of the most vile, ugliest creatures helped create the most beautiful will always be a fucking mystery.
Her shoulders sag when she sees me, and with a grumbled complaint about scaring her, she turns back to her homework.
She doesn’t look happy to see me, and that really fucking irks me.
I’m happy to see her.
It’s Monday afternoon, and in the couple of days I’ve been home, she’s been incredibly fucking distant. It's a complete one-eighty from Saturday night, when I helped her learn to swim and then made a real sex tape with her.
The second we finished, she shut down. I thought maybe she was just processing, but all of yesterday and today, she’s been avoidant, all the while playing dumb and acting like she hasn't. No matter what I say or do, she’s cagey, abnormally quiet, and subdued, even when I’m clearly pissing her off.
The only time I recognize her is when I’m inside her, but the second I pull out, she’s locked down again.
Considering I just told her I’m falling for her, it’s really getting beneath my skin.
Not to mention she confessed yesterday she found a chunk of blonde hair and photos inside her backpack, which sent me into a rage. She also confessed Barry had already come to collect the hair, but she didn’t tell him about the pictures yet.
She showed me the one taken of her and Lionel but refused to show me the crime scene photo of Margaret. Truthfully, it wasn't something I was sure I could handle, knowing it’d be a similar sight to what my mother looked like in the junkyard.
She also told me about the significance of Margaret, how she connected the dots to the chunk of black hair and newspaper clipping that was in her dorm room after being trashed.
It made me fucking sick, watching Lionel or the copycat fuck with her like this and being unable to do a goddamn thing to stop it.
“I told the media you’re going to have my babies,” I announce tonelessly.
Her gaze flicks up to me for a half second before returning to her paper, dismissing me without a single eye twitch or snarl.
“Shocker.”
That’s it. No outrage. No insults. Not even an eye roll.
My eyes narrow, and I grind my molars as my irritation heightens. In all our years together, she’s never not given me a reaction in some capacity. And fuck, I’ve reached my limit with her. The urge to do something—anything—to get a reaction out of her arises with the force of a freight train.
Silently, I toe off my shoes and shrug off my coat before tossing it over the back of my chair.
She ignores me, though I see tension gathering in her muscles.
Those pretty little penny eyes may not be on me, but her mind sure as fuck is.
There isn’t a single inch of her that isn’t as aware of me as I am of her.
It’s why even when she’s acting like this, she melts the second I press my lips against hers.
There’s a window centered between my desk and the corner of the room, looking out at another dorm beside us, only a small alleyway between the two edifices.
Hardly anyone walks down it, since a fence surrounds the backside of the dorms. The blinds are down so the media can't see us, though I don’t believe they’re even aware of which room is mine, so they’ve just been loitering outside the front entrance.
Silently, I walk past her to pull down a blind and peer out the window, confirming there aren’t any reporters in sight. It would be very easy for one of them to come around the corner while recording or taking pictures.
There’s a pile of textbooks stacked on my desk beside me, so I grab a few of them and place them on the floor right beneath the window. She’s short, and I need her to have height with the incredibly stupid plan I have brewing in my head.
It’s just as much of a risk for me as it is for her, but there’s no changing my mind now. I told the world she’s gonna have my kids, and she didn’t even have the decency to fucking blink.
Next, I pull the string to open the blinds, inviting in a burst of light that bathes the dim room in the afternoon sun. Reverie flinches, and finally—fucking finally—she gives me a taste of her anger.
“What the fuck, Dread? You know they’re out there. Why would you broadcast which room is yours?” she snaps, sitting up in the bed.
I point a finger at her. “Ours,” I correct through gritted teeth. “It’s our fucking room.”
She tosses her arms up in exasperation while rolling her eyes, as if to say, Here we go. “Not the goddamn point, Dread.”
“That’s exactly the fucking point,” I retort angrily. “No one is out there right now. Would you like to see for yourself?”
She wrinkles her nose, giving me a weird look. “No.”
Wrong answer.
“I insist you do. Here, baby, let me help.” I take the four steps to reach the bed, grab her bicep, and drag her to her feet.
“What are you do— Dread, stop it!”
I don’t listen. Instead, I pull her to the window and shove her against it.
“Stop it,” she snaps, attempting to back away from it a moment too late.
She’s already wedged between my body and the cool surface of the glass, and with the wall on one side and my desk on the other, they completely obstruct an escape route.