Chapter 10 Cooper
Cooper
The waves of the lake crash against the shore, a light fog covering the dock as we hide in the front bow of the luxurious vessel, slunk down to hide our bodies in the dark.
Am I ready to kill another person?
The question rattles my brain from eardrum to eardrum. My heart races at the thought. What would it feel like? Would I go insane from the bloodlust?
A guilty part of me is eager to experience the thrill, but also ashamed at my excitement.
Tonight is it. The end of theoreticals. The end of dark jokes with Ava about my Dateline episode. This is the precipice.
My precipice.
I used to dream about being chased—sometimes I still do.
About the thrilling, anonymous violence a masked man might offer.
But this… this is different. Tonight isn't about my death—unless I chicken out, then I might be dead in the water.
Tonight is about taking the life of another man.
I will have to look into his eyes—a vile, disgusting man, but a living, breathing specimen—and watch as I steal his breath.
Can my hands, my brain, wrap around the fact that it's okay to actually kill someone? Or will my body go limp from a state of immense shock?
My mind flashes to the scalpels in our pockets, to the sharpness of the blade.
How quickly it can slice through skin and vasculature.
A body is just a machine of meat and bone.
A switch to be flipped off. Am I just a mechanic retiring a malfunctioning vehicle?
One that is so sick that there are no other options?
My brother would be ashamed if he saw me right now, plotting a murder on this obscene yacht.
He wouldn't recognize me. The brother that he looked out for, the one he taught how to play t-ball.
He would see this as a waste of life. I should be volunteering for Doctors without Borders.
Not Doctors with Scalpels, slicing off metastasized tumors.
He should have been the one to survive. He would have known what to do with a life. He wouldn't be wasting it like this.
Reed shifts against my shoulder, stirring me out of my head.
“So, is this his mini-yacht?” I ask, my voice a hushed whisper.
“Yes, Mayor Brad Holts. There’s no way a mayor’s salary could afford a multi-million-dollar boat like this.”
Footsteps shake the structure of the dock. My heart races against my lungs, but I take a deep breath to hold back the sweat that’s threatening to form on my temples.
Two pairs. A heavy pair and one punctuated by the quick tap of heels.
A man and a woman.
She’s giggling. “I’ve never been on a yacht before. Mr. Fancy.”
“Don’t you worry baby, tonight will be the best night of your life,” the sick bastard says, as they cross onto the yacht.
My jaw clenches. Reed’s hand anchors my body down. Don’t act yet. I want to. God, I want to. I can already see this story playing out in my head. Her drink is spiked, her laughter fades, the sound of the lake thudding after he uses her.
What makes my veins bulge the most is that he doesn’t even try to hide his arrogance.
He strutted down the dock like he has done this a million times.
The woman’s coat flutters open in the breeze.
She’s beautiful, yet scarred, high cheeks, pale brown complexion, her long brown hair reaching the mid length of her spine.
Maybe she trusted him. Maybe she needed some money.
The bastard laughs again and I feel my chest twist—a hot ugly mix of disgust and adrenaline. I glance at Reed. He’s watching, unblinking, calculating angles and timing, his expression unreadable.
“Remember your part,” he murmurs, eyes on the cockpit as they stumble, the sound of their lips crashing through the air.
“I remember,” I whisper, my throat going dry.
The man starts the engine, water sputters as the propellers chew, and the boat vibrates. The smell of gasoline rolls into my nostrils. It’s pungent, almost enchanting. I’ve always enjoyed the scent for some reason.
Was it because I wasn’t supposed to? Maybe.
We stay in place as the boat navigates out of the marina, the temperature becoming more chilly the further we venture from the land. A breeze threatens to roll me over the edge.
“When was the last time you snuck onto a boat to commit a felony,” I ask.
Reed’s mouth curves, a faint smirk becoming apparent. “Felony’s a strong word. I prefer public service with unfortunate side effects.”
I grip the railing tighter, wind slicing my face under the ski mask. “Ah, so murder with good PR. “
“Precisely,” he murmurs, his ears fixated on the giggles in the cockpit. “We’re not criminals, Cooper. We’re cleansers. We scourge the scum from the planet one abuser at a time.”
“That’s probably what every serial killer thinks before they get caught,” I say to poke the bear. “Maybe you should start a podcast.”
He glances at me, eyes gleaming under the starlight. “Then I’ll need a co-host. You can cover the ethics segment.”
“Sure, and we’ll call it Spilling Blood but Make it Morally Gray.” Water from the side of the boat spurts into my face, making me grimace.
“What should our tagline be?”
“Maybe cleansing the woods since 2012?” I say.
“Catchy. Add a disclaimer: May cause mild decapitation.” Reed smirks.
“If we weren’t lying here in ski masks,” he says soft enough to send a shiver down my spine, “you wouldn’t be smiling.”
My grin falters before it deepens. “You think I’m smiling because of you?”
“I think you are smiling because you like flirting with danger,” he murmurs as sweet as honey. “And because you’re terrible at pretending otherwise.”
God help me, he sees right through me. Maybe I want him to tear through me. On this boat. With the waves ripping around us. How could it be more romantic?
But instead, I roll my eyes, just so he doesn’t see how close I am to combusting. “You’ve got a real ego for man currently dressed like a failed ski instructor.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. “Yet, here you are, still smiling at the reject.”
“Yeah well it’s either that or cry. My emotional range is pretty much six feet under tonight.”
A V appears above, the sound of the geese flying overhead piercing the air. Reed shifts closer to me, he looks like sin reincarnated, decked out in all black, his biceps bulging through the black hoodie.
“You ever think, maybe we deserve to be out here?” he says, voice barely audible over the slashing water.
I snort. “On a boat in the dark plotting vigilante homicide? Yeah, that sounds exactly where two well-adjusted people belong.”
“You make it sound so sordid. I prefer to think of it as therapeutic immersion for the soul.”
“You mean murder therapy?”
“Call it cathartic exposure,” he says, the smugness seeping into his words.
“Maybe you should put that exposure experience on your Linkedin profile,” I chuckle quietly.
He leans in against my forearm, sparks flying between the layers of fabric. “You’d be my case study.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah? What’s the diagnosis.”
“Terminal Curiosity.”
The words strike me deep. Because he’s absolutely correct. I am curious about him. Every ridge, every hair, every intent that sprints through his mind.
“Guess that makes you the cure.”
“Cure’s too optimistic. Let’s shoot for a temporary fix.”
I huff out a shaky laugh. “Figures, even your metaphors have a dark side.”
He shrugs like I was complimenting him. “Darkness builds character.”
“Right. And homicide builds rapport.”
“Correct. Look at us, bonding through crime.”
The wind sends a nasty gust over the bow of the boat, forcing my body closer to his. My heart races with the renewed contact.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“It’s called being cold, Doctor.”
“Could also be adrenaline. Or attraction. Both trigger tremors,” he snickers.
I scoff with a dose of attitude. “You trying to diagnose me again?”
“Just a habit of mine.”
“You really think you can read me like a chart, huh?”
“Not yet,” he says, his words laced with confidence. “But I am getting familiar with the symptoms.”
I should pull away. I should call Ava before I get too deep in this shit.
I should remember the part where we are on the boat with another psychopath murderer who is leading us to his favorite dropping point.
But all I can think about is the way that his words rip through me like a swinging machete.
“I’m starting to think you are enjoying the scenery,” I mutter.
He gives me a feral grin. “Devouring every drop of it.”
As I’m soaking in the treacherous effect of his words, the boat comes to a halt, the motor humming to a standstill. The shore is barely visible, just the silhouettes of trees in the distance.
Reed brings two fingers to his lips. The giggles are gone. All that can be heard is a pounding sound. Like a drumstick thudding against the hull.
“Quiet,” he whispers.
We slowly scramble to our knees, as silent as a pair of cougars in the night. Reed leads the way to scramble around the cockpit. A scalpel in his hand.
“Fuck…” the bastard’s voice whispers, while the woman’s moan can barely be heard. “Yeah, yeah, take it.”
My jaw locks so hard I taste copper and the side of my cheek. “What a sick fuck,” I hiss. Drugging dates and prostitutes. My teeth grind against each other. Sweat runs down my ribs. There’s no way I’m letting this bastard live to see another sunrise.
I crouch around Reed, wire in my hands, I’ll choke this motherfucker out. Take away enough oxygen to make him pass out and then bring him back again. Do it on repeat and until his brain self-destructs from panic. The image is a beautiful roar in my skull—a fantasy I didn't know that I had.
We turn the bend and see the sick fuck, on top of the woman, his belly shaking. “I got this,” I whisper, stepping forward and wrapping the wire around his girthy neck. His arms flail, nearly walloping my head. A muffled “Get o—"escapes the bastard’s lips.
“Hold his throat tight,” Reed seethes.