Chapter 4
Theo
Two hours earlier
Camille’s bar
I’m not a violent man, but if this fucker touches Holly’s knee one more time, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.
The flickering bar lights throw fleeting shadows on her face, and I recline back into the comfort of the black leather seat, observing from a safe distance.
Watching as she interacts with this stranger.
He has greasy brown hair, a fat fucking nose, and is wearing a bright orange t-shirt that doesn’t go with Holly’s skin tone at all. Offensive bastard.
I take a sip of my water. My preferred drink is an Old Fashioned, though I abstain from drinking when on-duty.
The man’s hand brushes past her leg.
Her hand trails close to his arm.
And mine clenches around the armrest, frustration gnawing at my stomach like a trapped rat.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not jealous. I don’t get jealous. Jealousy is for children. It’s illogical and futile and serves no purpose. I’m just grossly pissed off.
I am not easily perturbed, but a lack of knowledge regarding any matter pertaining to Holly’s life undoubtedly ranks among the most vexing.
I know exactly what time she wakes up, where she sits to have her morning coffee, what her daily schedule looks like.
I keep track of her whereabouts, her victims, I even keep track of everyone she talks to for more than sixty seconds.
Although to be fair, there aren’t many people on that list. Holly isn’t fond of conversation.
Actually, the only person she can probably “talk” to for hours on end is me.
She really enjoys telling me to go fuck myself.
The thought makes me smile, but the weight of uncertainty presses down on me, quickly wiping it away.
It’s becoming clear that despite the intimacy we share, there are still pieces of her world that remain hidden from me, and this fucking anonymous messenger is topping that list.
I racked my brain during the entire thirty-minute drive to the bar, desperately trying to piece together clues and come up with an answer. How DOES it feel? Killing someone? Want me to show you?
The only thing clear from that fucking message is that someone knows — which, I won’t lie, is a bit hurtful since I thought I was the only one who knew about her irresistible dark side. Well, me and her little bartender friend that is.
I know I didn’t send her that message and I know Camille didn’t either because whoever it was, clearly wants Holly to know that her secret isn’t a secret anymore.
But why? To threaten her? Blackmail? Why else would they choose to bait her instead of turning her in?
Sure, it’s not what I did when I saw Holly kill someone for the first time, but that’s beside the point.
I like Holly. I understand her. This other person does not.
The nagging feeling of not knowing something about Holly’s life grows stronger and somewhere within the confines of the crowded bar, a group of women laugh at my failure.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I pull it out half expecting another unsettling text message from some arsehole trying to torment my love.
But it’s just Parker sending me pictures of his cat dressed as a caped superhero.
Cute. I send out seven heart emojis and tuck my phone back into my pocket.
I feel a pair of eyes on me. I look to my left and find a woman staring at me from behind the rim of her empty wine glass. She twirls a strand of her hair between her fingers and gives me a shy smile. But of course, she does. This black leather jacket complements my blue eyes quite nicely.
I flash her my most devastating smile and go back to watching Holly just like I have been doing for the past hour.
Holly’s “date” puts his hand back on her knee, over her jeans.
His thumb grazes past the inner side of her thigh and white-hot rage boils in my chest. I want to break that thumb and shove it down his throat.
I know it’s not real. Holly doesn’t want him to touch her knees, her thighs, her back, her anything.
She doesn’t want him to buy her drinks. She doesn’t want to talk to him.
She doesn’t even want to look at him. It’s all an act. A ploy. I know that. I know her.
She laughs at something he said and lifts her hand, tucking a lock of her wig-hair behind her ear.
Dark brown and short with bangs. I like it.
It’s kinda hot, actually. But then again, Holly looks good in everything.
She’s wearing a white tee with the words, STOP BEING POOR, sprawled across her chest and a pair of blue denim jeans that sculpt her ass perfectly.
Her fingers move down along the nape of her neck.
Slow and treacherous, and I can't tear my gaze away. Every movement holds me captive. I’m transfixed.
Time ceases to exist, the world fading away until there's only her, and me, and the delicate dance of her fingertips against her skin. She laughs once more at something he says, and a mixture of frustration and arousal burns in my stomach when her smile doesn’t waver.
How can she be so carefree and blissfully unaware of the effect she has on me?
My love is a lot of things, but an idiot isn’t one of them.
She gets up and heads to the bathroom and I resist the urge to follow her.
Resist the urge to place my hand on the small of her back and lead her down the dimly lit corridor.
I want to push her inside an empty stall and lock us inside.
I want to kiss her. I want her to kiss me back.
I want to strip her down and have my way with her.
After fifteen minutes, Holly walks back to the bar.
Her supposed pick of the night is pretty fucking tipsy by now, but Holly insists on getting more drinks.
A whiskey sour for him and a gin martini for herself.
Extra dirty with eight olives. Her usual.
He whispers something in her ear, and she smiles. Do that again, love. I dare you.
Her bartender friend hands over her coat, and Holly and the man exit the bar. I follow them out. It’s chilly tonight. The weather forecast said it might dip to eleven degrees Celsius. I hope her flimsy coat is warm enough. I wish I could offer her my jacket.
They reach an intersection, and Holly presses the walk button to stop the traffic.
Her drunken pal leans on her for support, using the opportunity to run his hand all over the back of her coat.
I rub a hand over my jaw fantasizing about all the ways I would break that hand if Holly doesn’t end up killing him tonight.
An old woman walks up next to me, selling cigarettes and a dozen roses. She points at the flowers. “Six dollars. One rose.”
I smile and buy all of them, even though Holly’s favourite flowers are red spider lilies.
The old woman pats my arm. “Sweet boy.”
I am. I thank her and keep walking, following Holly until she’s inside the man’s flat.
A few people pass by as I locate what’s quickly becoming my usual viewing spot.
She has killed on this street before. Two months back, I think. He was an NYU professor in his thirties. They were sitting side by side on the subway, he tried to cop a feel, and so she snuck into his home office later that night and slit open his throat.
The memory brings a smile to my face.
I don’t know why she has this effect on me.
Maybe it’s the sound of her voice or the way her face lights up when she sticks a knife inside someone’s throat.
Out of all the women I could’ve become fond of, I had to go for the one who’d much rather see my head on a spike than between her legs.
One who’s more than capable of putting it there herself.
I don’t know what it is that keeps me coming back to her.
Day after day, night after night, revolving around her like she’s the center of the universe.
Ready to drop to my knees for a single second of her time.
Well, what else am I supposed to do? I can’t un-meet her.
I can’t un-know her. And I sure as fuck can’t un-want her.
There’s nothing I can do besides relinquishing control.
I want to eat what she eats, drink what she drinks, feel what she feels.
I want to turn her inside out and memorize every single inch.
Every single thing about her is so radiating, it almost hurts to look.
So, she killed a few men. People aren’t perfect.
It doesn’t matter if she killed a man and plans on killing three more.
It doesn’t matter if one of them ends up being me, quite frankly, the girl could stab me in the face, and it’d feel like a kiss.
All that matters is that if she’s drowning, I’d simply turn into the body of water she’s sinking into.
I have no interest in saving her. I want all of her.
The light, the dark. The good and the bad.
I want it all. And I’m not going to stop till I have it. Till I have her.
I slip into an alley across from the brownstone building and set the bunch of roses down next to my feet so that I can pull out my binoculars.
The “date” flips a switch, and bright white light illuminates the living room.
The view is so fucking clear, it’s like I’m right there with them.
Of course, it helps that the sleazeball doesn’t believe in the concept of curtains.
He probably feels safe enough without them.
Fucking idiot. She walks away from the living room.
A few minutes later, so does he. My guess is the bathroom.
It’s the only room not facing the street.
No matter, I’ll be here when she leaves. Like always.
I take out my phone and connect my earphones.
The instrumental beginning of One Direction’s “Fireproof” fills my ears.
My foot taps against the pavement and a mangy-looking grey cat darts between my legs.
I smile and scoop it up, cradling it gently in my arms. The cat purrs contentedly, its soft vibrations a comforting melody against my chest.
Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Then thirty. The cat squirms free from my grasp. The music pauses and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out. Several notifications from the spyware app. Messages for Holly.
Camille: how did it go?
Camille: the bar got so busy as soon as you left :(
Camille: some guy just left me a target gift card instead of a tip.
Camille: hellooo???
Holly: All done.
Camille: details please :)
Holly: I’ll call you once I’m home.
Dusting residual fur off my leather jacket, I stuff my phone back into my pocket and go back to spying on the flat.
Five minutes later, Holly walks back out.
Alone. She has her blue nitrile gloves on.
I zoom in to get a better view. There’s a light sheen of sweat on her forehead that makes me want to grab her by the neck and pin her against the wall.
I wish I could sweep those damp strands off to a side and trail my mouth along her collarbone till she’s whimpering and begging me to go lower.
She checks the flat one last time for any potential evidence and proceeds to walk back downstairs, out the door, and into a deli.
She gets herself a sandwich and an orange soda and walks back out.
Picking the roses from the ground, I adjust my black baseball cap and continue following her—discreetly and from a safe distance, of course.
She takes off her wig and throws it in an adjacent trash can.
Her short blonde curls fall over the back of her neck, the ends just barely brushing past her shoulders.
The wig and the sweat has made her wavier than usual.
I wonder what they’d look like wrapped around my fingers.
What would they feel like? Soft. Definitely soft.
I’m tempted to find out. Right here, right now.
But that would be unwise. Reckless, even.
Dealing with Holly is tricky, you see. She is like a cat herself.
A jungle cat. An alpha predator. She senses danger easily — not that I’m calling myself “dangerous.” The thought almost makes me laugh.
God, no. I'm not half as lethal as she is. Not even close. But there’s a certain depravity in me that enjoys being scared of her.
It turns me on. It makes me wonder how hard I can make her scream. How hard she can make me scream.
A cool, gentle breeze drifts past us, carrying the faint strains of music spilling from an apartment above. The moon peeks through the clouds. I wouldn’t call this stalking, per se. It’s not. It’s just two people going on a long romantic walk together, but only of us knows about it.
She walks a few more steps and comes to an abrupt stop.
Frowning, I stop too, quickly hiding behind a nearby building and watching as Holly pulls out her phone.
I can’t see her face, but the way her shoulders tense up, I know whatever it is she’s looking at, whatever it is that’s on her phone, it isn’t good.
It has her stressed out. I don’t like that.
Not at all. I’m almost about to walk ahead to get a closer look when my phone buzzes too.
Mildly peeved by the interruption upon our private time, I take it out and angrily unlock it.
One text message.
Unknown: Good. I’ve always liked you blonde.