Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rue
“Honey, I’m home,” I call softly as I let myself into Lester Timms’s shabby brick bungalow.
“About damn time,” a voice responds from inside the house. “Get in here, killer.”
How are my nipples already hard? Gomez could be reading the terms and conditions of that streaming service I forgot to cancel eighteen months ago, and I’d still be primed to respond.
Two murder dates, and I imprinted on that growl like a baby chick.
“Morticia,” he warns, “don’t make me ask twice.”
The command in his tone sends an anticipatory shiver through me, and I move into the house on the balls of my feet, cautious and quiet.
“Why are all the lights on?” I hiss-whisper when I reach the brightly lit living room and find Gomez sprawled in an armchair near the fireplace. Just a husband waiting for his wife to come home from work so they can figure out dinner.
Of course, most husbands aren’t covered head to toe in black with only a narrow strip of their eyes showing.
“Vacation timer.” He waves a gloved hand at the overhead lights, then at the light in the front entry. “Thankfully, Officer Timms left his blackout curtains shut.”
“I hate it,” I say, flinching like a vampire caught in the sun.
“It feels wrong, right?”
“Soooo wrong,” I say, and he laughs, the sound brushing over my skin like velvet, soft and almost familiar. It chases away that last of my unease at standing in this fully illuminated room because holy hell, that’s Gomez.
God, I wish I could see under his mask. I bet he’s grinning. I bet this man has the best grin.
He’s even bigger than I realized from our mostly dark encounters. His shoulders, chest, and thighs are thick with muscles under his all-black outfit, and his waist narrows to a perfect V-shape. How tacky would it be if I asked him to stand and give me a little twirl?
He’s eyeing me, too.
“Is that another bodysuit, Morticia?”
Subtext: How hard will it be to get it off of you?
“Nope,” I say in an equally rough voice, unzipping my hoodie to reveal the running tights and matching fitted shirt. “Trick or treat.”
“Fuckkk.” His eyes drag down my body, and he straightens when I take a step forward, then another one. The ankle resting on his knee drops to the floor.
Gotta say, so far, the plan is going well.
Killing Greg was supposed to be the reminder I needed to stay away from Hugo, but I lingered in his cozy kitchen on Tuesday with his unexpected declaration hanging in the air, drinking that earthy, woodfire tea I had to visit three shops to find.
When I got home, I realized it was time for more extreme measures, like seducing this stranger who waits for my consent, worries about my safety, and gets turned on by my knife at his throat.
I mean, it’s not exactly a sacrifice. He even likes my legs.
So. Step one: gather whatever evidence I can find to exonerate Angie Timms in the murder of Paul Franklin.
Step two: scope out the best way for Lester Timms to have an “accident” in this grim bachelor pad he calls home.
Step three: sex up Gomez and kill my crush on my neighbor once and for all.
Felicity didn’t approve of step three. Felicity doesn’t even know about step three. I’m on my own here.
“Hi,” I breathe when I’ve closed the distance between us.
“Oh. Okay,” he says when I slide onto his lap. “Hello.”
His hands settle on my waist, but instead of gripping me hard and pulling me close, he rests them there gently. His eyes are blue, a startling blue, and I wet my dry lips.
“Did you miss me?” I ask.
“Yes.”
His answer’s a little more clipped than I expected, so I slide my knees along the outside of his thighs until I’m straddling him.
That does the trick.
“Morticia,” he groans, his hands finally tightening on me.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, sending tiny shock waves through me.
Shock waves, yes, but something warm and comfortable too.
Seeing him in the light is messing with my head.
It fuels my urgency to get him to respond, to make this thing between us real so I have something to hold on to.
I lean forward and drape my arms around his neck, pressing down on him as I whisper, “Can we take off the masks?”
He goes stiff underneath me. His cock, yes, but the rest of his body too.
It’s not the enthusiastic reaction I was hoping for.
“This isn’t a good idea.” He pulls his hands away, dropping them to grip the arms of the chair.
“What, killing Timms?” I intentionally misunderstand him, trailing a gloved finger down his chest and shifting my hips back and forth. But as I do, I remember climbing onto Greg’s lap and torturing him in the same way. I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head into Gomez’s chest.
“Obviously we’re both on board for that.” His voice strained, he shifts, trying to minimize the contact between our lower bodies. “Once we have definitive proof.”
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to go back in time and scrub off the dramatic eyeliner I applied earlier tonight. Then, I felt like a badass vigilante. Now I feel like an idiot. But I’m an idiot who’s not giving up.
“Proof isn’t necessary.” I scoot forward to get some of that contact back. “Look at this place.”
Timms’s living room has a mismatched sofa and chair.
That’s it for furniture. The walls are another story.
One features a large whiteboard with this week’s intensely detailed daily schedule in black marker, starting with 4:05 a.m. wakeup and meditation from 4:15 to 4:40 a.m. The other wall is an ode to dead Greek philosophers: three shelves of books with pristine spines and names like Plato on them and dusty plaster busts of stern-faced, bearded men.
The only art is a framed photo of a gun on the American flag and a print of Socrates reaching for the hemlock.
Beyond that, there’s no TV, no coffee table, no rugs or throw pillows. Nothing soft, nothing frivolous.
“Manosphere chic,” Gomez agrees, eyeing the crusty, unwashed protein shaker bottle on the floor next to a pile of resistance bands. “But it’s not evidence.”
“Okay. How about a deathbed statement from someone in a position to know? Timms is guilty as fuck.”
Gomez’s focus snaps to me. “Navarro told you?”
“Nope.” I pop the p, aiming for breezy and coming off bratty, which is fine. That’s how I’m starting to feel. “Somebody else.”
“Jesus, how many people have you killed since I saw you last?” His voice is a mix of horrified and impressed.
“Two. And no, I’m not telling you the other one.”
He’s so tense now I’m surprised his fingers aren’t poking holes through the chair’s upholstery.
“How about you?” I wriggle, and his eyes squeeze shut, like he’s struggling for control. “Did you indulge since we saw each other last?”
“Just one,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Slacker.”
“Totally lazy.” His voice is still tight. “I probably should’ve made it two.”
“But you didn’t?”
I watch him consider answering, then shake it off. “No.” He’s all business when he meets my eyes. “So how are we deciding which of us gets to kill Timms?”
I bounce on his lap. “Guess.”
“No. Not that.” His answer is short and decisive.
“So why don’t we agree that I’ll handle Timms when he’s back from vacation, and we can get out of here. M-maybe”—I take a deep breath—“maybe we could go back to my place.”
What am I doing? I can’t invite him to the house I all but share with Hugo, the man I’m trying to forget.
Not that it matters. Gomez laughs softly.
“You’re asking me back to your lair?” He shakes his head. “I know better than to go to a second location with a serial killer.”
“Ha,” I say. “Then let’s… let’s go get coffee.”
What the actual fuck am I doing?
“Morticia, you really are crazy. Coffee at this time of night?”
“Forget it.” I start to clamber off his lap, stiff with mortification. But his hands are on my waist again, holding me in place.
“Wait. Just wait.” His big shoulders lift in a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a confusing couple of weeks.”
“Ooookay,” I say, waiting for him to explain what that has to do with me.
“That second kill I should’ve done,” he finally says. “If I’d gone through with it, I would’ve had to disappear. And for a second, I imagined you disappearing with me.”
I snap to attention. “What happened? Who are we killing?”
“Nobody.” He laughs softly, so at least my bloodthirstiness still appeals to him. “But it wasn’t fun realizing I don’t know you. That I couldn’t find you even if I wanted to.”
“So get to know me now.” A pleading whine creeps into my voice, but I don’t care. “Take the mask off.”
He catches my hand when I start to reach for him.
“I want that. You have no idea how much, killer.” His voice is tortured. “I want to take these off and be fully…”
“Ourselves,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he whispers back. “I used to think you were the best chance for that.”
“And now?” My lower register slips entirely as I process what he’s really saying.
He slides a hand up my back, unknowingly caressing the scar tissue that always sends confusing messages to my brain. Tonight, it’s hypersensitive, and I shiver.
“The thing is, this isn’t me,” he says. “I mean, it is. But I’m not always this.” He gestures at his black clothes.
“You think this is always me?” I laugh, sharp and unamused. Gomez was supposed to sweep me into his arms and make me forget any feelings but the ones I have for him. He did it for me the previous two times, so why not now, when I actually need him?
I shift again, trying to get closer, but he easily holds me in place, his arms showing no signs of strain.
“We could take the masks off and try,” I say. “Be this and those other things. Just tell me your name. Bore me with details about your day job. Bring me roses when you pick me up for dinner in your… your beige cardigan.” I wave a frustrated hand through the air. “Please. I want that.”
I don’t care that I’m begging. But I do care that Gomez reels back.
“Is that your type? Boring conversation and an ugly sweater?”
Why did I choose those, out of all hypothetical things he could be in our regular lives? “I-I don’t know,” I stammer. “I just thought this was something we both wanted.”
He lifts his fingers to the bridge of his nose like he’s expecting to find something there.
“It was.” He lets his hand drop.
“Was.” I all but fling myself off his lap.
It’s his ponies-and-pedestals woman, I just know it. He’s choosing his perfect girl who can’t ever know him fully.
“Morticia.” His warm voice is right behind me, and when I turn around, he’s standing so close that I practically collide with him. It forces me to look way, way up to meet his eyes, and I give a helpless little laugh.
“God, you take up too much space.”
The familiar complaint slips right out, and he gives an answering chuckle. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to…”
He staggers back a step, then another, his eyes widening in shock.
His blue, blue eyes. The ones that send warm pinwheels spinning in my chest when they crease into a smile at our mailboxes.
“You,” I whisper. “You’re…”
My detonating brain struggles to catch up with my heart and my body. Had it been protecting me from what I knew on a cellular level all along, but would never have let myself believe?
“Your voice.” He lurches forward and grabs me, his fingers digging into my upper arms. “Say it again.”
I wrench myself free and look at him fully.
Taking him in from head to toe shatters the last of my doubts. I spent months resenting that height as he lorded it over me at our mailbox, and I spent Friday night with that big body wrapped around me like I was the most precious thing in the world.
I’d know him anywhere, and even though it took me far too long, I know him now.
“Take your mask off,” I say hoarsely.
When he doesn’t move, my voice hardens into a whip crack. “Take it off, Hugo.”
He sucks in a breath, and after a brief hesitation, he does what I ask, slowly pulling the black knit fabric over his head to reveal his face.
The face of my neighbor. My nerdy, infuriating, impossible neighbor.
It’s really him. He’s not wearing his glasses, and his hair’s mussed and a little sweaty, but it’s him. I brought him an ice pack for that bruise on his forehead. When he fell asleep, I kissed the edge of that cut.
My vision’s going dark around the edges, which explains why I don’t fight it when Hugo reaches down and pulls my own mask off.
I shiver as cool air caresses every new section of skin he reveals: my chin, my lips, my flushed cheeks, my damp forehead.
By the time he tugs it free of my messy braids, I feel completely exposed.
Hell, I’ve felt less vulnerable standing completely naked in front of a new sex partner than I do right now with Hugo’s eyes devouring my face.
I’m sure I look just as shell-shocked as he does as we stare at each other and try to form words.
When we finally do, we have the same question.
“What the fuck?” I breathe.
“What the fuck?” Hugo breathes back.
“What the fuck?” demands a third voice.