Chapter 22 – Lily
LILY
Crime: This guy drugged me at a bar
Evidence: I know he did it, but I just can’t prove it
Preferred Punishment: Karma’s choice
Payment Offered: $500
How To Find The Target: Name: Nolan Moore. (1) photo attached, frequent customer at Hell’s Bar on 21st Street
“Mm-hmm.” I clack away on my laptop as I lie sprawled in my bed.
I have no clue how I’m going to get an invite to the Westerford mansion again, but I do know I can take this sleazy little prick down.
I also can’t help but wonder if I may have an Aster run-in, given the last time I was at this bar he was hidden outside, awaiting a target.
I check the time: 5:52 p.m. Definitely early enough for me to do it tonight. Looks like my quiet evening of listening to a true crime podcast while I fold laundry is out the window. Oh, no. I’m devastated.
Da-na-na-na. Da-na-na-na. Da-na-na-na-na.
My head jerks to the side. The iconic familiar ring of a 2000s cell bounces around the room.
But it’s not my phone that sits next to me, screen black.
The tone is more like those old ones before they had fun ringtones.
Like my first piece of shit brick phone in fourth grade.
Or what you’d hear in a movie theater before they told you to silence your cell.
My laptop is abandoned on the mattress as I scurry off, following the noise.
The ear-piercing ring intensifies as I near my desk. Drawers squeal open and slam closed, revealing nothing. I flatten myself on the ground and find something duct-taped to the underside of the table. The creepy caller was using my real phone. Why would they switch?
“What the…?” I yank it off, remove the tape, and find a hot pink, old as hell Nokia. The caller ID, Grim, flashes across the screen, and I roll my eyes, accepting the call. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Aster says as if this is the start of any normal conversation.
“Care to explain why the hell I just found a phone from the Stone Age hidden in my room?”
“I thought it was obvious.”
“Not to me?”
“Well, I don’t like to use my regular phone when I talk murder stuff,” he says, as if that string of words should form a sentence that isn’t absolutely bonkers.
“And I’m murder stuff?!” I shriek, pacing the room.
He chuckles. “I mean… yeah, kinda.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“Relax, Karma baby,” he says, and I force my stomach not to do the flippy thing. “I just know we’ll need to get in touch, and I think this is better, just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case one of us gets caught.” A stone settles in my stomach. “It’s just a precaution.”
“You broke into my house.” Was it the first time?
“Your security consists of a fifty-year-old back door and a baseball bat set directly inside it.”
“Pot. Kettle.”
“In my defense, no one’s ever been crazy enough to break into my house.”
“What can I say?” I nibble on my lower lip. “I’m not like other girls.”
“And I have the scars to prove it.” His voice is low and sultry and fuck! I clench my thighs together. Down, girl!
“You could have just given me the phone last night when we were hiking,” I say, attempting to get the topic back on track.
“But then I wouldn’t know you still have pose fourteen wrapped in my T-shirt and hidden in your panty drawer.”
“Aster!” I stomp over to the dresser in question. “You looked through my underwear drawer? Do you not see how creepy that is?” I rip it open, hand digging to the bottom, and pull out his shirt and the photo. A little piece of paper floats to the floor, and I snatch it.
Wear me when you’re lonely.
xo, grim
P.S. I like the red lacy ones.
“You are insufferable,” I tell him, but I don’t mean it.
“Aw, you love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“I can work with that.”
“And now I can’t wear the red ones anymore,” I grumble.
“I’m fine with no panties too.” His tone drips with insinuation, and my cheeks flame.
“I have plans tonight,” I blurt, needing an immediate exit from this conversation that’s bearing dangerously towards phone sex. “I have to go.”
“Do those plans involve the lacey ones I like?”
“Aster!” I snap, my cheeks redder than my favorite lipstick. “You can’t ask me things like that.”
“These are very important questions.” He chuckles. “Take the phone with you. Just in case.”
“In case what? You need to track me?”
“That phone is from the same year Shrek 2 came out. The only thing people were tracking with it was their amount of texts so the phone bill didn’t bankrupt them.”
I snort a laugh. “When I was thirteen, my dad made me and Violet get jobs at a local ice cream shop because mine was insanely high from texting her.” A twinge tightens in my chest. “We got so sick of ice cream we couldn’t eat it again till college.”
“That’s adorable.”
“Yeah.” My gaze wanders to a photo of me and Violet on my dresser from a beach trip in high school. Our smiles are big, hair wild, and her arms are wrapped around me. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the salty air and the citrus scent of her perfume mixed with sunscreen.
“Just bring the phone, please,” Aster says, pulling me back to reality. “You can call and text me. But that’s about it. My number is saved.”
“This feels unnecessary. We’re not covert spies.”
“No, but we are investigating a serial killer and possibly obstructing justice by not sharing what we know.” Well, when he puts it that way… “And I’m sure your brother would love that.”
“Are you one of those tin hat people who thinks the government is listening in on our every phone call?”
“Are you one of those naive people who thinks they couldn’t if they wanted to?” he asks, and my jaw ticks. “Can you just trust me on this?” Another beat of silence passes between us. “Please.”
Please. I grumble in my head. Why does that word always work? “Fine.”
“Good girl,” he says with a rumbling laugh that surrounds me until I click the line dead.
He’s next.
Using the reflection of the shitty bar bathroom mirror, I sweep a rose-red lipstick across my bottom lip. Puckering them, I check the color spread and bare my teeth to ensure none ended up there.
After dropping the tube in my purse, I fluff my blonde to pink ombre hair, which is styled into loose curls.
The backless black dress I’m wearing reveals the perfect amount of skin, and while I believe a woman should be able to wear whatever she wants and not be approached, I do think this particular outfit choice will capture Nolan’s attention.
I pull my phone out of my clutch and check the Karma request one more time, burning the target’s face into memory.
Blond hair.
Brown eyes.
Freckles.
Exiting the bathroom, I make a beeline for the bar and situate myself on a stool, legs crossed.
“What can I get you?” a burly bartender asks.
“Dry martini with gin, please.”
A moment later, I’m scanning the crowded room, glass in hand.
On the opposite side, I spot a blond skeezy-looking guy sitting by himself nursing a draft beer.
He takes a sip, eyes bouncing around, and I hold my gaze until his eyes lock with mine.
Jackpot. Grinning, Nolan sets down his beer, foam perched on his mustache.
I take a sip of the martini, then dart my tongue out to lick a drop of liquid off my bottom lip.
His eyes home in on the action, and I force a flirtatious smile, turning back towards the bar.
If there’s one thing men like, it’s a chase.
As I swirl the martini, a skeevy feeling crawls up my spine, and a moment later, there’s an arm resting on the top of my seat.
“Pretty girls like you shouldn’t drink alone,” the raspy voice says, like he smokes ten packs a day or lived inside a coal mine, and my skin crawls.
Why did I agree to this? Without even seeing his face, I know it’s my guy.
Taking a slow inhale, I turn on my charm and spin his way.
The moment my eyes meet Nolan’s brown beady ones, I fight a full body shudder.
His freckled skin has a sheen on it like he’s been sweating since breakfast. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a giant fish on it, cargo shorts, and sandals in October.
Pretending to like this guy is going to be a challenge in and of itself.
“Maybe I prefer drinking alone,” I tell him, trying to determine how the hell I’m going to pull this off. “Ever thought about that?”
He faux pouts. “No one who dresses like”—his eyes trawl along my body, and I know I wore this on purpose, but I wish I could pluck his eyes out the way he drinks me in—“that came out looking to drink alone.” The feminist in me is screaming fuck off, but Karma has bills to pay.
“And I like to think I’m pretty good company. ”
“Hmm.” I do a ditzy shrug. “Darn, you caught me.”
He grins victoriously, taking a seat in the stool beside mine. “Where are you from, beautiful?”
“Around.” I retrieve the martini for another sip.
The tart liquid gliding down my throat gives me the encouragement to keep entertaining this conversation.
When I first started doing requests that required me to play a more active, front-facing role, I’d hype myself up for days.
But the more I did, the easier it got to pretend I was someone else.
Sometimes it was even… fun. I’m aware there’s a level of risk that comes with them, but letting men like this keep doing what they’re doing is way more dangerous for the rest of the population.
So, I guess you could say I’m taking one for the team.
“A little mystery.” His lips quirk into a nauseating grin. “I appreciate that in a woman.”
“Maybe I just don’t like to talk much.”
“I like that even more.” Is this guy for real? Does he really think women like to be spoken to like this?
An hour passes of forced, painstakingly dull conversation, and he doesn’t make a single move towards my drink. Just when I think this request’s a bust and I’m going to call it a night, a familiar face walks in, brightening my mood.
If I can’t enact some karma, the least I can do is piss off my new buddy in crime.