Page 4 of Wicked Nightmare

“Obviously I staged a mess in isle 2 and then slit her throat in the blind spot of the camera. So naturally I didn’t have all the time in the world to clean the blood off my clothes, but I did have time to grab some tourist shit, dump my shirt behind the alley and change. Must have missed a spot on my hand when I pulled it on.”

“Seems reasonable. Good job, baby.”

She shoved a forkful of eggs in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. "You know, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you're just trying to butter me up so you can face fuck me later."

"Lakey, why would I ever need to butter you up for that? You're mine, doll. I can fuck you ten ways from Sunday and all you'd do is take what I gave you."

She stood, slamming her hands on the table. It'd be comical if I didn't know what her tiny body was capable of. To any outsider, it must have looked ridiculous. This slip of a thing yelling at the huge brooding male across from her. But they didn't know her.

Not like I did.

"Get your ass on that bike. I'll see you at home." Throwing money on the table, she stalked off.

So much for breakfast being on Trixie, I guess.

Oh, yeah. Sex was gonna be fucking lit. I smiled at Trixie, giving her a little wave and watching her chest flush before it reached her cheeks. Hmmm... another day perhaps.

Adjusting my pants, I walked to the door just as my phone buzzed.

Tick-tock, Cameron, this pussy isn’t gonna fuck itself.

Chapter Two: Lakey

That stupid ass motherfucker. I was going to ride his face until he couldn't breathe and then I was going to make him apologize for making me wait.

The wind whipped my hair as I tore down the street, my bike screaming under me, the vibration humming through my thighs in a way that was doing absolutely nothing to help the situation between my legs. Cam had sat across from me at that diner, eating his eggs benny with that smug fucking face, knowing exactly what he was doing when he said the thing about fucking me ten ways from Sunday. Knowing I'd slam my hands on the table. Knowing I'd storm out. Knowing the ride home would wind me up tighter than a spring.

He played me. Every. Single. Time.

And I let him, because the payoff was always worth the performance.

I pulled into the underground, parked, and took the elevator up. My hands were shaking. Not from the ride. From the wanting. From the violence still simmering under my skin from last night that hadn't fully been fucked out of me yet. Cam had tried. When I'd come home covered in blood with the kill video on my phone, he'd stripped me down, put me in the shower, washed every inch of me while I told him what I'd done. Then he'd pulled up the video and fucked me while we watched it together on his phone propped against the headboard.

It should have been enough. It usually was, but last night had been different. Last night I'd killed two people, and the second one had stirred something in me that two rounds with Cam hadn't settled.

The first was Dani. Birthday present. Number twenty-seven.

That kill had been clean. Beautiful and poetic. Three weeks of surveillance. Cam's charm at the bar. Her falling asleep at our apartment because she was stupid enough to trust a man she'd met four hours ago. Then his text:

She's out. Come kill my present.

Followed by that knife emoji that I thought was hilarious and Cam thought was "a liability in our text history." Whatever.

I'd pulled the Cassidy routine when I woke her up. Little sister. Bad nightmares. Drove her to the cliff. Mask, karambits, ritual soap, the whole thing.

"Oh, Cam doesn't like when girls sleep over. He has really bad nightmares and can hurt someone if he has one and they stay over. I'm surprised he didn't mention it."

She looked relieved when I told her. "Thank you so much..."

"Cassidy." I shook her hand and nodded. "Come on, I'll drive you home. I have a bike though, so you'll have to be my backpack."

I did drive her... somewhere. If I had feelings, I'd have felt bad, but I don’t feel bad for women who hurt kids, and I sure as fuck don’t feel bad for home wreckers. She was so chatty, even at 2 a.m. but unfortunately for her, she'd taken the bait. She didn't understand that Cam was devoid of a soul, save for when it came to me, and vice versa.

We'd grown up together. We'd suffered together. We'd bonded together.

In sickness and in health. Though, to be fair, it was not the kind of sickness where you cough and sputter and see a doctor and then a spoonful of medicine makes you feel better. It was the kind of sickness that crawls under your skin and builds scars from the inside out.

But they didn't know that. How could they?