Page 23 of XO Karma

Go home, take an hour-long shower, prep for operation shit stoop, and avoid a run-in with a potential serial killer.

Follow Aster and see if I catch him doing anything suspicious.

Public recon is way less risky than going to his house again… Cursing under my breath, I cross the street, attempting nonchalance. As nonchalant as a person can be while carrying around a ten-pound bag of dog crap. If this were a cartoon, those green little squiggles would be floating off me to form a cloud.

Peeking through the tinted window, I spot Aster filling a cup at the soda machine.

My face scrunches as he presses the Dr. Pepper button. Who the hell drinks Dr Pepper?

“Excuse me,” a frail voice says, and I turn to find a smiling old woman. Her hair is frizzy, clothes tattered, and there are dirt smudges on her face. “Do you have a couple of bucks to spare?”

I glance back inside. Aster’s still finishing his drink, seemingly searching for a lid. My bleeding heart has me reaching in my purse and pulling out a twenty. “Here you go,” I say with a gentle smile.

“Oh, bless you, sweetheart.” Her eyes well with tears, and my chest cracks in half. It’s simply unfair how so many of us have the wealth of never knowing what it’s like to go hungry, and another’s life is changed by twenty damn dollars. Twenty dollars can be enough that they eat today. Find fresh water. Get the medication they need to survive.

The woman walks away, and I return to my sleuthing only to discover the soda machine now lacks a bystander. Shit. My chest tightens, gaze panicked, as I stumble along the wall, continuing to search the store through the long window. He’s nowhere in⁠—

My body slams into a hard wall, and I yelp as freezing cold liquid covers my chest, seeping into my pores.

“What the—” a gruff male voice says, and my eyes widen when our gazes meet. “Ah.” He smirks. “I was wondering when I’d run into you again.” Aster Blake, all dripping in sex 6’5 of him, stands before me, clutching a busted Styrofoam cup now lacking liquid. Because it’s all over me. My mouth opens and shuts, unable to conjure up a single word. He’s caught me. He’s caught me, and I’m his next victim. “I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘I’m sorry,’” he snarks, snapping me out of my panic spiral.

“I’m sorry?” I huff, backpedaling and glancing at my white T-shirt that’s now transparent. “You’re the one who should be sorry.”

“Me?” he scoffs, shaking the liquid off his hand and throwing the remainder of the busted cup into a nearby trash can. “You ran into me.”

“Mmmm. I don’t recall it happening that way.” My heart pounds. Has my cover been blown? Did he catch me staring through the window? His eyes fall to my chest—my now exposed chest—and the corner of his lips quirk as his gaze returns to mine.

Murderer, Lily! This man’s a cold-blooded killer. Allegedly.

“This is my favorite shirt,” I say, referring to the white baby tee with the words “Love me and burn down the world” across it.

“Mine now too,” he replies, but I don’t miss the way his eyes remain on mine, not dropping once. His nose scrunches, and he glances around us but says nothing. Oh my god. Panic seizes my muscles. He smells the poop pack.

“Well.” I clear my throat, backing away and taking the putrid stench with me. “It was lovely seeing you again. I’m gonna go find a wet T-shirt contest to enter.”

He chuckles, the sound far too beautiful for someone whose extracurriculars would involve chopping someone into tiny pieces. “Wait.”

Pausing mid spin, I meet his gaze. He opens his messenger bag and digs around, then pulls a piece of fabric out and tosses it my way. Catching it, I let it fall open, finding a black T-shirt with a white Death tarot card on it. “Maybe it’ll be your new favorite.” He winks, turning to walk off before I can utter another word.

I’m left standing there with crap on my back, the shirt from a potential sexy serial killer in my hands, and my mind entirely empty. For the second time today, I find myself asking, How the hell did we get here?

A branch stabs into my side as I crouch behind a thick bush, sweat dripping down my mask-covered face while awaiting the front porch light to turn off. Come on, let’s get this show on the road. Thirty minutes have passed, but it feels like days due to the rotting feces in the brown paper bag before me. I’ve tossed in wood chips and added a handful of dryer lint for flammability. The target’s porch is void of plants, so low risk of flames spreading. The lighter is burning a hole in my pocket, because if I must smell this rank for another minute, I will absolutely be adding puke to the mix.

A rustling in the neighbor’s bushes causes me to jump, my heart in my throat. I remain absolutely still. So still I could be mistaken for a statue in a wax museum. It was likely a bird or rodent, but there’s a tingle skating across my skin that I only have when eyes are on me. Another snap of a twig, and I scan my surroundings. Nothing. The squeaking of a fence gate has me sucking in a breath once more, and I gag instantly, then crane my neck for a single molecule of fresh air.

Rolling my shoulders, I try to shake off the anxiety.

All the stalking has made me paranoid.

And after the run-in with Aster, bump that paranoia to a thousand. That’s what I get for going off-script.

The one single time I choose spontaneity, and he catches me wet-T-shirt-handed. And was still so damn charming. When his gaze fell to my chest in appreciation, I should’ve told him to stop being pervy. Instead I wanted to drop to my knees and bark like a fucking dog.

I am pathetic.

A pathetic, touch-starved, sex-deprived loser.

My mind wanders back to his darkroom. That’s where I’ll end up if I get caught. Just another photo on his drying line.