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Was I still suicidal? I’d invited a serial killer into my life, so you be the judge.
I showered, got dressed, brushed my wet hair, and went downstairs to eat something. The moment I turned into the kitchen, I saw someone standing near the fridge, studying what was inside, and I froze, nearly jumping out of my skin at the same time.
But it wasn’t the man in my nightmares. It was just Brett, and when he noticed me, he straightened his back out and shut the fridge, asking, “What?” The t-shirt he wore was tight around his shoulders, though a bit looser on his stomach. The jeans, I hated to notice, hugged his ass pretty well.
“Nothing,” I told him, feeling odd even though this was my kitchen, not his. “I just didn’t think you’d be here.” I went to make myself some coffee; I normally wasn’t a fan of the taste, but after that nightmare, I think I needed to load myself up before heading to class.
“Your parents are gone, so I figured why not?”
I said not a word as I put a new cup into the Keurig. I turned to toss out the old cup and grab myself a mug from the upper cabinet near the sink, but when I turned, I almost rammed myself into Brett’s chest. The man had come closer, and he hadn’t made a single sound.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, cocking his head at me, those blue eyes intrusive as they examined me. “You look a little pale.”
I had to step around him to toss the old K-cup away. “That’s just my normal ghost-like complexion,” I muttered, moving to the cup cabinet near the sink. I pried it open.
My choice mug was on the third shelf. A stupid little mug that had a stupid little saying on it about mornings and not giving a fuck until coffee was had—ironic it was my favorite mug since I didn’t drink coffee every day, but I thought it was kind of funny.
And my dad always liked putting it up high when he emptied the dishwasher. My mom, at least, was careful to put it on the second shelf, which I could reach.
I stood on my tiptoes and stretched an arm toward the mug, coming up a few inches short. Just three inches more, and I’d have it. If I would’ve grown a little taller, I wouldn’t have such silly problems. I needed a damned stool in the kitchen. Short people problems.
Brett must’ve realized I wanted that particular mug, because after watching me fail to reach for it, he came up behind me, leaned over me, and easily plucked the mug out of the lineup of cups and glasses.
Still standing right behind me, and therefore boxing me in against the counter, he offered me the mug. “It must suck being so short you can’t do things for yourself.”
Snatching the mug out of his hand, I turned around and craned my neck back to meet his smug expression. “I can do things,” I told him. “I can do lots of things.” My voice quieted. “Just not that.”
The arm that had reached for the cup now leaned against the counter to my right, boxing me in. “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep better at night? No offense, Charlie, but it seems like you’re as helpless as a wet cat in a paper bag.”
I narrowed my eyes up at him. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t. A wet cat could get out of a paper bag—the bag would get wet from the cat and therefore make it easier to escape—” I stopped explaining my reasoning when his expression darkened. He could be intimidating when he wanted to be. Guess that went hand in hand with being a serial killer.
“Maybe it’s as useless as a wet cat in a paper bag,” Brett muttered, his mouth tugging into a frown. He acted like he didn’t care about how close he stood to me, how his one arm boxed me in and I pretty much had nowhere to go. Totally unbothered by it.
“That makes more sense, sort of.”
“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to nitpick a serial killer?”
I swallowed, feeling so immeasurably small compared to him. Two of me could fit inside him. Maybe even three. He was so much taller than me, so much wider, so much stronger… and here I was, alone with him, and he’d just mentioned how helpless I was.
Brett wasn’t someone you wanted to be helpless around.
“I must’ve missed that lecture,” I whispered.
“That ain’t good,” he said. That frown of his turned upward, replaced by a devious smile. “Because if you enlist a serial killer’s help and then constantly correct him, he might decide not to help you…” His low voice trailed off.
My breath caught. “But—”
“I’m kidding. I’m only kidding.” His smile grew wider after that, though that smile never reached his eyes. Those blue eyes were ice cold, like shards ready to stab, and if I wasn’t already backed up against the counter, I would’ve tried to step back and put more space between us.
Brett was dangerous. I couldn’t forget that. I couldn’t treat him the same as everybody else. I had to be careful with him, otherwise… otherwise he might snap and kill me, finish what he’d tried to do in that motel, that first day. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel his hands wrapped around my neck, squeezing the life out of me.
Brett continued to stare at me, that smirk never leaving his face. “You know, I think I could go for some coffee, too.” He stepped forward, taking the remaining space between us in the process, and he leaned over me to grab another mug from the cabinet, pressing his whole body against me.
“Didn’t your parents ever tell you about personal space?” I asked, having to turn my head to the side so it wouldn’t be burning into his chest. He’d gone for the cabinet with his other arm, his left; the one on my right still trapped me, almost like he wastryingto… to invade my space or something.
