He pushes inside me in one thrust, every single one of my nerves tingling in delight.
And he shows me exactly what he thinks of my fucking massage.
Since we did the chill before the Netflix, Drake fell asleep in the first ten minutes of the movie he picked.
If he asks, it still counts as his choice because I watched half an hour before I realized he wasn’t awake anymore.
Now, while I’d like to think his falling asleep is down to my epic skills of seduction, I know it’s because he’s overworking. I don’t blame him. I think everyone is. But still—everyone needs sleep, and I know how grouchy he gets when he doesn’t get sleep.
Honestly, tired men are like toddlers. Whiny, grumpy, and needy. Women? No. We get up, guns blazing, and tackle the world as if we’ve slept for days. Men could learn a lot from us.
Although I’m not so much guns-blazing right now. More like coffee-machine-blazing.
The rich scent of fresh beans being crushed fills the kitchen, and I hum to myself as I pull one mug from beneath the machine and set it up again. God, his coffee machine is so much better than mine. I really need to buy one that uses beans instead of pods. Or just steal his.
Somehow I doubt that’ll go down too well.
I add cream and sugar to Drake’s coffee and wait for mine to finish pouring. The quiet sound of a footstep hitting the tiled floor behind me makes my lips twitch, and it grows to a full smile as fingertips trail over the tops of my thighs.
“You know,” Drake murmurs, brushing his lips across the back of my neck, “if it were anyone but you wearing my shirt, I’d be really pissed off.”
“It’s not a clean one.” I roll my eyes and push some hair from my face. “It’s the one you wore yesterday. I know how you get about your shirts.” Plus, this one smells like him. But I’ll never tell him that.
He grins and kisses my jaw. “My shirts are to me what your shoes are to you.”
“Yeah, well, as long as you don’t try slipping into my Louboutins any time soon, I think we’ll be okay.” I meet his eyes and tap the rim of his mug. “That’s yours.”
“Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but I don’t think Louboutins are my style. I can’t imagine looking as sexy in them as you do in my shirt. Even if your hair does look like it was styled by Cousin It.”
I pull my mug from the machine and turn to him with narrowed eyes. “And here I was going for ‘I woke up like this.’”
He pauses with the mug just in front of his mouth. “You mean you didn’t wake up like this?”
“Have you looked in the mirror when you’ve woken up? I think you are Cousin It.” I reach over and tug on a lock of his messy bedhead hair. “You really, really need to get it cut.”
“I know, but I don’t have time. And no, you are not allowed anywhere near my hair with a pair of scissors,” he adds quickly.
“Please. I can just about cut a piece of paper.” I snort. “Mom can do hair though. She still does my brothers’. I’ll ask her to do it on Friday.”
My toasts pops just as he levels his gaze on me.
“You ever realized that I’ve been at dinner every week for the last couple of months?” he asks.
“Uh… Not particularly.” I spread butter on my toast, and it goes all melty just the way I like it. “What’s the point?”
“No point. Just an observation.”
“You don’t have to come to dinner. You know that.”
“I didn’t say that. I just—hang on.” He stops when his phone rings and carries his mug into the front room, where he left it yesterday. “Nash.”
Why would he bring that up? Doesn’t he want to come to dinner? Because he doesn’t have to. It’s not a requirement for dating me. Hell, if I could get out of dinner, I would. Maybe it’s because Amelia and Devin are getting married—eventually—and she doesn’t even go every week.
Oh Jesus. Relationships are hard, man.
“We have to go,” Drake says, downing the rest of his coffee then dropping the mug in the sink.
I wince at the clang as it makes contact with the stainless-steel surface. “Go where? What? When? Huh?”
His lips thin, and he doesn’t even need to say the words. I already know.
Victim number four.
Tracey Young: thirty-two years old, a married mother of three, and an English literature professor at the University of Texas. Also the wife of Daniel Young, the lawyer I followed just last week.
And my nine o’clock appointment today.
I guess she won’t be needing that anymore.
Her body was called in by the farmer this morning. Since the original crime scenes were cleared, he went to the field to see what damage control he could do and if he could allow his animals back in. He got his answer fairly swiftly, finding her body in much the same way Toni’s and Melissa’s were found.
By the time we arrive at the scene, it’s already surrounded by yellow tape and police officers are crawling the surrounding areas, presumably searching in case there’s another body like before.
I hope to hell there isn’t another body.
Please don’t let there be another body.
I call the office, tell Grecia that I won’t be in all day, and have her put me through to Carlton. I ask him to get me everything he can on Tracey Young, specifically her religion, and he hangs up without saying goodbye. I’ll be surprised if I don’t have it by the end of the day.
I haven’t seen Tracey’s body. Call me a wimp or a loser or whatever, but I already know what it’ll look like. She’ll have runes carved into her body, she’ll be stabbed, and she’ll be naked, lying on top of a pentagram that’s been burned into the ground.
I also know that, when Tim does her autopsy, he’ll find belladonna in her stomach and she’ll have been raped by two people. It’s just a formality now, isn’t it? Four bodies. All the same.
My theory of nine victims is getting realer and realer… And scarier.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I open Carlton’s message.
Borrowed from the college server. She was Catholic. Working on the rest.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Just for one moment, in the midst of the chaos of the crime scene, everything goes quiet. Until my mind screams at me and reminds me that standing here isn’t going to help with this.
“Brody.” I walk up behind my little brother and touch his arm.
“What’s up? You won’t vomit or cut yourself again, will you?” He turns around, a somber look on his face despite his teasing tone.
“Shut up.” So I don’t like being reminded of my idiocies. Whatever. “Do you know where Drake is? It’s important.”
He points toward the tent, a cruel yet amused glint in his eye.
“Uh…” I hesitate, staring at the white fabric.
“I’ll get him.” He snorts and ducks into the tent.
I clasp my hands in front of my stomach and wring them. It seems like forever until Drake comes out, followed by Brody.
“What is it?” Drake asks, stopping in front of me.
“She was Catholic,” I say quietly.
Drake takes a deep breath and drops his eyes to the ground. “Fuck. I’d hoped…” He sighs out his breath. “I’d hoped she wasn’t. That it was coincidence.”
I shake my head slowly, and in a small voice, I say, “It’s a religious hate crime. Or, at least, it’s been turned into one.”
He clenches his jaw and looks away. His eyes are hard, his upper body taut, and I can almost see the frustration as it settles on his shoulders and seeps into his body.
“What are you doing today?” he asks.
I shrug one shoulder. “Whatever I’m needed to, I guess.”
He digs in his pocket for his keys and, finally looking back at me, throws them to me.
I barely catch them against my chest. “What are these for?”
“Go to your parents’. Don’t leave until I get there,” he orders me, his icy eyes chilling with their ferocity. “Got it?”