Page 11 of Skin Deep

River came over and pushed us apart before I could punch Xander like he deserved. At least Xavier was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

“What other guy?” River demanded.

I sighed and drew a hand over my face. “Some vigilante, okay? He knew one of the victims. And I didn’t fuck him. I didn’t doanythingwith him.”

“Except watch him shower and make out in the bathroom,” Xander teased.

“For the last fucking time, I didn’t fucking make out with him, and making sure he didn’t leave with blood on him is part of my fucking job, god dammit!”

“If watching people shower is your job, how come you never watch us shower?” Xander pointed out.

“Ew. Please don’t,” Xavier said, wrinkling his nose. “Xander’s right. That’s creepy.”

I slapped the back of Xander’s head. “I don’t have to watch you idiots because you know the drill. And what happened to not fucking saying anything, huh?”

“You should know better than to trust Xander to keep a secret, War,” River advised.

“God dammit,” I snarled. “Since when was everyone so damn interested in my sex life? Can we please focus on the body? Some of us have shit to do.”

“Gladly,” River added. “The last thing I want to think about is War doing anything with anybody.”

I rolled my eyes and followed them into the funeral parlor. If I’d had it my way, I would’ve already been back in my BMW heading home, but procedure said I had to visually verify he went into the cremator.

Once I verified the body was in the cremator and it was running, I left River in charge and made the forty-five-minute drive back to Worthington and my empty house in the suburbs. By then, it was almost three, and I knew I should be trying to sleep, but it felt pointless.

Everything did.

What the fuck am I even doing any more?I ran my fingers over my lower stomach, still sitting behind the wheel of my BMW.

I wasn’t the type of person who messed around with random guys I barely knew. Was I that desperate to feel something?

Eight months ago, I’d moved back to Ohio from Florida. I’d told everyone that I was starting over, that I was the one leaving Ken because he’d cheated on me, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. He was the one who’d kicked me to the curb, ending our relationship of three years. He’d said he wanted someone more exciting. Something more. It wasn’t the first time he’d cheated. I wanted to be happy that he’d found someone who made him happy. Instead, I spent way too many hours scrolling through his social media, looking at pictures of my ex with his new fiancé, fantasizing about how I wanted to kill them both.

I went inside and took off my shirt to stand in front of the mirror, pinching my arms and frowning at my flat chest and stomach. No matter how much I worked out and dieted, I didn’t seem to be able to carve out any abs or decent pecs. I’d tried a hundred diets, dozens of workout routines, even hiring a personal trainer, but I couldn’t. It was like my body refused to let me shape it into what I wanted it to look like.

Maybe I should cut my hair again. At least then I’d look a little less androgynous.

But I liked my wavy blond hair, or at least I used to. Now I wasn’t so sure if there was anything I liked about myself. Why would someone like Ken want a waifish, weakling like me? I didn’t blame him for tossing me out in favor of a younger, hotter boyfriend. I wouldn’t choose me either.

I shaved quickly before reaching to turn off the light. Without thinking, I flipped it back on. Then off. On and off, on and off. Four, five, six…Or wait, was that seven? Dammit, I had to start again. One, two, three…

Dammit, the stress of the night and lack of sleep had me in a loop. Even though I knew it was a pointless superstition, I had to do it. If I didn’t turn the bathroom light on and off thirteen times after a shower, someone was going to find out. They’d find evidence and link me to the crime, or they’d implicate one of my brothers, and I couldn’t allow that.

Logically, I knew there was no correlation between the number of times I turned on and off the light switch and whether or not we went to prison for our crimes, but logic wasn’t part of the package when it came to my disorder.

A lot of people thought obsessive-compulsive disorder was a quaint term for being a neat freak, but it was far from it. My life was full of intrusive thoughts, nonsensical rituals, and a near maddening need for order and routine. If one thing, even something small, changed, it made all my symptoms worse, so I had to be careful to stick to my routine as much as possible.

Paxton’s interference had been a wild change in routine. He’d thrown everything off. I needed to regain control of myself and forget about him.

I went for a run with Madonna in my ears. My younger brothers liked to laugh at my musical preferences, but the upbeat pop music never failed to put me in a better mood, and I’d always preferred female vocalists. Maybe it was because of the way Tatty used to listen to it when I was younger. One of my fondest memories as a boy was watching Vogue on MTV and trying to imitate the dance poses.

Yeah, I knew I was gay early in life. What I didn’t know was how dangerous that was when you were the grandson of Simeon the Immortal, the most feared Russian mobster in the Midwest.

I put in four miles in half an hour, did some squats, lunges, sit ups, and pushups before taking yet another shower and dressing for work while the news played in the background. I barely registered the stories as the news anchors read them out loud. They were always the same. Murder, rape, assault, fires. If any of them were particularly interesting, they’d come up again at the weekly family meeting and I’d be tasked with coming up with a plan to deal with whoever needed to go away. Permanently. Yuri, Tatty, and Annie helped, but they’d been a lot more hands off ever since Uncle Sacha died. Yuri wanted to retire, and I didn’t blame him, but I also wasn’t looking forward to having to step into his shoes full time.

The breaking news music played, and I glanced over at the screen. The news ticker along the bottom read: RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN. I frowned and turned up the TV so I could listen while I tied my tie.

Someone they were calling the Olentangy River Ripper had been evading law enforcement for almost two years now. It was a stupid name, one meant to invoke the eponymous Jack the Ripper, but they had almost nothing in common. The Whitechapel Murders that Jack was famous for had targeted prostitutes.

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