Page 17 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

I bite my lip and shake my head. “I was an asshole.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You’re always an asshole. It’s one of the reasons we love you.”

“No. I said some really cruel things to him last night. I slapped him.”

“You always slap him. That’s another one of the reasons he loves you. He likes it rough. Believe me, I should know,” she says, and there’s a strange, protective surge that slams through me. I must give the game away, because a cocky grin splits her face. “What’s wrong? Jealous?”

I narrow my eyes. “Cry, bye, die.”

She snorts out a laugh and shakes her head like I’m the mostamusing thing in the world, before leaning in and giving me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Can I be honest with you?” I shrug, because I don’t have much say in the matter. “Is this about us going home for the wedding?”

“What would that have to do with anything?”

She looks away, staring at what must be a particularly fascinating selection of vacant wall space. “I just thought you might be worried about what people will think.” It isn’t lost on me that she doesn’t mention my boyfriends. They’re a big part of the reason I’m worried, but they’re not the biggest reason.

My body is a bundle of nerves. A hundred little live wires, all sparking and firing inside me. I don’t know how I’ll explain our situationship to my parents. They won’t understand the dynamic of our relationship, and I can’t exactly tell them it’s because he’s my kidnapper.

There’s also the cold hard fact I’ll have to spend two weeks without his finger inside me, slowly fucking me on an endless loop throughout the day. Despite what I told him last night, I’m pretty sure I have Stockholm syndrome, and even worse, I think I kind of like it. Both my heart and my hole are empty, and they’re screaming to be filled. How am I going to make it for two weeks without him inside me? It’s barely been eight hours, and I already feel like an empty shell.

“I’m going to find him,” I say to Fee. “Put some clothes on, you look like a raggamuffin.”

She stares down at her sleeping ensemble—a faded white shirt, insisting weJust Say No. A bit ironic, considering the first two months of our friendship, she and Abi mostly kept me drugged in a dissociative state—at my own request, if Abi is to be believed—but I’m not going to risk life and limb by pointing that out.

“You don’t like this shirt?” She lifts it, exposing a few inches of her brown skin. “Kincaid’s never had any complaints. He used to say he liked the way my tits look when I wear it.” Letting go of the shirttail, she cups her unnecessarily largebreasts and gives them a shake. “He liked to slide his dick between them when I put this shirt on. He would rut between them long enough to give me a pearl necklace.” Releasing the hold she has on her breasts, she softly taps my hip, motioning for me to hop up. Once I’m off her lap, she stands and stretches, her arms extended well over her head as she lets out an obnoxious yawn. “He hasn’t touched me in months, Tatum. Not since the night we killed Scotty’s dad. Doesn’t that tell you something? He adores you, and I love you enough to let him go.”

Guilt rises in my gut like acid reflux, working its way up my throat until all I taste is scorching bile. “I didn’t ask you to stop fucking him.”

“I never said you did. You didn’t have to ask anything. I care about you, whether you choose to believe it or not. Your happiness matters to me, and so does his.” She bridges the distance between us and pulls me in for a quick hug. “Now, go on. Say your morning prayers, and then go find him. I’m going to head across the street and let the farmer watch me masturbate.”

Her absurd daily agenda aside, Fee has a point. If there’s any chance at salvaging this hellish morning, I need to commune with my lord and savior.The Goddess.Opening the only closet in our cabin, I kneel at her altar.

My prayer closet is something Abi set up as soon as we moved in, much to Fiona’s annoyance. She complained for an hour straight about our small home and lack of storage space. I didn’t ask him to set up a shrine to my personal deity, but he did so anyway.

Inside the closet, a small hot-pink TV dinner tray stands proudly with a pink picture frame in the center. On either side of the photo is a rose-scented candle. I grab the bedazzled lighter Abi bought for me shortly after we met and light both wicks, inhaling deeply, wanting to smell the familiar tranquil scent.

And as I breathe in the soon-to-be rose-scented air, I smile at the autographed photo of my queen. My goddess. MyRinna.

“Television’s Lisa Rinna, who art in Beverly Hills, hallowedbe your name,” I whisper, making a sign of the cross on my chest. I wasn’t raised Catholic—and thank the Goddess for that. I mean, could you imagine me living out their ridiculous expectations of a chaste life due to my homosexuality? Fuck-to-the-no—so I’m not entirely sure if I’ve done it correctly, but Rinna knows my heart, and I’m sure she’d forgive me for getting it wrong. “I come to you seeking patience, guidance, and a calm heart, my queen.”

There’s movement behind me, but I don’t turn around. The front door opens, then closes. One thing I will give Fee credit for is her unconditional friendship. She’s never shamed me for my silly, made-up religion. She’s never asked me to explain why I pray to a reality television star. It’s as if she knows it’s a triggering topic, so she avoids it at all costs.

I was raised a Baptist, just like Scotty. Having grown up three homes away from each other, we were fast friends. After his father sent him to conversion camp, I begged my parents to send me too, just so I could keep an eye on him. As left-leaning progressives, they didn’t understand why I would willingly subject myself to conversion therapy, but even back then I’d do just about anything to make sure my biffle was safe. The month we spent at Heartlight Ridge was the single worst month of my life, and I came out of the experience with a festering resentment toward Christianity. It’s hard to praise the Lord when he allows his followers to bully children for the way they were born.

So, I constructed my own religion. I missed having a sense of connection with a higher power, but none of the ones I researched tickled my fancy. I tried worshiping nature as a Wiccan, but then I learned potions and spells weren’t real, so I lost interest. After that, I dabbled with the Greek gods, but the more I learned of them, the less eager I became to pledge them my eternal soul. Then I readThe Song of Achillesand realized those gods and goddesses are fucking assholes. Thank you, Madeline Miller, for leading me from temptation with your powerful and passionate prose. With no other deities at mydisposal, I improvised by purchasing a signed headshot of my favorite Real Housewife, Lisa Rinna, off eBay. The day it came in, I framed it, and I began my two-year celestial relationship.

“I need your help, Lisa Rinna. I’ve done something I don’t know how to take back.” My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I power on the screen, I see Fee has sent me a picture of Abi and myself. It’s not a new photo; just one she took a few months back. In it, I’m wearing the same shirt I’ve got on now, scowling something fierce. But Abi? Abi’s staring at me like I’m the center of the universe. Like I’ve somehow made his world bigger and brighter by simply allowing him within orbit.

I give Rinna one final, parting smile before blowing out my candles and shutting the closet door. Abi’s waiting, and I have an apology to give. Once I’m outside, the warm sun feels fantastic against my skin. There’s no one to be found in the parking lot or the surrounding grounds.

The Winawana Wagon House leaves much to be desired. In theory, it should be a lovely lakeside tourist destination. And perhaps it could have been, had our band of murderous bastards not taken up residence. The front office is cute enough on the outside. Festive blue vinyl siding. A gorgeous little flowerbed, packed with roses of every color; my doing, thank you very much. The office itself should be sectioned off with crime scene tape, though. Bullets line the ceiling, sending light fractals shimmering in like a tapestry of stars. The bullet holes are from Scotty, Brody, and occasionally the motel’s manager, Barb. They take their card games very seriously, you see.

Around the office, four small cabins line the property. There’s the one Abi, Fee, and I share, and we’re right next to Scotty and Brody’s cabin. Off toward the forest, there’s a third cabin that’s been repurposed as a weapon shed of sorts. Finally, there’s Ol’ Smokey, the final cabin on the lot. Inside, there’s an old-timey electric chair Barb had lying in storage. It isn’t plugged in, and I’m not sure if it’s functional, but I’m always on my best behavior around her, just in case.

I shuffle over to Scotty’s humble abode and poke my head in the door, but the room is empty. Well, not empty, exactly. Brody’s latest target—a homophobic GOP congressional frontrunner—is tied up in the corner, wearing drag makeup, pink panties, and a ballgag with a rainbow-colored strap. The person who paid to have him killed requested he be shown the wonders of the rainbow first, so Brody and Scotty have been fucking each other for his viewing displeasure all week. The man locks eyes with me, disgust heavy in his expression, staring at theAbi’s Boyshirt I’m wearing. Whatever slander he’s spewing right now, the words are muffled by his mouth gag. I flip him off and mutter, “Hope you cry, hope you die,” before exiting the cabin and heading across the lot.

Once I make it to the motel’s lobby, I shove the door open with the strength of ten-thousand flaming queens. Inside, Scotty is sitting in Brody’s lap at the table, delivering what I can only assume is the death blow in their silly little card game. His pink suitcase is resting snugly between the side of Brody’s foot and the leg of the table. I’m tempted to turn and walk away so I don’t get roped into Scotty’s ridiculous tabletop RPG. Goddess knows he forced me to play it endlessly when we were still in Texas. Brody’s hand is under Scotty’s shirt, slowly stroking his stomach like he’s a lap dog needing cuddles. And there, sure as sunrise, rests Abdulov Konstantin Kincaid, looking emotionally battered. His eyes are red like he’s been crying, but knowing my gargantuan stalker, he’s probably chalking it up to seasonal allergies.

I want to go to him and throw myself at his feet, begging for mercy. If he were alone, maybe I would. But I can’t when Scotty is right here to witness. All these conflicting, confusing feelings I have for Abi—I’m not ready to share them yet. They’re mine. So, rather than throw myself at him, I lift my hand and give him a nervous wave.

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