Page 7 of One Love

I’m totally helpless against this person and haven’t got a clue who it could be. They’ve been useful, but also super creepy with their knowledge, and I’m not sure if I want to stab them or hug them when I finally find them. Probably stab them.

An hour later, after I’ve showered and climbed into bed, another message comes through.

Stalker:Goodnight, Stabby Queen.

Me:Fuck off.

Chapter Three

J

“Imiss him.” Hallie’s confession breaks another wilted piece of my heart, especially when her voice breaks on her last word.

“Me too, Hals.” It’s a different type of loss for Hallie and me. I mourn the what-could-have-been while she’s mourning everything she had and will never be able to experience again. His sweet morning smiles, his soul-healing hugs, his wit and his unwavering ability to love without conditions. Mostly, she’ll miss being the center of his existence. One day, I’d like to be that for her. At least one thing is for certain, I will do everything in my power to fulfill that for her.

“Are you going to see him today?” The background noise on her end stops as she speaks, a shrill bell going off somewhere in the distance. “Shoot, I have to get to class.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him you miss him. Go to class and text me when you can.” I want to add a million words before we hang up but each and every one of them is choking me, unable to escape the tightness of my throat.

Today marks exactly one month since we lost Murphy. No, not lost. He was ripped away. Ripped away by savage monsters who thrive on the pain of the innocent.

Marco’s organization may have a shit ton of blood on its hands but we do our best to uphold the rule of not killing the innocent. We certainly don’t kidnap good people to make bad people come out of their hiding holes. Although, the longer Ronan Callaghan stays buried in his safehouse, the more difficult it’s going to be for me to hold up my end of that particular rule.

When Hallie was taken from me at Murphy’s funeral three weeks ago, all I saw for days was red. A veil of hatred and violence flowing freely through my mind. Then, slowly, I began to think about the options. Did I really want her exposed to my life and my job on the daily? No. But I also did not want her to be far away from me. Certainly not fucking Florida, on the opposite end of the fucking coastline. Yet, here we are, having brief conversations when her grandparents aren’t watching her. She texts me late at night and sometimes calls me during the day when she’s in school, like right now—minutes before her first class. It helps that we’re in the same time zone but it’s just not enough for me.

I need to figure out another way to have her near me but also safe. It’s a fucking conundrum.

Padding over to the kitchen for my second cup of coffee, I sigh at the warmer weather making its appearance. April is touch and go in this area but it’s usually a time where we start shedding our winter clothes. So much so, I slept in just my underwear and a cotton tank top. I drop a pod into the machine and lean against the counter just as the buzzer goes off on the intercom. Who the fuck is that? Nobody knows where I live outside of the Reapers and they would text me before showing up.

Out of habit, I grab a gun from the miscellaneous drawer—which isn’t all that miscellaneous to be honest—and swipe my sweatpants off the chair.

Standing to the side of the door, I pick up the receiver to the intercom and wait a beat before speaking.

“Yeah?” I know, I know, original.

“Delivery.” A deep, slightly accented voice murmurs over the line before hanging up.

I didn’t order anything, for obvious digital footprint reasons, so this early Monday morning disturbance is making all the hairs on my body stand up straighter than a virgin cock at a whorehouse.

After placing the receiver back on its holder, I slip on my sweats then push my feet into the old Vans I only wear to go to the mailbox and look out the peephole before opening my door, gun at the ready.

My hallway is empty but for the security cameras that I know store the recent footage somewhere in the basement. I once had Glitch access the footage after a couple of neighbors complained about “hoodlums walking the halls.” Their words, not mine. Turned out it was a bunch of teens hanging out with a friend who lives on the second floor. I swear to fuck, some people are paranoid to the core. Needless to say, no one knows I checked and they never will.

With my keys and phone in my pocket, I close the door behind me, making sure it’s locked and secure before going downstairs. Actually down the stairs, not the elevator. If something is happening right now, I don’t want to be stuck in a metal box and at a disadvantage.

Once I reach the first floor, my senses are on high alert, aware of Mrs. Perry exiting her apartment just across from the main entrance. Turning my body just in time to shove my gun behind the elastic of my sweats at the small of my back, I give her aneutral smile. In all the years I’ve lived here, I haven’t spoken more than ten words to any of the other residents. This woman? Well, she clearly has zero fucks to give about what I do or do not want. In fact, I’m pretty sure she sees me as some kind of kindred spirit, but not in a Petal love-and-rainbows kind of way. Oh, hell no. She’s one vicious broad, and of all the people in the world, she’s one of my favorites. Not that I’d ever tell her that or she might just invite me in to play Bridge with all her other bitchy seniors. Did I mention Mrs. Perry is pushing eighty-five? She’s a widow and, to be honest, I’m not a hundred percent sure she didn’t put him in the grave herself with that viper tongue of hers.

It’s her love language and, clearly, it’s become our own special brand of banter.

“Well, don’t you look like a whore out of business?” What does that even mean? I blink twice at her as she makes her way to the mailboxes, her thick New York accent punctuating every syllable. For her age, she’s surprisingly alert, her cat-eyed glasses—circa nineteen sixty-three—giving her glare an extra punch as she eyes me up and down.

Sure, I’m not exactly dressed to the nines, but sheesh, a whore? Out of business, at that.

“Well, at least I can remember what a cock looks like.” I give her a pointed look, all the while following her walking progression so that my back stays hidden from her.

Mrs. Perry chuckles, one corner of her mouth ticking up. “You’re not the only one.”

I outright grin at her words, not in the least bit surprised that she’s still getting her bigOon at her age. Way to go, grandma. Way to fucking go. But I don’t say that, it would disrupt our regular routine.

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