Page 14 of Be Mine

The warm palm snakes around the base of my neck, and I can just tell it’s not Emmett. And for some strange reason, I leaninto the solid body, letting his heat envelop me. His scent is clean and crisp, like linens out to dry on the line, but there’s a hint of leather adding an element of danger.

My heart tumbles in my chest because it knows who this person is. I feel it deep in my marrow. It’s my secret admirer. The man who has taunted and terrorized me all day, and now he’s here to claim me.

His hot breath dances across my face, the gentle brush of his lips against my cheek, coasting along my jaw until he reaches my ear. My skin prickles as he whispers, “I’ve sat around and watched others have their turn for long enough.”

A searing pain explodes in my neck and my knees buckle beneath me. I think I moan or cry out, but I can’t be sure. Sagging against the body holding me firmly to them, my head tilts up, and the last thing I see is blue.

Chapter Eleven

Frankie

My heavy eyes open momentarily. I try to take in my surroundings, but my head is swimming. And fuck, why does it feel so heavy? It swirls and bobs like my neck doesn’t have the strength to keep it upright.Happy Togetherby The Turtlesplays over the radio, Noah tapping on the steering wheel in time with the beat. The motion of the truck swaying back and forth as it navigates the road is making me nauseous. Licking my lips, my mouth is so parched I wouldkillfor a drop of water right now. I wrestle my eyelids with everything I have, fighting to find the strength to keep them open, but they refuse to cooperate, and sleep overtakes me.

The jerk of the truck being thrown into park shocks me awake. The song has switched toHooked on a Feelingby Blue Swede,each high note they hit feeling like lightning zapping through my brain. My brain that feels twice the normal size and too large for my skull.

The truck rocks as the tailgate is lowered. It takes everything in me to turn and look out the rear window. My insides knot and I gag, a splash of acid assaulting the back of my throat. Noah drags a heavy item wrapped in thick garbage bags and duct tape out of the bed of the truck. The vehicle bounces ashe hoists it over his shoulder and walks it into a garage. My eyes follow him, trying to keep up with his rapid movements.

I watch as he dumps what I am assuming is a dead body unceremoniously onto a workbench. Dusting his hands off, he pulls the rolling door down and walks back towards where we’re parked.

He catches me staring at him, his eyes narrowing behind those glasses, and that’s when my fight or flight instincts kick in. I’m grasping at the handle to jerk it open, but fuck, it’s jammed. I shove hard with my shoulder, the door gives way, and I tumble from the truck, landing hard on the icy driveway.

My shoulder and hip take the brunt of the force, but I waste no time laying there. My nails scrape along the ground, trying to gain purchase and push myself up. I’m unsteady on my feet. Whatever he injected me with swimming through my veins, but I dig in with all I have and run. My legs feel like jelly, and I know I’m running like a drunk mad woman, stumbling up the road, but I press on.

It feels like seconds, and he’s caught up to me, body slamming into mine. He wraps his thick arm around my waist and hoists me up with ease.

I scream and kick, hoping the heavy heel of my shoe collides with something. His arm bands tighter around my midsection while his free hand wraps around my face, pressing firmly against my mouth, silencing me.

“Shhh...” he breathes against my ear. I respond by biting down, hard, on the fleshy part of his palm, breaking skin, his blood instantly flooding my mouth. He doesn’t flinch or lose his grip on me, only chuckles as he carries me back the way we came.

Twisting and wriggling in his hold, I try to break free, but his grasp doesn’t waver. I can feel myself fighting with consciousness again. Everything feels like it’s happening in slowmotion, but I try to keep my eyes open long enough to take stock of the area. Streetlamps. Wartime homes. White Ford pickup. Red brick. Stone steps with wrought iron railing. Three twenty-two beside the door under the porch light.

Three twenty-two.

Three twenty-two.

Three twenty-two.

I chant the house number in my head over and over again until I’m sure it’s permanently burned in my memory.

A wave of nausea begins to creep its way up my esophagus. The muscles in my throat try to work it down, but it’s no use. I began to thrash, screaming behind Noah’s hand to warn him, but he ignores my desperate plea. I spew vomit violently, the contents of my stomach emptying itself, the burn of the alcohol returning with vengeance. Noah pulls his hand away, but it’s too late. It’s all over him, all over myself, and all over his front steps. I continue to retch, dangling in his arms until my insides twist painfully, and I slump against his chest. I’m panting from the exertion, my head swaying back and forth, but I can’t help but smile. Good luck cleaning up that bit of DNA before it freezes, fucker. It’s an incredibly satisfying thought before the lights go out again.

Chapter Twelve

Noah

Emmett lays discarded on my workbench. His body cold and stiffening as rigor mortis begins to set in. I get to work, peeling back layers of industrial-grade garbage bags that he is carefully wrapped in.

His eyes already have a milky film forming over them. I could have closed them after choking the life out of him, but even in death I wanted him to witness what I was doing. He laid hands on her, and I know he had ill intent. I could practically hear his wicked thoughts across the crowded bar as I watched the ways his eyes feasted on her, imagining her in compromising positions only a lover should see. It was a damning mistake, one that cost him his life.

Grabbing my scissors from the hook hanging above his body, I begin to cut off his clothes, starting with his shirt. The shears glide along the material in that satisfying way, revealing his tattoo-covered chest. A jumble of meaningless ink, blended together to imitate one giant canvas. It’s tacky and tasteless. The only work of art here will be when his pathetic body is chopped up into fragments so small, he’s indistinguishable.

With his articles of clothing discarded into a burn pile, I begin to poke and prod his corpse, trying to discern the best course of action here. Dismembering a body is muchmore difficult than they make it out to be in the movies. The muscles, tendons, and bones aren’t nearly as relenting. It’s also incredibly messy. An abundance of bleach will be needed as a countermeasure during clean-up.

I pull my reciprocating saw from my toolbox, checking the battery life to ensure it can sustain the effort, and pull the large garbage pail close. I’ll start with his extremities, then move on to the torso. Last to go will be his head, ‘cause like I said—I want him present for the show.

I call out to my Bluetooth to playSpirit in The Skyby Norman Greenbaum. I like to think of it as my kill song. It’s my favorite to play as I seek out retribution.

I find solace in music; it’s been the one constant in my life when so many other aspects have been tumultuous. Music calms the storm inside me.

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