Page 32 of Kiss the Villain

I buy the strongest-smelling bag of coffee beans, and as I pay, Carson inches away. He’s methodical and could apply for a position as a professional stalker if he weren’t already a rich kid with his entire blood-filled future set at birth.

To make his session worthwhile, I take a tour around the town center. And because small talk and typical human interactions seem to suck the soul out of him, I indulge in lengthy conversations about fuck knows what.

I want to see a pen snapping again, metaphorically, in his head.

Snub as many neurons as possible. Even if the whole ordeal boresmeto tears.

By the end of the day, I feel like I’ve drained him enough. Like a kid, he’ll retreat to his bed, probably fantasizing about killing me in the most painful way possible.

I smile as I walk to the large building where I’m renting an apartment.

Gareth stops near the oak tree across the street like he always does, and I pull out my phone while walking into the building.

Jethro

This is child’s play.

Me

I know.

And you’re enjoying this?

Surprisingly, yes. What do you think he’ll do next?

Hire someone to kill you or do the honors himself.

Don’t get my hopes up.

This is fucking crazy, man.

I prefer entertaining.

This entire thing is a waste of time. Just get back to the States.

Not yet.

I’m still staring at my exchange with Jethro when my phone rings.

Grant, my brother, is calling. Three times today.

He’s annoyingly clingy and staggeringly persistent. I’ll give him that.

I click Ignore and walk into the apartment.

The space is huge but sparse, deliberately so, with clean lines and a minimalist design that leaves no room for profiling. The floors are dark hardwood, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the cold, clinical light from the overhead fixtures. The walls are painted in muted grays and blacks, devoid of decoration, save for a few abstract pieces of art that came with the house.

A single leather sofa sits in the center of the living area, its sharp angles matching the rest of the decor, too perfect to be comfortable.

The only trace of warmth is the scent of lavender. It presses on my chest like a fucking weight and I inhale it into my lungs before spitting it back out.

Turning on my vinyl record player, I wait until Bruckner’s Symphony No. 7’s mellow notes fill the space before I head to the kitchen.

I methodically grind the beans and then take my time brewing the coffee. The strong fragrance overpowers the lavender, smothering it, and I just stand there.

Watching the coffee dripping into the cup in synch with the music.

Drip.

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