Page 26 of Psycho Killers

"Where the fuck have you two been? And fuck, when did you get out of the hospital? We've all been waiting for you to call and never heard a fucking word," she sneers, clearly livid, but I can't tell if it's at both of us or just Ash.

"I've had a long, rough night, Cali. Can we talk in the morning?" Ash asks, defeat lacing his soft tone. "I promise I'll tell you everything."

"Fine, let's get some sleep, but I expect you to keep your fucking word, Ash. We didn't go through fucking hell and back just to drift apart over some bullshit." She leans in and kisses my cheek, flashing a small smile as she locks her fingers around Ash's wrist, pulling him with her as she walks away, disappearing down the dark hallway.

I collapse on the couch, sitting in the dark. The only light is the flicker of my zippo as I use the flame to spark another joint, needing to relax so I can get some fucking sleep. I lean my head against the top of the couch, my mind running a fucking muck.

Did I get myself in way over my fucking head when I joined them in their fight for justice?

FOURTEEN

CONFESSIONS

CONFESSIONS PART II: USHER

CALISTA

Having Ash home feels different this time. His usual openness and honesty struck a discordant note within me when he arrived in secrecy, leaving us in suspense with his silence. When I looked into his eyes last night, the comforting warmth I typically found there was absent. Instead, I saw a shadowy depth mingled with shame or denial—it was difficult to decipher.

Even though I felt hurt by his actions, it didn’t keep me from curling up with him in his room on his first night back. Words eluded us; we shared an unspoken understanding. Each time I stole a glance at him, his eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, devoid of emotion. And though he remained silent, his expression conveyed a weight of unspoken truths.

Throughout the night, I lay awake, consumed by questions about what transpired during the brief moments between his release and his return home, though I kept those thoughts to myself. As dawn nudges its way through the frayed blanket draped over the window, his gentle snores envelope me in asoothing rhythm, compelling me to turn onto my side and watch him sleep like I've done so many times before.

His once sun-kissed skin has turned pale, rendering the bruises, scars, and track marks more pronounced. I reach out, running my fingers softly over one of his tattoos on his forearm, delighting in how goosebumps prickle his skin at my touch. He doesn't awaken, though he stirs slightly, his mouth parting, and his snores deepening.

I inch closer, letting my bare leg drape over his waist as I slowly move my hand to his chest, exposed and adorned with ink. I trace the lines of his tattoos, slipping into a trance as vivid images flicker in my mind. During his coma, our plans lay in limbo, everything on hold as we awaited his recovery. Now that he's home, I'm consumed by the desire to finish what I started—what we started. Gunnar will be the first to go. Just as my eyes begin to close, Ash’s soft voice pulls me back awake, only to find his eyes still shut.

"That feels so fucking good. Don’t stop," he murmurs, his face betraying no feeling.

"I had no intention of stopping," I whisper back, a smile teasing my lips—a smile he can’t see.

The pain that had etched itself onto his features last night lingers, gnawing at me with an insatiable curiosity about what he's hiding. I shift my leg further over his waist and prop myself up into a sitting position. His hands instinctively grip my hips the moment I settle my ass against him.

"Cali, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you," he whispers, his voice cracking, his eyes fluttering open just enough for me to glimpse the darkness lurking within them, glistening with unshed tears.

"What are you saying? Of course you deserve me, Ash," I reassure him, struggling to swallow the lump that has suddenly lodged itself in my throat.

He shakes his head, his jaw tightening in a way that accentuates its sharpness. His grip on my hips tightens, fingers digging insistent grooves into my flesh. Something's amiss—something significant that can possibly upend the delicate balance between us, and I'm desperate to maintain it.

"Don’t say that shit," he implores, his voice barely above a whisper, as though uttering the words too loudly might shatter the fragile moment we’ve claimed for ourselves. "You deserve so much fucking more than what I can give you right now."

I search his eyes, desperately trying to understand the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. "You’re home," I counter gently, willing him to see the truth I cling to. "That’s what fucking matters. We’ll figure this shit out together."

His gaze drifts away from mine, returning to the ceiling, now mottled by the pale light of morning. For a heartbeat, I think he might retreat into the shadows again, but then he exhales slowly, as if weighing his options. The air hangs thick with anticipation, our unspoken fears and desires entwining like smoke in the stillness.

Leaning down, I align my mouth with his, reaching up to tangle my hands in his hair, gently tugging because I know how much he likes it. His eyes flutter, and he instinctively bites his bottom lip, his hips thrusting up to meet mine as I slowly and sensually grind on him. Moans of wanton need slip from our lips, our breaths thick in the air that swarms us, wrapping around us like a heated blanket, just fueling the fire of desire burning within us. Tears are shed as his eyes close, that pained look returning to his face, and it fucking breaks my heart.

I don't give a fuck what he did. I love him and always will. I need him. I fucking want him.

I slam my mouth onto his and thrust my tongue between his lips, curling it around his as he reaches up and grabs the back of my head, pulling me even closer and holding me in place. Icontinue to rock on his lap, his cock getting harder as it grows against my pussy, only separated by the thin fabric of his boxers since I'm only wearing his shirt and nothing else.

My body goes into shock from the kiss. It's different. It's desperate. It's a dangerous kiss full of passion and guilt that neither one of us wants to stop; it doesn't matter that our hearts are screaming at us to break free for some air.

Ash can suck all the air out of my lungs and kill me in the process. And you know, I'd be a happy Little Psycho if that were to happen. But I can't die today. I'm not finished with my list. Once I kill my parents and end this fucking nightmare, Ash can absolutely kill me with just a fucking kiss.

His hands slip under my shirt, cupping my ass firmly in his hands, massaging his fingers into my warm flesh, my pussy dripping from the sensation rushing through me. I suck his spit into my mouth, and he sucks mine into his. He grunts, then deliciously groans, and I follow with a moan that he captures in his mouth, driving his tongue as deeply down my throat he can go. Almost like he's afraid he won't get to do this again.

With my mind racing, I continue to tease him, one hand cupping his cheek, the other sensually gliding down his bare chest to his boxers waistband. I open my eyes, still locked in the kiss, and watch his expression as I dip my hand into his boxers and wrap it around his cock, slightly lifting off of him. His eyes pinch tight, the expression on his face is a mixture of passion and shame, and even though his eyes are closed, I can tell he's about to fucking lose it.

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