Page 17 of Web of Lies
"Kyle."
He leans back, gaze dropping to me with that infuriating grin of his. "But I thought you enjoyed learning from me."
"I do," I admit with a sigh, pulling back just enough to look at him. "But I want to watch the movie, not sit through one of your lectures. And just so you know, every comment you make tonight lowers your chances of getting laid."
That makes him freeze mid-bite, with his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. He looks at me, his eyebrows raised, before he lets out a sigh. "Fine. I'll shut up."
"Thank you," I say, leaning in to press a soft kiss on his scruffy cheek.
A moment later, he slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side. I curl into him, my eyes back on the screen, as I scoop up another spoonful of stew.
Chapter 9
Kyle
I lean against the kitchen counter, raising the bottle of water to my lips and taking a big gulp. The apartment is dim, lit only by the orange glow of street-lamps and the occasional flicker of a billboard outside. The night is surprisingly quiet, even though Riley lives in a pretty busy area. An odd car drives by, and every now and then, someone screams outside. Not unusual for this part of town.
My attention lands on the door to her bedroom, where she is finally asleep. Out cold. I can still taste her on my lips and feel the way she melted into me while we were making out. We didn't take it any further, and oddly enough, I'm glad we didn't. However, my swollen groin might disagree. It's not often that I'm the one providing comfort instead of chaos. Watching her curl up against me stirred something inside me. It reminded me that maybe, just maybe, I can be more than the mess I usually am.
I don't know why I care this much about her. She's stubborn, mouthy, impossible, and yet, she's also this quiet, little thing that is trying to do everything by herself when she doesn'tneed to. I hate seeing her like she was today, exhausted and overwhelmed. So, I'd be damned if I didn't give her what she needs, exactly when she needs it. I may not solve all her problems, but I can try to be the support she needs.
My eyes drift to her laptop and the stack of papers she left on the side table next to the sofa. The way she quickly shoved them aside when she noticed me looking at them was rather suspicious. She tried to be subtle, but I could tell from a mile away that she didn't want me to see whatever she's working on. And that's unusual. Riley has never hidden her work from me before. Hunt Corp. and I operate in entirely different territories. Therefore, any information about their business or their clients is useless to me. But now, I can't help the feeling that there's something more going on.
I shouldn't look. Although it might not be useful to me, poking around might put a target on my back if it is really connected to Hunt, especially since he's not exactly a fan of mine. But the feeling is mutual. Yet, the temptation lingers at the back of my mind. Even if it's small, maybe there's a chance I could help.
Well, fuck it.
I walk over to the table, pick up the papers and her laptop, and drop onto the sofa. With a flip, I open the laptop. The screen flickers to life. Without thinking, my fingers hover over the keyboard as I type in her password and press Enter. Within seconds, the screen loads, and I'm in. Of course, she didn't change it since I last asked to use her laptop to search for something—bad intelligence agent.
My brows shoot up as the screen switches to an article, something about the latest police raid down by the harbor, tied to the case of the so-calledButcher. I scan the headline again, feeling a sudden knot twist in my gut. Then I glance at the stack of papers in my hands and flip open the folder. My eyes widen at the sight of full-blown medical records. Glancing back and forthbetween the laptop and the papers, my pulse drums in my ears. Riley is investigating the Butcher? Is she actually insane? Is she trying to end up as someone's main course?
Anger rises in my chest, hot and sharp, like a knife piercing through my ribcage. My jaw clenches, and I slam the folder shut. What the hell is she doing? Frustration simmers beneath my skin as I turn back to her laptop. I pull up her search history and get lucky when I find that she hasn't wiped it yet. I start combing through each term she looked for. Page after page confirms it: She's been digging for information—names, locations; anything she can find.
Closing the browser, I search the laptop for hidden files. I click through folders up and down, entering every keyword that pops into my mind into the search bar until I finally find one. A folder buried beneath layers of seemingly normal-looking documents. When I try to open it, I'm met with a password and an additional request for her fingerprint. Of course. For fuck's sake. She didn't change her password and forgot to delete her search history, but the important information is securely locked away.
My gaze shifts between the folder and the login screen, mocking me. There's a difference between investigating contract killers, which is what she's paid to do, and going after a monster who slaughters people like cattle. This isn't just dangerous. It's suicidal. She's digging her own grave by looking into this case.
My eyes drift to the icon for Hunt Corp.’s intranet on her desktop. Ishelooking for the Butcher? Last I heard from the Pakhan, they'd all agreed to let the man operate. As long as the organs keep flowing and the supply chain stays clean, no one interferes. It's twisted, but that's how it works. Everyone gets their cut. Everyone stays quiet. So why the hell would Hunt suddenly care? It doesn't add up. I'm not on good terms with the man, but even I know he wouldn't intervene in business matters like this. All he cares about is keeping things smooth, just as therest of them do. And from everything I've heard, they're more than satisfied with the Butcher's work.
My gaze lands on the shelf lined with her horror collection, DVDs stacked high, and novels filled with twisted fantasies. Maybe it's some fucked-up fascination? God knows there are whole forums out there drooling over criminals, turning monsters into idols. Every known killer has their own little fan club. But… Riley? No, she isn't like that. She's sharp as a knife, levelheaded to the core. Rational. Even though she's working with killers, she doesn't romanticize violence.
I let out a sigh and run a hand down my face; unease crawling beneath my skin. I lean back on the sofa and reach for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. I slide one out, bring it to my lips, and spark the lighter. The first inhale burns the way I like. The familiar hit of nicotine fills my lungs, calming the fire of irritation simmering in my chest.
I grab my phone next, thumb hovering briefly before I open the chat with Noah.
Me:You need to look into something for me. Will call you tomorrow.
I hit send, then lean forward and begin snapping pictures of each page of the document. Then, send the images one by one before I toss the phone back onto the table. The screen goes dark. If she's deeper in this than she should be, I need to know. He's my best friend and little brother. Technically, he's adopted and only three months younger than me, but he's still my little brother. He's the only person I trust to snoop around places I shouldn't show interest in.
I take another long drag, holding the smoke in my lungs like it might fill the growing hollow in my chest. Everything about this is bad.
I have no idea why she's doing this, but I have to keep an eye on her so she doesn't end up in trouble. My gaze falls on her wallet on the table. In a matter of seconds, I grab one of my tiny GPS trackers from my wallet, hide it deep within the stack of receipts in hers, and put both wallets back on the table.
"Kyle?" Riley calls, her voice soft and drowsy. I shut the laptop, stuff the papers back into the folder, and place everything exactly where I found it.
"Coming. Just grabbed some water." I stub out the cigarette, grab the water bottle, stand up, and head back to the bedroom, where I'm greeted by the sight of Riley, lying on her side. She is dressed in nothing but a pair of underwear; the blanket is tangled around her feet. My eyes travel over her body, taking in the perfect view: her long legs, her round hips, the dip of her waist, and her full breasts rising and falling with each calm breath. My gaze follows the tattoos of spiders crawling across her skin and the spiderwebs decorating her elbows and kneecaps. And last, my favorite part, the night sky of freckles adorning her milky white skin. My gaze then settles on her face, a soft, sleepy smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Come here, big boy." She pats the mattress next to her.
