Page 15 of Claiming His Bunny
“Nonsense. We’re having a barbecue on Saturday. You’re coming. Be at my house at one p.m., sharp. I’ll text you the address.”
I blink, not sure what to do about this invitation-turned-order. “I don’t want to impose. It’s your family event.”
“Nonsense. You’re coming,” she repeats, flashing me a grin. “I command it as your superior.”
“You’re not actually my superior.” A smile tugs on the corner of my mouth. “We have the same job positions.”
Michelle mock-glares at me. “Well, as your senior, then. Now go put on something that will bedazzle the local lunkheads. Shoo.”
Chuckling, I head for the door, turning when I hear her say, “And remember, Kayla. If you need a place to stay, just call me.”
“Thank you, Michelle,” I reply sincerely. “I’m glad I met you.”
As I leave the office, I try not to think about how those words felt like a final goodbye.
Chapter 10
Ethan
As much as I’dlove to spend the evening watching the live feed from Kayla’s house, I have other matters to attend to. Namely, the final round of the Bluebell Bullseye Legends. The Rusty Mug will be packed tonight, everyone wanting to see if I win this year’s trophy or if David Freaking Butterman snatches it away from me.
Ha! As if.
I might not collect trophies from my kills, since that’s a sure way to the electric chair, but I’m absolutely collecting the dart trophies. I’ve won the Bluebell Bullseye Legends every year since I moved here, and I’m sure as hell not stopping now. It’s become a little obsession of mine. A harmless one compared to the rest of the things I do.
Darts was a random pick. I needed a way to fit in with the community, to not be the reclusive weirdo who’d surely be the first suspect in any crime committed in a dozen-mile radius. I needed friends. Or at least people who thought I was their friend. I needed a “guy” hobby.
I ruled out all the usual sports because I had no desire to get physical with anyone, and I didn’t want to showcase my strength and agility. Fishing was dreadfully boring. My lack of musical talent prevented me from joining one of the many midlife-crisis garage bands that sometimes performed in the local clubs.
Then a “friend” I picked up during my failed fishing attempt brought me to the Rusty Mug on dart night, and I fell in love. Darts is perfect. For some mysterious reason, they’re super popular in this tiny town, and the players are local celebrities. It’s a highly competitive sport that doesn’t require physical contact or teamwork. All I have to do is throw sharp stuff at targets. What’s not to love?
I park a block away from the Rusty Mug and walk the rest of the way to stretch out my muscles and clear my mind. I’ve been working all day on a case from my day job as a private investigator. The legit kind of case. Wife thought her husband is cheating on her. I already found out he is. The funny thing is that she’s also cheating on him, which she, of course, failed to mention while recounting her sob story. Some relationships are messed up.
She’ll get pictures of her husband with his mistress, and he’ll get pictures of her with her secret lover. Pro bono, just because I hate liars and hypocrites. And yes, I hate myself too because when it comes to Kayla, I’m as bad as they come.
I let my thoughts linger on her for a moment, then push them away. Tonight, I need to focus. After I win my trophy, I can go home and watch her again. She’ll probably be asleep by then. Perhaps I could even visit her tonight? Just to look at her, to take in her fresh scent. Nothing more, not yet.
Damn, I’m thinking about her again.
As I open the door to the Rusty Mug, the noise hits me like a wall. Like I expected, the place is packed, brimming with way more people than the fire regulations allow. Tonight, no one cares about safety regulations. All these people came to watch me win, and I’m not about to disappoint them.
“Ethan!” Someone notices me and the crowd cheers loudly. “ETHAN!”
Grinning, I make my way to the stage in the back, waving at an occasional familiar face. I’ve never been a social butterfly, but the crowd’s excitement is empowering.
I’ll never be recognized for the good I do for the world. No one will ever clasp my shoulder, saying, “Good job murdering that pedophile, Ethan!”
In the ideal world, no one will ever find out what I do. In a less ideal world, these people, who now clap and cheer as I walk by, will see me as a monster.
“Ready to lose, Ethan?” David Freaking Butterman taunts me as I reach the stage.
I smirk. “I didn’t come here to lose, David. Is your wife here to comfort you after I win the trophy again?”
“Oh, she is. But who’s going to comfort you afterIwin the trophy?” he asks, grinning.
What a fucker. I could kill him. I mean, I’m not going to, but I could. It would be as simple as snapping my fingers.
“By the way,” David continues, “4:30 p.m. on Sunday. Don’t be late.”
