Page 16 of Stealing His Cupcake
Chapter 11
Amy
Inmyanger,Ihaven’t realized Turbo might not be home until I was standing in front of his door. With a finger poised over the doorbell, I hesitate. What if he’s not home? How long do I wait for him? The hallway is clean and quiet, the walls graffiti-free, nothing like my apartment building. There are only three apartments on this floor, and there are no noises coming from any of them.
I consider leaving but the powerful wave of self-loathing following that thought has me ringing the bell instead. I won’t turn tail and run like I always do. I will see this through, corner Turbo, and listen to whatever he has to say.ThenI will run.
Except my plan has a fatal flaw. No one responds to the doorbell. Determined not to give up too easily, I knock on the door instead. “Turbo? It’s Amy, Craig’s—” The door inches open as my knuckles touch it, not only unlocked but not even properly closed. “Hello? Turbo? Anyone home?”
The door opens further, revealing an empty living room. Well, an empty pigsty might be a better term. Craig wasn’t very tidy, but he didn’t hold a candle to Turbo. Pizza and takeout boxes are piled high on the coffee tableand empty beer bottles and cans litter the room. “Hello?” I try again, not expecting an answer. Despite the open door, Turbo is clearly not at home. Or is he? Muffled music drifts to me from somewhere deeper inside the apartment. Perhaps he has headphones on? It would make sense for him not to hear the doorbell or my voice.
Should I go inside? The good girl in me rebels against entering the place uninvited. Isn’t that technically trespassing? Is it breaking and entering if the door is open? My anger, however, silences my conscience. I want my answers. I want to know who the man I thought I loved really was.
“Turbo?” I call out as I enter the apartment and pick my way through the mess on the floor. “Are you here?” Following the muffled music into a bedroom that’s somehow even messier than the living room, the stale scent of weed has me cringing. I do indeed find headphones on the desk, the tinny noise coming from them, but no one is wearing them. Turbo really isn’t at home and I’m very much trespassing.
Not wanting to go to jail, I turn to leave when there’s a noise from the door. “Fuck. Must ‘ave left the door open ‘gain.” It’s Turbo’s voice, and he sounds drunk as hell. Shivering at the memory of Craig’s drunken slurring and the sting of the slaps that followed, I freeze momentarily. What will Turbo do if he finds me here? He always gave me those leery looks and now I’m alone with him, he’s drunk, and I’ve stupidly walked straight into his bedroom. As much as my anger made me feel powerful, I’m starting to hate angry Amy because she’s apparently too stupid to live.
Suddenly, my questions aren’t important. Craig’s affairs aren’t important. All I want now is to get out of here without Turbo noticing me, which is going to be difficult since he’s currently stumbling around the living room if the clanging beer bottles are any indication.
I hear his murmuring. “Fuck. Where’s the—Ah! There. Fuck.” The couch creaks under his weight. Stalking quietly toward the bedroom door, I peek out to see him sprawled on the couch, looking at his phone. His movements are sluggish, as if he’s about to fall asleep, which would work just fine for me. All I have to do is wait and once he’s out, I can run.Seriously, what was I thinking coming here like this? It was the stupidest idea ever.
Turbo never gets to fall asleep, though, because another figure steps through the door the idiot still hasn’t closed. If this is Turbo’s regular behavior, it’s a miracle he hasn’t been robbed blind yet.
The newcomer steps inside the apartment, dropping a duffel bag on the floor before finally closing the door. At least someone has a brain here. It’s not a good thing, though. Now there are two men and a door between me and safety. I curse angry Amy again and swear to never listen to her again.
“Hello, Turbo,” the stranger says, his gravelly voice sending shivers down my spine. “It’s time we talked.”
Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck. I normally don’t curse, but if there ever was a reason to freak out and curse, it would be this because of this voice. The absolute lack of emotion in it, save for the subtle threat, has my instincts screaming“DANGERDANGERDANGER”so loudly I almost miss Turbo’s slurred response. “The fuck, man? Who are you? Get out.”
The stranger doesn’t get out. Stepping over the beer bottles, he approaches Turbo, who’s still stupidly lying on the couch. I can only see a sliver of the living room through the gap in the bedroom door but as the stranger passes through my field of vision, I have to slap my palms over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
He’s sexy in that rugged, nonchalant way. Tall and well built, dressed in well fitting black clothes. His shoulder-length hair is swept back in a careless way that somehow still looks good. His looks should make him an absolute eye candy, but his emotionless expression spoils the image. And his eyes. I can’t see the exact shade of them, but I do see the detached emptiness inside. It’s like he walked out of a serial killer documentary. I don’t know who he is or why he is here, but I instinctively know this man is capable of immense violence without losing a minute of sleep over the pain he causes.
Turbo finally picks up on the palpable menace radiating from the stranger and struggles to sit up. Scoffing, the stranger balls his fist—he’swearing black gloves, I notice with rising terror—and buries it in Turbo’s stomach. Turbo wheezes, collapsing on the floor, hacking and retching.
Unperturbed, the stranger picks up his duffle bag and pulls out a folded sheet of plastic, like a massive shower curtain. Except I’m fairly certain he’s not Turbo’s interior designer. I press down harder on my mouth, fingers digging in as dull pain radiates. My breath comes through my nose, too fast, too shaky, too loud. I try to slow my breathing, force it to be quiet, but my lungs won’t listen. They heave in panicked bursts in a frantic rhythm I cannot control. I’m all too grateful for Turbo’s heaving, since it’s the only reason the stranger hasn’t heard me yet. I can’t even begin to imagine what he’d do to me if he found me here watching him preparing to— To what? Kill Turbo? Dear god, what have I gotten myself into? Why did I even come here? Craig didn’t care about me. Ever. I knew that even before coming here and now I’ll die because I couldn’t admit it to myself.
Kicking the bottles aside, the stranger spreads the plastic sheet on the floor, then kicks Turbo’s side. Gasping in pain, Turbo lands on the plastic. His position must not be to the stranger’s satisfaction, though, because he continues with the kicks until Turbo is right in the middle of the sheet. Turbo doesn’t even try defending himself. Curled up to protect his stomach, he coughs and cries. “What the fuck? Who are you? Stop!”
“Who I am is not important,” the stranger says, his voice sending my already frantic breathing into overdrive. So cold, so unemotional. “I’m here to ask about Craig.”
“Craig?” Turbo echoes my thoughts. Why is the stranger asking about Craig? “Craig’s dead, man,” Turbo whines.
“Don’t I know that?” A hint of emotion colors the stranger’s voice this time, and I can tell he’s rolling his eyes. “What I want to know is who killed him.”
Flabbergasted, I stare at the scene in front of me, the surprise momentarily overriding my terror. This serial killer psycho is investigating Craig’s murder? What in the world is happening?
“Huh?” Turbo sounds just as confused as me. “I dunno.”
“Wrong answer.” The emptiness is back in the stranger’s voice. There’s a glint of something metallic as he kneels over Turbo, then the sound of a scuffle ends in Turbo’s whimper. It’s muffled, as if his mouth was covered. I can’t see with what exactly and I don’t care to study it closer. Seeing him squirm on the plastic with his hands cuffed behind his back is terrible enough.
I shouldn’t look but closing my eyes makes everything even worse so I stand there, frozen in terror, and watch Craig’s friend get tortured.
The stranger pulls out a wicked-looking knife and leans over Turbo. There’s a muffled wail. “You will tell me.” More muffled screaming. “Everything you know. About that bastard. Friends. Enemies. Everything.” Each word is punctuated by a scream from Turbo.
The muffled sounds become words as the stranger rips something off Turbo’s mouth. “Yes! Yes, I will! I swear, just please, stop. Please! Fuck. Oh god. Please.”
A slap. “Focus. Craig wasn’t doing drugs, was he?”
