Page 5 of Stealing His Cupcake
Chapter 4
Wyatt
MyknuckleswhitenasI grip the steering wheel, watching an unknown woman help Craig Denver’s girlfriend into a car. The hospital parking lot is busy enough that they don’t notice me watching, even if my car is parked just across from theirs.
Amy Hudges. I wondered what kind of person would be in a relationship with someone like Craig Denver. My guess was that she didn’t know the true depths of his depravity, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps she does know, but she’s trapped with no way out. Judging by her current state, Denver has already given her a glimpse of his true personality.
She’s beautiful. The few photos of her and Denver together I found on social media didn’t do her justice. Even with the white bandages covering her temple and forehead, a gleaming contrast against her flawless deep umber skin, and swelling from where that bastard dared to lay his filthy hands on her, her beauty shines through.
Everything about her screams fragile, vulnerable. That’s nothing new to me. I often meet people like her. What I don’t understand is why I’m drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and why all of my instincts arescreaming at me to take her and protect her. To steal her and bring her into my lair like I’m some treasure-hoarding dragon from a fairy tale.
Her full body is soft in all the right places, her large tits inviting to knead and suckle. I could spend eternity between her thick thighs. A smile slowly spreads over my face as I imagine wrapping myself around her and cuddling the hell out of her.
That thought makes me pause. I don’t cuddle. I appreciate beautiful women. I have sex with them. A lot of sex. Sometimes I spend the night to have more sex in the morning, but I never cuddle with them.
Something is different about Amy Hudges but try as I might, I can’t figure out what it is. What I can do is make sure Craig Denver never touches her again.
An animalistic snarl escapes me as I watch her wince as she gets into the other woman’s car. I focused my research on Denver, not on his girlfriend, so I don’t know who this woman is. She acts like Amy’s close friend, though, so I’m willing to leave Amy in her care until—
Until what? Until I can kill Denver and then what, kidnap her? What the fuck is wrong with me? Coming anywhere near the girlfriend of my target is a surefire way to get myself arrested. What would I even do with her? Keep her an unwilling guest until she would inevitably come to love me? I snort. That’s some fantasy-level shit. It’s more likely that she’d escape and get me sent to jail. Also, she’d be scared and miserable, and I don’t want that for her, but that’s beside the point.
No, I’ll stay well away from Amy Hudges. I mean, not so far that I can’t keep an eye on her, of course. She’s the girlfriend of my target, so my need to watch her is justifiable. Totally justifiable.
I follow the car until I make sure they’re headed for Amy’s apartment. The other woman leads Amy inside the building and doesn’t leave. Good. Amy needs some support right now. She also needs someone to take care of her asshole of a boyfriend, but I got that covered. Tomorrow morning, Craig will breathe his last. Until then, I’m determined to stand guard in front of her home to make sure he doesn’t come back to bother her.
I usually spend several days planning my kills, and I have tomorrow morning scheduled to the last minute, but if Craig shows up here tonight, I’m prepared to speed up my plans. The risk increase is minimal, anyway. This is hardly the safest part of the city. I bet people get gunned down on the street here every other week. I doubt he’ll show up, though, not after what he did to Amy. I shouldn’t want to know specifics but I find myself hacking into the hospital’s database.
I’m no expert hacker. When I need to break into someone’s phone or social media accounts, I usually hire a wannabe hacker who’s desperate to earn a few bucks for weed and pizza. However, hospital security tends to be so abysmal even I can access their system. From my damned phone, of all things. Seriously, do they not care about their patients’ privacy at all?
Settling comfortably in my seat, I scroll through the hospital records until I find one marked with Amy’s name. It doesn’t surprise me that Amy reported her injuries as caused by “falling down the stairs”. However, the doctor clearly didn’t believe her and noted on the record that “physical exam raises suspicion for non-accidental trauma”. As a mandated reporter, she also reported the suspected abuse to the authorities.
I smirk. Even if Craig Denver didn’t die tomorrow morning, he’d still get in trouble with the police. I’m tempted to postpone the kill to see him squirm, but that would only cause more emotional damage to Amy. Also Washington, no matter how big a jerk he is, deserves the closure of knowing that the man who raped his daughter is dead.
In addition to the details about Amy’s injuries—a mild concussion without loss of consciousness and facial contusions with ecchymosis and swelling—the hospital records also list the name of the woman who was accompanying her. Kayla Reynolds. A quick glance at social media reveals Amy and Kayla’s close friendship.
Kayla’s socials are full of their pictures together, even some old memories from when they were kids. A picture of two little girls with untamable riots of black curls makes me grin. According to the caption, it was their first day of school. Amy is missing two front teeth in the photo and her gappysmile is heart-melting. However, none of the images are recent, making me think they’re all BCD. Before Craig Denver.
In contrast, Amy’s socials don’t have any images of Kayla, which makes sense. If that abusive bastard made her stop seeing her friends, he probably also ordered her to delete the photos from her social media. Maybe even from her phone. I’m not a psychologist but that’s a textbook example of an abuser who is trying to cut his victim off from the rest of the world.
Sometimes, the depth of human depravity still surprises me and, coming from a person who kills people for a living, that says a lot.
The night I spend in front of Amy’s house is surprisingly pleasant. Eager for a deeper insight into Amy’s life, I pay one of my usual hackers to get me access to Kayla Reynold’s social media. The awkward kid has, don’t ask me how, attracted a romantic partner, so he’s eager to make some money and works faster than usual. Soon, I’m scrolling through dozens of photos of Amy laughing, frowning, baking, sticking her tongue out, reading, cooking, baking, baking again and again. Either Kayla is partial to taking pictures of Amy in the kitchen or Amy is really fond of baking. Judging by the number of different creations in the pictures, I’m guessing the latter. Everything looks delicious, too. Damn, I’d kill for one of her cupcakes. And when I say something like that, it’s not just a figure of speech.
That thought gives me a pause. What am I doing? Why am I stalking this innocent woman? I’ve already decided I’ll leave her alone, haven’t I?
Except, somehow, I can’t.
I’m a hardcore agnostic who doesn’t believe in anything supernatural but right now, I’m almost willing to say someone put a spell on me. Did the barista at the coffee shop I visited this morning slip me a fucking love potion? He has been eyeing me with interest but then again, people usually do. I’m well aware I’m conventionally attractive and I have used it to my advantage many times in the past. Not just to attract sexual partners, but also to gain access to restricted areas or information.
Rubbing my hand over my face, I curse to myself. Love potions? I must be losing my mind to even consider something so ridiculous, but it only showcases how strong and unusual my sudden attraction to Amy Hudges is.
I’m feeling…feelings. I don’t do feelings. Not the touchy-feely kind of feelings, anyway. The fuzzy ones that make your chest swell and moths flutter around your colon, or however that saying goes. I’m cold and detached and that’s the way I like it. No cupcake-baking goddess is allowed to change that.
To distract myself, I grab the tote bag from the back seat and pull out my current crocheting project. I started on a fluffy blanket for old Ms. Wilkins who lives down the road from me and always offers me milk and cookies whenever I visit, as if I was a little boy, but it doesn’t keep my attention the way it normally does. For whatever reason, my fingers itch to do something else, to start something new, and while I hate leaving projects unfinished, I give myself some leniency this time.
A scarf, I think. A simple triangular scarf, nothing fancy. If I start with a black center and use progressively lighter yarn toward the edge… But what color? Brown is too dull. Blue, maybe? No, red. That will go well with Amy’s complexion. Dammit, why am I back to thinking about her? I should drop the yarn and drive away. Go back to the hotel and try to get some sleep before tomorrow. I’m killing Craig tomorrow morning. I can’t afford to be tired and make mistakes. Except I already know I won’t be able to sleep anyway, so what’s the point of trying?
The hook fits into my hand as well as my knife does, stabbing into the loops with the same surgical precision as when I stab a person, aiming to cause pain but not letting them bleed out any time soon. It takes time and effort to master both skills, but I’m not a man who backs away from a challenge. Long nights like this, when I stalk my unsuspecting prey, have been perfect to master the hook, and, when I have the target just where I want them, then it’s the knife’s turn.
