Page 8 of Stealing His Cupcake
God, I hate how perfect she is! “I don’t need a therapist. I’m not crazy.”
“Amy,” Kayla says in a tone she no doubt uses with her child clients, “therapy isn’t just for ‘crazy’ people. It’s a place where you can talk about your feelings without being judged. You’re going. End of discussion.”
“Bitch,” I mutter as I childishly hide under the blanket again. My mind is a little clearer now but it feels like there’s an avalanche inside it, just waitingto be triggered. All the thoughts and feelings I’ve been squashing down and pushing away are there, ready to swarm me once the dam breaks.
Perhaps talking to a stranger isn’t the worst idea because there are things, nasty things, I can’t let Kayla know. This relief over someone’s death… How can I ever look into her eyes again if she knows that part of me is happy that the love of my life died? I can’t even look at myself, and not just because of how hideous I look right now.
I must be a terrible person. Perhaps that inner terribleness is starting to show up on the outside, too. That’s why I have the bruises. Not because Craig hit me but because I’m rotten, inside and out.
Before my thoughts can spiral again, Kayla hijacks half of my blanket, sneaks underneath it, and spoons me. Like when we were children, she keeps the bad thoughts at bay until I fall into a fitful sleep. Hopefully, when I wake up, this will all be just a nightmare.
Chapter 6
Wyatt
Threedays.Ispentthree fucking days trying to figure out who the fuck killed Craig Denver and why, and I’m just as clueless as the police. Even they know the drug deal was likely a cover-up, as it went completely against Craig’s normal behavior. They also have the hospital report about Craig abusing Amy, so I imagine they’re not as keen on finding out the truth as they normally would be.
Under normal circumstances, I’d consider an unsolved murder case going cold ideal, especially if it involves my target. However, since it wasn’t me who killed Craig Denver, I’m eager to find the culprit. I’m not even sure why. I should be happy. I got the money without lifting a finger. Sure, I did research, drove all the way here, and planned the kill, but I haven’t had to do anything illegal. Illegal things attract the wrong kind of attention, the FBI-bursting-through-your-door kind of attention, so I should be grateful to whoever did the job for me.
Of course, me sniffing around Craig’s death is also unlikely to go unnoticed. So why am I still here? Why haven’t I packed my bags and gone home?
The answer is simple. Amy Hudges. I’m still working with that love potion idea, by the way. There’s no way this kind of attraction to someone could be natural. I’m not just interested in her. I’m obsessed. When I’m not actively pursuing clues related to Craig’s murder, I’m stalking Amy. Since she, understandably, hasn’t left her apartment since she heard about Craig’s death, I’ve moved from camping outside her building to actually renting a dingy apartment across the street from hers just so I could catch a glimpse of her through her bedroom window. Yep. Unhinged is my new middle name.
What I’m trying to accomplish, I have no clue. I just know I can’t leave the town without seeing her again. And again and again. Fuck me. I’ve heard some assassins go mad from all the killing, but I’ve always considered myself too pragmatic for that to happen to me. I guess not.
What’s worse, my obsession is making me careless. Careless enough to pick up a tail, but fortunately, still vigilant enough to notice them following me. It’s not the police or the FBI, which sets me slightly at ease. I wonder if it’s Craig’s killer, looking to connect? It’s not like we do yearly hitmen meet and greets. We usually only know each other by reputation. I’ve only ever met Bennoit, an antisocial prick with severe OCD, and Slava, a hitwoman who holds a massive grudge against men. Her methods of killing them made my cock and balls reapply for a position as internal organs. All in all, my “colleagues” are not the kind of people you’d want as friend.
It’s also possible the local kingpins are having me followed. I’ve been—respectfully—poking around their territory, trying to see if Craig had some connection in the drug-moving circles after all. Perhaps the local bosses are feeling me out to see if I’m a threat. If I want to stay and dig deeper, I’ll have to introduce myself to them before someone makes an ill-fated attempt at preemptively taking me out.
Rather than waiting for my tail to reveal themselves, I decide to expedite the process. Luring them into an abandoned side alley, I quickly doubleback over the rooftop of a nearby warehouse, then wait for my prey to enter the trap.
From a shadowed corner, I watch a tall figure in a baseball cap peek into the alley, hesitate, then enter it. As far as tails go, this one is completely stupid. They didn’t even check the surroundings, simply carelessly walked into a trap that would be obvious to a five-year-old. Pathetic.
Quietly, I descend from the roof and, with a gun in my hand, ambush the stranger. “Hands where I can see them,” I say, cringing when I realize I sound like a cartoon train robber. All I need is a cowboy hat and chewing tobacco.
The figure turns. “Oh my gosh! It’s you. Yes! Fuck, you’re as good as they say. I didn’t even see you there!”
I blink. Grinning at me is a lanky kid with a bad case of acne. He can’t be more than eighteen years old. I don’t lower my weapon, because he might just be playing stupid to get me to drop my guard, or he might be a bait in a bigger trap, but I do wonder what the fuck is going on. Who’s this demented twat?
The kid’s eyes hone in on my weapon, widening not with fear, as a rational person’s would, but with growing excitement. “Oh, a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. Is that the gun you killed Ezra Burns with? And Parker? And Janice Letterman? Ohmygodthisissoexciting!” He actually says it as one word.
I’m rendered speechless. Of course it’s not the same gun. This is my legal gun. I’ve never killed as much as a duck with it. Hell, I’ve never even fired it before. But how does this moronic kid know the names of my targets?
“I have one just like yours,” he continues, oblivious both to my silence and my gun aimed at his stupid head. “I had it made after I heard it was your favorite. Like, you know, it must be good if the great Wyatt Archer uses it, right?” He chuckles. “I had them add a little flare to it, of course, but that’s just my vibe, man.”
I blink again, contemplating simply shooting the idiot in his face, just to stop him from saying “vibe” and “man”. I’m too old for this shit.
“Look!” the kid exclaims, then reaches into the front of his pants.
I should shoot him. When you hold someone at gunpoint and they reach for a gun, you abso-fucking-lutely should shoot them. I’m just too weirded out to actually pull the trigger, especially when I see that his M&P is gilded. He has a fucking golden gun. I don’t know whether to start laughing or put a bullet through his head to end his misery.
Not that he’s aiming it at me, but I snatch the gun from his hand all the same. The safety is off, of course. Coupled with carrying it in his pants like some dumb thug, the kid is on a surefire path to castrating himself. I decide not to point it out. The world will be better off with him not reproducing.
The kid actually bounces up and down. “Ooh, Wyatt Archer is holding my gun! I’ll never clean it again.”
Given the questionable stickiness of the grip, I doubt he has ever cleaned it before, but I don’t comment. Instead, I finally ask the most pressing question. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Shade! You know, because I’m shady AF.”
