Page 4 of Slaying for Santa
KIT
“That’s not my name,Kitty Kat, and you know it,” she deadpans, and fuck, Bell Bishop is a sight for sore eyes. Not that I’d ever admit that to her. She’d probably slit my throat just for trying to be nice.
She looks… different. Definitely not the same kid I knew a couple of years ago.
“Belladonna is fitting though. Right?” I wag my brows knowingly, and if she were anyone else, like my ex-psychotic-wife for example, she’d get angry. Maybe even throw a fit.
But no. Not Bell Bishop. This chick is a different kind of crazy, and she soaks in insults like they are fucking compliments.
“You been reading my files again, Kitty?”
My smirk falls away at her words. “How many fucking times do I have to remind you to call me Kit or Kitson?”
She shrugs. “It’s a waste of breath. Just like Belladonna is fitting for me, Kitty is fitting for you… since you are such apussy.” She pops the ‘p’ and her hand whips out, and before I know what’s happening, she shoves me.
I stumble back, watching as she grabs the handle of hersuitcase, and strolls into my house like she fucking belongs here.
“Where’s Libi?” she asks, leaving me staring blankly for a moment at how fucking good she looks.
The goth girl she wore like armour as a teen is gone, and in its place is something more… fuck. Hot. Sexy. Fucking tempting.
She stops in her tracks the moment she spots the chaos in the living room, and her eyes, normally hard, flick back to me with concern in them.
“What happened?”
“Rhonda,” I mutter as I step closer, my eyes tracking the black inked vines and red flowers that paint her décolletage, trailing up her neck to finish just under her jaw, and across to her shoulders, weaving down her upper arms.
Her dark lashes aren’t painted with thick mascara like she used to wear, but she doesn’t even need it since the long fan of them are pitch black as it is. Her brown eyes look more like whiskey than chocolate in this light, accentuated with a brush of black liner, and her midnight hair, which used to be long, sits just on her shoulders in messy waves, some of it pulled into a loose ponytail on each side, with the rest down at the back, some loose strands framing her face.
That, and the way the black dress with little red flowers clings to her slender curves, is distracting enough, but then there are those fucking lips.
Fuuuck. They’re a dusty rose colour, plump, but not the fake kind of plump, and fuck, they look so soft and?—
“When you’re done ogling, can you tell me where Libi is?”
Her words are like a bucket of ice, and I fucking stagger back a step, shaking my head to clear my fucking thoughts.
Fuck’s sake, man. Get a grip!
“She’s over in the corner, near the tree,” I mutter, noddingmy head in that direction, and for a long moment, Bell stares at me, tilting her head to the side in that creepy way of hers.
It makes me squirm. It’s like she’s trying to peer into my soul. To see all of my dark depraved secrets. The good and the bad. And fuck. There are so many bad ones.
“Where’s your shirt?” she asks, surprising me.
“On the couch.”
“And why isn’t it on?” She quirks a single dark brow.
“Rhonda tore the fuck out of it.”
She gives me a single nod before turning away from me and abandoning her suitcase to step into the living room.
Her eyes track over everything, like she’s memorising every detail, and it’s only now that I notice the blaring music is still flowing from the TV that is half hanging off the wall.
Stepping over some broken glass and splinters of wood from the picture frame Rhonda threw around in her hissy fit, Bell rounds the couch and stills the moment her eyes land on Libi.
Shit. I don’t even know what to do. My little girl is inconsolable right now.
