Page 34 of Grave Love
I angle her back toward the casket. It must be wet with our fluids now. She climbs in, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion and drink. I push down her shoulders until she rests in the comfort of the casket again, and her eyes close. She’ll fall asleep soon. The good little cunt. I don’t need to stick around to confirm it.
It’s pathetic how wrapped up she is in my words. How desperate she is to do whatever I say, even if that means taking her ass when she begs me not to. I can’t decide if I hate it or if I enjoy it.
I know I enjoy manipulating her. I don’t have to lock her in a shipping container to know that her death is mine. I can leave her here, free to run away, to do whatever she wants, and she’ll still be my next corpse. There’s power in that, though a part of me wonders who holds the reins.
Perhaps that’s why I want to kill her. She’s not my usual sort. She’s different.
I won’t kill her yet.
I glance in her direction. I should set an alarm on her phone, but I honestly don’t care what happens to her at Last Spring. We’ve already made our arrangement; it’s not like sheneedsthis job to survive or to pay her grandmother back for her wasted college tuition. As long as I can sneak Ren in after hours, she can teach me to dispose of her body, and I can fuck her until she begs me to end it all.
Her chest moves subtly in a steady rhythm. I arrange her hands and fold them across her stomach like a corpse, chuckling to myself at her resting state. In a way, she’s predictable. Moldable. A willing little doll.
What’s not predictable is my curiosity surrounding her. Why I insist on keeping her alive.
“Can’t kill you if you’re dead from drunk driving,” I say in a low voice. Then I leave her there, dead asleep.
Chapter13
Ren
I flip overand bury my face into the pillow. I swat the sides of the narrow bed, searching for a blanket, but all I get are pillows and cushions. A damp scent like body odor and salt fills my nose, and I huff into the bed. It stinks, but I’m too tired to care.
Metal jiggles. A doorknob, maybe. Then the pressure in the room changes, traffic and ocean waves singing into the building. The doors close, and a feminine hum fills the air, a song I’m familiar with and hate because of how annoyingly cheerful it is. My grandmother doesn’t sing songs like that.
My eyes widen, anxiety filling my chest like a balloon. I grit my teeth.
Shit.
Denise. That’sDenisehumming.
I’m still in the casket.
Denise sniffs loudly, obviously smelling the same stink: my ejaculation soaking into the coffin. The scent of sex. It’s been hours since Blaze left, right? I’m right by the stains, so I should smell our sex.
How can she smell us that far away? Are wethatpotent?
I bite my lip, then lie still, hoping she doesn’t see me. Playing deadfor realin a mortuary for the second time.
I pinch my sides and groan internally. Fuck my life.
Heels clack on the tiles, the taps dissolving into the hallways of the building. I wait, holding my breath. The coffee machine beeps, and frantically, I stumble out of the coffin and trip over my legs. I steady myself—or try to—and the room spins around me. Damn it. That champagne. How much did I drink?
My thighs contract, squeezing together, the thrill of last night throbbing in my core. Arousal pulsing in my cheeks. My neck.
How does he have that much power over me? It’s like his ghost is haunting me, even now.
By the time I get home, Mrs. Richmond’s car is gone, probably already at the school. There’s enough time to wash off, and for once, I can’t skip the shower. I dry myself off quickly and tussle my damp hair. I debate whether I should use texture cream or oil to dampen the flyaways, then I see my reflection.
A blue oval. Four little circles, purple and red.
A handprint on my neck.
Blazeisn’ta ghost. He’s there, written in my skin.
I shake those thoughts away and grab old makeup to cover up the bruises. When that doesn’t do anything, I dig through Mrs. Richmond’s foundation and find something thick. I scrutinize the cover up in the mirror; it looks like I let an amateur apply cosmetics to my embalmed body.
I find a clean hoodie and zip it up. Chalky makeup or not, my bruises aren’t visible dressed like this.
