Page 12 of Wicked Spite
I could grab a coffee in that cozy little cafe tucked away in the corner of the campus. It’s usually quiet during this time of day, offering a peaceful escape from the chaos of college life. But somehow, even that doesn’t sound enticing enough to shake off the lingering annoyance caused by Ashley’s taunts. I’m not going to feel better until I’ve graduated and I’m away from her and my dad. I’m stuck. No way to take care of myself and my sister and give her any sort of start in life. I can’t pay for an expensive school. Fuck, at this point, I could maybe get us a rental and work double shifts to put her through an inexpensive college once she graduates. I can’t pull her from school because she’s not eighteen yet, and unfortunately, I’m also not her legal guardian.
I need to regroup, stop focusing on things I can’t control, I groan internally. It’s rare that I feel so indecisive, but today, my usual go-to activities just don’t seem to be cutting it. My thoughts keep drifting back to the she-bitch’s smug smile and her infuriating remarks. She really thinks she’s setting herself up for success by being my father’s little puppet. He’d toss her in the dumpster if she wasn’t appealing to the gross men my father runs in business circles with. The only reason he keeps her manicured and dressed in high end flashy shit is so that his business associates will want to stick their dicks in her. Assoon as she’s too old, or he finds someone more appealing she’ll be on her ass.
My stomach sinks because I know exactly who thatsomeoneis that he has in mind for the job.
I just need to be away from everyone, I finally decide, opting to wander aimlessly around campus, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looks like they might try to strike up a conversation. The vibes have been so off for so long in my little world that I don’t even know where to start to shake this ragey icky feeling that’s consuming me. I pop my headphones in and sigh when my favorite Chaos Theory song snakes through the mini speakers. I breathe in and out, telling myself that things are going to take time, and I need to give myself grace or I’m going to end up crashing and burning with no one in sight to douse the flames.
I stroll across campus, the sun casting dappled shadows through the leaves of the trees lining the pathways. A soft breeze rustles my hair, but it does little to alleviate my restless energy. I crave that buzzing feeling of freedom that engulfed my entire body when I slapped my father in the face. Minus the shrinking sense of doom when he overpowered me, grabbing me by the throat. Will I ever have the nerve to be the one to get him like he’s gotten so many people? Slit his throat in his sleep? My whole body tingles at the thought. I wouldn’t mind watching him beg for mercy like I begged him the night he sold my body, but I’d also settle for clean and quick. One and done, decapitation so the bastard can’t possibly survive. My thoughts race, bouncing from one idea to the next as I try to decide how to pass time until my Art History class.
I decide to just sit on a bench and people-watch and sketch for a little while. I scan my surroundings not really seeing anything interesting as I pull out my book and favoritepencil. There’s mostly just a bunch of students walking and talking like they don’t have a care in the world. Until I see maybe the most interesting thing I’ll ever lay my eyes on. My gaze lands on a guy in riding gear and a helmet, leaning against his bike. He’s alone, seemingly inconspicuous, and he might blend in if it wasn’t for his towering height. At first glance, there’s nothing particularly remarkable about him—just another student enjoying the afternoon, even if he looks six-and-half feet tall.
But then he flips the visor up, and our gazes lock for a split second. Time seems to slow as I take in his eyes–a piercing shade of greenish brown that sends a shiver down my spine. I know those eyes. They belong to one of the murder guys from the alley.
“Shit,” I gasp, feeling my breath catch in my throat. My heart beats a little louder, borderline wildly in my chest as adrenaline floods my veins. The intensity of the moment is almost overwhelming, and I struggle to keep my composure.
Keep it together, Reagan. I force a casual smirk as I pretend to focus on something else. But my mind races, trying to make sense of what I’ve just seen. Why is he here and just lounging in one of the parking lots on campus? He can’t possibly be here for me. Right?
Right?
Fucking hell. “Hey, are you okay?” a concerned voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I nearly jump out of my own skin. I look up to see a girl I vaguely recognize from one of my classes. She must have noticed my expression, and I can’t blame her—I’ve sure I look like I’ve seen a ghost.
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” I stammer, attempting a nonchalant shrug, pulling an earbud out of one of my ears. “Just thought I recognized someone, that’s all.” I force a weak laugh,hoping it sounds convincing enough to deter any further questions.
“Alright,” she says hesitantly, clearly not entirely convinced. “See you next class.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, watching as she walks away. The encounter serves as a reminder of how vulnerable I am in this situation—how easily my secrets could be exposed if I’m not careful. I really thought I shook this asshole the night of the murder. There’s no way he saw enough of my face to be able to track me down. Clearly, if I was going to rat anyone out, I would have done it by now. I’ve already got my father on my ass; I don’t need to add this guy who clearly does not have any other reason to be at this fucking school, since I can still feel his eyes on me.
I make a conscious effort to keep my distance while still keeping him in sight as I walk away. My thoughts are a tangled mess of fear and curiosity, but one thing is certain; I need to find out more about this man because he clearly knows more about me than I could have even imagined.
Chapter 5
Penn
Ilean against one of the cold stone barricades in the parking lot of St. James College, my eyes locked onto Reagan as she strides across campus. Her leather jacket hugs her curves, and those ripped jeans show off just enough skin to make me want to see more. If I closed my eyes, I know I could imagine I hear the clomp of her bad bitch boots against the pavement. She’s a fucking walking contradiction—hard on the outside, but with an aura that screams vulnerability if you know where to look.
The sun is a paid fucking actor as it catches her black hair, casting a slight crimson hue over it. As if I need anything else to occupy my thoughts when it comes to her. This past week has already proven I don’t need any fucking help. I’m acting like my two brothers, obsessed as fuck.
“Little miss hellfire,” I murmur under my breath, as I take my helmet off and pull my hat out of my back pocket and sliding it on my head, pulling the bill low. I’ve been shadowing her for a week now, learning her habits, her routines. It’s almost a game at this point. The art buildingswallows her up, and I know she’s in there for at least two hours. Call me a fucking opportunist, but I’m not one to waste a perfectly good opening.
Pushing off the wall and heading toward her apartment at the edge of campus has my pace quickening, excitement thrumming through my veins. By the time I reach her door, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation. I can’t wait to be a nosy ass motherfucker. Pulling out my lock-picking tools, I get to work. One satisfying click and I’m in.
I step inside and close the door softly behind me. The same scent hits me immediately—mint but now there’s something muskier adding to it. It’s intoxicating. I love it and can’t get enough of it. It’s like when I take Molly, makes my skin prickle and my blood race. I take a deep breath, savoring it, before moving deeper into her space.
Her mess is the next thing I notice. Her living room is cluttered but oddly organized in its own chaotic way. All the things I didn’t get a chance to really pay attention to when I snuck in the other night. I run my fingers along the edges of her cheap furniture, feeling the textures, imagining her stomping around every day. The thought makes me grin like a maniac. There’s a chipped Baphomet mug on the coffee table and I can’t help but snort. My little satanist.
I move to the bookshelf next, running my fingers along the spines of her books. Philosophy, art, psychology. Heavy stuff. I pull one out at random, flipping through the pages until something catches my eye. A passage highlighted in neon orange: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Oscar Wilde. Interesting.
Putting the book back, I move to the stacks of papers. Notes from class, doodles, random thoughts scribbled in themargins. She’s smart and creative. Not to mention fucking hot as fuck.
My gaze shifts to the kitchen. I want to know all about this damn woman.
I stride over, opening cabinets and drawers, inspecting their contents. Cereal boxes, instant noodles, protein bars. I open the fridge, the cold air hitting my face. It’s mostly empty except for some takeout containers and a half-empty bottle of tequila.
Grabbing the bottle, I take a swig straight from it. The cheap gold liquid burns down my throat. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, savoring the taste.
There’s a bowl of fruit on the counter, apples and bananas starting to go soft. I pick up an apple, rolling it between my fingers before biting into it. The crunch echoes in the silence, juice dripping down my chin. Sweet and tart. Just like her.
I open another drawer, discovering a stash of snacks—chocolate bars, chips, candy. At least she’s not eating rabbit food. That would be a goddamn tragedy.
