Page 13 of Wicked Spite
Right above the drawer, I notice the counter littered with pill bottles. The labels read like a fucking pharmacy menu—antidepressants, sleeping pills, and something for anxiety. Looking at the labels, they are all under her name.
I lean against the counter, surveying the room. Every detail, every item, gives me a clearer picture of Reagan. She’s complex, layered, and intriguing. And I want to peel back every layer, uncover every secret. No wonder I’m fucking fascinated by her. Just another thing for me to fucking fixate on.
I saunter back to what you could call the living room, eyes scanning. My gaze lands on a shelf crammed with vinyl records. A smirk tugs at my lips. Music says a lot about a person. I crouch down, flipping through the collection.
Led Zeppelin, nice. The Cure, interesting. Billie Eilish, huh?
The scent of old vinyl and dust fills my nostrils, and the nostalgia of records is timeless. I pull out an old Fleetwood Mac album, running my fingers over the cover before putting it back. My knees crack as I stand, stretching. I plop down on the worn-out couch, feeling something hard poking me in the ass.
“Ow, what the fuck?”
I reach between the cushion and the armrest, fingers brushing against something solid. With a tug, I pull out a sketchbook.
Well, well, what do we have here?
The cover is plain black and battered because, of course it is. But I know better than to judge by appearances. I flip it open, eyes widening at the first page. Intricate sketches, detailed and raw. My breath catches in my throat. These aren’t just drawings; they’re goddamn art and one look at my body proves how much I fucking love art.
Fuck, she’s talented.
I thumb through the pages, each one more captivating than the last. Her art is dark, twisted. Damn near could call it demonic. Just like me. My pulse quickens as I delve deeper, losing myself in her world.
One sketch catches my eye, stopping me cold. The lines are bold and aggressive. It’s me. She’s drawn me, capturing every detail with eerie precision. My hazel eyes, peering out behind the Ghostface mask.
Obsessed much. A grin spreads across my face at the thought of this bitch obsessed with me. It’s the least she could do after making me chase her.
I flip through the sketchbook again, fingers tracing over the rough paper. There’s a rawness to her lines,like she’s driven by some desperate need. Page after page, it’s me. Me in all my fucked-up glory. Unless she knows some other fucker in a mask, with my eyes, all black clothes and hella rings.
My lips curl up because she’s got a thing for psychos and imagine that, psycho is my specialty.
One drawing stands out. There I am, Ghostface mask on, knife dripping with blood. And there she is, naked and writhing beneath me. It’s so vivid, I can almost feel the heat of her body, the slickness of her skin. She’s captured every detail—the tension in my muscles, the intensity in my eyes.
I can’t take my eyes off the sketch. The way she’s drawn herself, legs spread wide, back arched. She wants this—wants me. Wants the danger, the darkness. My dick hardens at the thought. I can almost hear her moans, the way she’d scream my name as I take her, masked and merciless.
Yea, you’d love it you dirty little bitch.
The sketches are explicit, but they don’t do justice to what I’m picturing. Her hands clawing at my shoulders, nails biting into my skin. Her breath hot against my ear as she whispers filthy things.
I wish I could take this fucking book with me but rein myself in and snap a few pics of the most explicit pages with my phone before grabbing a few pages from the middle. She won’t notice these gone.
Thank you for the fucking meat beater material for later.
The pages are seared into my brain as I shove the sketchbook back down in the cushions of the couch.
It’s like she’s got some invisible leash wrapped around my throat, pulling me tighter.
What the fuck am I doing? Obsessing like this? Acting like Lincoln and Jeremiah with their unhinged obsessions? Those two ever since they locked onto their targets have been off therails. And now here I am, acting no better than them. What the fuck is it about this chick?
Her bathroom’s the only place left untouched by me as I get up and walk toward it. I am nothing if not thorough.
Makeup, hair products, and God-knows-what-else are scattered across the counter.
How the fuck does she even find anything in this chaos?
You’re one messy girl, Reagan St. Pierre. I grin as I imagine her reaction if she knew I was here, rifling through her life.
I turn and yank open the shower curtain. Bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash line the ledge. Mint and eucalyptus. Making a mental note of the brands she uses. Maybe I’ll grab some myself to keep in the shower for a little rub and tug session.
I’m not even a mint lover, but fuck I might be converted because of her.
