Page 1 of Wicked Things
PROLOGUE
ZETH
3 YEARS AGO
“Blondes.”
“I’m sorry? Can you repeat that? I don’t think I heard you correctly.” Michael sounds amused on the other end of the phone, his voice filled with mirth.
I close my eyes, holding my breath. I’m moments away from snapping at him, but I hold back. If I’m shitty with him, he’ll know something’s up, and I can’t be bothered sidestepping his questions, subtle though they may be. “Blondes,” I repeat. “I only want blondes at this month’s party. Petite ones. None of them over five’ five. And they should be curvy.”
“So specific,” Michael muses. “You’ve never given me such a long shopping list before, boss. You trying to replicate someone’s looks?” He pauses, and the gap in conversation is loaded with suggestion. When I don’t say anything, Michael flat out voices his suspicions. “You haven’t met someone, have you? Some short little blonde with blue eyes? Some missed connection? Because you know me, boss. I can find anyone. If you need someone tracking down—”
“I don’t. I haven’t met anyone. I just have something very…particularin mind.”
“You’re sure?” Michael’s almost laughing, doing a horrible job of hiding the fact. The problem is, he’s been organizing my little gatherings every month for so long, and I have never made any requests where the women are concerned. Usually, the parties are for singles and couples who are well versed in the lifestyle, and who are no strangers to debauchery and sin. In asking him to actively search for people who look a certain way, who might never have been to a party like mine before, was bound to set off alarm bells in my friend’s head.
And he’s half right; I am beingveryspecific. It’s not that I’m suddenly obsessed with bottle blonde bimbos, though. It’s that the prospect of running my hands over a woman who’s tall, who’s brunette, who’s slender and willowy, with dark, emotion-filled eyes is the very last fucking I need right now. Not after the hotel room. Not afterher.
I knew it was going to be different with her. I shouldn’t have watched her. I shouldn’t have gotten involved, demanded that I be the one to meet with her, to take her virginity. I should have fucking walked away. If there’s one thing I’ve learned working for Charlie Holsan, it’s that any action you take should always be from the head. Any actions from the heart should staunchly be avoided. And the moment you start listening to yourcock, acting out of pure lust or attraction, is the moment you seriously need to regroup and get your shit together.
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but the moment I saw her standing outside that elevator at the hospital, I’ve been treading water, trying to keep my head above water, trying to not think about her, trying not to drown in my thoughts of her, and it’s been impossible. I thought having her would quell this burning obsession, crackling away inside my chest, but fuck. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Now that I’ve tasted her? Now that I’ve sunk myself deep inside her, felt her virginity succumb to the pressure of my dick, forging a pathway inside her? I can’t get her out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that black, darkened room, and her hands are tracing over my face, my chest, my shoulders, my back, searching out and exploring the lines and scars of me that make meme. The memory overtakes me at least ten or twenty times a day, whenever I’m not concentrating or I allow my mind to wander.
“Just mind your damn business,” I grumble down the phone. “I want blondes. Redheads, if that’s all you can find. Just no brunettes.” I’m giving him more clues, I know I am, but I need to make sure he understands. I can’t have anyone reminding me of Sloane at the party. I just won’t be able to take it. It’ll be impossible to enjoy myself. The very thought of Sloane entering my mind in that environment won’t serve to turn me on. It will make me angry that I’m not with her instead of them. I have no desire to wander around the apartment for three hours with a flaccid dick, snarling whenever a woman tries to touch me. I need to fuck to forget her. I need to thrust my dick inside a multitude of women who are nothing like the doctor I saw at St. Peter’s; it’s the only way I’ll manage to shake myself free of this malaise.
“All right, all right,” Michael responds, his voice altering ever so slightly, becoming more serious. “I got it. Blondes. And what happens if I can’t find anyone that matches your criteria?”
“Then cancel the party.”
Silence.
More silence.
He’s even stopped moving. I can tell because there’s no background noise on the other end of the line anymore. Only the occasional small breath as Michael processes what I’ve just said.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks.
“I’m sure.”
“But you still won’t tell me where you are, or what you’re doing. Or why you trashed the warehouse yesterday morning?”
When I hired Michael, I had no doubt in my mind he’d make a perfect right hand man. He was all business. Had a reputation for getting things done, no matter the cost. And he didn’t ask too many questions. Over the months, the lines have blurred, though. He’s helped me more and more, been there for me to rely on whenever I’ve needed him. He’s…he’s slowly become my friend. And in turn, the questions have become more frequent. I could be a real asshole and ream him out, tear him a new one, cut him down where he stand right now and remind him that he is my employee. But…I kind of like having a friend. For the most part. Even when it is inconvenient and annoying to have someone prying in order to ascertain my wellbeing.
“Just make sure everything’s ready for tonight,” I growl. Hanging up the phone, I stare down at the screen for a moment, slumped back into the driver’s seat of the Camaro.
I tried to calculate how many people I’ve killed before I called Michael. I sat here and I really tried. As far as I can tell, it’s thirty-seven. Thirty-seven people, all sent into the great beyond at Charlie Holsan’s behest. I’ve never taken a person’s life because I lost my temper and wanted them dead personally. I’ve never robbed someone of whatever remaining years they may have had to suit my own personal agendas. The killing has always been the end result of a command.
Next, I sat here for a long time, breathing down my nose, head swimming, wondering how many people the girl in the hotel room hassaved. I nearly leaned out of the car door and threw up at that.But enough. Enough of that. Where are thoughts like that going to fucking get me?
My eyes cut to the row of storefronts before me, out of the Camaro’s windshield: a laundromat; a Chinese restaurant; a liquor store; and a bail bondsman. To the right hand side of the mini strip mall, a set of stairs rises up to four separate doorways and their offices beyond. The one I’m looking for is second along: Eli Hofstadter, Private Detective and Investigative services. I find it faintly amusing that this little corner of Rainer Valley caters so perfectly to the criminal element. You have the liquor store, where cons can buy the booze to make them reckless and stupid enough to break their parole terms. You have the Laundromat, where violent aggressors can wash the blood out of their clothes. You have the bail bondsman, who will go after them when they break said terms of parole and are due to go back inside. And then you have the P.I. guy with the penchant for bad takeout upstairs, who charges through the nose to find delinquent fathers who refuse to pay child support to their angry baby mommas.Shame for Eli Hofstadter he didn’t stick to that particular line of private investigation.
It’s been so cold lately that the banks of snow shored up against the curbs of the parking lot have all compacted and turned to ice. I’m careful as I climb out of the Camaro and make my way to the stairway, my breath forming great pluming clouds of fog before me, my lungs prickling and balking at the bitter snap in the air. The stairs creak and groan as I make my way up, each step caked with at least an inch of slick, glassy ice.
I raise my curled fist and knock on Hofstadter’s door. He was on the phone inside; I heard his muffled voice a moment ago, droning on in that nasal way of his, but at the sound of my knock he falls silent. An eternity follows, where I wait at the door and Eli waits inside, presumably hoping that I’ll simply go away if he keeps me out in the cold long enough. When I don’t turn tail and head back down the stairs, I hear him say, “I’ll call you back in a minute.”
A series of hacking coughs echo around the space beyond the door, and then a groan, followed by loud grumbling, which grows closer and closer. The door opens. Eli looks me up and down, beady, cloudy brown eyes traveling up and down my body before shuttering with suspicion. “You’re here for work? I don’t need extra guys. I have a full roster.”
Charming. He thinks I want to rough people up for him. Play bodyguard to him when he sticks his nose in places it’s not welcome. If I had any doubt which side of the moral line Hofstadter walks as a P.I., I sure as hell don’t anymore. It’s literally impossible for me to like this disgusting fuck any less. A sour, unpleasant tang fills my mouth—the taste of rage. “We spoke on the phone,” I say simply.
