Page 11 of Psycho
August had no choice but to endure the three of them examining him like a slide under a microscope.
“Dad’s going to freak out,” Atticus muttered.
Adam shrugged. “Maybe not. He’ll likely just use it as another experiment, like me and Noah. You know how he likes to drop us in new environments and situations and see how we react.”
Aiden scoffed. “Daddy’s adorable little lab rats. How cute.”
“Bitter much?” Adam asked.
Aiden shrugged. “I just know what happens to rats once the experiment is over. While he won’t kill us, he will do whatever it takes to keep his project under wraps. Anybody you invite into this fucked up family runs the risk of being merced the moment they step out of line. They should know that going in.”
August contemplated the idea of Lucas as part of the Mulvaney family. Adam’s boyfriend, Noah, had melted into the fold without issue. But he’d endured a rough childhood and understood that, sometimes, people just needed killing. Could Lucas ever come to understand that? Did August even want him to? Did August want to take Lucas and bind their lives forever? They’d only just crossed paths that morning.
But the idea of keeping Lucas…having him all to himself, made August’s insides quake. The power of having somebody like Lucas trust somebody like him, it heated something inside him until he could focus on nothing else. Would he open up to August? Make himself vulnerable to a man like him? Would he trust August enough to give himself to him in every possible way?
“I have to get to the airport,” Aiden said, looking at his watch.
“I’ll drive you,” Adam offered.
Aiden shook his head. “I’ll grab an Uber.”
“It’s a ride to the airport, not a marriage proposal. Stop being fucking weird.”
Aiden sighed. “Yeah, fine.” To August, he said, “Let me know if the psychic thing blows up in your face and I have to go on the lam, yeah?”
August waved a hand dismissively. With that, Adam and Aiden left, heading straight from the patio to Adam’s black BMW 7 Series. Well, likely Thomas’s BMW. Adam used their father’s garage as his own personal car lot.
When the server came, he gave her one of his cards, ignoring Atticus as he continued to glare at him from across the table.
Finally, Atticus said, “You know you can’t do this. It puts us all at risk.”
August shook his head. “He’s already onto me. We’re already at risk. At least, from the inside, I have a chance at changing his mind.”
“You? You find torturing people amusing. You actively tune out ninety percent of the world. You spend hours in your own head trying to solve riddles most people could never hope to understand. He probably likes sports or video games or—I don’t know—stamp collecting. Even if you weren’t a stone cold killer, you’d have nothing in common.”
August grinned. “I don’t know, he likes to catch killers. I am one. That’s something, right?”
Atticus stood, giving him one last disgusted look. “Christ. You’re going to get us all killed.”
“Have a little faith, brother,” August said, his mind already wandering to all the things he wanted to do with his—What did Adam call Lucas? Right, August’s new little psychic connection. He needed to pay him another visit.
Tonight.
Like most nights, Lucas woke screaming, his heart hammering in his chest, body shaking, sweat soaking his sheets and boxer briefs. The nightmares never stopped, even after months, even after drugs and therapy and all the techniques he used to shield his mind from the visions that plagued him. Sometimes, he wondered if this was all that was left. Blood and pain and fear.
Did he want to live like this? Was he even living at this point? It felt more like existing. Getting up, going to work, coming home, eating. It was just…muscle memory, just reliving the same day over and over again.
He rubbed his eyes, then rolled off the bed, padding into his bathroom. He didn’t turn the light on, navigating his movements by the small night light near the sink. He wrenched the water in the shower to the coldest setting and stepped beneath the icy spray, the shock tearing a gasp from him. He just stood there, eyes closed, hoping to wash away the remnants of his visions.
Women screaming, begging, crying. Blood. The whirring of a motor of some kind, almost like a dentist’s drill. He slammed his fist into the wall, trying to will it all away, but nothing worked.
Finally, he turned off the water, toweling dry and walking naked to the bedroom. He pulled on a pair of black boxer briefs before heading back to the bed. He’d intended to strip the sheets but, instead, just dropped to the edge of the mattress and stared at the wall.
His shoulder throbbed. It was always worse after the nightmares. Maybe the doctors were right. Maybe it was all in his head. It had been three months since the attack, since a fellow patient at the hospital had plunged a shard of glass into his shoulder. Lucas had never seen it coming.
The little hairs at the back of his neck suddenly stood at attention, a terrible realization hitting him as some deep, dark recess of his brain began to screamdanger. He wasn’t alone. He turned his gaze, scanning the darkness, brain short-circuiting at the figure sitting in the chair in the corner, shrouded in shadow.
Lucas snatched the knife he kept on the bedside table, grateful it was still there. He didn’t stand, though, just whispered, “Who’s there?”
