Fuck… I really like that word.
I can do this—maybe not for myself, but I can do this to protect him.
It turnsout getting away with murder is actually easier than it should be when you have a decent plan and everyone in town knows the man who saved you. It’s easy for me to burst into tears when I start talking about what Trevor was going to do to me, and the panic crawling along my skin and trying to make me break down only half comes from the fact that I’m fabricating the last part of the story.
A lot of it is real, because up until the point where I tell them that Trevor went crazy when his friends started touching me, I’m recounting what nearly happened to me.
I’m telling the police what very easilycouldhave happened if Streeter hadn’t come to save me.
It helps that I hand them Trevor’s phone, which I“took” when I ran out of the cabin. Quill was right—he was texting all of his friends about bringing me, about them sharing me, aboutteaching me a lesson…
It makes the tears streaming down my face when I start in on how I ran into the snow and found Streeter’s house a few hours later real.
It all tracks. I feed them the exact story Quill concocted. I was too out of it for the first day—half frozen and in shock—to tell Streeter what happened, and by the time I could we were snowed in without any signal. When it finally cleared up enough, we came straight to the police station.
And even though they don’t say anything about it, I know Trevor is never going to turn up again.
At first, I’m worried they’re going to see straight through me. I’m worried they’ll realize I’m lying, that Streeter will get into trouble… that they’ll take him away from me.
But they just call him to come pick me up, and I actually see the officer clap him on the back when he sees him, shaking his hand and telling him he did agood thing.
It’s just between me and him to know exactly what he actually did, because a few weeks later… the only thing that’s happened is the police have brought me in to ask a few more questions, to see if I’ve heard from Trevor… and to let me know that they still haven’t found him.
They’re… reassuring me. There’s something oddly empowering about getting away with murder, especially when I know that the dead people deserved it. There’s something even better about knowing that Trevor is never going to be able to hurt me or anyone else ever again.
Maybe being happy that he’s gone… maybe being happy when I see an article written in the paper a few weeks after the snow completely melts that accuses him of homicide… maybe it’s wrong.
But I still feel better seeing it. I feel better knowing that everything actually seems like it’s going to be okay.
And at Quill’s absolute insistence, I’ve been going about my life as usual—which means I’m going to school. To work. I’m at my apartment that I shared with Trevor, because it still has three more months before my lease is up.
Apparently, immediately moving in with a new guy after your boyfriend goes missing is suspicious.
That doesn’t stop Streeter from coming to see me most weekends. I was a little shocked when he came in and threw away all the sheets and covers in my room… until he proceeded to make my bed with a new set that smelled like him. He was methodical when he packed up all of Trevor’s stuff. It took him exactly one weekend to completely erase my shitty ex from my life the same way he erased him from existence.
“You never have to think about him again.” Streeter’s voice was warm when he promised it… and then he fucked me until I was boneless on every surface of the apartment he could spread me across, and I realized it’s true.
Every bad memory I have of this place, every wrong thing Trevor has ever done is easily replaced by memories of Streeter—him fucking me, cooking for me, watching movies with me on the couch, or dragging me back to his place with the soft threat ofkeeping me.
I’m not sure if he knows that I want that more than anything.
I want Streeter to keep me… because I’m pretty sure after three months of him showing up on the weekends, after class, sometimes when he shouldn’tknowwhere I am at all…
Well, shit. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with a serial killer, and I have no idea how to tell him.
EPILOGUE
STREETER
Six months later…
“Slow down,” I whisper in Remi’s ear. He whimpers and leans his head back against my shoulder, his body slick with sweat. “I’ll get you there. Just enjoy it, baby.”
Remi chuckles huskily and I groan, his tight hole gripping my shaft. “I am,” he pants. “I’m enjoying it too much. I need to come, Street. Please.”
I reach around and wrap my hand loosely around his cock, jerking him in time to my slow thrusts inside him. I don’t put enough pressure on his shaft to get him off, making him groan in frustration. “You can hold out a little longer. You wanted this, remember?”
He whines, the sound strangled. “When I said edging,” he breathes, leaning more heavily against me. “I thought it was just when you gave me head. Not… fuck… not this.”
