“And you’re going to cry like a little baby.”
I chuckle then, throwing my arm around her shoulders as we begin to walk back the way we came. “As you wish.”
We make our way back to the large, wrought-iron gates my car and his bike are parked in front of and I pop the trunk, picking up the medium-sized canister of gasoline I keep inside there just in case I run out on a deserted highway. But since I won’t be needing it anytime soon, I may as well get some use out of the highly flammable liquid.
Because why not?
Why shouldn’t I help my new… friend?
I guess you could call him that. But if he is, why does the sound of the word ‘friend’ feel so… icky in my mouth?
Once I hand him the container, I slam the trunk and walk around to the passenger’s side door before yanking it open. I don’t want to waste time being gentle tonight, because I’m excited about how the killing aspect of the rest of the night is going to go. Tugging the glove compartment open, I rummage around inside for the box of strip club matches I know I have in there, and— “Gotcha, you little fire hazards, you,” I murmur happily when I find them. Stepping back from being halfwayinside the car, I slam the door and lock it, realising Ricky is now standing by his absolutelybadassmotorcycle.
“How many people have you killed? Y’know, before Patrick?” I bravely ask as I stop in front of him. Maybe this is the wrong time to ask a killer what his body count is, especially when he’s going to have you on the back of his very expensive looking bike soon. But I mean… if he was going to kill me… he would’ve done it already.
Right?
Ricky opens up his black backpack and I gently place the gas cannister and matches inside of it—along with the keys to my car. “Around fifteen, I think.”
“Oh, so not new to the game, but like… experienced.” I nod, watching as he zips up the backpack then holds the straps open for me so I can comfortably slide it on my back.
“If you want to call it that, yeah. I guess you could say I’m averyexperienced serial killer, Heather.”
The wink he gives me after he says my name turns my legs to mush, making me even more desperate to kiss him. I shouldn’t want to after he told me what he did back there. Someone killed the person he loved most in the world and all I want to do is jump his bones and kiss his face off.
Okay, look, I neveroncesaid I was a sane woman.
I’m honestly crazy.
Bat-shit in fact.
Have me fitted for a straightjacket already. I’ve just never been able to let it out until I killed my father. And the best part about his murder, is that nobody will bat an eyelash. Ricky hands me his spare motorcycle helmet, but I realise it won’t fit unless I take out my space buns, so I pull up the clear visor and slide my arm through the hole.
“Will you help me take out my hair? Otherwise, it won’t fit.”
“Uh, sure. Yeah, okay.”
Is he nervous?
I smile up at him as I step closer. “It’s just hair, Ricky. No need to be so nervous, pretty boy.”
Ricky nods in understanding, rolling his lips between his teeth as he carefully begins pulling each of the small pins free from one of the buns—careful not to snag any strands—and I work on the other. Each of us meticulously removing the copious amounts of hair ties and elastics I’ve used, one by one.
When we are both done, I toss everything in my back pocket and bend forward at the waist, shaking my hair out as well as groaning at how good it feels to not have my hair secured tightly anymore. After a few moments I straighten up, raking my fingers through my long, blonde hair—tucking some behind my ears—and styling it the best way I can.
Ricky reaches out, his long fingers pinching the pink tips of my hair. “Cute.”
“Thanks.” I softly chew the corner of my bottom lip, at war with myself for how badly I want to smile, but also for the butterflies that haven’t left my stomach since I met him. There’s something about him though, something familiar. I don’t remember seeing him around town, or at my school though, so I’m not sure how I would know him. “I meant to ask,” I begin as he helps me put on the motorcycle helmet. “Do you live around here? I don’t remember seeing you at my school or anything.”
“I just moved here with my mother; she lives on Monument. I had my first art class today, so maybe you saw me in the halls and didn’t realise?”
“Mr. Williams in room 209?” I test him.
“Isn’t he the math teacher?” he asks, tilting his head in confusion. “The art studio is room 302 and run by Mr. Mulcady,” he corrects me.
“Alright, fine. So you do go to my school,” I groan.
He chuckles, but it’s muffled slightly by the helmet. “Were you testing me, Princess?”
