I shrugged, though the weight of what happened landed on my shoulders and hadn’t let up since.
We spent the night coming up with contingency plans just in case we were caught. Since Lucian hadn’t been there for the actual kill, I told him I’d never admit he was involved. He said he’d never let me go down alone, that he’d tell the cops it was him. We argued about it for a bit and never landed on anything—neither of us willing to let the other take the fall.
“Dammit,” I huff, leaning back in my office chair.
Lucian is my best friend, and I’m not about to let him take the heat for this. I was the one that made the slice, so if either of us goes down, it’s me.
The article I’m supposed to be writing about the charity ball is on my screen, but I’ve written no more than a few paragraphs. It was due a few days ago, but I told my editor I needed some time to get in touch with a few contacts. In reality, my brain isn’t working as I try to think of a way out of my predicament.
I could call Menace and beg him not to go to the authorities, or I could beat him to it and turn myself in.
Then again, why the fuck would I do that? Lucian still has a few people left on his hit list and I promised I would help. I can’t help Lucian if I’m behind bars.
So, I guess I’ll have to beg.
Pulling out my phone, I see a message already waiting from Menace. My heart rate kicks up as I read two words:
Menace: Denton Graff
Fuck, I forgot to look up that name over the past few days, fear and anxiety clawing at my belly.
Dragging in a nervous breath, I open a search engine and type in the name Denton Graff. Dozens of searches pop up, articles discussing the horrific crime scene the police found a week after they think he was murdered.
Who is this man? Someone close to Menace? Or…
It’s like my brain takes too long to connect the dots. Almost like it shied away from Menace possibly being like me, only seeing him as a model that has a large fanbase and is probably the celebrity crush for hundreds, or maybe thousands of people.
He can’t be a killer, right?
“You’re my perfect match,” he’d said in that alley after he made me come. Did he mean because he killed people as well?
My dick throbs in my pants as I think about Menace committing murder.
Quickly, I log onto the police department’s site and, after logging in with false credentials Lucian acquired for me, I search up the crime scene photos for Denton Graff.
My mouth drops open as I flick through the carnage. Blood and brains everywhere. The body is laid out, discarded like it’s trash, lying in filth.
“Fuck me,” I whisper as I look my fill. This is fucking amazing.
Menace did…fuck, he split the man’s head wide open. Where are his eyes are they…shit, one is on the floor beside him, just a dehydrated blob.
What did this…Denton Graff do? Does Menace just kill random people or is he like me and Lucian, getting revenge for shit that happened to us? Or is he something else entirely different?
I grab my phone to text him, to ask all my questions and get all the important answers. I want to ask how he knew where I was and what he expected to happen when he saw me, but I want to see his face when I ask my questions. I want to look him in the eye to see his expression when I tell him I know who he is.
What’s his story? That bloodbath in those crime scene photos means it wasn’t his first time. Even if brains scattered everywhere, the crime scene was controlled. The only evidence that was found was on the body. According to the reports, the police had no suspects and no leads.
No newbie could pull that off.
Who is Menace? What has he done before we met? And how has he navigated his life as a high-profile model while also carrying out kills?
Palming my phone, I shoot him off a quick text.
Me: Meet me at my place at eleven.
I don’t have to wait long for a return text.
Menace: I’ll be there with fucking bells on.
