Page 119 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

“Why?” When Cass doesn’t answer, I realize I should probably elaborate. “Why did you kill the other people? Did they do something to you? Did they⁠—”

“Because I wanted to.” He says it so easily and reaches out to stroke my hair back from my face. “If you think the only time I’ve killed someone is because they’ve hurt me, threatened me, or given me reason to, then I have some bad news for you.” He smiles ever so slightly and runs his thumb over my lower lip.

“What if you decide you want to kill me?”

I don’t expect the snort, or the quick roll of his eyes. Nor do I expect him to cup my face in his hand, his fingers warm against my face. Cass kisses me sweetly, teasing at the seam of my lips until I’m panting and grabbing at his hand to urge his touch lower. All thoughts of going back to sleep are quickly fading from my mind, and judging by the feeling of him against me, I’m not alone in that.

“If I’m going to kill you, Winnie, then I might as well just kill myself.” His words make my stomach twist uncomfortably, nervously, and with an excitement that doesn’t feel healthy. “Since you’re the reason for everything I’ve done. Besides, it took me this long to make you see that you’re mine. Why would I go and fuck it all up by killing you, when I’m planning on you making my life hell for a very long time?”

“That sounds like you’re about to propose to me,” I can’t help but quip, stroking my fingers over his chest. “You got a ring somewhere on you right now?”

“No. I’m woefully underprepared. I estimated it taking a few more days before you were willing to commit to me forever, Winnie.” His grin is wicked and sharp, and he moves in to kiss me again.

Just before he can, however, I ask softly, “What if I say no?”

His answer is a breathy chuckle against my mouth, as his fingers curl over my hip to keep me pressed to him. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

25

Leaning on my steering wheel with my eyes tracking a group of kids prancing around with pumpkin-shaped buckets makes me think that the quality of Halloween costumes has certainly gone down this year. Both in creativity and in quality.

Three little girls in the same Hello Kitty costume walk together, their hair fixed with the same exact bows as three identical white tails nearly drag along the ground. Beyond them I see two superheroes, a super villain, and a questionable boy with a blond ponytail who could be anything from a demon to a nun.

“You poor, stunted little gremlins.” I sigh, pining for the old days of Halloween, back when Mom dressed me up as a respectable and recognizable Pikachu.

Complete with my face painted yellow and cheeks stamped with red. It’s a fond memory, though Lou was the one who actually took me trick-or-treating that night. And no matter how much I begged, she refused to carry around an apple to throw at people while yelling “I choose you!” at every house we got to. I told her she killed my dreams.

She told me they deserved to die.

The same way Dad did. The small voice in my head isn’t so friendly, and I shake my head to clear it before opening my door with my sneaker. It’s unseasonably warm this year for Halloween, and I tend to run hot. That, combined with how much I’d rather be on a date with Cass, in bed with Cass, in a cemetery with Cass, or just with Cass, inspired me to just wear shorts and his hoodie I stole when he was in the shower.

I usually try to look semi-presentable when I babysit. Or rather, when I used to babysit. My pride keeps me from doing it anymore, save for Scott. He has family privilege, and all. Normally on Halloween I’d be getting drunk and passing out, or trying to drown myself in the shower with Mom anywhere but here.

Instead, I’m going back to the job I never quite enjoyed on what’s pretty much my least favorite night of the year.

While the house was easy enough to find, this part of Hayden Field isn’t one I’m too familiar with. My steps take me up to the cracked porch of the small, two-story home, and I glance around the neighborhood while worrying at my lower lip.

It’s not exactly…the great side of town. When I was younger, Lou would never have let me babysit here, I’m sure. Which is definitely why I’ve never really been to this area. I’ve seen worse, sure. But not here in the town I grew up in. The houses have all seen better days, with peeling paint, cracked porches, and chain-link fences that look pretty fragile in some places. Half of the houses have their lights off, showing they either aren’t there or don’t want sugar-hyped children on their porch to froth at the mouth and scream “trick-or-treat!” while slamming the doorbell.

Relatable, honestly. I also keep my light off on Halloween, and I avoid costumed kids like the plague. Absently I knock on the door, foot scuffing over a crack on the porch while I wait and listen for noise inside. Small footsteps that sound rushed meet my ears, and within a few seconds, the door creaks open on its hinges in front of me.

The little girl—in her pumpkin and bat pjs and ponytail—gazes up at me with solemn grey eyes. She can’t be more than eight, though I hadn’t actually thought to ask at seven forty-two this morning. Or at any other point during the day.

But in my defense, I’d been busy.

“Hello,” I greet, giving the girl a little wave. “You must be Sophie, right?” The little girl nods, but stays otherwise silent. “I’m Winnie. I’m your replacement babysitter for the night.”

Sophie continues to just look at me, then glances toward the interior of the house. She seems unsure of something, but finally unlocks the storm door and steps back, letting me walk inside.

My first thought is that this place smells like an ad for scented candles. The second is that under the artificial cookie smell, it’s…musty in here. Swallowing, I remind myself not to judge. I’m just being overly-critical because of how little I want to be here.

“So what are we doing tonight while your parents are out?” I ask, trailing after Sophie as she walks down the hallway. She doesn’t reply, only turns into a room where I can hear the sound of a television and something cooking. “Are you cooking something?” A bolt of surprise goes through me. “I can make…”

When I turn into the kitchen after her, my words die on my lips.

Reagan is standing at the stove, frying up diced potatoes in oil. She ladles out the seasoned cubes as I watch, dumbfounded, before she turns and grins in my direction. “Surprise!” Reagan laughs, eyes dancing with delight.

I, however, am the opposite of delighted. “Reagan, what are you doing here?” I demand, a little curtly. The unhappiness in my tone is enough to make her smile wilt, and she goes back to ladling out potatoes onto a paper-towel covered plate. “You literally told me you had strep, so you needed me to take over for you. Remember?”