Page 2 of Dark Wishes (Dark Contract #2)

He sounds curt; probably still annoyed at me for implying he’s a hermit.

I loop my bag’s strap on the back of the chair nearest me, my eyes wandering the dining area.

It’s one big room—the fridge in the corner alongside the stove, the table in front of me, a granite island with a sink built in.

The set up is like my apartment, except not, because this space is triple the size.

Off to one side is another hall. I crane my neck, hoping to get a peek. Is that where the front door is?

“Yes, the exit is that way,” he says. We lock eyes, reading each other’s face. “You don’t need to figure out an escape plan, Selena. I’m not going to do anything.”

“You mean I’m not trapped here?”

His eyebrows shift an inch upward. “That’s a miserable way to look at it. I’m not locking you up, but it would be reckless of me to let you wander around the city. Between the cops wanting to talk to you and your urge to hunt down Caruso—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I huff, “I get it. I’m not going anywhere.” To make my point I drop heavily into the chair I've hung my bag on. “I’m eating these tacos now.”

“Let me bring plates.” He opens the fridge, grabbing out two bottles—one clear, one dark—then snatches some plates off the counter. He sets one in front of me along with a water.

“Is that beer?” I ask, nodding at his drink.

Jamison sits beside me. He turns his drink side to side, the golden label glittering. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’m not judging you for drinking.”

“I didn’t think you were. I wasn’t justifying anything, just explaining.

” He slips a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket.

I recognize the knife he pulls out. The sight of the curved blade sends my heart to the moon.

Casually, he uses the edge to pry the cap off his bottle, tilting it back to take a long swig. His sigh is one of immense relief.

I swallow. “Hey. Have you cleaned that since you...”

The beer thonks onto the table. He angles the knife in the air, lining it up with his mouth. “I wiped it down with bleach in the hotel room. Did you forget?”

“You did it so fast, guess I missed. I was sort of preoccupied at the time with wondering if you were about to use it on me.”

He lowers the knife; I can see myself in the polished surface. My crinkled nose mirrors my tensed fists. “I carry cleaning tools with me. I never leave evidence at a scene.”

Rory’s haunting message clings to my brain. He killed a whole room of people, and no one ever found out it was him.

The Silencer.

“What if the cops find the knife on you?” I ask reluctantly. “Can’t they match it to the stab wounds?”

That gets a short laugh out of him. “The point is they would never ask me in the first place.”

“Lucky,” I sigh, reaching for the bags of tacos. I rip them open, the contents still steaming, leaving droplets of water inside the Styrofoam boxes. “I don’t know why they want to talk to me.”

“The video cameras.”

I shake my head. “That wouldn’t be enough, would it? How would they know the pink haired girl in a costume was me, Selena Myers?” Biting down on a chokable-sized piece of taco I chew thoughtfully.

Jamison sets the knife on the table. Picking up a taco, he pops open a mini container of green salsa, pouring it excessively on top. “Someone who knows you must have turned you in.”

“Nobody knows me out here.”

“Guess I’m not the only one with no friends,” he muses.

“I said that came out wrong.” The next mouthful of taco doesn’t taste as good.

I work it around my teeth slowly as it becomes a gummy paste.

I can’t swallow. I grab the water bottle, chugging it to help me get it down.

Jamison stares at me the entire time. “What?” I gasp, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. “What’s that look for?”

His fingers slip forward, drawing through my hair where it hangs over my right shoulder. The way my whole body tingles makes me glad I don’t have food in my mouth. I’d choke from surprise. “You need to change this.”

“My hair?” I ask, grabbing at it defensively.

He leans away, closing his teeth around his taco. The soft tortilla looks like torn paper, the meat glistening red under the green salsa. I sit anxiously, waiting for him to explain. “We don’t know what the cops know,” he says. “Maybe they’re fishing.”

“You think the footage they have isn’t very good?” I ask hopefully.

“It might show a girl with pink hair, not a high-res face.”

“But they knew my name,” I remind him. “They got my number and everything.” An awful idea occurs to me that makes me want to hurl up the taco. “Are they playing the camera footage on the news? I haven’t checked. My face could be plastered everywhere.”

He doesn’t look bothered at all by my suggestion. “Are you on social media?”

“Barely.”

“Did anyone talk to you at the convention? Take any photos of you?”

A cold wave goes up my spine; I hunch over the table, making myself smaller.

“Two girls that I can think of. I didn’t see them snap photos, but maybe when I wasn’t looking.

People do that when they see someone dressed as a character they like but are too shy to ask.

” I gasp sharply. “They could have posted them all over Insta or TikTok or anywhere. Thousands of people might be studying those pictures. Fuck.”

“Selena.” He reaches over, putting a napkin on the table. A second later my taco spills its contents across the napkin in a gory splatter.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t notice it was falling.”

Jamison studies me in that piercing way of his. I’m still not used to it. “All we can do is be proactive.”

“Okay,” I agree, though my tone sounds very not agreeable. “How do we go about this?”

His dark eyes fall on the knife. Lifting it by the short handle, he ticks the razor tip in the air like it’s the hands on a clock.

I shove myself to my feet, hands held high in defense. “We’re not cutting it off!”

“That wasn’t going to be my suggestion,” he chuckles. “Remember what I told you? How I cleaned the blade?”

My heart begins to settle in my chest. “Bleach. You want to strip the color from my hair.”

“It might be enough to create a seed of doubt when the police talk to you.”

“I could just not talk to them.”

His frown creeps lower. Rising to stand, he tucks his knife into his jacket.

I try to see where it goes, certain my gun is in the same place, but the bastard is too quick.

I wouldn’t be shocked to learn he can do card tricks like a street magician.

“Avoiding them is impossible. We can draw it out, though. They can’t force you into the station without a warrant. ”

“That’s a good point. Then we just have to stay ahead of them until Caruso is dead.”

“At minimum.”

My shrug is cavalier. “After he’s gone, it won’t matter to me what the cops do.” He sneers, not hiding his dislike. I pounce on the moment. “Why does that bother you?” I ask.

Jamison stands as tall as he can, like every bone in his spine has been tugged upward by a string. “It’s reckless.”

I’m sure there’s more, but before I can pry, he turns to walk towards the kitchen sink. Crouching, he digs around, then lifts out a dark brown bottle. “Bleach?” I ask.

He places it on the counter, then peels his jacket off, draping it on a stool beside the granite island. “Unless you decided cutting it is better.”

I roll my eyes dramatically as I approach him. “Do you want me to cut it off? Got a thing for short haired ladies?”

His smile is thoughtful... enigmatic. His voice matches it. “I almost want to say yes to see how you’ll react.”

“You’d get no reaction. I don’t care what you’re into.”

“Yeah?” He moves fast—I twitch, thinking he’s about to touch me, but his arm stays an inch beyond my waist. Holding up the towel he grabbed from behind me on the counter, he smirks wide. “I suspect you’re a little curious, Selena.”

“Wrong. A hundred million batillion times wrong,” I snap.

“Batillion? That amount isn’t real.”

“Neither is my curiosity about your taste in women."

“Bend over the sink.”

Freezing up, I clutch a hand to my chest and back up a step. “Wait, I can bleach my own hair. I don’t need help.”

“I don’t want any chemicals staining my floor. Bleach droplets are the first thing cops would look for.”

“Yeah, if they thought someone had been murdered here!” I laugh rudely. But Jamison doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile. My stomach begins to curl around in a hard ball. “Oh my god. Please don’t tell me you... here...”

His palm slaps lightly on the metal basin of the deep sink. “Put your head inside, Selena.”

I don’t budge; the lump in my throat won’t dissolve. “No, tell me first. Have you ever killed anyone in your house?”

Propping his weight onto the hand on the sink, he glares down at me with an unimpressed scowl. “I haven’t had a reason to. Yet.”

Finally choking the lump down, I walk up to the sink. My hands wind uneasily in the front of my shirt, pulling most of it out of the high waist of my skirt. “Fine, I’ll let you do it.”

“Thank you,” he sighs. Turning the silver knobs, he starts the water running, testing it with two fingers. It must be the right temperature because he shoots me an impatient squint.

Following his hint, I grip the edge of the basin and lower my head inside. The echo of the water colliding with the drain rings in my ears; my breathing sounds louder in this space. Metallic... fast paced.

His fingers sweep over the back of my skull, moving my hair into the water. My neck is exposed to him, vulnerable to any attack he chooses. The pad of his thumb rests on my jugular. He could strangle me... break my windpipe... toss me to the floor.

Any of those would be easier to accept than the gentle way he strokes my skin. The little hairs on the nape of my neck rise. They act like flowers in a field, his breath the sun, summoning them to bend towards him.

A fever sparks in my belly; I crush the basin, starting to stand. “You know, um, maybe you should let me do it myself, I’ve done it plenty of times and—”

“Relax.” It’s a command. I hate being told what to do. It’s one of my biggest flaws.

To my own surprise, I don’t push against him. I ease up the muscles in my shoulders and lean back into the sink. But my breathing is not relaxed, despite his demand. My chest presses against the counter rapidly with each nervous inhale through my nose.

Jamison works his fingers through my hair, making sure it’s thoroughly soaked. His hands vanish; I can’t see well, but I hear him digging in the cupboards below the sink. Something that sounds like a plastic garbage bag rustles. “What are you doing?” I ask nervously.

“Gloves.” He says it bluntly. Of course he needs gloves, he’s using bleach. But my mind is racing, wondering what else he keeps gloves around for. Has he used this batch to clean up a crime scene?

His shadow falls across me again, turning the inside of the sink pitch black. His presence is a warm weight just above. I tense, waiting for his hands again. Knowing they’re coming doesn’t keep me from flinching.

His laugh is all grit. “Nervous?” he asks.

“No,” I reply through pressed teeth.

“Keep your eyes shut. You don’t want to go blind.”

I squeeze them closed while he begins working something into my scalp. The scent is strong; bleach, mixed with something else. Dish soap? I focus on the acrid smell, using it to keep me from thinking about how luxurious Jamison’s long fingers feel as they rub through my hair.

His pressure is firm... constant. Every stroke is like he’s massaging my brain. I know these hands have killed. But right now, they’re making me giddy. It’s the bleach, I lie to myself. It can’t be him. I won’t allow it to be him.

Champagne bubbles flit through my blood. I press my knees together, then my thighs, clenching my muscles to try and stop my belly flutters.

“It’s working on you,” he rasps.

“What is?” I whimper.

He goes quiet, his hands no longer moving, before they rub again. “The bleach. What else would I mean?”

I messed up. He knows he’s having an effect on me. Of course he meant the fucking bleach was working on my pink dye. Fuck fuck fuck, why do I say such mindless shit?

Angling the nozzle of the faucet he rinses my hair. “You’re very blonde now.”

“Well, good,” I mumble. “The pink was just a stain, it should wash away clean.”

Jamison fists the middle of my hair, winding it, turning my head to one side. I can see him now; his intense eyes, his stiff jaw. I didn’t think my heart could pound harder. I was wrong. “It should help,” he says softly.

“Yeah?” I angle a brave smile. “Can’t recognize me anymore?”

His hand tightens in my hair. “It would be hard to forget your face.”

A droplet of water rolls down my cheek. More of them follow, tickling as they go. I taste the tang of bleach on my tongue when I lick. I should say something but... I can’t think. “The bleach is making me woozy,” I say.

“You’re sure it’s the bleach?”

“What else would it be?” This angle is awkward; I want to stand, but his fistful of my wet hair is holding me in the sink. “Let me up, Jamison.”

He stares into the depths of my eyes. It’s like he’s counting the flecks of color in my irises, cataloging them for some purpose I can’t grasp. His lips lie in a gentle swoop, the tension in his jaw nowhere to be found.

“Jamison,” I repeat in a hush.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

He blinks, breaking eye contact and standing. I can’t see his expression now, just the length of his muscular forearm. “You’ll drip water everywhere. Let me get that towel.”

His fingers leave my neck. My skin feels cold and tingly, more vulnerable than ever. Jamison’s hand was like a comfortable blanket, and with it gone, I shiver. Get a hold of yourself. You’re acting insane.

He cranks the faucet off, the metal scraping, knobs about to snap.

I don’t hear him leave.

I don’t hear him return.

The heavy silence permeates the kitchen, my breathing extra loud in the deep metal basin. The towel was right near us, what’s the delay?

“Jamison?”

Only my echo responds.