Page 2 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Ren

FIVE YEARS LATER

I t’s cold and wet as I peer into the trunk of a beat-up sedan, the rust-colored paint scratched off.

“Dead?” Abe asks, blinking.

“Dead,” Bennie confirms.

“Fucking dead,” Isolde double confirms.

Three heads swivel my way.

I pretend the water running down my neck is rain and not sweat. It’s stopped pouring, but mist halos us, the lights from our flashlights creating hazy rainbows.

“Yeah.” The word slips out breathlessly. It doesn’t fully hit me, or maybe I’ve finally figured out how to stop my insides from curdling every time I come across a dead body.

“You sure?” Bennie asks. He took his tie off before we left, and the first few buttons of his white shirt are loose.

Abe’s face wrinkles. He looks out of place, out of his apron, and away from the kitchen. He insisted on coming, though. If this is the first time he’s coming across a dead body, he’s doing rather well.

“Are you?” Isolde prods when I remain silent. Her hair is pulled into a high pony, the rain slicking it back. Her eyes never waver as she stares at me.

If there’s anyone out of the four of us used to dead bodies it’s my best friend.

Her gloved hand keeps the trunk open, her other holding a flashlight.

It’s a crappy junkyard and we had to slog through mud and scattered debris to find the right car.

“I’m sure.” The words are quieter. Okay, so maybe my insides are a little bit curdled.

“You want to tell us about it?” Ben asks with measured precision. I can’t look over at him because Abe’s worried, creased face does stuff to me.

“Eighth grade dance.”

“Eighth grade?” Abe blurts, gobsmacked.

“I wore a red, glittery skirt because I couldn’t find a dress I liked.” My ears aren’t ringing. It’s a train making that high whirling sound. “He picked me up and by that I mean his older sister drove us to the dance.”

Just typical midwestern shit.

Ben asks the question on everyone’s mind. “How did he end up here?”

My fingers curl around the metal flashlight in my hand. “Last I heard he worked as a teacher. In Ohio, I think.”

Is he married? I’ve shirked social media thanks to my job. But I scan my memories thinking back to college days when I’d ruthlessly search for updates on people from my high school days. I used to ponder how much of a loser I was for not having anything cool to share myself.

Oh, God. I think he did get married. Someone he met in college. Though, maybe they got divorced. Fuck. He definitely had a kid.

Isolde slams the trunk shut. I’m grateful Abe jumps, hiding my own stunned expression .

“Right.” Isolde clicks her flashlight off.

There’s a crane in the background, the metal a dark outline in the gray foggy night.

“So that’s another one of your ex-boyfriends dead,” she tells the group.

My eyes linger on the dented trunk. The back window is half busted out. I step back and Ben and Isolde are satisfied with following.

“Wait.” Abe stares over his shoulder but his feet follow. “We’re not actually going to leave him there?”

Ben tugs him close, his arm squeezing around his waist.

I’m happy for them. I am. But it sickens me sometimes when they show affection. Though, I suppose in the scheme of things, that shouldn’t be the one thing bothering me right now.

I know I’m not alone as I trample along, Isolde right on my feet, but it’s certainly fucking cold out.

“You want to call it in?” Isolde asks Abe.

“Why don’t you go ahead and tell the cops about the four other bodies,” Bennie suggests.

“Exactly!” his boyfriend argues. Abe shows his love through arguments. “We have a serial killer on the fucking lose. We can’t just let this shit go.”

“We’re not letting this shit go,” Isolde promises.

I pull my coat tighter. It’s a thin shell, the material meant to protect against rain and not the cold horror spreading through my sternum.

“Stop looking at me,” I tell Abe.

He opens his mouth, ready to lob a complaint. Bennie tucks him closer, drawing his attention. But it’s not enough to dispel Abe Fujimori.

“That’s five dead bodies, Ren.”

I regret letting him tag along. But he’d thrown a fit when we tried to leave without him.

“Five dead bodies all connected to you, Ren.”

“Babe,” Bennie tries.

Abe shakes his boyfriend off, whirls around, and stops me short. “When’s the last time you saw that guy?”

My chest squeezes tight. But I can’t help but notice a pair of bright blue eyes also trained on me. And Ben’s not objecting to the question either.

“Eighth grade?” Abe asks, disbelief and outrage mixed together. “We’re all in our twenties, Ren. Somebody fucking killed your childhood sweetheart. We should all be shitting our pants.”

“Do not shit your pants,” Isolde orders, warning clear in her tone.

“Yeah, babe,” Ben agrees. “Please don’t.”

Abe stomps his foot. “Stop acting like desensitized fools. There’s a fucking killer on the loose and they’re targeting our girl.”

“We’re fucking aware,” Isolde says, trudging forward. She’s the one who found the spot to sneak through along the fence line to get into the junkyard. Part of me feels like a teenager again, sneaking around with her friends.

But Abe’s right. This isn’t normal. Sure, we might all deal with shadowy figures on a daily basis, but finding your boyfriend from eighth grade dead is another matter.

“Bullet in the back of the head,” Ben says.

“Execution style.” Isolde looks at me. “Quick.”

I suppose she wants me to take comfort in that.

“If you guys aren’t freaking out now,” Abe asks, “when exactly do we start freaking out?”

We answer Abe as one. “Never.”

His steps falter before he runs to catch up.

“What now?” Abe asks.

“For fuck’s sake.” Isolde’s accent gets thicker with her anger. “You’re never leaving the fucking kitchen again. ”

He frowns. “My questions are valid, Yorkshire.”

“They’re annoying,” she mutters.

“I’m going this way.” I take a right.

All three of my friends swerve to follow.

I don’t look over my shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”

“We’re walking you home,” Ben says.

“Are you going to walk Isolde home or am I the only one being babysat?”

“Of course we’re going to walk her home.” I can practically hear Abe’s furrowed brow as he answers. “And then we’ll walk ourselves home. It’s called the buddy system.”

How nice. The happy couple always have one another.

I’m glad I’m walking in front so no one can see the exasperated face I make. I swear my annoyance is only because I’m tired. People in love don’t normally piss me off this much.

But it’s been a long few weeks.

True to their word, they walk me all the way to my building. My limbs are numb throughout all five miles. Ben waves at the doorman, the pair on a first-name basis with one another.

“You fucks are lucky I love you,” I tell all three. For a second I let myself pretend like we’ve just come from the bar. The sidewalk in front of my building is worlds away from the industrial junkyard.

“Or what? You’d have shot us all for knowing where you live?” Isolde asks.

“Yes.”

“Babe, we need to figure out if this fuck does know where you live.” Anxiety swirls from Abe. I’m grateful for Isolde’s blank face.

“It’s fine,” I quickly say, wary of other residents in the lobby.

“We should go up and check,” Abe suggests .

“No.” The doorman opens the door. “I love you all, but no.”

“Text us when you get inside,” Abe yells.

“I’m inside!” I hold my hands out wide to demonstrate as I walk through the lobby.

The doorman grins. He has no idea I just found a dead body. “A good night?”

“Something like that,” I reply, heading to the elevator.

From what I’ve learned about Aunt Macy, she wore thrifted T-shirts and bitched about spending more than twenty bucks. When it came to her accommodations, though, she didn’t skimp on the details.

The two-bed, two-bath with an in-unit washer and dryer that comes in a building with a doorman is a dream come true. Especially considering I inherited it for free.

Which is why I should be ashamed of the state of it.

The place came with a strong scent of stale smoke thanks to Aunt Macy’s chain-smoking. But the rest of the mess? That’s all on me.

I shove my shoulder into the door, using more force than necessary. It feels like I’ve got to break down doors everywhere I go these days.

My jacket drops to the floor and I take off my heels. I keep meaning to put up a coat hook in the entryway that opens directly into the living room.

I trip on a pile of books by the edge of the couch. Shirtless men with ripped abs scatter across the floor. The top one is this month’s book club pick. Lennie loves a good spicy book and if I had the time to read them I think I’d enjoy them too.

Speaking of Lennie, I tug my phone out of my pocket while popping the button on my slacks. They slide down my legs and when I step out of them, I leave the crumpled material on the floor. Those will need to be dry-cleaned anyway so who cares if they end up wrinkled? I’ll pick them up later.

Lennie: Are you guys hanging out without me? I always know when you guys are hanging out without me because Isolde stops posting to her stories.

“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter when a button on my blouse pops off. It rolls across the hardwood. It’s kind of my fault considering I tried to rip the shirt open, but surely I didn’t use that much strength.

My arm gets stuck as I try to take the shirt off, the gauzy fabric flapping around.

Isolde: I was working.

Lennie: I want to be included in fun stuff.

I sink to the edge of my bed, the red shirt hanging sadly from my arm. Yeah. Fun.

Isolde: I got to chapter 40.

It takes Lennie a minute to reply.

Lennie: I’m not fooled by your attempt to redirect. BUT HOLY CRAP CHAPTER 40!!!!

“What happens in chapter forty?” Should I go back and pick up this month’s read?

Would reading a bit of smut get my mind off of things?

A sigh blows a few strands of flattened hair off my face.

It started with Mike Logan. My college boyfriend. Well, if you could even call it that. Fairly certain he stuck his dick in any willing vagina. Up until three months ago, I tried to ignore how I used to be said willing vagina.

Ben came across his name in the medical examiner’s reports. An overdose. Sad, but not unusual .

Then Teddy Viela ended up stabbed. He’d come here on vacation.

Isolde found Will Miller while out on an assignment. He had a scar running from ear to ear. The clients swear it was a random body Isolde discovered, but it certainly didn’t feel random.

Somebody bashed in Walter Drew’s head. I found out because Ben heard from back home about the shocking homicide.

And Danny. . . The image of his body curled up in the trunk of the shitty car we just found flashes in my mind.

The silence presses against me. This apartment is for sleep so I normally appreciate the blissful quiet. It’s a stark contrast to Fujimori’s with its dueling chefs, Russian businessmen, and chatty tourists.

The fridge is void of food but there’s a nice collection of beverages. I consider the options and grab my favorite, Pepsi, before putting it back. The Wild Cherry Pepsi calls out to me instead. Cracking it open with a satisfying pop, little fizzy drops splash my hand.

I guzzle the liquid as I walk back to the bedroom. Perching on the edge of the mattress in just my underwear, I ignore my belly rolls as I consider my life.

My hand reaches for the phone. I know I’m in a bad way because I don’t feel the normal satisfaction when Lev Zimin immediately picks up. He—like every other person in this city—knows to answer the phone when I call.

I hear the smugness in his voice, though. “Ren Callahan.”

Fingers trace the condensation along the Pepsi can. “Someone’s offing all my old boyfriends.”

Another way I know I’m feeling like shit? I don’t even have the capacity to analyze Lev’s prolonged silence.

Sure, there’s a good chance he might be the reason I’ve found five ex-boyfriends dead in the past three months. But if he’s not. . .

“Do what you will with that information.” I tap the red button, ending the call. The phone drops to the duvet with a thump.

Lev and I might hate each other’s guts, but I’ll be damned if I’m the reason his son, Roman ends up dead.