Page 43 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Twenty-Two

Raylen

B&B

“Come here, creepy, spooky, ugly little…” I groan as my phone starts ringing, cutting off my pitiful attempt at luring the spider—no bigger than a goddamn pea—out from under the bed so I can finally smash it and get off this damn mattress.

Bracing one foot on the nightstand, I reach for the side chair and yank my phone off the charger, never once taking my eyes off the gaping dark spot where I’m sure my death is scurrying beneath.

“What could you possibly need right now?” I growl, expecting to hear Moe’s voice, but instead it’s Jack, and of course, he answers with a laugh straight from hell.

“Sorry, I didn’t know your banging schedule. Maybe you should send it to me so we don’t run into this problem again.”

I roll my eyes and push harder against the nightstand, climbing higher onto the bed like a rabid gymnast. “Not banging. Didn’t know it was you,” I mutter.

“Listen, Ray…” Jack’s voice trails off, and I hear what sounds like a radio in the background—but it’s just static, low and garbled like it’s dragging through my spine.

“Goddamnit, Jack, if you’re in jail, I can’t bail you out until I get back. So you just wasted your one free call.” My voice comes out sharper than intended, but I can’t help it. My nerves are shot. First the spider, now this, and somewhere in the middle, I got fucking jelly on my favorite shirt .

To be fair, the exploring was decent. I wandered foreign streets and breathed in new air. I thought maybe all the time I spent trapped in that house had rewired me—that I’d never be able to function outside a locked room. But here... I don’t know. Here I feel free.

Well. Free from everything but this fucking eight-legged demon.

“No, not in jail this time. But Laura wouldn’t let me do anything besides call the cops until I called you. I’m trying to be responsible and all that.”

My shoulders lock up, and the broom slips a little in my grip.

“Shit,” I mutter, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I scramble to hold my balance. My mind spirals—either my neighbor died on the porch and Jack found the body when he checked my place, or something happened to my parents. Why Jack would be the first to know, I don’t know. Unless...

“When I got to your place, the door was cracked. At first, I freaked out because I couldn’t find the key under the mat—but then I remembered you moved it. It’s still tucked above the door.”

My throat closes, and the bristles of the broom blur in front of me.

“The cops are saying forced entry. I checked your money jar, jewelry, electronics—everything’s still there. They’re ruling out robbery.”

I need him to shut up. I love him, but I need him to shut the fuck up.

“Someone broke in?” is all I can get out, my voice vibrating from the tremble in my chest.

“There’s no evidence of him being there, so the cops are saying they’ll take a report, but—”

There is evidence, though.

“Just get them away from my house, Jack.” My voice is low, clipped, as I finally land a hit and the spider crunches beneath the broom. A full-body shiver shoots through me, but I hold it back.

“Ray—”

“Look, I’ve got to go. Thank them and get them gone. Talk to you later.” I hang up before he can argue .

Aren’t vacations supposed to be relaxing? Because right now, I feel like I’m in some kind of personal psychological boot camp.

I stare at the broom, debating whether to check if the spider is actually dead or just playing possum. Finally, I do a slow gymnast split to the floor, lifting it with the tip of my toe. Yep. Smushed.

God, I hate spiders. But watching its guts smear on the tissue makes me feel like a monster.

“I’m gonna clean you up now,” I whisper to the spider like it can hear me.

I grab the closest tissue, fighting back a shudder and the dry gag building in my throat as I scrape up its crushed little body.

“Sorry,” I mutter again, covering my mouth with one hand like the apology might muffle the nausea.

I rush to the front door, dodging the same goddamn bee that’s been terrorizing me since we arrived, and crouch at the flowerbed, sifting through the dirt until I find a stick.

“Look, I’m not good at this kind of thing, so this is the best you’re gonna get, little dude,” I grumble as I dig a small hole and drop the tissue in. Then I rub my palm on my pants, trying to scrub away the gross feeling that won’t go away.

Why am I talking to it?

I stare down at the dirt I just swept over the hole.

Why did I bury it? It’s a spider. It didn’t have a name.

It didn’t have feelings. It’s not even human.

Still, I can’t shake the image of it having a whole life here—maybe even creepy little spider kids and a long-legged wife.

And now they’re going to spend the rest of their lives stalking innocent people in revenge for what I did.

“Damn it, why’d you have to scare me?” I whisper to the ground like it can answer me.

“Don’t tell me you’re burying a body. That’s the worst fucking spot to put one.”

I scream.

Moe’s voice startles me so badly I jump to my feet, whirling around, eyes wild.

“That’s not funny!” I shriek .

But he’s already laughing. Full chest laugh.

Hand to his heart like I just gave him the best damn punchline he’s ever heard.

The sun catches his hair just right, making the red brighter, the brown softer.

A single silver chain bounces against a simple gray shirt and tan cargo pants.

I try to be mad, but instead I find myself licking my lips.

“I know, I know,” Moe says through his grin, stepping closer. His fingers curl into my shirt, tugging me gently toward him. “But seriously. Was it a body?”

My stomach knots. My hands shove hard at his chest, harder than necessary.

“For your information, it was a body. Now tell Creeper you’re sorry for insulting his death,” I growl, clenching my jaw. The words are out before I can stop them.

And instantly, I hate myself.

Why the fuck did I say that?

Did I just name the thing?

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Creeper?” Moe asks, glancing at the pile of dirt near my feet, then back at me like he’s not sure if I’m serious or possessed.

“Right…” he drawls, glancing at his wrist but never actually checking the time. “Uh—well… if you and Mr. Creeper are finished here, we have dinner with my coworker.”

I stomp my foot in frustration, the crack in my composure widening. He thinks this is funny. He always thinks this is funny.

His smile dims slightly as he tilts his head back with a sigh, soaking up the sun but not quite enjoying the warmth.

Then his arms open. No words. Just open.

God help me.

“You’re a prick,” I mutter, head down as I walk into his arms. I don’t even wrap mine around him, but he doesn’t hesitate to pull me in tight, hand smoothing over my hair, nose buried against my neck.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs .

But I don’t want him to believe that. Not really.

He lifts his head slowly, cupping my face in both hands, forcing me to look at him.

“Here lies Creeper,” Moe begins solemnly. “Taken from us too soon—”

“Shut up,” I hiss, shoving his chest again.

“Whoa, careful,” he teases. “You might need to stay in my arms. Bob the Bee might be next, and I don’t think there’s enough space in this garden for him to be buried, too.”

His laugh fades a little when I don’t return it. When I just stare. His hand cups my jaw, gently tipping my face toward his again.

“I’m only kidding,” he says, softer now. “Let me make it up to you.”

“Dinner?” he offers, brows wiggling.

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

It’s not because I want to go. It’s because if I don’t, he might ask what’s really wrong, and I can’t have that.

Not today.

“When you said dinner, I thought you meant for us ,” I hiss, jerking Moe’s arm back by the crook of his elbow. My feet stay planted, refusing to move any closer to the older man grinning and waving us forward like we’re at some twisted family reunion.

“I, uh—” Moe rubs the back of his neck, sheepish, refusing to let his eyes crinkle. “I said with my co-worker, sunshine. ”

Shit. Maybe he did. But I was too far gone, drowning in thoughts I don’t talk about, to hear it properly.

“Is this your way of telling me you wanted some alone time?” he purrs, like he wasn’t just looking like a kicked puppy seconds ago.

“Don’t deflect,” I mutter under my breath, though it’s barely audible over the pounding music and drunken shouts echoing from the pool tables.

Out of all the places we could’ve ended up tonight, a bar wasn’t on my bingo card.

It smells like piss, stale beer, and burnt burgers.

The air is thick with smoke and bad decisions, and the dim lighting barely cuts through the haze.

Each step Moe drags me forward, my tennis shoes stick to the floor like they're warning me to turn around.

“I was starting to lose hope in you, boy! Would’ve been a hell of a dent in my wallet if I lost the bet with King,” the older man booms, his voice cutting through the noise like he was born to command it.

“You all bet on whether I’d show up?” Moe says, brow furrowing. I glance over at him, trying to figure out if the cloud behind his eyes is confusion or if something deeper is starting to churn.

His shoulders sag, and his expression shifts, like he’s in pain. I blink down at my grip on his arm, wondering if I’m the one hurting him. Maybe my nails dug in too deep. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

“Don’t tell me he’s fuckin’ here too,” Moe murmurs, eyes sweeping the room like he’s searching for something or someone.

My stomach twists. Did he meet his dad today? I didn’t even think to ask. Shit. Am I already failing at this whole supportive whatever-the-fuck-we-are?

“He didn’t have much of a choice,” the older man chuckles. “I may have made this meal mandatory.”