Page 11 of Kiss Me Honey Honey (To Love a Psycho #2)

CHapter te n

Dance Little Liar

Aaron had hoped he’d have time to run to his room on campus and change before his morning lecture, but pissing about in Kenny’s office had made that impossible if he wanted to turn up on time. Stuck in his party gear, he was. Although it smelled of fresh washing powder and luxury softener, even his ripped jeans felt softer somehow. Thankfully, he’d stuck his student ID into the back of his phone case, so could buzz himself into Lecture Theatre Two. Attendance recorded so no unauthorised absence would be going down on his file. What he lacked, though, was anything to take notes with.

Did he really need notes anymore when he had Kenny?

Did he have Kenny?

Chewing that over in his rabid mind along with the paper burning a hole in his back pocket, he sat on the back row of tiered seats, other students tumbling in moaning about the early start on a Monday, and waited for the games to begin.

The game being who broke first.

“Oi, oi.” Mel sidled up next to him, dumping her bag on the desk in front. “Where the fuck you been?” She dragged out her tablet with the keyboard and the textbook they were working from with colourful tabs sticking out of it.

“You got any paper? Pen?” Aaron asked instead of answering the obvious.

“Where’s your stuff?”

“In my room.”

“You not been there all weekend?” Mel fished out a notebook and pen from her bag and handed it over.

“No.” He kept his eyes on the notes.

“I’ve been calling you. Sent a dozen texts.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, had my phone off all weekend.”

“Taylor has also been calling me.” She clicked her keyboard onto the tablet, ready to tap tap tap her way through the next hour’s lecture. “You two had a fight?”

“Not physically.”

The lecture theatre had filled up now, most of the seats taken. Kenny’s lectures did that. Dr Kenneth Lyons could persuade anyone to fall out of bed on a Monday morning. Could persuade me to stay in it too. But that was for a whole other reason. Kenny had the pull of students’ attendance records because of his delivery. His charisma. The ability to command a room full of those nursing hangovers and heartbreak to listen to what he had to say. Maybe it was the content. Dysfunctional behaviour. The dark corners of the human mind. His expertise in assessing people and why they did what they did— my mother . Or the way he wove real-life cases he’d been part of into his lectures. But Aaron knew it wasn’t all that. It was his presence . And Aaron stared at the clock above the whiteboard, its second hand counting down to nine, pulse ticking with it, sharp and steady, until it skipped, stuttered, and faltered at the thought of Kenny walking through and proving that he did feel.

Helplessly so.

But the second hand hit the twelve, and the podium remained as empty as Aaron’s heart .

“What happened?”

“When?”

“At the party. Taylor said you just left. He rang to ask if you were at mine.”

Aaron should probably tell her what happened. Leaving out the Kenny stuff. But he should probably admit he’d been roofied. That he suspected Max to have been the one to slip it in his drink, whether for his gain or Taylor’s. But if he did that, there would be a dozen more questions. And Aaron didn’t want it all getting back to them with the satisfaction they’d actually affected him. For all they knew, he’d had enough and left. They hadn’t seen him fighting for his vision. Trying to make his legs get him up the alleyway. Hadn’t seen him at his most vulnerable. Not like the bloke before had and taken full advantage. He’d told himself never, ever let anyone see him like that again. Never let anyone touch him without permission. And don’t, under any circumstances, show weakness.

“I just had enough of their bullshit,” Aaron said. “Took myself back to London. Stayed with a mate.”

“So you and Taylor are over?”

Aaron scribbled a meaningless doodle on his paper. “Yeah.”

“Are you going to tell him that?”

“Eventually. When I see him.”

“Shame.” Mel peeked up when the doors at the front slammed open. “He’s hot.”

Despite Aaron knowing Mel was referring to Taylor, his stomach still flipped when a figure strode into the theatre and marched to the front because if anyone was hot, it would be that man. And Aaron kept his eyes down on his paper, a slight smirk. He wouldn’t look. Wouldn’t break first.

The game is on.

“Good morning, class.”

Aaron looked then. Because that voice didn’t belong to Kenny .

“I’m Vinnie Rothman, PhD student. Dr Lyons has asked me to fill in today.” He used his remote clicker to open the presentation on the screen. “Today, we’re going a little off topic so I can talk to you about my research and delve into a topic that’s often overlooked in discussions about violence and criminal behaviour. Survivor impact.”

He clicked to the first slide, displaying a haunting image of an empty swing in a dimly lit park. The title above it read, Scars That Never Fade: The Long Shadow of Trauma.

And off he went, this young twenty-something, rolling through his presentation, delivering the lecture Kenny had told Aaron he had to be here for. Where the fuck was he? Aaron slipped his phone out of his pocket, checking for any message. Nothing. So he composed one himself.

Cheat

Sending it to Kenny, he resigned himself to listening to this dullard.

“Survivors are often heralded as strong, resilient. Proof of human endurance in the face of unimaginable adversity. But we rarely stop to consider the cost of survival.” Vinnie paced, obviously loving the sound of his own voice. “The psychological toll can be immense, sometimes warping their ability to trust, to love, to experience intimacy.”

Okay, Aaron was a little more interested than he first thought he would be.

“Trauma isn’t just something survivors leave behind. It becomes part of them, shaping their worldview, their relationships, their very identity. Many struggle with feelings of unworthiness or anger, which can manifest in self-destructive behaviours. For some…” He gestured to the screen, which shifted to a graphic of overlapping circles labelled Survivor Guilt, Hypervigilance, and Isolation. “…it can lead to actions that harm others.”

Aaron’s interest piqued .

“Survivor guilt is a particularly insidious form of trauma. Imagine surviving something catastrophic. A disaster, an assault, or even an encounter with a violent criminal, while others didn’t. The burden can erode the survivor’s sense of self. They may start to question why they were spared, and over time, this guilt can metastasise into anger or resentment. Towards themselves. Those who didn’t save them. And sometimes, the world.”

Another slide appeared, this one showing a stark statistic: 25% of trauma survivors exhibit aggression in interpersonal relationships. Beneath it was a subtler line: A small percentage exhibit predatory behaviour.

“For a fraction of survivors, trauma doesn’t just isolate. It compels them to reclaim the control they feel was stolen from them. And for those with an already fragile psychological foundation, this can manifest as harm to others. Intimacy, the thing they crave most, becomes a weapon.”

Aaron stilled his pen over his notebook. Intimacy can become a weapon? Was that what he was doing? With Kenny? He craved Kenny far beyond what he’d ever experienced before. It wasn’t just sex, either. Nor lust. It was more than that. He wanted him close. To touch him. Kiss him. He wanted Kenny to care about him. Wanted his warmth to seep into the cold places inside him. Wanted his affection, his tenderness, to focus on him and him only . He wanted to consume every single thought Kenny had.

Wasn’t that an obsession? A craving? An addiction?

More importantly, was it a weapon?

“Take this case.” Vinnie pointed his red laser at the screen and rattled on about a real life case of a survivor turning predator, and Aaron switched off his own personal experience to learn that of another’s. Maybe it might help him understand some of his own lingering trauma. And so he listened intently for the next forty minutes.

“And therefore,” Vinnie concluded, “understanding the intersection of trauma and behaviour is crucial. Because if we can’t recognise the signs, we risk letting the cycle repeat.” He clicked to the next slide: Discussion Prompt: How can we prevent survivor trauma from evolving into harm? Vinnie scanned the room. “Thoughts?”

Somehow, Aaron got through that discussion. He knew firsthand the psyche of a survivor, and much of what Vinnie had said cemented his knowledge of how he felt as one. The following seminar group was brutal, though, having to detach from his own experience. But he managed, unscathed, and emerged out onto campus at lunchtime. He checked his phone. No response from Kenny. Aaron sighed, slipping it in his back pocket to tuck in beside the folded report on Child A burning a hole through to his skin.

“Fancy lunch?” Mel asked him as they stepped out onto the green. “We can go off campus.”

“I’m gonna go to the library.”

Mel widened her eyes. “The library? What for?”

“Getting a head start on this research project.”

“You are such a swot.” She shoved him playfully. “All right. How about I go get us some snacks from the campus shop and I’ll meet you in there?” She then pulled out her vape and handed it to Aaron.

Aaron took it with gratitude. He hadn’t had a vape all weekend, and it was only then he realised he hadn’t missed it. Barely even noticed not having a smoke. His addiction was fickle. He’d replaced one with another. His fixation with making Kenny break his own rules.

“Yeah. All right.” Aaron watched her trot off, then took a drag, blowing out the vape and making his way across campus.

The university library loomed at the far edge like a shrine to knowledge, its imposing art déco facade dominating the skyline. Massive, symmetrical, and framed by tall, slim windows, it exuded an air of reverence, almost as if it were a temple to academia. Wide stone steps led up to heavy glass doors, through which hundreds of students filtered every day, voices hushed as they disappeared into its cavernous interior.

Inside, the library spanned five expansive floors, each one a maze of possibilities. The ground floor housed the essentials: the front desk, self-service kiosks, and rows of computers humming quietly from constant use. Further back, open-plan study spaces buzzed with whispered conversations, while larger tables strewn with laptops, scattered notes, and half-empty coffee cups were the standard view of a well utilised study space.

Aaron climbed the spiral staircase rising through the heart of the building, passing floor after floor of neatly categorised shelves stretched endlessly, spines a rainbow of titles promising to unlock any subject under the sun. Core texts for every course the university offered resided here, from dense medical manuals to obscure treatises on Victorian literature. Modern comforts punctuated the space. Ergonomic chairs. Communal study pods with glass partitions. Charging stations that seemed perpetually occupied.

The third floor, quieter and more secluded, was where he needed to be. The domain of criminal psychology, where rows of books promised insight into the darkest corners of human behaviour. It would have everything Aaron was looking for, and nothing he needed for his coursework.

His real objective lay elsewhere.

Aaron wasn’t here to research material for their extended project or to skim-read journal articles on contemporary forensic techniques. What he wanted, what he needed , was every book, every scrap of information ever written on the Howell case. Kenny authored some of those books. Clinical, academic dissections of the case that Aaron couldn’t bring himself to read before now. The authorities had shielded him from the worst of it. The rest he’d avoided himself in some foolish hope to cling onto the rose-tinted view he had of his childhood .

But what Aaron truly sought was what he had half of folded in his back pocket. Kenny’s assessment. His analysis of Child A . He needed to know what else existed, what other pieces of the puzzle might reveal themselves if he looked hard enough. Theories, parallels, other cases where children had been born into horror and what had become of them. So he ran his fingers along the spines of books, stopping on a familiar name. Lyons . The title below: The Psychology of Legacy: The Impact of Familial Crimes on the Innocent .

His mouth dried.

This was the real reason he was here. To find out who he was—or who the world thought he might become. He pulled it out, along with some random others, then headed over to a quiet table overlooking a window. With an intrepid inhale, he read.

He’d barely started before a shadow loomed over his table. Expecting it to be Mel, he didn’t look up from his reading. But when the shadow hovered, lingered, he finally peeked up from the book.

“Hey.” Taylor tucked his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

Aaron fell back in his seat, staring up at him. He seemed different now. Flawed . Blemished. Marred by what he may or may not have done and by the company he kept. Aaron twirled Mel’s pen between his fingers and waited.

“Can I sit?” Taylor pointed to the chair opposite.

“Shouldn’t you be at placement?”

“Yeah. Technically, I am. Said I was chasing a story here.”

“Better not be me.”

Taylor snorted as if what Aaron said was absurd, but there was still an undercurrent of uncertainty in his stance. “Can I sit?” he asked again.

“How did you know I was here?”

Taylor’s cheeks blushed. “Told Mel to tell me if you turned up at lecture.”

Aaron shook his head. There was the reason he should’ve been honest with Mel. If he’d told her what had happened, what Taylor might have inadvertently or blatantly been involved in, then she wouldn’t be sending him Aaron’s way. He couldn’t blame her though. Mel was part of the LGBTQ+ Society committee now. Having taken on the role of Secretary to Taylor’s continued reign of President. They were mates. And for a while, it had been a nice clique for Aaron to be in. To have actual friends.

“So, can I?” Taylor pointed to the chair.

“Free country.”

Taylor scraped out the chair and sat. “I’ve been calling you.”

“I know. Funny thing about these modern phones, they can now show us who’s called. Eighteen times.”

Taylor winced, then recovered from his brief mortification. “Why didn’t you answer? Call me back?”

Aaron met his gaze head-on. “For exactly the reason you’re thinking.”

“I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Why would I be dead?”

“ I don’t know !” Taylor snapped, and a few students glared over. He mouthed his apology to them, then lowered his voice. “I been on this netballer story all week and she just dropped dead. Started panicking you might have too, but somewhere no one could find you. Max and George said you just left the party. No word. Gone.”

“It was a shit party.”

“George said you had a bit to drink, though. Were you sick?”

“No.”

“Where did you go? Cause I went to your room.”

“You went to my room?”

“Yeah. Course. To see if you were okay.”

Or did he go for more nefarious reasons, believing he would find a pliant Aaron?

Aaron sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Do you remember when I said not to get too attached? That I wasn’t your boyfriend?”

Taylor gulped, leaning back. “We’ve been going out for nearly a year.”

“No, we’ve been fucking about for nearly a year. There’s a difference.”

“Are you dumping me?”

“We’d have to be together for me to dump you, but if that helps you understand, then, yeah. We’re done. Or, I’m done.”

Taylor’s mouth twisted, disbelief and anger warring his expression. “What the fuck did I do?”

“I don’t know, Taylor. What the fuck did you do?”

“Nothing! I wasn’t even at the party.” Taylor’s outburst was getting more erratic now.

“Why does the party matter?”

“I don’t know! One minute you’re there, getting drunk, next off you fuck. George told you to stay in my room if you weren’t feeling well.”

“I was fine.”

“He said you weren’t.”

“What does he know?”

Taylor’s chest rose. “This is bullshit. It’s not my fault.”

Movement out of the corner of his eye pulled Aaron’s focus. A group of academics ascended the library staircase, voices low, and at the centre, Kenny.

Aaron’s heart stuttered.

Kenny’s presence, even across the library, hit like a jolt. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in the library . He was supposed to be in the lecture hall. But there he was, surrounded by other professors, pointing to shelves or something equally mundane.

They both lost the game.

The charged silence stretched like a taut wire as their eyes met across the room, then snapped when Kenny saw Taylor. He looked away, jaw tight, muscles clenching, and Aaron watched him disappear into the rows of books, heart pounding.

Taylor folded his arms, narrowing his gaze with every second Aaron stayed silent. “You know what I don’t understand?” He glanced back toward the stairwell where Kenny disappeared. “What your professor was doing outside my house on the night of the party?”

Aaron said nothing.

“First, he shows up at your room, then he’s at my house the second you disappear.” He turned his accusatory stare back on Aaron. “What’s that about?”

Aaron tightened his grip on Mel’s pen, the plastic creaking under the strain. Would she be upset if he broke it?

Taylor scanned the books spread out on the table. “People at my placement been talking about that Howell case. Happened near here, didn’t it? That why you’ve got such a hard-on for your professor? Cause he worked on it? You think he’s your golden ticket to working with psychos like that?”

That hit the mark and Aaron slammed the book shut, the thud making Taylor flinch. “Do yourself a favour and have some dignity. Told you not to get jealous. We’re over.” He then gathered the books, but in his rush, the folded paper he’d taken from Kenny’s office slipped loose, gliding across the desk to land in Taylor’s lap.

Taylor picked it up.

Aaron held out his hand. “Give it back.”

Taylor arched an eyebrow. Then read it.

“You’ll give yourself a brain haemorrhage you read that.”

Taylor tilted the chair on two legs. “’Child A’s psychological state is a fragile construct built on years of manipulation, neglect, and delusion.’” Taylor peered up at Aaron, reading from the page. “There was a Howell kid? Fuck . Bet he’s messed up.”

“That’s too advanced for a media studies student.”

“Fuck you, Aaron. ”

“Give. It. Back.”

Taylor held the page away, still reading. “Why do you care so much? Just research, right? Jesus….’Will have a fascination with control and dominance, a dissociative tendency that could evolve into a detachment from reality under stress, and a suppressed rage that, without appropriate outlets, may manifest in violent or harmful ways.’” He peered over at Aaron. “Sounds like you.”

Aaron launched over the table, snatching the paper from Taylor’s grip to tear it down the middle, jagged edges fluttering to the floor.

Taylor’s face darkened, lips curling into a sneer as he balled up the remaining piece and tossed it at Aaron. “You really do have a boner for psychos.” He then shoved back his chair and started toward the stairs. “Might go see what the psych faculty think of their professor visiting his student in his room.”

Aaron’s chest heaved, fury at boiling point. “You go to the psych faculty,” he called after him, voice ringing with venom, “and I’ll go to the Student Union. Tell them you and your rapist housemates roofied me. They’ll strip you of your LGBTQ+ presidency before you’ve even had time to put the condom on to fuck the next fresher twink you all have your bets on.”

Taylor froze mid-step, back stiffening. Slowly, he turned, his face a complicated mask of shock and indignation, with something else lurking underneath. Doubt . He searched Aaron’s face, bravado cracking just enough to reveal uncertainty. Not for whether Aaron would go through with his threat, but if it was based on truth. If Taylor was totally oblivious, if he knew nothing, he’d continue with his own warning, safe in the knowledge Aaron had nothing on him or his housemates. But if he believed, even for a smidgen, that someone who’d been in his house the night of the party had it in them to spike his drink, then he’d have no choice but to walk away from Aaron’s life and keep his mouth shut.

But whatever he did, whether or not Taylor had been in on the drugging, the outcome for Aaron remained the same. He’d lost his trust and people didn’t come by it often. He’d not confided anything about himself to Taylor and now, staring him in the face, was the justification for not. Because at the snap of a finger, a twist of the knife, he’d use it against him.

Taylor’s lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out. Whatever shred of doubt he had—whether it was about his housemates or his own actions—was enough to stop him. He turned back around and stalked out of the library without another word.

The second he was gone, Aaron fell back into his seat, trembling with adrenaline. He balled his fists, nails digging into his palms as rage surged like a tidal wave, unstoppable. Kicking the chair opposite, Aaron lost control, and the force sent it clattering to the floor, and he slammed his fists onto the table, the echo reverberating across the hushed library.

“Fuck! Fuck! FUCK !”

Students froze, heads snapping toward him in alarm. Whispers and glares followed as a woman rushed over.

“Excuse me!” she snapped. “You do not vandalise the library! What’s your name?”

Aaron pulled out his student ID and held it up, voice dripping with mockery. “Aaron Jones,” he said. Then, in a voice laced with bitter irony, he quoted from the notes on Child A, his tone flat yet cutting: “ A troubling potential for psychotic behaviours if their emotional regulation and worldview are not actively addressed .’”

She hovered her hand over her phone, brow furrowing in confusion and alarm. “I’m calling security.”

“Don’t bother. I’m leaving.”

Aaron left the library books strewn on the table, along with the ripped pieces of Child A’s report, then shoved past the librarian, barrelled down the stairs, boots echoing with each step, and burst through the glass doors into the cold air outside .

Fury burned hot in his chest, breathing ragged, pulse pounding in his ears. But underneath the rage, something else churned: guilt, frustration, and a deep, gnawing fear that the paper Taylor had seen wasn’t just words on a page—it was a mirror.

And Kenny had held it up to him.