Page 29 of The Night Shift

I don’t know what it is that keeps me coming back to her. Day after day, night after night, revolving around her like she’s the center of the universe. Ready to drop to my knees for a single second of her time. Well, what else am I supposed to do? I can’t un-meet her. I can’t un-know her. And I sure as fuck can’t un-want her. There’s nothing I can do besides relinquishing control. I want to eat what she eats, drink what she drinks, feel what she feels. I want to turn her inside out and memorize every single inch. Every single thing about her is so radiating, it almost hurts to look.

So, she killed a few men. People aren’t perfect. It doesn’t matter if she killed a man and plans on killing three more. It doesn’t matter if one of them ends up being me, quite frankly, the girl could stab me in the face, and it’d feel like a kiss. All that matters is that if she’s drowning, I’d simply turn into the body of water she’s sinking into. I have no interest in saving her. I want all of her. The light, the dark. The good and the bad. I want it all. And I’m not going to stop till I have it. Till I have her.

I slip into an alley across from the brownstone building and set the bunch of roses down next to my feet so that I can pull out my binoculars. The “date” flips a switch, and bright white lightilluminates the living room. The view is so fucking clear, it’s like I’m right there with them. Of course, it helps that the sleazeball doesn’t believe in the concept of curtains. He probably feels safe enough without them. Fucking idiot. She walks away from the living room. A few minutes later, so does he. My guess is the bathroom. It’s the only room not facing the street.

No matter, I’ll be here when she leaves. Like always.

I take out my phone and connect my earphones. The instrumental beginning of One Direction’s “Fireproof” fills my ears. My foot taps against the pavement and a mangy-looking grey cat darts between my legs. I smile and scoop it up, cradling it gently in my arms. The cat purrs contentedly, its soft vibrations a comforting melody against my chest.

Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Then thirty. The cat squirms free from my grasp. The music pauses and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out. Several notifications from the spyware app. Messages for Holly.

Camille: how did it go?

Camille: the bar got so busy as soon as you left :(

Camille: some guy just left me a target gift card instead of a tip.

Camille: hellooo???

Holly: All done.

Camille: details please :)

Holly: I’ll call you once I’m home.

Dusting residual fur off my leather jacket, I stuff my phone back into my pocket and go back to spying on the flat. Five minutes later, Holly walks back out. Alone. She has her blue nitrile gloves on. I zoom in to get a better view. There’s a light sheen of sweat on her forehead that makes me want to grab her by the neck and pin her against the wall. I wish I could sweep those damp strands off to a side and trail my mouth along her collarbone till she’s whimpering and begging me to go lower.

She checks the flat one last time for any potential evidence and proceeds to walk back downstairs, out the door, and into a deli. She gets herself a sandwich and an orange soda and walks back out. Picking the roses from the ground, I adjust my black baseball cap and continue following her—discreetly and from a safe distance, of course. She takes off her wig and throws it in an adjacent trash can. Her short blonde curls fall over the back of her neck, the ends just barely brushing past her shoulders. The wig and the sweat has made her wavier than usual. I wonder what they’d look like wrapped around my fingers. What would they feel like? Soft. Definitely soft. I’m tempted to find out. Right here, right now. But that would be unwise. Reckless, even. Dealing with Holly is tricky, you see. She is like a cat herself. A jungle cat. An alpha predator. She senses danger easily — not that I’m calling myself “dangerous.” The thought almost makes me laugh. God, no. I'm not half as lethal as she is. Not even close. But there’s a certain depravity in me that enjoys being scared of her. It turns me on. It makes me wonder how hard I can make her scream. How hard she can makemescream.

A cool, gentle breeze drifts past us, carrying the faint strains of music spilling from an apartment above. The moon peeks through the clouds. I wouldn’t call this stalking, per se. It’s not. It’s just two people going on a long romantic walk together, but only of us knows about it.

She walks a few more steps and comes to an abrupt stop.

Frowning, I stop too, quickly hiding behind a nearby building and watching as Holly pulls out her phone. I can’t see her face, but the way her shoulders tense up, I know whatever it is she’s looking at, whatever it is that’s on her phone, it isn’t good. It has her stressed out. I don’t like that. Not at all. I’m almost about to walk ahead to get a closer look when my phone buzzes too. Mildly peeved by the interruption upon our private time, I take it out and angrily unlock it.

One text message.

Unknown: Good. I’ve always liked you blonde.

Chapter 5

Holly

Now

In the middle of the fucking woods

A strong breeze blows past my hair, wailing between distorted tree trunks, carrying the sickly stink of wood rot. I pause the digging, afraid that my phone is about to receive another one of those creepy little messages.

One that says:Aren’t you cold in those thin clothes? Or:Stop looking, you’re not going to find me.

My stupid fucking brain is a getting little bit too imaginative.

After receiving the second text, I went back to Cami’s bar and told her all about it. We waited an hour for her shift to end, then drove back to the dead guy’s apartment, stashed him in the trunk of Cami’s car, and now we’re here.

In the middle of the fucking woods, covered in dirt and sweat, burying a body. Typical best-friend stuff.

I look down at the hole in front of us. And the dead body inside it. The blood around his wrists is all dried up now. The gaping slashes are now filled with dirt. There’s dirt in his mouth too. His arms are awkwardly bent to fit inside the small spaceand there are two purple bruises around his eyes. There’s one on his forehead too. That one’s prettier.