My Killer Vacation — Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Myles

’m missing something.I Not quite sure what it is, but I’ll know when I see it.

It’s just after sunrise on Friday morning and I’m back at Oscar Stanley’s house. Last night, I took a ride to Worcester to lay my own set of questions on Judd Forrester, the trucker who assaulted Stanley, but he was on a long- haul job and won’t be back until late this afternoon. From my motel room last night, I made a preliminary timeline, ran a few background checks on the neighbors on Coriander Lane and any known associates of Stanley from the postal service—though he mostly kept to himself. I went through the guest book and determined that yeah, Taylor was right, Stanley had been living in his own rental for ten months prior to the group of girls arriving. No prior issues with any renters. All stellar reviews.

There’s just something…off. Can’t put my finger on it.

Tossing an antacid into my mouth, I circle the living room, my eyes straying toward Taylor’s place. Not for the first time. Far from it. A few more trips to this window and I’m going to wear a path in the floorboards.

Half a day has passed since I licked that smooth, sun- kissed belly of hers and my cock is still standing at half- mast for it. God, she tasted like a candy apple. Of course I bit her.

I bet she’d have wrapped around me like hot caramel, too.

Stop thinking about how she whispered your name.

Trembled. Definitely don’t think about how you’ve been carrying around her panties since yesterday.

Damn. How did this woman get in my head so fast?

Because that’s where she is. Might as well admit it. If I was just in heat, I’d have tossed her up onto the bed yesterday and given her exactly what she asked for.I’d like to be manhandled once in a while. Just sort of thrown down and

told who is boss, you know?

Fuck.

Shocking me isn’t an easy thing to do and I didnot see that coming.

The nosy little schoolteacher wants it down and dirty.

Walking out of the room after she admitted that to me?

Hell. Pure, torturous hell. Because down and dirty is the only way I know. But this intuition of mine? Apparently it doesn’t only operate on crime-related matters. No, my gut told me to get out of that bedroom fast or I’d never want to

leave—and that just isn’t happening.

There is a crime to solve here.

Keep your damn head in the game.

If my past has taught me anything it’s that distractions lead to mistakes. I have firsthand knowledge of what can happen, the lives that can be destroyed, when a detective takes his eye off the ball. I may have turned in my badge three years ago, but for all intents and purposes, I am an investigator onthis case. I’m handlingone job for an old friend. If I can’t wrap one single case up without a blunder, I never should have graduated from the academy.

Focus.

With a final glance across the street, I go out back to the shed. Look for the tool used to create those peepholes, hoping to get some kind of idea how long they’ve been there. But there’s nothing. Nothing but beach chairs and a flattened bike wheel. A box of mouse traps.

I go back into the house and immediately stop short.

Humming.

Someone is humming. A woman. And I have a pretty good idea who it is.

The fact that my stomach tightens like a drum doesn’t bode well for my concentration.

Rounding the corner into the living room, I find Taylor on hands and knees, using the flashlight app on her phone to search beneath the couch. “Looking for something?”

A scream rips out of her. Thankfully, it cuts off somewhere in the middle when she catches sight of my reflection in the window behind the couch. Hand pressed to her heaving chest, she twists around and slumps back against the blue and white striped furniture. “I didn’t see your bike outside.”

“I parked it down the block.”

“Why?”

“So you wouldn’t see it and scurry over here to bother me.”

That’s a bald-faced lie. I stopped for coffee down the street and it was a short walk to the house from there, not worth moving the bike over.

“Oh,” she says, her mouth turning down at the corners.

“I see.”

I almost tell her the truth. Almost. Just to get her to stop frowning. Who am I becoming?

Definitely not the kind of person who wants to tell her she looks pretty in her blue jumpsuit thing.

“What are you doing over here, half pint?”

She purses her lips in lieu of answering me. “Why are you so determined to make us enemies? Do you truly find me annoying or were you stung badly in the past by another WASPy girl from Connecticut and you’re taking it

out on me?”

“I truly find you annoying.”

I’m lying again. I actually think she’s pretty goddamn funny. And persistent.

Gorgeous as fuck. Can’t forget about that.

“Thank you for being honest.” She stands up, dusting off the seat of her shorts. Which are connected to the matching top. What are those called? Rompers? What is the easiest way to get one of those things off? “Did you know a lot of friendships are formed because two people share a common enemy? That’s us. We’re united against whoever murdered Oscar.”

“I work alone. We are united in nothing.”

“Okay, but we both want the same thing. We have a commonality. My students form bonds over their dislike of homework. Eventually they realize how many other things they have in common.” She gives a brisk clap of her hands.

“Let’s do some morale building. On three, let’s both say something we dislike.”

I can imagine her in front of a class, commanding attention. Colorful and engaging and creative. She’s probably amazing at what she does. “I don’t want to play—”

“One. Two. Three. Scream sneezers.”

“I said I didn’t want to…” A laugh scales the insides of my throat, almost making its way out of my mouth. “What was that?”

“Scream sneezers. People who feel the need to make such a huge, loud production out of their sneeze that everyone loses ten years off their life. I dislike that very much.”

“You can’t just say youhate it, can you?”

“I don’t allow the word ‘hate’ in my classroom.”

“We aren’t in your classroom,” I point out.

Though I would like to see her there.

Just a glimpse, for no particular reason.

“I have to stay in practice.” She skirts the coffee table in my direction and I spy tan lines on her shoulders, peeking out from beneath her tank top straps. Making me wonder where else she’s got them. Her hips? Breasts? Bet there’s a low triangle between her thighs. Shit. “I bet you have to be really mean to be a bounty hunter. You’re definitely keeping in practice for that, aren’t you?” I don’t answer her. Mainly

because the scent of apples is growing stronger and it’s hindering my ability to make words. “Do you like your job?”

she asks.

“It’s just a job.”

“A violent one. A scary one.”

I can’t disagree with that, so I nod, wondering where she’s going with this. Waiting for the next word out of her mouth like a reward, when I should really be carrying her over my shoulder back to the house across the street and ordering her to stay put.

“Do you ever track someone down and want to let them

go?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Once.” Did I just say that out loud? I had no intention of telling her this. Or anything. The plan was to be as rude as possible until she left and went somewhere safe to enjoy her vacation. As far as possible from a murder investigation. “I let someone go once.”

“Really?” she whispers, like we’re sharing a secret.

I shouldn’t want this sense of not being alone. Normally I don’t mind it. The loneliness and solitude. Hell, I welcome it. But I must be having a moment of weakness. Or maybe I’m tired from reading through internet searches galore last night. Because I find myself…talking to this teacher.

The way I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time. Years.

“Mother of three. She…was afraid to show up for her court date because the father of her kids was threatening to be there. Make trouble, take off with the kids. Make her pay

for leaving. Someone probably brought her into the cops

eventually, but I couldn’t do it.”

“What did you do with her instead?”

“Nothing.” She stares at me until I feel forced to fill the silence. “I don’t know what happened after I took them to the shelter.”

Her eyes soften to a different kind of green. Like something out of a tropical fucking rainforest and I find myself leaning way too close, trying to determine the shade. Why is she looking at me like that? I mean to sound callous and dismissive. Not to make her happy with me.

“What is teaching like?” I growl, purely to get the focus off myself.

Not because I want to know things about her.

“I love teaching,” she says quietly. “And I’ve only had to turn in one of the kids to the police over a missed court date.”

I laugh and grunt at the same time. It’s a terrible, gravelly sound, but it makes her smile. A smile I’m looking at way too closely. Sidling in, wondering what it’ll taste like. Wondering how rompers come off or if they just get ripped down the middle or what.

“See?” she murmurs. “You laughed. I can’t be so bad to have around. Let’s try again. Name something you dislike on three.”

I knew it. She was lulling me into a false sense of

security. “No,” I bite off.

“One, two…”

“Allen keys,” I half shout.

At the same time, she says, “People who crowd the drink pick-up counter at Starbucks and stare impatiently at the poor barista as if they aren’t trying their hardest to hurry.

Honestly, it’s—” Her eyes widen on an inhale. “Wait, did you say Allen keys? I dislike those, too! I have a junk drawer full of them because I feel guilty throwing them away! This is good. Just a couple of co-investigators having a bonding sesh.”

“None of that last sentence is remotely true.” Her crestfallen expression is like having an alligator jaw clamped around my middle. Before I can talk myself out of it, I find myself softening my tone. Stepping closer. Inhaling apples like I’m storing up her scent for the winter. “Look, something feels weird about this case and I don’t…like… you around that. So.”

Taylor blinks. “You don’t like me around what?”

She’s prodding something I don’t want prodded.

“Danger.”

How can she look so confused when I basically just showed my hand? How much more clearly can I spell out that having her around potential threats makes me queasy?

“I’m a consenting adult.I choose my own risks.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Nope.”

“You’re very difficult to bond with,” she says, sounding like she’s being strangled. “Fine.” Before I register her actions, she’s moving away from me. Taking her apples smell along with her. “I’ll get out of your way for now…”

As she walks toward the door, she crosses a floorboard and it’s subtle,very subtle, but one end of it lifts, as if it’s not attached at the joint. Unfortunately, Taylor sees it, too.

We both lunge for the loose piece of wood at the same

time, prying it up together… And revealing a thin, white envelope.

Taylor

hock knocks me backwards onto my butt.S Who finds a loose floorboard with a hidden envelope on the other side? In real life?

This doesn’t even happen onEtched in Bone.

Unless itdoes happen. And the public never finds out, because the person who finds a hidden letter is definitely the next victim. Are we going to open this envelope and find some taunting, Sam Berkowitz-style ramblings?

“What the hell…” Myles mutters, reaching down and plucking the envelope from its hidey hole. And he doesn’t manage to hide his concern when he looks at me. “You

should really go, Taylor.”

He’s probably right.

This is getting creepy.

I discovered a body thirty yards from this spot and if I’m being honest, something hasn’t felt right since the moment I clocked the peepholes. I’m supposed to be on a relaxing vacation with my brother, but instead I can feel myself sinking deeper into the unfamiliar.

But I’m not freaking out. I’m just a little scared.

And once again, the world isn’t ending.

Maybe I have the same fortitude as everyone else. Or more.

I’ll never know if I run away now. I’ll go back to being safe, reliable, routine-oriented Taylor on her hunt for a safe, reliable, routine-oriented life partner. Or I could stay here and find out what’s in the envelope.

Of course I have to stay.

I might even have to send an email toEtched in Bone about this. Unless it’s a grocery list that accidentally slipped through the cracks of a loose floorboard?

Something tells me that’s not the case. And when Myles slips out a piece of paper, unfolds it and scans the contents, his mouth flattening into a grim line, my theory is

confirmed.

It’s definitely something.

Myles starts to tuck it into the pocket of his shirt without showing it to me—and uh-uh. That’s not happening. Now that I’ve made the decision to stay and investigate, he’s not depriving me of the opportunity to process new evidence. I make a lunge for it, across his lap. He’s not expecting it, either. Neither would anyone who has ever met me, but I’m pretty sure my students would be cheering their little faces off.

I pluck the letter out of his blunt fingers in mid-air—a move that I didn’treally think through. Not all the way.

Because I land face down across his thighs with anoof.

Knowing I probably only have three seconds before he wrestles the letter back, I scan the hastily scrawled words on the sheet of paper as quickly as possible.

You’re going down with me.

They’re all going to know who you are.

I’ve known all along, but it won’t be my secret much longer.

’ve only just finished the final threatening lineI when Myles moves, reaching over the top of me to steal back the letter and I twist to the right, free falling from my position on his lap. With a curse, he tries to catch me, sliding a burly arm beneath me to cushion my fall—and that is how I end up on my back, face up, with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle on top of me. I must be operating on pure pride now, because I make a silly attempt to hold the letter above my head, out of his reach, arching my back to extend as far as possible.

Reach,reach— His groan rends the air.

I’m breathless, halfway to laughing, because me trying to keepanything from this mean, professional hunter of humans is comical, but…suddenly there is nothing funny about our positions. Nothing whatsoever. His hips weigh down on mine, fastening me to the floor. A telltale ridge grows between us with every panting breath we exchange.

I look down between our bodies, reluctantly eager to catalogue our size difference. How he looks on top of me. I think I know what I’m going to find, but the actuality of what I see is staggering.

My breasts are almost free of the romper. Free of the bikini top I’m wearing underneath. The neckline has been tugged down in our struggle and I’m all but exposed, my nipples on the verge of making a very enthusiastic appearance. Yes,enthusiastic, because they are rock hard and throbbing with more and more awareness the longer this man, this huge, visibly frustrated man, keeps his weight on top of me. It’s not just our size difference that occurs to me in this moment. It’s the fact that he’s older, by at least eight years. Undoubtedly more experienced with sex. Intimacy. And he’s dangerous. Mean and dangerous and I’m underneath him, tempting him. Giving him a stone solid erection.

“I’m going to get up now,” he says, breathing hard.

“Okay,” I whisper, dropping the letter.

When I do that, when I let go of the piece of paper, there’s no longer something to fight over. He’s just a man on top of a woman, holding her wrists. Fastening them to the hard ground. Looking like he’s contemplating eating me

whole. In one big bite.

My body wants that.

It’s thrumming, anxious, begging me to open my thighs around his hips and lift, tease, do whatever I have to do to make him touch me. Make him use his strength on me.

Now.

“Please.”

“Please what?” He hooks a finger in my top and tugs it lower, that final inch that reveals my pointed nipples, a groan rumbling deep in his barrel chest. “Suck these

beautiful-ass tits? Goddamn, I knew they’d have those little

triangle tan lines on ’em.Fuck.”

I’m intoxicated in a blinding instant.

He just… Talks like this.

All the time. Bluntly. Even crudely. But he’s… complimenting me? I don’t understand why the gravel delivery of such abrasive words should make my hips writhe impatiently beneath his entrapping ones. I’m bowing my back even more dramatically, wanting him to perform the act he spoke about in such explicit terms. Yes,yes.

What he said is what I want.

“Please.”

His long hair falls around his face and I can barely make out his features. Only enough to know they’re tight. That his lips are open and parted. Eyes dark.

Briefly, he lets go of one wrist and removes the gun from the back of his waistband, sliding it away carefully on the floor. Then, he lifts the same hand slowly. Slowly. Lets it hover just above my naked breasts. And my tummy tangos excitedly. Hollows and heaves, waiting to see what he’ll do.

Where he’ll touch. All because he lifted a hand. I’m holding my breath, a whimper ready to break free. I’m shaking. I’m shaking. Waiting for the contact is borderline excruciating.

“Never seen anything so hot in my life. Hot—and hot for it.

Aren’t you?” Tongue perched in the center of his bottom lip, he lowers the pad of his index finger to one of my nipples, barely touching it, and he slowly grazes a light circle. “Yeah, you are.”

I choke on a moan, the end of it releasing long and loud, my body tightening and melting all at the same time beneath him. I don’t know what comes next or exactly what I want. I just know I need it now. Immediately. And I don’t want to think. I want him to think and decide for me. For us. All day long is for thinking and deciding. Right now I just want to be hijacked.

He traces that fingertip over to my other nipple, circling it with the same light, torturous treatment. “You want that

pretty little mouth kissed?”

“Y-yes.”

“Now say it again without stuttering, baby.”

“Yes.”

That hand. That hand he’s using on me so lightly continues its gentle journey up, up—and then it wraps firmly around my throat. So unexpectedly that I gasp, the flesh between my legs growing pliant, so tender, thighs falling open naturally. As if they haven’t been given a choice and he rocks into them once, easy, laughing without humor at whatever he feels.

His mouth dips toward mine. I moisten my lips in

preparation.

A car door slams outside.

No. Through the sudden lust haze in my brain, I realize it’s more of a sliding van door. In the driveway of the house.

That loud sound is followed by more vehicle engines cutting out and the peppering of excited voices. Footsteps. High heels and more muted ones.

“We’ll set up over here. Let’s make this quick,” says an older female.

Myles drops his head forward with a curse, then rolls off me. Stands. Adjusting the protrusion in his jeans before reaching down and helping me up. Until he squeezes my hip and touches our foreheads together, I have no idea how badly I’m craving that show of…what? Comfort? But the second I have it, a twitchy feeling in my stomach settles.

He looks me in the eye until I nod—and I barely know why I’m nodding. Only that I liked him holding me down, hand on my throat, but it woke me up to such a degree that I need his eye contact and softer contact to come back down.

With my nod, I’m communicating something important to him that doesn’t need to be spoken out loud.

Weird.

We cross the living room to the window together, finding a group of people standing in front of the house. A dark- haired woman dressed in a smart, plum-colored pantsuit. A young man with a clipboard and a camera crew.

“What the fuck now,” Myles mutters.

He strides to the front door and starts to exit, before drawing to a halt and pinning me with a look. “You stay

put.”

“No.”

With a rumble of unpleasant words, he vanishes through the doorway. After making sure my clothing is fixed, I jog into the front yard behind him. Five heads have swiveled in our direction. Clipboard Guy stares, pen poised over the surface of his notes. Pantsuit woman’s smile appears to be frozen to her face. The camera crew continues what appears to be their mission to stage a mini press conference, complete with a glass podium on wheels.

“What’s going on here?” Myles demands to know.

“I could ask you the same question,” responds the young man. With an amused glance in Pantsuit’s direction, he wedges the clipboard beneath his arm and approaches us with a hand extended, which we take turns shaking. “I’m Kurt Forsythe, the mayor’s assistant.” He smiles over his shoulder, then directs that smile at me, where it broadens.

“Surely you know the mayor, Rhonda Robinson.”

“We’re from out of town.” Did Myles just edge closer to me? “You getting ready to film something?”

Kurt tilts his head. “Do you own this property?”

The assistant poses the question in such a way that he obviously already knows the answer. Myles doesn’t bother responding. Just crosses his arms and regards Kurt like a flea.

“No, I didn’t think so,” the assistant says, taking a not so discreet step back from the bounty hunter. “Erm. Do you mind me asking what you’re doing here?”

“I’ve been hired by the family. Privately. To investigate the murder of Oscar Stanley.”

“I’m on vacation,” I say. “And also helping him investigate.”

Myles is already shaking his head. “No, she’s not.”

Kurt splits an amused look between us. “Interesting.”

“You’re a renter?” calls the woman in plum. The mayor, apparently. “You might want to cover your ears for this,” she says, giving me a wry smile. “I’m about to come for you.” She places her hands flat on the podium and nods at the cameraperson. The lighting person gives a thumbs up, followed by a red light blinking to life on the camera itself.

“Good afternoon, residents. I know we’re all shaken up by the recent events that have transpired on the shores of our beloved community. A life was taken and my office wishes to extend heartfelt condolences to the family of the

deceased, Oscar Stanley.”

The mayor adjusts her stance.

Kurt releases a gusty sigh, regarding his boss with visible pride.

“My office hears your concerns. They aremore than valid,” continues Rhonda. “This unfortunate loss of life is part of a much larger problem, however—vacation rentals.

The competitive discord they create and the disruption they cause to our daily life. This is an ongoing problem on the Cape and my promise toyou, since the beginning, has been to regulate this market from taking over our Falmouth neighborhood and turning it into a party zone. Today, I want to reassure you that I am renewing my efforts to curb these noisy nuisances so that we can get back to enjoying our quiet summers with family and friends—it’s the Cape

Cod way.”

A long pause ensues.

The red camera light turns off.

The mayor’s smile drops as the podium is removed in an efficient rush.

“That was perfect, mayor,” Kurt calls, flashing her an OK sign.

“Let’s have that up on the website immediately, please?”

Rhonda says, now scrolling through her phone. “Send it to the local news and ask them for the six o’clock spot.”

Kurt is taking notes on his clipboard. “Already on it.” He turns to us—me, actually—grinning in a more relaxed manner than before. “I have to make sure the mayor makes it to her next appointment.” He rubs his eyebrow with the eraser of his pencil, shooting Myles a fleeting glance. “So you two are just co-workers or…?”

“Beat it, Kurt,” Myles interrupts, making a shooing

motion.

A literal shooing flick of his wrist.

Without another word, the assistant turns on a heel and

rejoins his boss.

“That was extremely rude.”

And I didn’t like that show of possessiveness at all.

Not one bit.

Right.

“If you’re still surprised by my rudeness, sweetheart, that’s on you.” Through narrowed eyes, he watches the major, Kurt and the film crew climb into their respective vans and cars. “I have to get to Worcester to question Judd Forrester.” He notices my blank look when he looks down at me. “The father of the girl who assaulted Oscar Stanley.”

“Right.” I guess we’re just going to ignore the fact that we almost made out on the floor a few minutes ago. The floor. Theletter. The unlikely discovery we made before we almost kissed comes back to me in a deluge. “Do you think that threatening letter is from Judd Forrester? Do you think he wrote it to Stanley?”

“I don’t know.” Myles reenters the house with a heavy stride and I follow, watching him stoop down and pick up the letter where we left it on the floor. He straightens and

turns, his eyes dancing across my neck, my mouth. Then away with determination. But not before my erogenous zones shriek for attention. God. What is this voltage between us? Is it normal? “But since Oscar lived in this house for almost a year, it seems more likely he would have known about the loose floorboard. Or even created it.

Therefore…”

“The letter was writtenby Stanley? Meant for someone

else?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Which might also mean…the camera wasn’t left here to record the guests at all. It was here to record him.”

“Yeah. He was targeted for a reason. A target for murder.” His eyes move over the three threatening lines of the letter. “Might have even made himself one.”