Lady Killer (Dead Girls Club #2)

42. Luz

Chapter forty-two

Luz

“ Y ou should get that.”

Every single word caused me pain, but they spilled out of me regardless.

The muscles in Nixon’s face tensed, so quickly I almost missed it.

Before I could say anything else, he was rolling off me and the atmosphere suddenly felt charged with tension.

He bent over to pick up his pants, and I turned away from staring at the impressive expanse of his muscular, inked back.

Groping around the bed, I subtly attempted to look for my underwear.

My heart was still pounding in my chest, and the line between arousal and anxiety seemed paper thin as I wrestled my shirt back down over my still-undone bra.

I almost . . .

With Nixon . . .

The phone started ringing again, and I ran my hands desperately under the covers to try and find my underwear.

“Fucking Christ, I’m coming,” Nixon grumbled as he pulled on his shirt.

His back was still to me. I couldn’t decide if looking him in the eyes would be better or worse.

“What the fuck’s going on?”

The bass of his voice was so deep that it sent a shiver through me that only increased the burden on my poor heart.

“So, who the hell is he?”

The twin sound of Alister’s voice was audible, but the words were garbled beyond my comprehension.

They were talking about Michael, they had to be.

My brain felt like laundry during the wash cycle, jerking and tumbling around. I tried to focus on what the twins were saying, but my body was still on fire, and the absence of Nixon’s touch was profound. I was also increasingly aware of how wet I was, with my underwear still nowhere to be found.

I started kicking around with my feet for them in case they got pushed to the bottom of the bed.

You and Nixon . . .

Did he regret it? Did I?

“You believe him?”

Deciding that the underwear was a lost cause, I started looking around the room for my missing leggings. Where were we even?

I knew we were in Nixon’s room, but I didn’t know if that was at the estate or the townhouse.

Where had they taken me? And where was Michael?

There were too many questions, and my head continued to spin.

Pants. I needed pants.

Sliding to the edge of the bed, I attempted to be as quiet as possible, for reasons I couldn’t explain to myself.

“Shall I take a turn, little brother?”

Nixon’s drawl brought me back from my escape plans. His easy return to his usual leering self made my stomach fill with acid.

That was when reality hit me like a runaway train.

Alister. Everest .

I hadn’t . . . We weren’t . . . After everything that had happened with Lucian . . . But this was Nixon . . . I didn’t . . .

“The threat remains then.”

My knees gave out, and I grabbed onto the bed.

Michael wasn’t the killer.

My swollen throat shrunk, and my lungs seized up.

It was too much. This was too much.

I couldn’t breathe under the weight of it all.

I needed to breathe.

Stepping lightly on my feet, with one eye on Nixon’s shadowy form, I went for the door. My hand wrapped around the handle.

Nixon turned on me like a hawk, staring me down over his shoulder, phone still pressed to his ear.

My stomach churned.

“I have to . . .” I trailed off as I found myself at a loss for words.

In the shadows, his blue eyes had turned black.

Thunder boomed, causing me to jump and shattering the silence brewing between us.

Lightning followed several beats later, setting the room ablaze for a split second, revealing a dizzying amount of visual information to take in at once .

The walls were covered in paintings. Bright, bold, colorful. Frightening. Enchanting.

They had nothing on Nixon.

Fully lit up, he looked like a fallen angel. Beautiful beyond measure . . . Colder than the ninth circle of hell.

I squinted, the darkness now overpowering.

“Yeah, a storm’s come in.”

Fumbling with the doorknob, I couldn’t think anymore, so I just did.

I crashed out into the hallway, struggling to orient myself in the dark.

As my eyes adjusted, wainscotting and wallpaper appeared before me.

The estate. Where on earth was Nixon’s bedroom in the estate?

Behind me, Nixon’s voice echoed. “Of course, I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Making a split-second decision, I charged to the right.

My room. I have to find my room.

I would find my room and then I would be . . .

What? Safe?

At this point I didn’t know, but I knew I had to get away.

My aching throat cried out in protest with every breath as I raced down the hall, looking for any marker of familiarity .

Thunder boomed again, sending me skittering.

“Luz.” Nixon’s voice rang out somewhere in the distance. “Where are you?”

Run was all I could think.

Lightning flashed again, and I saw a shadow at the end of the hall.

Sprinting in the opposite direction, I tore down the dark corridor, blindly dashing around the corners. The carpets burned the soles of my feet, but still I ran.

Suddenly, the hall broke wide and there it was.

The pug-faced man. I had never been so happy to see him.

My room was just at the end of the hall, on the other side of the landing.

Thunder shook the house once more as I turned the corner.

I was so close.

Lightning struck.

I was halfway across the landing and—

Solid arms caught me in my gut, knocking the wind from me as I flew to the ground. The world spun like a Tilt-A-Whirl as Nixon’s hold on me forced the last of the air from my lungs.

“Where do you think you’re going, pet? ”

My throat locked up, and I took big, gulping, empty breaths as I scratched at his arms.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He half dragged, half carried me.

“Can’t . . . breathe . . .”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Stars danced in front of me.

“Aww, fuck, Luz.”

My weight suddenly shifted. An arm slipped from my waist to under my knees, my head swinging to land on Nixon’s shoulder.

“I got you. Calm down.” His words were spoken softly.

They weren’t helpful. If I could calm down, I would.

Time blurred, and the ache in my stomach subsided, but I still couldn’t breathe.

The world tilted again, and then I was on my back on a bed.

My breaths were coming in short, clipped bursts now as my chest heaved.

The bed dipped beside me.

“Just breathe.”

I let out a jagged, furious cry and rolled onto my side.

“Fuck, I’m shit at this,” Nixon murmured next to me.

How had I forgotten how to breathe? Could you forget how to breathe?

A warm, heavy hand came to rest on my back.

The storm raged on outside, but I could barely hear it over the thumping in my head.

Nixon said nothing else but began to slowly rub his hand up and down.

Finally, one breath slipped through, a little easier than before. My lungs gobbled up the oxygen.

I hiccupped and then another looser breath followed.

He kept rubbing my back.

The world still spun, but it was starting to slow down, and I released a long shuddering cry.

My breathing continued to slow down.

A wave of exhaustion slammed into me, and I fought to keep my eyes open . . .

I lost.

Once again, I woke up disoriented.

I was in my room . . . in my bed . . . but it was . . . the evening? Had I slept that long?

Swallowing brought back the reminder of what had happened to my throat.

That brought back the memory of what followed. Nixon . . . and then the panic attack that came after .

Rolling over, I grabbed my phone and checked the time. 1:23 p.m.

Stumbling from the bed, I made my way to the bathroom where I poured myself a glass of cold water and chugged it. Then I drank another one and then another half glass before my mouth stopped feeling like sandpaper.

When I finally braved a look in the mirror, I winced.

My hair was a bird’s nest, my waves tangled and frizzy. Distinct rings of purple sat beneath my eyes, and my skin was pale and dull.

Worst of all was the ugly band of red wrapped around my throat.

Running my fingers over the bruised skin gingerly, I grimaced.

My father had choked me to death. More than once.

The killer, they knew that, and still they thought me one deserving of death.

Splashing cold water on my face, I forced myself to go through the routine of washing my face if for no other reason than the pretense of normalcy.

Michael . . . my Introduction to Japanese instructor.

Never had I suspected him. He was barely a blip on my radar. Had he been stalking me, hunting me, from the very first day ?

Burying my face in the fluffy towel, I shivered at the thought.

“You need to put some clothes on.”

Startled, I released the towel, and as it fell from my hand, I looked into the mirror to find Nixon standing in the doorway.

Worse, he was right. I stood there in nothing but my oversized sweatshirt and still half-done bra.

“Get . . . out.” I had to force the words out, my throat even more tender than before.

“Lucian wants to talk. He and Alister are done with Michael, for now.”

“For now?” I attempted to push past him, but he held his place in the doorframe.

When I looked up to meet his eyes, there was nothing in them.

Shaking it off, I ducked under his arm.

I was the one to run away last night, so his complete and utter indifference to what we did only several hours ago shouldn’t bother me.

“Locke’s going to work his magic, but he’s not back until the evening. Even then, it can take days, sometimes weeks, to break someone. ”

Pulling on the first pair of underwear I could find, I pretended Nixon wasn’t hovering on the periphery of my vision.

After I slipped into sweatpants, I turned back to face him.

Holding up a hand, I croaked at him, “Five . . . minutes.”

His lip curled the way it did when something ugly was about to come out of his mouth.

“Please.”

Nixon’s expression looked strained as something flashed in his eyes. Standing up straight, he walked over to me, stopping at my side to look down at me. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Take a second a more, and I am throwing you over my shoulder and dragging you down to his office. I don’t care what shape you’re in, I’m not getting in fucking trouble over you.”

He stomped away, the door slamming behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Autumn . . .

Panic rushed over me, and I spun around looking for my phone, worried it was in my dorm or Nixon’s room.

It was on my nightstand, plugged into the charger like I always left it .

I didn’t have time to wonder how it got there as I desperately thumbed it open, looking for a message from the killer.

There was none.

Relief came first, then concern.

The killer had said that if the Blackwells intervened, Autumn would pay the price.

The plan had been to save my friend.

But what if I had damned her instead?