Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(38)

It’s a strip of businesses that run along the lake, packed in the summer with tourists but a complete ghost town in the winter. I sip my shake, the ice cream frigid on my tongue, while the cold breeze glides over my skin, caressing the scars on my face.

“Do you ever think about it?” Fiona asks as we pass a pizzeria, then an art gallery. “About who started that awful rumor about you and—”

“No,” I lie, interrupting her sentence before she can mention his name. A sinking feeling erupts in my stomach, like I’m being swallowed whole by fear. “No point in dwelling on things I know I won’t ever get the answer to, right?”

Fiona grins, looping her arm through mine and resting her head on my shoulder as we walk to where her rental car is parked. “You know what that is? Growth.”

But it’s not.

When I stop work tasks for the day, I immediately pull up a secret folder with endless files of research. Security camera footage from every street corner we touched that fateful night in New York City, IP addresses of people who interacted with private forum posts detailing my supposed claims against the rock star.

Anything that has to do with the rumor sits in that folder, and I spend all of my free time sifting through, trying to find answers.

Every day, I come up with nothing, except the express feeling that my sanity is slipping further and further from my grasp.

I can’t tell her that, though. Not when everyone thinks I’ve let it go.

Not until I know for sure.





18





“We’re out of peppermint tea.”

The feminine voice startles me, and I sit up straight, leaning back against the red vinyl booth seat. A waitress stands beside my table with her arm cocked in the air, balancing a black tray on her upturned palm.

I swallow over a lump that lodges in my throat, shoulders tensing, and search her big green eyes for signs of recognition.

She just blinks, using her free hand to push a strand of onyx hair from her face.

Blowing out a long breath, I shake my head. “Sorry?”

One brow arches. “You ordered a peppermint tea, right? Our new hire, Billie, took your order, and she didn’t realize we’re out.”

“Oh.” Toying with the silver rings on my fingers, I nod. “That’s fine. What about plain tea?”

“We have that in spades. Our elderly customers are the ones who drink it, and it takes them a full month to go through one box.”

When I don’t say anything, my gaze flickering back out the window to my left, she taps the side of her tray and smacks her lips together. “Okay, I’ll grab that and be right back.”

Again, I don’t acknowledge her, my attention long gone before she’s even stepped away from the booth. Locking on to movement across the street, I lean closer to the glass pane, surveying the strip of businesses until I find her.

She’s bundled up in a black peacoat and a thick scarf, her hair catching in the breeze and obscuring her face from view.

Smirking to myself, I touch my fingertips to my lips; even three years later, I can still feel the imprint of her mouth on mine.

Still jack myself to sleep every night to the image of her breaking apart on my tongue, crying out with no sound, as if unsure of how to welcome the pleasure.

I would’ve taught her how to accept it. Over and over, until she was a blubbering, snotty mess of frayed nerve endings and fluttering muscles.

But she hadn’t given me the chance, and now that ship has sailed.

The only thing I’m here to do is expose her as the snake she is, drag her back to the land of the living where the truth can eat her alive.

Tracking her down was no easy feat, especially given the media’s assumption that I had anything to do with her supposed death.

Even though I was cleared of suspicion when her death was ruled a suicide, people still look at me like I killed her myself, which is part of the reason I’ve been searching for her all this time.

Riley Kelly has connections, and they’ve gone to great lengths to ensure she remains in hiding indefinitely.

Unfortunately for her, my obsession hasn’t lessened.

And when an artist has a muse, even if that muse is toxic and life-ruining, they don’t stop seeking them out.

Can’t stop, even when they desperately want to.

So, for three years, I’ve been looking. I’ve spent an ungodly amount of money and time, and neglected the contract with my label, in favor of scouring the earth for her.

Part of me still can’t believe I finally did.

The other part is salivating, ready to feast on her fear and make her repent for her wrongdoings.

My cock jerks behind my zipper at the thought of her pleading for mercy, even knowing she won’t get any.

Hand sliding across my mouth to my jaw, I chuckle softly, watching her tuck her hair into the collar of her coat. It’s longer now than it was that night in New York, and I can’t help wondering if it’s still as soft.

Or if she thought dyeing it that blush color would mask her identity from me.

She moves to the edge of the sidewalk, turning to scan this side of the street. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and throat, turning to smoke that threatens to suffocate me as those shiny blue eyes sweep past the window.

Tension threads through every muscle, wrenching so tight it makes my teeth ache, the thrill of being caught mixing with the disappointment that she doesn’t seem to notice me.