Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(21)
People say we do a good job of cloaking our true natures, that it’s frightening how easily we hide. But who made the sheep’s clothing in the first place? I ask you. Sure as hell wasn’t the wolves.
The elevator is empty, which is a relief. I only managed about three lines of cordial Let’s Pretend with the concierge before my nerves turned to irritable sludge, and the next Slow Jimmy to hop in and start a conversation about the weather will test my patience to its frayed limits.
Truth is, I don’t really remember why I cut Rachel Fordham the same way that Blood Honey cuts his victims. I remember how it felt: exhilarating, as if my fingers were weightless and the knife was warm water; relieved, like the act was cathartic, and that to cut her open was to let a little of myself truly in. I still feel that way when I cut Leo, but it’s more than your average God complex—there’s a connection, a sense that this is how things ought to be. Connecting any other way is f*cking exhausting.
For that reason, I haven’t killed her. It would make no sense. Maybe I’m a selfish bastard, or maybe * still makes me just a little more stupid than I’d like, but what I like best is to be satisfied. And with Leo, I am.
Or was, until our friend Blood Honey decided to make an appearance. I must fix this. Soon.
I put my key into the front door of the apartment, twist, and am greeted by the soaring chorus of “Let It Go.” Despite all my attempts to save Ash from a lifetime of disappointment and celibacy, he seems intent on deliberately countering it all by watching Frozen three times a week and pretending to be an ice princess by wrapping himself in his blue comforter and glaring at inanimate objects. I’m all for subverting the norm for personal gain, and Ethan gave me a fantastically patronizing speech the other day about how gender isn’t binary and boys can wear pink and blah blah political correctness, but none of this takes away from the fact that these songs are annoying beyond belief. They actually do make me want to kill someone. (See, sociopathy’s funny as long as we’re not murdering your loved ones. What’s that saying? It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt…and then it’s a f*cking party).
“Ash!” I yell over the music. “It’s past seven. Quiet time.” Then I dump my coat over a kitchen chair, yank my shoes off, and pad down the hall to push his door open. Inside, Ash—along with Ethan, his nanny—are both prancing about like Z-list celebrities on Dancing with the Stars.
Ethan spots me mid-spin, blinks, and then lunges over a Lego construction to turn down the music on the laptop. “Oh. Hey.”
“Aeron!” Ash, dressed in blue cotton pyjamas, comes bounding over toys and scattered pillows, landing against my calves with a heavy thud. “Do you want to be Olaf again?”
“You know what, buddy? I’m good. I’m—”
“You’re all wet!” he screeches, jumping back. “Oh em gee, Olaf, you’re melting.”
“Rain’s pretty bad,” Ethan observes, turning to peer through the window. “Kinda like monsoon season, huh?”
“You could say that.” I must not shout at the nanny. I must not shout at the nanny.
I want to f*cking shout at the f*cking nanny.
“Dinner’s in the microwave,” Ethan offers as he scoops Ash up.
“Ethan made meatballs,” Ash chirps. “They were gooooood.”
“My ma’s recipe. Gotta hand it to her.” He pales for a moment; his mother went into a care facility a month back. I bankrolled the move because I don’t want to lose my nanny to an unforgiving guilt-induced care schedule, and because random acts of charity make me look all pleasant and grass roots. To Ethan, of course, I’m just helping. That’s what I do.
It’s a mere coincidence that he’s now able to spend three nights a week here, nights that I get to spend with Leo. Throw in a pay rise and he’s more likely to turn into a tap-dancing T-Rex than he is to refuse my requests for further overtime. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and your staff in a cage so glorious that they forget they ever wanted to escape. I’ll give you that one for free.
“We were just burning off a little energy before bed time.” Ethan rolls his jaw from side to side. “It’s kinda therapeutic, actually. I don’t not like it. You want to join in?”
Ash begins to chant, “Join in, join in, join in!”
“I need to find me some of these meatballs, is what I need to do.”
Oh, grasshoppers. If only I could get my therapy by dancing to Disney tunes. All of a sudden, a scene splashes through the darker corners of my mind: Leo stripped before me, all gooseflesh and sighs; the scalpel warm in my hand; Elsa blasting “Let It Go” into the tepid air around us. The f*cking horror.
Ethan’s brow dips. “You okay, boss?”
“No.” I need brain bleach. “I’m soaked through. Give me ten minutes to shower, and I’ll be in for the bedtime story.” Because I’m damned if I let Ethan be more of an influence on Ash than me.
Eight minutes of hot, soapy metaphors for rebirth later, and I’m pulling on track pants, drying off my hair. Judging by the way Ethan tends to stare at my scars, I should probably put on a t-shirt too, but I like parading my stitches around because I know he thinks they’re badass, and I also like to remind him that I have well-cut abs. Keeps the food chain nice and even, you understand.