10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Ethan

As much as I'd love to spend the evening watching the live feed from Kayla's house, I have other matters to attend to. Namely, the final round of the Bluebell Bullseye Legends. The Rusty Mug will be packed tonight, everyone wanting to see if I win this year's trophy or if David Freaking Butterman snatches it away from me.

Ha! As if.

I might not collect trophies from my kills, since that's a sure way to the electric chair, but I'm absolutely collecting the dart trophies. I've won the Bluebell Bullseye Legends every year since I moved here, and I'm sure as hell not stopping now. It's become a little obsession of mine. A harmless one compared to the rest of the things I do.

Darts was a random pick. I needed a way to fit in with the community, to not be the reclusive weirdo who'd surely be the first suspect in any crime committed in a dozen-mile radius. I needed friends. Or at least people who thought I was their friend. I needed a "guy" hobby.

I ruled out all the usual sports because I had no desire to get physical with anyone, and I didn't want to showcase my strength and agility. Fishing was dreadfully boring. My lack of musical talent prevented me from joining one of the many midlife-crisis garage bands that sometimes performed in the local clubs.

Then a "friend" I picked up during my failed fishing attempt brought me to the Rusty Mug on dart night, and I fell in love. Darts is perfect. For some mysterious reason, they're super popular in this tiny town, and the players are local celebrities. It's a highly competitive sport that doesn't require physical contact or teamwork. All I have to do is throw sharp stuff at targets. What's not to love?

I park a block away from the Rusty Mug and walk the rest of the way to stretch out my muscles and clear my mind. I've been working all day on a case from my day job as a private investigator. The legit kind of case. Wife thought her husband is cheating on her. I already found out he is. The funny thing is that she's also cheating on him, which she, of course, failed to mention while recounting her sob story. Some relationships are messed up.

She'll get pictures of her husband with his mistress, and he'll get pictures of her with her secret lover. Pro bono, just because I hate liars and hypocrites. And yes, I hate myself too because when it comes to Kayla, I'm as bad as they come.

I let my thoughts linger on her for a moment, then push them away. Tonight, I need to focus. After I win my trophy, I can go home and watch her again. She'll probably be asleep by then. Perhaps I could even visit her tonight? Just to look at her, to take in her fresh scent. Nothing more, not yet.

Damn, I'm thinking about her again.

As I open the door to the Rusty Mug, the noise hits me like a wall. Like I expected, the place is packed, brimming with way more people than the fire regulations allow. Tonight, no one cares about safety regulations. All these people came to watch me win, and I'm not about to disappoint them.

"Ethan!" Someone notices me and the crowd cheers loudly. "ETHAN!"

Grinning, I make my way to the stage in the back, waving at an occasional familiar face. I've never been a social butterfly, but the crowd's excitement is empowering.

I'll never be recognized for the good I do for the world. No one will ever clasp my shoulder, saying, "Good job murdering that pedophile, Ethan!"

In the ideal world, no one will ever find out what I do. In a less ideal world, these people, who now clap and cheer as I walk by, will see me as a monster.

"Ready to lose, Ethan?" David Freaking Butterman taunts me as I reach the stage.

I smirk. "I didn't come here to lose, David. Is your wife here to comfort you after I win the trophy again?"

"Oh, she is. But who's going to comfort you after I win the trophy?" he asks, grinning.

What a fucker. I could kill him. I mean, I'm not going to, but I could. It would be as simple as snapping my fingers.

"By the way," David continues, "4:30 p.m. on Sunday. Don't be late."

I snort. "I'm never late, assface. Tell Janice to make banana bread."

"Oh, she will make it. For the winner," he adds, laughing as I flip him the bird. Yeah, I should definitely kill him, if only to have all of his wife's delicious banana bread to myself.

David mocks a salute. "See you in the finals, Ethan. If you even manage to get there."

"Oh, I'll be there. I'll destroy you, prick. By the way, should I bring something for Jake on Sunday? It's his birthday tomorrow, isn't it?"

David rolls his eyes. "Dude, don't bring him anything. Janice's mother has already bought him the entire fucking toy store. Just bring some beer."

"Alrighty."

The announcer's voice booms above the noise in the building, telling everyone that the first match of the first round is about to start. That's David's cue to jump up onto the stage. The crowd cheers and chants his name. Yeah, they love him too. But they love me more!

As the two players with the most points, David and I are placed on opposite sides of the bracket to ensure we don't meet until the grand finale. After seven rounds of the tournament, I'm a few points ahead of David, but if he wins tonight, he'll take the lead. And the trophy. There's no fucking way I'm letting him win.

David wins his first match smoothly, and then I have to wait through several boring ones until meeting my first opponent for the night. It's an elderly lady with thick glasses and a surprisingly good aim. She's also my neighbor, and she always gives me cookies when I come to help her call her grandkids on her ancient computer. For that, I let her win one leg, then finish the rest of the match flawlessly.

Instead of shaking my hand, Mrs. Fernandez pulls me down and smacks a wet kiss on my cheek. The crowd roars with laughter, people whistling and cat-calling. Mrs. Fernandez gives everyone a cheeky grin before letting someone help her off the stage. I'm grinning, too. I love that lady.

See? I'm not a psychopath.

The tournament progresses quickly, both David and I winning all our matches, just like expected. Soon, all that's left is the final.

The crowd goes wild as we climb the stage and ready our darts. David cracks his neck, then smirks at me. "Ready to get your ass handed to you, fucker?"

"Pfft," I snort. "What an original insult. I'd call you a cunt to reciprocate, but you lack the warmth and depth," I taunt him, grinning widely.

David rolls his eyes. "I expected an intellectual conversation, but it seems there's no one around to have it with. Let's just get on with this so that I can go home with my trophy."

"The stage is yours," I say, giving him a mocking bow. It's his turn to start.

The bastard scores three perfect treble 20s, then winks at me. "You can always surrender."

I don't grace him with a verbal response. Giving up is not in my vocabulary. I score a 180 as well, which is a good enough answer to his taunting, I suppose.

The crowd cheers and chants, but I tune it out, focused solely on the game now. David's mistake costs him the first leg, but he wins the next two. Since it's best of five, I'm too close to losing for comfort.

David fucks up the fourth leg completely by scoring low twice. Knowing the trophy is at the tips of my fingers, I let out a laugh. "I've got you now, Butterman," I taunt. "You're slipping. Might as well give up."

"I was just making it more interesting for the ladies. God knows you'll need one to heal your wounded pride after you lose."

I ignore him, focusing on the game. So far, my final leg is perfect. Twice I've scored three treble 20s. I'm down to 141. The numbers I need to hit to win are floating in my mind. I can picture the darts flying to the target. I won't miss.

"Seriously, Bennett, you need to get laid," David continues. "Just look at the beauties watching us."

Like the idiot I am, I look. I think nothing of it. Women don't really interest me. I mean, I do like looking at them, and I occasionally have a one-night stand. Never here in Bluebell Springs, though. And I most certainly never get obsessed with them. Or I never have, not until Kayla Reynolds turned my world upside down.

I turn, my eyes darting over the crowd, taking in every face, old and young, beautiful and less beautiful, familiar and not. And then there's a face that's etched into the very fabric of my soul. Kayla Reynolds' face.

She's here.

She's watching me.

She's smiling at me.

Our eyes meet, and I'm completely, utterly fucked.

The referee clears his throat, reminding me it's my turn, but all I can think about are those deep black eyes on me. I throw the dart, but I don't even see where it lands. Definitely not on the treble 19 I needed for my perfect leg.

David gives me a surprised look as I carelessly throw two more darts. One of them doesn't even hit the target. There are some numbers on the scoreboard, and I know I should be calculating my next throw, but I can't find it in me to care.

Instead of watching David skillfully reduce his count to 47, I watch Kayla and feast on the sight of her in the flesh. She's beautiful. Too fucking beautiful. Her bright gold dress accentuates her delicious curves. The color works amazingly with her umber skin. It also draws everyone's attention.

It's not just me staring at her like a starving man at a feast. Men are drawn to her as if she was a homing beacon. I want to poke out their eyes just for looking at her. I want to murder them all. I want to drag Kayla out of here, then bar the doors to this stupid place and burn it down with everyone inside. Kayla is mine, and no one is allowed to look at her like that!

David clasps my shoulder to let me know it's my turn again, and it takes every grain of self-control I have not to unleash my fury on him. I can't kill him , I keep reminding myself. I can't kill anyone here, especially not David. He's a sickeningly good person, and I don't kill good people. Plus, Janice would never make me banana bread again if I killed her husband.

I can't kill people just for looking at Kayla. I want to, but I can't, because I know that once I start down that road, I'll never stop. That would be the long-awaited psychotic break, the moment I'd earn myself a bullet to my brain. And I don't want to die. Not now, not when I just found my reason to live.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I curb my wild feelings down. I even tap into that darkness which helps me keep my cool during the kills, just to calm myself. I can't lose it now.

Calmer, I refocus on the game. I'm at 97, so I aim for the treble 19, which is a shot I ought to be able to do in my sleep.

My hand shakes. My hand, stable like a surgeon's hand when I butcher people, trembles like I have the last stage of Parkinson's, just from having Kayla's eyes on me. Somehow, I still manage to hit a 20, though not the treble ring. 77 to go. My brain feels sluggish as I do the math. I need a treble 19 now.

The crowd is deathly silent as I throw, the thwomp of the dart hitting the target resonating through the building. The silence dies as cheers erupt around me, informing me that the shot went right where I needed it to go. Thank fucking fuck.

Now I just need a double 10. That's a huge fucking segment. I can hit it with my eyes closed. Can't I?

The dart flies in the correct direction and hits…the fucking triple 20 I needed to start with! I groan, facepalming myself as I go collect my darts. Dumbstruck, I watch as David flawlessly reduces his score to zero, wins the last leg, tonight's round, and the entire fucking tournament.

He raises my trophy over his head, showing it off to the cheering crowd. What a dick. Ignoring him, I search the roaring crowd for Kayla. She just watched me lose. What must she think of me now?

"Hey, man, you okay?"

David's words bring me out of my reverie. He's grinning at me, but not in a mean way, and I can't help but smile back at him. "Yeah. Just got distracted. Good job, fucker." I extend my hand to him as I should have right after he won. "I'll crush you next year."

"Ha, keep dreaming! I'll tell Janice to make extra banana bread, though, so you can eat away your feelings. Come on, let's have a drink!"

I'd much rather just go home or, better yet, to Kayla's place, but I don't want to look like a sore loser. Besides, David is the closest thing I have to a friend, and while I still want to murder him sometimes, I don't want to spoil his victory celebration. "Sure. The first round is on you, Mr. Perfect Shot."

"Tsk. I won! Shouldn't people be buying me drinks and not the other way around? Hot chicks and such?"

A curvy redhead hugs him from behind. "What did I hear about hot chicks? I'm the only hot chick you're allowed to drink with, my dear husband. Congratulations."

As David passionately kisses his wife, almost smacking her over the head with the trophy he's still holding, I scan the crowd again, searching for a certain bunny in a gold dress. Kayla is nowhere to be found, though. Did she leave already?

According to the tracker I planted on her car, it's been parked in front of her house the entire evening. I step aside from the crowd to check the camera recordings from her house. Blood simmers in my veins as I watch her get into a stranger's car. That better be an Uber and not some overzealous coworker or a new friend. I won't be killing people for looking at her, but I'll surely be getting rid of anyone who tries to make a move on her.

Kayla is mine. Just mine.