14. Like Father Like Son

Who the fuck is that guy?

Is that psycho actually Monica's boyfriend? If yes, she's definitely in danger.

Every time I picture him, all I see are his eyes and how they swam with pure hatred, the greens only a sliver of color sucked into a black hole. He had no reason to be angry, considering he had no right to be in my room. The way he tried to shame me still makes me angry. The rag in my hand is rung dry from how hard I'm squeezing. I release it into the black water, causing a smattering of drops to land on my face.It's unjustifiable. Sure, I'm slightly ashamed. Who wouldn't be? This is my private area. My sanctuary. No one was ever supposed to see this.

The slamming of the front door jostles me from my pity party. A blank slate replaces where that brute burned my pictures of her. All that's left are soot-covered walls and a pile of ash. I covered up as much of the damage as possible. There's no way to hide the smell of the arson. My father's steps are heavy as he approaches my room. He never comes in here, but the lingering scent will have him curious. He also doesn't know that I hold a special place for Monica, which is against his rules for me working with her. Hurriedly, I grab the charred photos that are left and shove them between a random book. Tucking it under my mattress, I snatch the bucket full of black water. My pulse pounds in my ears as I take long strides to the bathroom's linen closet. The sooty water sloshes with each bump of the pail against my thigh. It's the only evidence besides the smell that would signify a fire. And I scrubbed that wall and carpeting almost until my fingers bled.

As soon as I stuff the emptied bucket in my closet, the door to my room bangs against the wall. I take a quick glance at myself in the mirror and realize blood streaks are on my chin. Shit, I forgot about the blood.

"Brandon!" my father bellows, indeed on his way to me in my attached bathroom. "What the fuck is going on here? I come home from work to a house that smells like there was a campfire in it. And is that blood on the carpeting? I hang my head and grip the edges of the sink. Think. Think, think.

"I'm talking to you, son. What the fuck is going on here?"

His black shiny officer shoes appear in the doorway. I see them in the corner of my eye. I lift my chin to peer up at him, meeting his gaze through the mirror's reflection. His brow lifts when he sees the blood on my face.

"I tripped on the stairs." I grin at him, catching the blood in my teeth.

He's always said he can tell when someone is lying. Whether it's a tick in their jaw or a twitch of their finger, he can pick up on their tell and know when they are lying. I've taught myself how to act normally, especially when it has anything to do with Monica.

"And the smoke smell?" he demands, skepticism evident in the way his eyes squint.

He never enters my room, so he doesn't notice the missing wall of pictures, which is good because then he would question whether I'm compromising our secrets. It would make him rethink my working for Monica.

"I had some evidence that needed burning," I snort. Short, straightforward answers.

He runs his palms over the stubble on his chin, examining me, but I hold his gaze and lick the blood from my lips. When satisfied with my answer, he nods, accepting what I've given him as facts. He has no reason to doubt me. After years of joining him on his runs, he thinks I'll never betray him, but then there's Monica.

"Well, don't burn shit inside. You'll burn the house down," he explains, like I'm a prepubescent teen, not a grown-ass adult. He does it out of love and never wants me to grow up, but I wish he would stop. He turns to leave but stops, glancing over his shoulder at me. "I've been wanting to ask you. Have you seen anything unusual at the funeral home lately? Anyone come for that body I turned in for cremation?"

"No, not unless you consider Monica eating him unusual." I turn the water on, filling my palm and washing my face.

"Right." He chuckles. "The guys at the station can't get enough of your shit talk. Let me know when we have a real Jeffery Dahmer to take care of."

Washing away some of the blood, I grant him another smile. "Will do."

He pauses, closely examining my face. "Good. I have another disposal job for you." His brow lifts, waiting for my acknowledgment, and he continues, "I pulled over this sweet college girl by the Grimshaw Woods last night." His steps echo in the bare bathroom as he advances toward me, and then he stops when he's close enough for me to smell the scotch on his breath. "She was wearing one of those lacy thongs that don't hide shit. She whimpered beneath me as I rutted into her tight ass." The image of a girl in a mini-skirt causes a tremble to ripple through me. "You like that, don't you? Think it's time to have you initiate a run?"

A takedown. A prowl. Anything that has to do with capturing and assaulting women.My dick hardens at the thought of Monica running through the woods and whimpering beneath me. She can never know what I really am or what my father has done to secure her crematory. She deserves a nice guy, and I'll be the one to give her that. Another girl will have to shoulder that darker side of me for her.

"Yeah," I admit, grabbing a towel.

"Be like your old man?" he asks, proudly with her chest jutting out.

"Yes, sir," I answer.

He claps me on my back before turning for the door. "That's my boy."

If only he knew that my real love lies with Monica. Someone is encroaching on my property, and I've gotta play this smart.

Sittingin my car outside of work, that intruder's words play through my head. Stay away from her. Fury is thick in my throat, and my hands clench on the steering wheel. Grow a fucking pair, shithead. I'd have no reason to lie if I wasn't hung up on Monica. I've gotta follow along until I find out who this fucker is that's jeopardizing everything for me.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"I scream, hitting the dash.

I have to let her go for now.For my own sake, I have to let her go. Just until I can find out more about this masked man. Things are getting way too fucking complicated.

Last night I was an idiot too busy thinking with my dick to function. I'd locked myself out, leaving my key on the desk. Strawberries in hand, I looked like a desperate boy pining over a girl on her doorstep.

Glancing at the clock, I need to get going. I'm late. Killing the engine, I stalk to the door. The thought of fucking up my chances with her last night has me grinding my back molars, especially since the box is gone and the door is unlocked. She knows I'm hung up on her, but she still won't give me the time of day. Then there's the guy that broke into my house. Is that what she's attracted to? Ugh. My face is getting warmer the closer I get to the morgue.

That guy with the mask comes back like a phantom in my mind, reminding me to stay away from her. As if he had some claim over her. If anyone has a claim over her, it's me. I've been here for her and made it a point that no one will come near her. What makes him think he can just show up out of nowhere?

When I open the door to the morgue, my thoughts are burning holes in my brain. I'm angry at my situation, this mystery man, and even Monica for being oblivious to my advances. So when she sees me and gets up from behind her desk, I'm flaming like an inferno. Perhaps being surrounded by human popsicles isn't good for business since I'm prepared to melt the ice princess.