1. Penn

Chapter 1

Penn

I ’m just about to leave the house when I hear the annoying sounds of my older brother and his girlfriend arguing. Before I can sneak all the way out, Mr. I’m-the-only-level-headed-one-left-in-this-family catches me.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going now?” Graham, the youngest of us shouts from his perch in front of the TV, eyes glued to Sports Center.

“Time to go get my facial obviously Grammy,” I smirk, not bothering to turn around. Iris snorts, her eyes flashing with mischief.

“Facial, huh? Bringing your weird bag along?”

“Only if they’re as dead inside as you are, Legal Eagle,” I shoot back. Her grin widens; she loves this game.

“Nice duffle. Bet it’d look better in pink.”

“Cherry coke red suits me just fine. Matches the color of the blood you leak every month. Or, you know, if I decided to stab you.”

Lincoln growls, his dark eyes narrowing. “ Watch it, Penn.”

“Relax, Linc. I’m just making conversation.” I sling the bag over my shoulder, adjusting my cap. “Besides, what’s family for, if not a bit of sibling bonding? Or are family members only allowed to bond when you’re banging your sister on the football field and carving your name into her back?”

“You’re fucked up, Penn,” Iris says, shaking her head but still smiling.

“Yeah, but you love me for it, sissy. Tell you what, Iris. Maybe tonight I’ll find someone who’ll scream louder than you do when Linc rawdogs your ass without using the special Crisco blend I had made.” My laugh is loud and harsh, even to my own ears, as I slam the door behind me before they can respond.

Going tit-for-tat with them will keep me here all night, and I have a date with a ray of fucking hellfire.

Well, fuck me in the ass with my Crisco, I wanna bend this chick like a piece of origami paper. There’s something about her that’s sharper than my best blade, Naomi, and sexier than sin.

I sit in the grimy bar with their penny pitchers, and I feel my ass sticking to the fake leather of this booth. This booth has been my nightly home for the last four nights, perfectly angled to keep me mostly in the shadows but with direct eyesight to hellfire in black combat boots, fishnets, and long black hair.

Reagan Smith.

That’s what her boss called her before he left for the night and finally, I was graced with this slippery little snake’s name. I roll the syllables around as I mouth the name. Reagan fits but Smith…too basic, too fucking vanilla, especially for someone who’s a hurricane slinging shots and vices.

Someone like her, wild, untamed, and crazy, needs a better name. Should have one. Nothing so simple as the most common fucking name in the country. It’s no doubt a fucking fake, which means you’re hiding, running, or both from something.

For a second, one wild fucking moment I flash to seeing her name as Reagan Blackwood.

Now that’s a fucking name. It tastes like fire and ash on my tongue as I whisper it once before shaking the idiotic thought from my head.

Absolutely the fuck not.

I adjust my baseball cap, hiding a smirk. Men and women, they’re good for one thing: their mouth holes. My mind flickers briefly to Reagan’s full lips and a thrill courses through me. They’d look good wrapped around me as long as she doesn’t mind a little curve right down her throat.

“Hey there,” a voice interrupts. I glance up to see some random guy standing by my booth, a cocky grin on his face. “What’s your kink and can I buy you a drink?”

Well, isn’t he bolder than brass? I wonder how he’ll hold up.

“I am the kink.” I raise an eyebrow, letting sarcasm drip from my words. “Sure, rich boy, I’ll let you slum it with me. Buy me a drink.”

The guy’s eyes light up, clearly turned on. He slides into the booth next to me, practically purring with excitement. Amusing. I place my hand on his thigh, trailing it upwards slowly. His breath hitches, anticipation clear in his eyes .

“How’s this for some kink?” I whisper, pressing my switchblade against his balls. His eyes widen, fear flooding his pupils, and I feel myself get hard.

God, they’re always so gullible and easy.

“Whoa, man, what the fuck?” he stammers, the initial bravado fading fast.

“Just a little fun,” I reply with a wild grin. “Now, fuck all the way off before I decide to make this permanent.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking crazy!” he scrambles out of the booth, tripping over himself in his hurry to leave. I lean back, laughing softly.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” I taunt in a maniacal tone, thoroughly enjoying the moment. “You’re missing out on all the fun!”

How pathetic.

My gaze returns to Reagan, who’s now hopped up onto the bar top, her tight, fine ass perched confidently up there. Her long legs swing gracefully against the rough, weathered wood. My eyes trace her curves as she perches there, like a queen surveying her kingdom.

A guy steps between her thighs, clearly enthralled by her presence, and I can’t fucking blame him. She commands a room without even trying and if this was a different scenario I’d be halfway in her mouth by now. She grips the fucking guy’s chin, tilting his head back and grabbing a bottle of tequila.

“Open wide,” she teases, her voice husky over the din of the bar.

As she pours it into his eager mouth, I can’t help but lick my lips, imagining the burn of the liquor and the exhilaration of having her long legs wrapped around me .

He swallows, throat working visibly as the liquid disappears.

“Atta boy,” she purrs, before flinging her hand out and slapping him right across the face. The sharp crack echoes through the bar, mingling with the amusement and chatter as the guy and his friends all burst into laughter. Her own little crazy grin spreads across her face. A mirror of the madness I feel bubbling inside me.

“Fuck yeah,” I mutter, feeling a rush of excitement that demands immediate attention. Adjusting myself, I can’t help but think about how I should’ve made that guy from earlier suck my dick before scaring him off with my knife.

As I watch Reagan laughing with her adoring patrons, I can’t help but think about how it’s such a shame I have to kill her. Staging an accidental overdose feels so pedantic and impersonal.

“Fucking Graham,” I grumble, remembering how he was the only one of my brothers who wasn’t sex-distracted. Level-headed, responsible—basically, a fucking buzzkill.

It’s night four, I remind myself, tapping my fingers rhythmically against the table. Four is my lucky number. Tonight will be the night. I’ll follow her, and I’ll kill her. Simple, efficient, boring.

So goddamn boring. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the thrill? I don’t even get a single drop of blood. I’m going to have to take a stupid fucking job from Robert just so I can let loose.

I guess that’s why they call it work. I lean back in the booth once she hops off the bar and goes back behind it. My gaze fixates on her once more, watching her every move, every flicker of that wild spirit. Reagan Smith deserves better than an unremarkable end.

It’s almost enough to make me reconsider .

Almost.

But tonight, business comes first. And Reagan Smith won’t see tomorrow. She’ll just be another college junkie.

Utterly unremarkable.

I grab the neck of my beer bottle and tilt it up and toward her in a silent, one-man show of congratulations.

I wait for another hour until finally last call echoes through the room, and she starts cleaning up with the other bartender. I chuckle to myself because “Last call” sounds almost poetic.

The clock ticks, dragging on like the epilogue nobody asked for. Finally, Reagan and the guy, Devon, wrap things up. I toss some bills onto the table, adjust my hat so the bill covers my face, and slip out of the bar amidst a group of tipsy, stumbling coeds. Their laughter and slurred conversations fill the air, and instead draw any attention that might have come my way.

“See you around, beautiful!” one of them slurs, waving drunkenly at Reagan. She just rolls her eyes and goes back to wiping down the counter. Bitches like that ain’t worth her time, and she knows it.

I lean into the alley across from the bar, making sure I’ve got a clear view of the door. The smell of stale beer, urine and vomit fills my nostrils—disgusting but familiar. The sharp, acrid scents soothe me, taking me back to when I lived and breathed only them for weeks. Until Robert got exactly what he wanted.

Pulling myself away from a demon of my past, I lean against the brick wall and let my heartbeat and breath sync up until they are moving as one. Quietly and efficient as my eyes track everything in front of me.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours until finally, she emerges with Devon. They split up, and she strides left, confidence oozing from every step. I let her get a bit ahead before stumbling out of the alley, mimicking the staggering gait of a drunk. It’s almost too easy.

Reagan doesn’t glance back; she never does. That’s my girl—no, scratch that—she’s no one’s girl, least of all mine. But for tonight, she’s the star of my little fucked up show.

She heads toward campus, and I follow at a safe distance. Then, just as we near the edge of the college grounds, a pair of frat boys stumble into her path, blocking her way.

“Hey, sweetheart,” one slurs, leaning in a little too close.

“Fuck off,” Reagan snaps, not breaking stride.

“Aw, come on,” the other jeers, reaching out to grab her arm.

Before I can even think of stepping in, Reagan moves. Quick as a viper, she grabs the first guy by the balls and gives them a vicious twist. He drops to his knees, a high-pitched whine escaping his lips.

“Jesus Christ!” his buddy yelps, hands up in surrender. “We didn’t mean any harm!”

“Then back the fuck off,” Reagan growls, releasing her grip. The guy crumples, clutching himself in agony while his friend helps him hobble away.

My grin stretches wide, wicked. There’s something about a woman who can handle her business that gets me all sorts of hot and bothered.

We finally reach the small, run-down apartment building on the edge of campus. Reagan doesn’t even glance back as she pushes open the creaky door and heads inside. I watch her disappear up the dimly lit staircase, my eyes narrowing on the numbers 4D painted in peeling black paint on the door she enters. Kismet, indeed. Four’s my lucky number, and D... well, that’s the only D she’ll be getting since I have to behave .

I wait ten minutes, counting off each minute like a child on the playground getting ready to play hide and seek. Then, with a quick glance around to make sure no one’s around, I approach the door. Picking locks is child’s play when you’ve got fingers gifted for sin and a family legacy that’s less white-picket fence, more barbed-wire rope.

I crack the door and hear the faint sound of running water. Perfect, she’s in the shower. I slip inside, closing the door softly behind me.

The place reeks of her—something light and airy. I take a moment to breathe it in, my eyes darting over the room. Her studio apartment screams grunge chic—posters of old rock bands, worn-out furniture, and clothes strewn everywhere. It’s chaotic, just like her.

Her fucking place is in disarray, and I didn’t think anyone could be worse than me.

I start picking things up from her dresser, fingers tracing over band t-shirts, mismatched jewelry, and half-used bottles of perfume. Lipsticks roll like loose bullets among scrawled notes and crumpled receipts.

I move toward the bathroom; the door left slightly ajar. Steam billows out, carrying the scent of her shampoo. It smells minty and now I want to feel her minty hair wrapped around my dick. I can hear her humming softly, a tune I don’t recognize but she doesn’t have a half bad harmony. At least she doesn’t sound like Iris when she’s singing, and it sounds like a wildebeest is mating. I lean against the doorframe, peeking through the crack.

Knock, knock. I think, almost laughing at the absurdity. Who’s there? Just your friendly neighborhood psycho here to drug you and kill you. Leaving your body for someone to find after it’s been bed rotting for a few days most likely. What a shame for that face. I wonder if the funeral home will be able to reconstruct it enough for an open casket.

My mind races with dark jokes, each one more twisted than the last. But they all boil down to the same thing: the endgame. My hand slips into my pocket, fingers brushing against the cool metal of Naomi and the syringe full of fentanyl.

Just a little slip of death.

I know it’s only a matter of time before she steps out of that shower, before she realizes she’s not alone. The anticipation builds, a sick sort of thrill that tightens my chest and narrows my focus. I need to catch her as soon as she steps out, before she can make any sound or put up any kind of fight.

Night night, little hellfire.

Suddenly, a loud and forceful knock echoes through the apartment. The sound jolts me. My heart pounds as I quickly slide under her bed, my body contorting into the narrow space. The floor is cold against my cheek, the smell of dust invading my nostrils, like a coffin tailor-made for nosy fuckers.

Clearly, she’s big on fucking cleaning.

Frustration bubbles up inside me. I swear to fucking Satan if this is a Netflix n’ Chill situation, Graham can’t hold me accountable for my actions. The thought makes my blood boil. If I have to witness that shit, I’ll kill them both and it will be bloody.

I hear her stomping around in the bathroom and then the door creaks open, and there she is—Reagan, dripping wet and wrapped in an oversized t-shirt and leggings. Her hair cascades down her back, still damp, the scent of her shampoo stronger now. She’s bitching to herself, her voice tinged with annoyance.

The struggle to maintain control over my unstable, ruthless side is like holding back a tidal wave with a damn cocktail umbrella. Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait under this fucking dusty deathtrap of a bed. How the fuck does she even fuck anyone on this rickety ass thing?

“Who the fuck is knocking at my goddamn door this time of night?” she growls, stomping toward the offending wood.

That’s what the fuck I want to know also, slipping my hand into my pocket to retrieve my knife. The blade catches a glint of light as I pull it out, its tip cold and unforgiving. I run my thumb over the steel and feel it knick me just a bit. This is going to be messy, and I wish I was somewhere else where I could really get creative. I’m definitely going to need my dad to help cover this one up.

I just love owing him favors, but I’d rather it be me than any of my brothers. It’s my cross to bear.

The door creaks open, and Reagan melds into the dim glow of the hallway. Her form tightens with visible irritation and then tension lines her whole body.

It only takes a minute for her to start walking backward, and that’s when I see who the fuck interrupted my night of murder.

John St. Pierre. What the actual fuck? Old money, dirty bastard, and corrupt as they come.

One wrong move could screw everything up. St. Pierre might be trash, but he’s also useful trash if handled right.

My blood begins to boil as I watch him invade her space so blatantly every instinct screams at me to act.

“Reagan, my darling daughter,” he says in a sickly sweet voice that sends my gag reflux into overdrive.

Fucking daughter.

Goddamn it, Reagan fucking St. Pierre.

I knew Smith was a fake ass fucking name. This fucking explains so much and yet now I really can’t fucking kill these two.

I feel a headache coming on. I need them to hurry up so I can get the fuck out of here and go the fuck for a ride.