Killer Love - Kiss. Kill. Repeat. #2 - Ch. 1 (Patreon)

This is completely unbeta'd/unedited. Ch. 2 will likely be up tonight. This is a short story so it will likely wrap up quickly. I am almost done with the next Night Movers chapter and then I'll be posting the first two chapters of Fighter which is Lake and Matty's book. If I'm going to do this in a way that works for my brain, its going to be done by bouncing back and forth. I am going to try to post the second half of the poor four story this week as well.

Anyway, here's wonderwall...

Kota

In a turn of events that was a surprise to exactly nobody—nobody being Dakota himself—he realized his error in judgment about five minutes after it would have been helpful. Which, frankly, felt on brand. To say he was a bad judge of character would be the understatement of the century.

There’d been the girl with the red hair and the dragon tattoo who’d stolen his heart, then his bank card. There was the bartender who, despite disappearing for days at a time with his car and his cash, swore he never touched alcohol. Which, to be fair, he hadn’t, but the meth had been a dealbreaker. Even Dakota had standards. Low standards, sure, but standards nonetheless. He blamed his shitty childhood, just like everyone else.

And now…now he was about to be murdered by a serial killer. He almost laughed. Almost. A thin, hysterical edge buzzed under his ribs, the kind that meant his brain was frantically trying to protect him from the reality of what was happening. It was just so fucking absurd. Ten minutes ago his life was falling apart and now, now it was about to end. 

He stared at the door of the cab of the eighteen wheeler, noting the lack of door handle and the missing door lock, the metal panel smooth and unforgiving where an escape should’ve been. He’d watched enough ID to know that…wasn’t normal.

He glanced over at the man who’d agreed to take him at least halfway to his destination just moments ago, after they’d struck up a conversation outside the showers, then shared a meal together. Thinking about it now, he could see where he’d ignored some major red flags…

That felt like a lifetime ago now.

The guy did look a little more menacing now that they were at the far corner of the truck stop and out of the bright fluorescent lighting of the diner. Inside, he’d seemed a bit sad. Receding hairline, watery blue eyes, a little bit of a paunch hanging over his overly large belt buckle that said something clever about truckers never dying. The kind of guy you forgot about the second he walked away. The kind of guy nobody would remember.

He’d thought, at worst, the guy might demand a handjob or something, but not that he would literally kill him. Maybe he was over-reacting? Maybe it was just an old truck? God knew Dakota had a flair for the dramatic. But his spidey senses weren’t just tingling, they were sparking like metal on an electric fence. His heart was racing, he was suddenly sweating despite the cold, his body was on such high alert he was almost positive he could hear color. Everything felt too loud, too sharp—the hum of the engine, the creak of vinyl, his own pulse pounding in his ears.

What the fuck was he gonna do? He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t run. He could possibly offer him sex but the idea had his stomach churning and he really didn’t think sex with him would be enough to wow anyone into not killing him. And the fact that his brain even went there felt like a personal insult.

“Um, everything good?” he asked, tongue clicking as he unstuck it from the roof of his mouth. His voice sounded wrong to his own ears—too light, too hopeful.

The man turned to him with a greasy smile. “It will be.”

He managed a whispered, “Oh, fuck,” a moment before he was on him.

For a few sparkling seconds he thought maybe he was trying to fuck him, but then his hands closed around his throat. Jesus fuck, how was someone so out of shape so strong? He clawed at the man’s face, kicked his legs, but the man was relentless. His back slammed into the door, the impact rattling his teeth, pain blooming sharp and immediate. Kota’s head was going to explode, gonna pop off like a cartoon character. Sparks danced behind his eyelids and his lungs burned as he struggled for even a sip of air. The world narrowed to pressure and panic and the awful certainty that this was it.

It seemed to go on for hours. How long did it take to strangle someone? Longer than movies made it seem. Long enough for your brain to start bargaining. His arm went limp, landing in the wheel well as his vision grew fuzzy at the edges. That’s when he felt it. Something solid, heavy even. It was cold against his sweaty palm. It took three attempts for his hand to close around the object, and every single bit of energy he could scrape up to swing the item at his attacker.

There was a weird thud and a sickeningly slick sound, like someone’s skin sloughing off. The vibration of the impact traveled straight up his arm, rattling bone and nerve. Something wet dripped on his face. Blood. The man was bleeding. But he wasn’t unconscious. No, he was pissed. He growled at Kota, spit flying as he attempted to get his hands around his neck once more. The smell hit him then—iron and sweat and something sour beneath it.

God, this sucked so bad.

Kota tried to swing the object again but the man grabbed his wrist, a sharp pain lancing through his entire right arm. White-hot, immediate, like something tearing inside him. Just when he was about to give up, a bright light blinded him and he was being yanked backwards like something had sucked him out of the vehicle. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of his already nearly empty lungs, falling at the feet of the man who’d rescued him.

He was large. Well over six foot, a wall of muscle. Dark hair. Broad shoulders filled Kota’s vision as he struggled to suck air back into his lungs. He opened his mouth to tell him to be careful, but the words died as he lifted the gun and fired a shot into the truck.

Kota gasped, brain struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. He was sure the man had fired the gun but there was no sound. He might have thought he’d gone deaf—could that happen from being strangled?—if not for the sounds of the highway nearby. Cars roared past like nothing in the world had changed.

“You shot him,” he wheezed. “Right?”

The man glanced down at him with a scowl, like Kota was interrupting his ‘me’ time. Whatever he was going to say slipped out of his brain the moment the man looked at him. He was gorgeous. Annoyingly, offensively gorgeous. His hair was a deep, rich color, his face covered by a five o’clock shadow that did nothing to hide his chiseled jaw and sculpted cheekbones. His eyes were dark, assessing, way too calm for someone who’d just executed a man.

He was so busy staring at him that he didn’t realize the man was speaking until he nudged him with his dirty boot. “Did you hear me?”

Kota thought about lying. The man looked really fucking mean. Mean in the quiet way that meant he didn’t need to prove it. But then thought better of it. “N-No. I’m—I’m sorry. What?”

The guy scrubbed a hand over his face with his free hand, like Kota was ruining his fucking night. “Christ. This is a fucking disaster. You need to go, kid.”

Kota snorted. “Go where?” he asked. His shirt and face were covered in something brown and sticky. Blood. The victim’s blood. It was drying fast, tacky against his skin.

Kota’s gaze landed on the gun dangling at his side. A silencer…is that what it was called? A suppressor? Something like that? One of his mom’s crazy boyfriends had been into guns. There were magazines all over the house and gun parts strewn over the counter of their trailer. 

“We need to call the cops,” Kota said, trying again to reason with him. 

The man gave a sharp shake of his head. “No. No cops. Just get out of here. I’ll clean this up. Go.”

“Clean this up? Are we on some kind of prank show? Look at me? Look at him?” Kota demanded. “What do you mean ‘clean this up’? Are you crazy? It was self-defense. You’ll be fine. The cops will understand. I’ll totally vouch for you. I’m sure his fucking handprints are still on my neck.”

The man rolled his eyes at him.

Kota huffed out an offended scoff. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“Listen,” the man said, voice flat and sharp, “I’m sure this is really traumatic for you or whatever, but we’re not calling the cops.”

Kota made a sound that was less a noise of disgust and more like an offended chirp. “You might not call them but I refuse to be an accessory after the fact because you decided to shoot a guy.”

Hot Guy snorted. “I saved your life, you ungrateful little shit.”

“How did you even know I was in there?” Kota asked curiously, temporarily forgetting about the man currently lying in a pool of blood, face smashed against the passenger seat. His stomach lurched when the image caught up to him again—teeth, glass, blood.

“Oh, god. I think I’m gonna puke,” Kota whispered. 

The man pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.” 

Kota groaned, sucking in breaths through his nose and out through his mouth. “Oh, God. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m definitely going to puke.” 

“No, you’re not,” the man snapped, crouching down in front of him. “Look at me.” Kota’s gaze snapped to his. “Good. Deep breaths.” 

Kota did as he was told, almost against his will, overwhelmed by the much larger man’s presence. This close, he looked much younger than Kota had originally thought. Maybe late twenties? Not far from Kota’s own twenty-two.  

“That’s my rig,” he said, pointing to the truck idling nearby. 

“Huh?” Kota managed, brows knitting together. Who cared? 

“You asked me how I knew you were in there,” he reminded. “That’s my rig. I was parked beside him. I saw you get in the truck with him.” 

Kota still wasn’t putting the pieces together. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen. “And you were what? Watching?”

“What does it matter?” the man asked, exasperated. “He was trying to kill you. Now he’s dead. You’re welcome. Get out of here.”

Kota was shaking his head before he finished, head throbbing and stomach still feeling sloshy. “No, my DNA is probably all over this crime scene and nobody is gonna believe that just as I was about to be brutally murdered in my prime, a second fucking killer swooped in at the last minute and shot my attacker in the fucking face. Who would fucking believe that?”

Once more the man rolled his eyes. “You’re being a little dramatic.”

Kota’s eyes felt like they were bugging out of his head Looney Tunes style. “Dramatic? Look at me. Look at my face.” He gestured wildly, smearing blood across his cheek. “I’m too pretty for prison. I’ll be holding someone’s pocket before lunch time. We can’t all look like Greek gods come to life. Why did you have to shoot him, dude? Why couldn’t you have just used all those muscles to, like, knock him out? He was built like my high school janitor. I think you could have subdued him.”

“You couldn’t,” he noted. 

“Fuck you, dude. I was fighting for my life. I can’t help that I’m…”

“Tiny?” the guy countered, looking him over like he was just noticing that Kota was on the smaller side. 

He wasn’t pocket-sized, but anyone would look small next to this guy. “Sorry I’m not built like a sasquatch.” 

The man’s mouth fell open as he stared at him. “A…sasquatch. Like…bigfoot? You think I look like bigfoot?” 

“If the giant shoe fits…” Kota said, making a childish face at him. 

Another fucking eye roll. This guy was going to sprain an eyeball if he kept it up. “Jesus, you talk a lot. Are you always this chatty?”

“Yeah. Are you always this murdery?” he shot back.

“Yeah,” the man said. “I am. That’s why you need to get out of here so I can clean this up.”

Kota crossed his arms over his chest, setting his jaw. “No.”

“No?” he snapped. 

“Yeah, no. How do I know you’ll do a good job? How do I know you won’t just frame me for this murder? I’m not leaving until we call the cops. Got it?”

The man huffed like an angry bull, tucking his gun into the back of his pants, before offering Kota his hand. “Yeah, got it.”

Kota let out a relieved breath, taking it and letting him haul him to his feet. It felt shaky. “Finally. Jeez.”

He looked down to wipe the grime from the parking lot off his jeans. 

Turning his back on a guy with a gun was just one bad decision in a long, illustrious career of bad decisions. A large hand clamped over his mouth, then an arm came around his waist, lifting him clean off his feet. The world tilted. He struggled, kicking and thrashing, but he was no match for the much larger man. Panic detonated in his chest, wild and immediate.

Those muscles were not just for show.

By the time he got back to the killer’s—the other killer’s—rig, Kota was no longer struggling, just hanging there like dead weight, determined to be as heavy as possible. A protest in the only way he had left.

The man didn’t notice. He wrestled Kota into the back of his truck. One of the biggest he’d ever seen. It had a bed, a fridge, even a stove and a TV. 

And a…cat. A ginger cat with amber eyes that blinked at him slowly, looking as annoyed as his owner. Judgment radiated from the animal in palpable waves.

Kota barely had time to process that detail before his hands were yanked behind his back and wrapped with something. Duct tape, maybe? The adhesive tugged painfully at his skin as it tightened.

Cute for a murderer or not, this was officially the worst rideshare experience of his life.

He shoved him onto the bed. Kota had just enough time to right himself and shoot the guy another nasty look before a strip of tape landed over his mouth, pressed down hard enough to sting. Kota muffled a curse behind the silver strip, heart hammering so hard he was pretty sure it was trying to escape through his ribs. 

“Stay put.”

Kota did his best to cuss him out from behind the tape, muffled fury vibrating in his chest, but the man just grinned.

For a second, Kota was sure his heart actually stopped. Not skipped. Not fluttered. Fully fucking stopped.

Jesus Christ. Why did this man have to be hot?

Up close, it was worse. So much worse. Perfect white teeth, pointy incisors like a vampire, a mouth made for sins Dakota was absolutely not prepared to contemplate right now. His eyes were impossibly green—too green, honestly—and Kota briefly wondered if they were contacts before deciding that would somehow be less unsettling than them being real.

The guy huffed out a weird sound.

Kota glowered at him, pulse roaring in his ears, when he realized—horrified—that it was a laugh.

“You’re right. You are way too pretty for prison. And a helluva lot cuter with your mouth taped shut.”

Kota told him to eat shit. It came out as a wet, indignant noise that did nothing to maintain said dignity.

The man’s grin widened just a fraction, like he found that deeply entertaining. He shook his head, stepping back toward the door.

“Behave,” he said lightly, like he wasn’t leaving Dakota restrained in the back of a murder-mobile.

Then he hopped down from the cab and disappeared, the door slamming shut with a final, echoing thud.

Silence rushed in to fill the space he left behind.

Kota lay there, taped and shaking, staring up at the ceiling. His heart was still trying to beat its way out of his throat.

A soft weight landed near his hip.

The ginger cat had jumped onto the bed, curling its tail neatly around its paws. It regarded Kota with unblinking amber eyes, expression unreadable but deeply unimpressed.

Kota exhaled through his nose, staring back, working his mouth up and down until the tape loosened just enough for his brain to relax and know he wasn't actually suffocating.

“…So,” he mumbled around the now-loosened tape, voice cracking just a little, “Did he kidnap you, too?”

The cat flicked an ear.

Kota’s thoughts caught up to him then, slow and traitorous.

Wait.

Had he said he was cute? He’d also said he was pretty.

Oh.

Oh no.