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Before she can say anything else, I raise my hand and silence her. “First, those are old wives’ tales. There’ve been rumors for years, but they’re all unsubstantiated reports. Second, even if the rumors were true, I would rather suck off Charlie Sheen and swallow than go to that island. Third, fuck you for making me think you knew anything about my brother’s killer. You can leave now.”
I stand and begin marching toward the door.
“Don’t be so quick to raise your hackles,” she says, and I love that she assumes my hackles weren’t already raised.
I turn to face her. “Even if it were real, how did you, the antithesis of a serial killer, gain access to such a secret?”
“Ouch,” she says, though she knows I’m right. She’s a straight-A student from Portland who flew to New York to live out her big dreams of becoming an actress.
People in the limelight do not make good serial killers. I’d say you could ask Rodney Alcala, but he died in jail.
I rest my case.
“Don’t take offense,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Not everyone is cut out for this life. Whether you are remains to be seen.”
I’m being too kind. Like a naked man running through Times Square on a Tuesday, it’s been seen. She is not cut out for this life, and I have very little hope of making anything of her.
“I’m on a message board on the dark web. I met a guy who knows a guy who?—”
I roll my hand in the air, urging her to wrap this up.
“I showed a guy my tits and he let me in.”
My eyes drop to Cat’s chest. Cat’s very full, very perky chest. Possibly fake, but still impressive, nonetheless. But top-secret info for a flash of nip? I don’t buy it.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, I let him titty-fuck me, and then I pretended to smoke some meth with him. Once he was good and gassed, he forgot I was there, and I was able to access his laptop while he talked to the men in the wallpaper. See? My acting skills come in handy sometimes.”
Maybe for porn.
“Look,” she says, “I’ve brought an offer you can’t refuse. Do you want to know what I’ve discovered, or are you going to keep being a judgmental asshole for the rest of your natural life?”
My eyes widen, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little curious about what has her so goddamned excited. “Go on,” I say.
Her smile returns, and I feel like I’ve been blasted with a ray of radioactive sunshine. “For your consideration, I present the guest list for this year’s Sinners Retreat.”
She leans forward and pulls a piece of paper from her back pocket. I take it from her and unfold it, ready to admonish her for doing something as ignorant as printing off something so incriminating—if it’s even real—but then I see the first name on the list.
The Abattoir Adonis.
Chapter Two
Ezra
I’ve been in America long enough to blend in—just over twelve years—but no part of me has ever stopped longing for the rainy afternoons spent in a British pub. This place is a far cry from London, but I’m not here for pleasure.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, but I’m a bit indisposed at the moment. It’s probably just my brother calling to give me the flight details for the upcoming trip. It can wait.
I lean against the bar to snag the bartender’s attention. That’s what it looks like I’m doing, anyway. I’m actually trying to get a better look at the guy on the last stool.
He’s pressed against the wall, nursing a pint of something gold and frothy. A dark-green jacket hangs from his thin frame and drapes over the back of the stool. It’s nearly eleven p.m., yet he’s wearing sunglasses. Indoors. It’s likely an attempt to hide his bloodshot eyes.
Has he been losing sleep?
God, I hope he has.
His receding hairline does him no favors, especially when he could charge people to advertise on his massive forehead. A few reddish-blond sprigs attempt to bridge the thinning area over his crown, but his scalp still shines through. The nose above his thin lips can best be described as a cross between a pug and a pig—round and flat to his face, with a little point at the tip. His bulging eyes top off the look.
