Marie Harte - Killer Thoughts

Muttering under his breath about pushy millionaires, Ian walked into the bathroom. The glass shower door opened, and Owen peered out, looking annoyed.

“Come here.”

Ian couldn’t stop staring at his naked and wet lover. Oh man, I did Owen Stallbridge . And fuck of it all, he wanted to do him again.

Owen noticed the erection Ian couldn’t help, and the asshole grinned.

“What?” Ian snapped.

Owen’s smile faded. “Come. Here.”

That mean tone had Ian suppressing a shiver. He tried to appear reluctant as he neared, but when Owen snagged him by the arm and dragged him into the massive stall for more pleasure, Ian didn’t have the heart to protest. Not when he couldn’t stop moaning Owen’s name.

The next morning, after having Tim escort him home to fetch a change of clothes and some shower gear, Ian had returned to the Stallbridge mansion and used Owen’s impressive shower. He cleaned up, then ate an amazing breakfast prepared by the delightful Bev. Two hours later, he stood in Owen’s vast study and glared at him from across the room. The place had a modern aesthetic that appealed to Ian, mostly because it suited the man currently annoying him. Owen had dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt, showcasing those impressive biceps, while Ian had thrown on a pair of denim shorts and a borrowed T-shirt from Owen that probably cost a hundred bucks, it was so soft. He felt like a kid playing dress up in the overlarge thing, while at the same time he mentally refused to give it back. It belonged to Owen, and Ian wanted it. Not to remember the big dude when this ended. Just because.

Owen scowled at him. “So you’re telling me the information you gave me last week was false? Do you remember what you told me about Kerr and where we should look?”

“Owen, I retain everything. I know exactly what I told you.”

“Remind me.”

Ian bit back a curse, aware of the others watching. Owen had called in Tim and one of his security men, Joe Knox. The other Knox brother, Reuben, remained in the heart of the mansion, overseeing security. They made great protectors from a physical perspective—because they looked like human guard dogs.

“Arms shipments have been moving around the Oregon and Washington coasts,” Ian reiterated. “A few deaths and some small-time deals, which could be attributed to anyone, stuck out. The manner in which a few of the men were killed has Kerr’s MO.”

Joe frowned. A big guy with a buzz cut, like his older brother. Both men put Ian in mind of broad-shouldered robots who would rip your arms off as soon as look at you. Way too brutish for Ian’s taste. They made Tim seem friendly, and Ian hadn’t thought that possible.

“Explain to me what Kerr’s MO is, exactly. From everything I’ve seen on the guy, he’s a sadist who’s into abusing young men. But he’s a businessman first and foremost. He kills with a bullet to the brain or knife to the throat. Competition squashed. Period.”

“True. But he has a signature on his more personal kills.” Ian glanced at Owen, who nodded at him to go on. He swallowed the disgust balled inside him and continued, pretending it didn’t bother him that innocent young men had been killed so some perverted shithead could get off. “He’s gone off the deep end since the Feds nearly caught him back in February. Back then, his dead bodies were somewhat normal. Vics raped, stabbed repeatedly, dumped in alleys. Always good-looking young men.”

“And now?” Joe asked.

“I’ve been studying his victims. He’s…well, he’s a lot crazier. He’s carving his initials into their skin. And rape is a kind word for what these men suffer.” Ian couldn’t contain a shiver.

“How are the cops not after him, then? A serial killer is big news.”

Owen shook his head. “Kerr doesn’t leave his mark where people notice it. It’s a pattern only Ian noticed, right?”

“Yeah.” Ian swallowed hard. “At first I thought you wanted me to find the weapon doing the killing. Like, maybe it was cursed or something. But the pattern of cuts… It’s a K , for sure. You have to look hard, and sometimes he makes the cuts under the skin into muscle, but with the blown-up autopsies, I’m sure it’s him.”

Tim frowned.

Joe blew out a breath. “Sick fuck. Okay, boss, so you’re sure you don’t want us to take him out for you?”

Owen answered firmly, “No. Trust me. He knows I’m here, and he’s waiting for me to make a move. I took Ian’s info to a friend of mine in DC. Kerr is holed up on an island off the Washington coast. A private island, belonging to a friend of his family’s.”

“Great. So bomb the motherfucker, and we’re done.”

Joe’s simple answer sounded good to Ian.

Tim nodded. “I like that. A targeted hit and he’s out.”

“I would, but knowing Kerr, he’s got leverage. Probably innocent people trapped with him. I know he’s protected with more firepower than we have, I’m afraid.” A beep signaled an incoming call.

Owen pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Yes?”

“Sir, you have company,” Reuben reported. “A Mr. Caleb Dalton says he’s expected. He checks out, and he’s on the list.”

Ian didn’t like Owen’s wide smile.

“Ah, good. Caleb’s here. Let him in.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Out.” Reuben disconnected.

Owen rubbed his hands together. “My friend from DC is here. Things are about to get more interesting, gentlemen.”

Ian wished he felt more threatened by the fact that Dalton hailed from Washington, a place Ian never wanted to be again, than that the jerk might mean more to Owen than a casual friend. And what do I care? Owen’s just a rich tool, one I plan to use and lose… Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Ian. And maybe you’ll believe it.

Carl Kerr grunted and spent, finishing inside the ass of his latest lover. Fortunately, this one had taken enough pills to appreciate the fine reaming he’d been given. His boys liked their candy, and they’d do anything for more of it. After Carl withdrew, he watched his new slut roll over, showcasing a smooth chest and a handsome face. So young, so pretty. And just a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

The young man resembled one who’d gotten away before Carl could sample him. Gavin Caldwell. One of Owen’s men. Owen . Carl sneered at the thought of that fuckhead, wishing he could stem the flood of envy he had whenever he thought of Stallbridge. Rich, respected, and controlling more of the marketplace than he deserved. All because he’d killed Carl’s family to get there.

“Thank you, Master.” The young man grinned and closed his eyes, asleep in seconds.

Carl glared down at him and stomped away. He cleaned up in the bathroom and zipped his trousers back up. He rarely undressed to fuck anymore, too concerned with being caught with his pants down—literally.

The last time the Feds had descended, he’d been a heartbeat away from orgasming into a lover’s mouth. Only some fast thinking and preparedness had allowed him to escape without incident.

Now he remained a fugitive. A rich one, but nonetheless, he hated having to hide his face. And such a handsome one too. He stared at himself in the mirror, loving his light blond hair, the cut sculpted to showcase his Nordic bone structure and bright blue eyes. Though not as large as the historic Vikings would have been, Carl took pride in his thin frame, compact and tight. He had strength of mind. When he needed muscle, he paid for it.

His old right hand, Samson Ruelle, had been too willing to assume Carl’s place. Not content to be an assistant, he’d tried hard to take over in his boss’s stead. As if . Carl snorted. Owen’s men had eliminated Samson, and now the bastard lay dead. A well-deserved killing, from what Carl had learned. Samson had been forced to stab himself repeatedly in the groin before expiring. Lovely.