Cellar Door (21 page)

Madonna

I lean against Liam’s shoulder as we watch the reporter describe the crime scene at the local hospital. As the city reels from this latest crime spree, I know without a doubt that I’m the safest person in Louisville today because the man next to me will do everything in his power to keep me safe. I also know that the last thing Liam wants is his name in the news again. I can’t help but feel a flicker of compassion for this misguided man.

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you, Liam.”

“Me, too. Un-fucking-believable that I find out about this on the news. Just when I start to feel like maybe I’m not a household name around here anymore, half of Louisville is going to be taking selfies at my goddamn parking space now.”

His cell phone ringing interrupts our conversation. From what I can hear of his end of the conversation, the FBI wants him to come to the hospital.

“Take me with you.” The words are out of my mouth before I even realize I want to say them.

He seizes my shoulders and pins me with his searing gaze as he bites out between clenched teeth, “If you’re serious about tapping into the writer in you, this is your chance. Just don’t fuck me over. Remember, if you seek out help from the authorities, then your stalker goes free and you die. And the police won’t be able to stop him. Simple as that.”

His eyes roam over my face hungrily and his hands slide up my neck to cradle my face. “I took you for myself to satisfy my own cravings and satisfy this need for you that consumes me and defies explanation…” His voice trails off as he strokes my cheek. “I never counted on caring about you like this.”

“Don’t you mean you never meant to become obsessed with me?” I cock my head to the side, teasing him.

“That too,” he says, tapping my nose before turning me around and smacking my ass. “Now go get dressed. We’ve got a killer to catch.”

I’m excited about going to the crime scene and seeing firsthand the havoc a serial killer can wreak on a community. Who knows, maybe Liam isn’t the only one here people would view as fucked up in the head; he was born with a taste for kink, but it looks like I was born with a fascination for the workings of the criminal mind.
Well, whatever…One man’s crazy is another man’s normal.

Liam

I know it’s beyond risky to take Madonna with me to the crime scene, but I can’t keep her on lockdown forever. Hopefully, she understands that it’s in her best interests to maintain our…arrangement.

I know from experience that reality usually doesn’t sink in without a visual, very much like mourners not accepting death until they see the body of their loved one at the funeral home. Or a patient not facing the fact that they need surgery until they see the x-ray. I’m hoping that by seeing for herself the lengths this guy will go to to make his point, she’ll accept once and for all that she is exactly where she belongs.

With me.

Thirty minutes later, we pull into the hospital parking lot and take in the chaotic scene. After I park, I lean my head against the headrest and take a deep breath. I turn my head to look at Madonna, who is already looking my way. I tilt her chin up with my finger and idly stroke my thumb back and forth across her lower lip. As I study the plump curve of her lips, I remember how velvety they felt pressed against my own and wrapped around my cock, and suddenly I just want to get her out of here.

“Sometimes I want to go somewhere far away and just start over,” I murmur on a long exhale, never taking my eyes off her lips. We stay like that for a few minutes, just savoring a singular moment of peace before the FBI descends…Two broken souls that may yet find a way to heal each other.

Madonna

Even though I knew we were coming to a crime scene, nothing could have prepared me for this. There are so many vehicles and people milling around that it takes forever to ease our way through the lot. A security guard stops us and is about to wave us off when Liam identifies himself. We are immediately cleared to park near the garage entrance, which has been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape.

It’s a surreal scene. In addition to the officials who are here to process the crime scene, there are what I refer to as the ‘looky-loos’. People are standing behind the crime scene tape, gawking as the police go about their business. The reporter’s camera crew is busy packing up their equipment while she holds court on the sidewalk with a group of smiling fans.

“Selfies and autographs at a goddamn crime scene,” Liam mutters in disgust.

I had placed my hand on his forearm when he talked about wanting to go somewhere and start over. His life had barely returned to normal (whatever that is) after the scandal with his brother and now this psycho dumps his latest kill in a wheelchair and parks it in Liam’s reserved space. Once again, he’s back in the glare of the media spotlight, which is the last place he wants to be.

“Maybe we’ll do that, Liam. Just start over somewhere.”

His only answer is the raising of a sardonic brow, as if to say, “
So you’re siding with your abductor. Interesting.”

“Ours is a strange situation, Liam. I don’t expect anyone else to understand.”

I cross my arms over my chest and set my chin at a stubborn angle. As I watch the organized chaos just beyond the car window, I take stock of my circumstances. Though kidnapping me was a crazy, extreme thing for Liam to do, it was, nonetheless, a means to an end. The fact that the man’s kinky and enjoying it is another matter.

Who the hell am I to judge him when I like the things he does to me? Never in a million years would I have thought I was a closet deviant but the evidence is right there in the way my body responds to this man who uses me for his pleasure. I’ve spent my life feeling like I don’t fit in anywhere—until now. With Liam, I’m home. I don’t care how crazy it seems or what anyone else thinks.

For the first time in my life I feel wanted and I like it—a lot. If Liam’s crazy…then I guess I am too. An even bigger surprise is that I’m okay with it. I can’t deny who I am or what I want, any more than I can deny that I’ve bonded deeply with this man who has saved my life.

We barely get out of the car when a man and woman approach us, their faces grim, their strides purposeful. Judging by the way they’re both dressed -- black suits with white button-down shirts -- it’s obvious they’re with the FBI.

“Dr. Chambers, thank you for coming so quickly. It’s been a while. I think you met my partner, Agent Rene Murphy, during the course of the previous investigation.”

Curt nods are exchanged, then Turner turns his neutral but slightly narrowed gaze on me, asking, “And you are…?”

“Madonna. Madonna Mathews,” I say lightly, ignoring how Liam’s posture stiffens next to me and hoping they don’t notice.

“Ms. Mathews,” he says with a curt nod. “Agent David Turner.” With introductions out of the way, he addresses Liam. “Sorry you had to hear about this on the news before I could reach you. Before we could properly secure the scene, the reporter got a tip and did some snooping. When she confirmed the parking space was yours, there was no stopping her from going live with the information, considering your link to The Riddler.”

“Understood,” Liam replies, placing his arm around my shoulder.

Turner wastes no time beginning to question Liam. “Can you tell me why the hell the killer would leave a body in your parking space?”

Liam

“Agent, the last time I spoke to my brother he bragged about having a
copycat.
I didn’t take him seriously at the time, but I can only assume the man he was talking about may be responsible for all of this.”

“Did he give you a name?”

”No, he would never make it that easy. My brother enjoys mind games. Other than being interviewed by grad students, it’s one of the few things he has left to do with his time.”

“I take it you don’t have a close relationship with your brother?”

“No, I do not. My brother destroys everything he touches and I have no desire to be in the line of fire.”

Agent Turner takes notes, looking up from time to time.

“So you don’t visit him?”

“I didn’t say that. I said we’re not close.”

“I’m confused, Dr. Chambers…You don’t trust your brother and, forgive me for saying so, but it sounds like you don’t like him very much either. Yet you still feel the need to go and see him?”

“Call it survivor’s guilt, since our mother gave him up at birth and kept me. She was mentally ill and it appears my brother inherited that gene. Dr. Brinkley assures me he’s a sociopath. Lance is the kind of man who lives next door to you, shops where you shop, and even sits on the front pew at church on Sundays with you—yet all the while, he’s planning his next kill. I walk a fine line where he’s concerned.”

Though I’m talking to Turner calmly, a trace of apprehension tingles along my spine when the female agent asks Madonna if she can speak to her alone.
This is not good—not good at all…