Hidden: To Love A Killer, #1

By Lexie Ray

They say you can't outrun your past, but I've done just that. At twenty-five and living on the mean streets of Brooklyn, I've gotten wise on how to score anything from pills to cash to men. It's called surviving, and I've learned how to make the rules up as I go. But, deep down, I know it's only been a means to forget my disturbing past that I would do anything to forget . . .

 

ADULT CONTENT and TRIGGER WARNING: This content is not suitable for young readers; it may be emotionally challenging and contains references to sex, abuse, and violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lexie Ray
• Release date: Sep 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9798223600114

Lexie Ray

Readers looking for a contemporary romance that will have them on the edge of their seats need look no further than Lexie Ray's captivating stories. With a gift for crafting characters that are both relatable and deeply complex, her stories are brimming with raw emotions and intense conflicts that will leave readers breathless. For updates, subscribe here: Books2Read.com/LexieRay For business inquiries: LexieRayAuthor at Gmail dot com

Book preview

Chapter One

Hunter wiped her thumb down the side of her glass, swiping away condensation and getting lost in the ambient noises around her. She had given up focus, resting her soft gaze on her water glass, half empty and growing warm with each passing minute. It had to be a hundred degrees outside. The cotton tee she was wearing clung uncomfortably to her rounded back, soaking up sweat as she slumped forward unwilling to lean against the back of her chair. She could feel sweat beading at her hairline. Raising her hand to blot it away with a napkin produced such a feeling of exhaustion it almost wasn’t worth it.

There was no air in the restaurant. Every breath Hunter drew in felt heavy and thick. The ceiling fan overhead turned slowly. No breeze graced down to alleviate the stagnant humidity. The open door some two tables down did nothing but dangle the possibility of relief.

She realized her glass was suddenly empty. She was so out of it she hadn’t noticed finishing it. Her eyelids were growing heavy and it crossed Hunter’s mind that she shouldn’t have taken the second pill. Her mouth had grown dry as cotton. When she looked around the restaurant she spotted a waitress smiling brightly and holding her slick hair off her dewy neck in front of the half bar. The waitress slapped a tin bell and a cook from behind the bar raised his brows, smiling back. But no one sensed Hunter was fading hard at her table, losing her faculties, desperate for water.

Hunter reminded herself to hang in there, ride this out. Her date would be back soon, hopefully. These cramped downtown restaurants were always packed beyond capacity, torturing any customer who had to use the restroom with an atrocious line. There he was, next in line. The back of his button up shirt was stained damp. He had no idea Hunter was on Vicodin. He had no idea she couldn’t remember his name. He smiled back at her, shrugging casually, as if to establish some kind of inside joke with her. He seemed sweet, but Hunter found it impossible to relate to anyone. Long ago her heart had been cracked by darkness and a rift had been growing ever since, straining her sense of compassion, empathy, love. Part of her knew she was damaged beyond repair, that the rift would not cease until it had broken her completely. Wouldn’t it be nice, though, if that weren’t true, if there was some degree of hope, if there was some way to become whole? When she had first moved to Brooklyn that was what these dinner dates had been about, but date after date Hunter realized she didn’t understand these people. Their lives were strange, their dreams foreign. And eventually she admitted to herself that the reason she showed up was not to find a connection and feel less alone, but simply to eat.

A cascade of water pooled into her glass, and when Hunter lifted her gaze, her date had also returned. He made some innocent comments, chucking his way around the waitress, as she tipped the pitcher upright momentarily then poured once again into the date’s glass. She never once let her toothy grin slip. It shouldn’t have been obnoxious, but it was.

I’m not sure I’m feeling well. I’m so sorry, I think I have to go, said Hunter lowly in a velvety tone. She wished her voice didn’t sound like that, seductive. It had instantly softened him. He didn’t even realize he had begun leaning in or that the edges of his mouth were curling up. Hunter had a way of saying what she meant, but implying she was up for anything. Truthfully, it was a quality she hated about herself and if she could have stopped it, she would have. It seemed whenever she wanted to run, hide, escape, or drive someone away, her sultry tone instead beckoned, invited, and agreed. The illusion of submission had kept her alive when she was younger, but she no longer needed it. This wasn’t merely a habit. If it was, it would’ve been easy to shake. This was an instinct so deeply ingrained in her that she wouldn’t know herself without it. So when her date raised his eyebrows and offered to walk her home, Hunter knew she had brought it upon herself. She knew that getting rid of him would require taming the darkness within.

The street was no better. Hunter still felt humid, exhausted, and unable to breathe. At first they walked in silence. Her mind a haze of swirling regrets, she couldn’t remember why she had agreed to meet this guy or why she needed so many pills. They passed heaps of trash bags. A few roaches jutted out in their path, but Hunter was unfazed. Her date said something sarcastic about the most expensive city in the country, but Hunter was deaf to it. She crossed her arms and kept her head down. She wasn’t going to encourage him. At least it was night. Walking in shadows had always helped her feel safe.

They rounded the corner, arriving at her stoop. Its bricks were so cracked and eroded that even the cover of night couldn’t mask that this was an old, rundown, slumlord building. Judging by the shine on his shoes, Hunter figured this guy could do a lot better than a girl like her. Which meant only one thing, he had walked her home so that he could come upstairs, leave afterwards, and never call. It was the last thing she wanted, unless it came with cash. But she knew she would need at least one more pill to get through it, and he did not look like the paying type.

She ascended the first step, the faint click of her kitten heel barely competing with the honking traffic and drunken screams from the avenue.

You look pale, he said, his eyes warm with concern. And you haven’t even eaten. I could come up? We could order delivery?

When she didn’t respond, his smile turned dark, forced. His expression was hardening. Hunter realized how thick his body was, strong, like a wall. It was intimidating. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. By the time it slid down his neck, his smile had vanished. He gripped the railing. His knuckles turned white, alarming her.

Was this happening? Was he going to pressure her into letting him up? There was something petrifying about the situation. It was as though she was waiting to be released, excused. It was as though she didn’t have the freedom to do as she pleased, but was this real? Or was this her past creeping in, controlling her, paralyzing her? If this were normal date behavior, Hunter wouldn’t have had a prayer of recognizing it in the first place. At least the pills had worn off enough so that she had regained her ability to reason. She reminded herself that she owed him nothing and assured herself that there was nothing she needed from him.

I’m sorry to cut things short, but this is goodnight, she said firmly with only a hint of seduction.

His brow furrowed under the contradiction of her words and tone, as a slight smirk softened his demeanor once again. But Hunter had backed up, ascending to the top of the stoop and refusing further eye contact. He was now behind her.

She keyed into the lobby, making sure the glass door had shut and latched behind her. She could feel him standing there, staring. And the feeling of being watched didn’t leave her until she had climbed the five flights of stairs that separated her apartment from the dangers of the street below.

Just before she slid the key into the deadbolt lock, she flinched at a noise, the clanking of metal against brick. It was the trash shoot slapping shut. Up the hall a man turned away from it. Their eyes met. He paused. Hunter did as well, though her fingers absentmindedly jiggled the metal key in the socket, proceeding with the task of unlocking her apartment.

The hallway was dim, but that didn’t prevent Hunter from noting his delicate features, broad shoulders, and youthfulness. The realization that she had never seen him before also struck her. It was unlike her to stare. In a city like New York, holding someone’s gaze for too long could welcome a world of trouble, but she was unable to look away. She felt like she was falling into his eyes, as dark and unexpressive as they were. They seemed to captivate her. Something lurked beneath their surface, shadows perhaps concealing deeper pain. That’s when Hunter realized why she couldn’t look away. He was a reflection. When she looked at him, she saw her own turmoil. She wasn’t afraid of him. She felt one with him.

The deadbolt unlocked finally, causing her steel door to buckle in. She tripped forward with it, which jarred her out of whatever fantasy she had managed to create around this man. That’s what it felt like as she righted her balance, a fantasy. She looked over her shoulder to where he once stood, but the man was gone.

Music was playing in her apartment. She heard it the second she stepped inside. As the quiet melody filled her head, her blood ran cold. She knew that song. It used to play at a deafening volume to drown out her screams all those years ago.

Hunter drew in a sharp breath under the great force of her pounding heart. Growing terrified, she sipped in breath after breath as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The blood pumping through her veins had expelled any calm the Vicodin had established. Her thoughts raced, desperately searching for a memory of having turned her stereo on earlier that evening, but she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have. Noise of any kind disturbed her. The only time she listened to music was quietly under the headphones while drinking.

Other than the song playing, there were no unusual noises. She listened keenly, but heard nothing. No footsteps, no signs that someone was still here. As she trained her hearing even more intently to be certain, Hunter noticed that the sounds of the street below seemed louder than they should.

Was the window open?

When she flipped on the hall light, she discovered her hands were shaking. Her legs felt rubbery as she walked deeper into her studio apartment. , as she emerged from the hall, the full view of her apartment came into view. Her I-Pod glowed in the stereo dock. The window was open, in fact. Her room, however, appeared exactly as she had left it. The thin top sheet on her bed was a crumpled mess. Her pillow was on the floor. Her journal was laying, pages spread, at an awkward angle on her desk. Next to it was a stack of bills and junk mail splayed out, all exactly as it had been.

She pressed pause on her stereo, averting her eyes from seeing the name of the song and artist. She didn’t want to be reminded,  even though she already had been. Whoever had come here was somewhere beyond the open window. Though her racing heart had settled, she knew whoever they were, they would be back.

Hunter had always known this day would come. She had been living in the shadow of that fact ever since she escaped, and now it seemed her days were numbered.

It took all her strength to close the window. Forcing the latch to lock was no easy task. By the time it was securely shut, her hands were black with dust and grease. She rubbed them together in effort to avoid a trip to the sink.

As she sat on the edge of her bed, her reflection appeared in the windowpane. She looked so thin, the hollows of her cheeks like two dark pits. The shape of her eyes was barely discernible in the low light. Her mouth was nothing more than a gray slit. She looked like a ghost, yet she had never been more alive, more free. She didn’t want to lose that.

She needed a gun.

The task of