Killer Love

Chapter Nine

"Yes," I reply, but it comes out more like a question.

"Why!" Styles exclaims.

"Kickboxing," I finally respond to his unexpected question. How did I not see this bruise! I sigh in my head. No more bikinis for me for a while.

"Kickboxing?" he repeats.

I nod my head vigorously. "Oh yeah! I kick box. You should definitely try it some time. Super fun. I just hadn't noticed that bruise on my back before I put this on." I stand up, trying to brush away the sand stuck to my butt and thighs.

There is an awkward silence. He doesn't seem all that convinced. Too bad for him.

I finally say, "Let's go back to my house. Alright? Alright."

"You would tell me though, right?" he asks from behind me, "If someone was hurting you."

I look around to make sure no one is within earshot of our conversation. "Keep it down. Will you?" I hiss. "I don't want the police showing up at my house because of your big mouth. Besides, I barely know you. I don't think I have to tell you anything."

He shrugs incredulously. "So what? That doesn't mean anything."

We get to the wooden stairs leading up to my patio. This is some nice wood. I wonder what kind it is. Focus, Y/N. God. My mind has the shortest attention span in the world. I can't believe it.

"Trust me, Harry. I can take care of myself when necessary. I'm not some feeble chick," I say smugly. If only he knew.

"I didn't say that you are. I just think you should- I don't know- not get the shit beaten out of you that results in injuries or bruises like that."

"Hey! And what makes you so sure that the other guy doesn't have it worse off? I could have killed him," I tell him confidently.

He laughs. "You? You wouldn't hurt a fly."

Oh, does he have it all wrong. "Whatever. You should head out. I have things to do."

Harry ends up going home after changing into dry clothing. He informs me that he is going to review our PowerPoint before submitting it in to the teacher.

"Go for it," I flippantly remark. "I don't really care."

We are standing in the front doorway. His backpack is slung over one shoulder. I see his black jeep at the end of my driveway. I should get one of those. Maybe a matte one. But I love my bike too much.

He studies me. "You don't like school, do you?"

"Not particularly, no. I think it's a waste of time."

He smiles at that. "It's probably because you're practically a genius."

I scoff. "Who said that?"

"I overheard some teacher talking about your exam scores to be placed into high level classes. They said you could be a sophomore in college if you chose to do so."

I knew that would come back to bite me. I had thought it would be fun to give my teachers a glimpse as to how smart I actually am. Maybe then they would assign me less busy work. I wave his comment away, even though it's true. "They were exaggerating. Don't believe everything you hear about me."

"It's hard not to when you're so closed off," he replies.

I stand up straighter. "I am not."

"All you have given me so far are surface details about your life. A little detail here. Another one there." He begins walking backwards to his car. "But hey, when you're ready to talk, you know where to find me."

Once he leaves, I spend the next few minutes ranting to myself about Harry Styles. Who does he think he is? Telling me that I should ease up on kickboxing. I don't even take kickboxing! I don't need to! Also, I am not closed off. I just don't blabber to everyone every single trivial thing about my life as a killer. I would get tossed in jail. There is no way I am ready for that to happen. Who would be?

Then, I get mad at myself for even getting mad at all. What Harry Styles says to me does not matter. It should not matter. He is just someone I'm going to end up killing.

They should have made this job quick and easy like the rest of them. Why do I have to wait so long? It only increases the risk of my exposure risk. There is no way in hell I am ever going to talk to Harry about my fake life. There is no point really. Maybe I'll tell him right before I shoot him.

To cool off, I stomp to my freezer and take out a cherry Popsicle. My favorite. I bite off the top and immediately regret it once I start chewing it. How do people do this? I flop onto the sofa, looking around at this spacious house. Everything is unnervingly quiet. What am I supposed to do now? I don't know anyone or have any place to go to.

I decide to put the television to use and turn it on. As I flip through channels, a news report catches my eye. I go back and raise the volume, leaning forward.

"...body was found late this afternoon. He appeared to have suffered multiple gunshot and knife wounds. There has not been an official statement by the local police on whether this was a one-time incident or just the beginning. I'm Amber Lopez reporting to you live from-"

I turn the television off, my mouth slightly open in shock. How did they find him? There was supposed to be a clean up crew who made it look like he died in a car crash or something. Louis needs to hear about this. I grab my phone, making sure the line is secure, and dial his number. A woman's voice asks me to say my identification number and password. I do so and get transferred to Louis.

"Calling me so soon?" is the first thing he says.

"Louis, we have a problem."

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