Ford
GENEVIEVE IS SLOWLY BECOMING MINE.
Devils walk among us every single day, and yet Genevieve is still none the wiser that my chivalrous drink offers masquerade as gradual drugging. She accepts each and every drink, and I ensure she consumes the entirety of them. Maybe that's what makes her feel more inclined to finish them—because she can sense my greedy eyes locked onto her.
Whenever I'm around her, she never questions me. She never tries to rebuff my endeavours or fight my presence. Maybe Bullet truly is taking effect already and it's aggravating her rationale judgement. Not that I care, of course.
Harris tends to avoid me like the plague, but even he's witnessed the subtle alterations to Genevieve and her physical appearance. He hasn't spoken to me, but with the way his jaw ticks whenever I pass him in college or the house, I know he's drowning in the irresistible temptation to beat the shit out of me. I'd be honoured to repay the favour to him, considering he knew Genevieve was mine in the first place and he crossed that line.
The other guys, as far as I'm aware, haven't noticed, and nor are they aware of my plans with Genevieve.
Everything else has been disturbingly quiet. There's been no messages received from Jean Sommers on the cracked iPhone and no other girls have been murdered and mutilated. I'm oblivious as to why there's an abrupt hiatus with the killer's heinous crimes, but even with the silence I'm no further with expanding on my theories or cementing answers. Even the cops are clueless and have exhausted all their leads.
Without warning, Jeremiah strides into my room and sheds himself of the raven tux jacket, loosening his tie. Jeremiah, Jax and William attended the monthly Red Alert Gala tonight because Jeremiah used it as his cue to sell his girl—she fetched a hefty two million dollars, but it's no skin off our nose. Now none of us have a girl, though I'm working on that with Genevieve.
Usually I only attend the galas if I have a girl to sell because otherwise, they're a shitty waste of time. There aren't many chicks our age to hook up with in a nearby room, and if there are... been there, done that. It's an excuse to network and expand your link of contacts, but right now, I have no agenda to execute at the gala, so I stayed behind.
Regardless, my mind's too fucking fogged with thoughts and worries regarding Genevieve and if letting loose at a rendezvous with a plethora of alcohol and drugs on tap would negatively impact my promise on keeping her safe, then I'd rather be absent, wallowing in my own burden. She's infiltrating every fantasy more than ever and saving me from the nightmares that threaten to darken me. The fog of Genevieve is too strong and potent, but I'm willing to lose myself in it.
We have no contact outside of me buying her drinks. Every day for the past week I've swung by her house before she leaves for college with her pink-marshmallows-only hot chocolate. She accepts them. I buy her whatever fucking drink she wants, and she accepts them. She accepts them all. I believe the only explanation for that is due to Bullet because otherwise, I truly believe she has no desire to even be around me, but I'm not supplying her doses as regularly as they should be, so I suspect her time before surrendering to the compelling drug will be prolonged.
"How was it?" I ask him, closing off West Point and shutting my laptop lid so I can turn to face him.
He rubs his face. "I've danced with too many fucking older women tonight, but I can chill now without constantly watching the clock." He tugs on his bow tie and slackens it around his neck before relaxing back on his hands. "We need to talk."
"Don't tell me you're breaking up with me."
Jeremiah shakes his head, not at all amused with me. "I know what you're doing with Genevieve. You gave us all shit because Harris dragged her into this clusterfuck, and you're imitating him, except this time you're adding Bullet to the mess. What the fuck are you thinking, man?"
