Page 112 of King of Hollywood
“Hi, Marshall.” He squeaked out, twisting around to look at me, his eyes wide.
“Why were you at Felix’s house?” I asked, because it wasn’t like I could just twist his neck in front of all of these people.
“He was supposed to bring a casserole—” he managed, stupidly answering my question instead of running.
If I stalled long enough…Felix would arrive.
Would I get to see him kill?
The thought made me giddy.
Barry glanced around, like he wanted to bolt away, so I reached out, closing my hand tight around his wrist.
“The door was open—” Barry continued to ramble, quaking in my grip. “I didn’t see anything. I swear—” He had totally seen something. He glanced around for help, but…people were accustomed to seeing us fight, so no one came to his rescue. I grinned wider, leaning in close.
“You kicked our cats,” I told him—and because it would probably be my last time to say it, “And I hate you.”
“Marshall—” Barry’s eyes widened, like he knew this was my version of goodbye.
“And I know you changed the theme last year specifically to try to make a fool out of me.”
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry.”
“I wore flamingos because of you.”
“Marshall, I’m sorry—” Barry tried to jerk out of my grip, but I wouldn’t let him. The table with the cake wobbled, and he panicked, trying to catch the cake.
“I’ve hated you since the day I saw your smarmy little face,” I told him. “You made Felix dunk himself in cold water.”
“It was for charity—” he continued to try to wiggle free. Why he wasn’t calling for help, I didn’t understand. Oh—yep. There we go. He opened his mouth, sucked in a breath—and I reached out to close my other hand over his mouth to stifle it.
“You smell like garlic,” I told him, grinning evilly, my glasses glinting. That was for Tiffany. “And your hair is stupid.” And that was for Dolly.
The sun had officially sunk below the horizon.
Yes.
Yes.
I jerked Barry away from the table, intent to bring him out of the crowd where we could take care of him in private. I was bigger than him. By quite a bit. I was bigger than everyone, if we’re being honest. It was easy to manhandle him without it looking like it took any effort at all—and I only had to do it for a minute longer and—yep.
There he was.
Like gay-vampire-Moses, Felix parted the crowd with a single look. He stood at the other end of the yard, dressed immaculately in his white tuxedo. Like an avenging angel, gorgeous, ethereal, delicious. He had not been as lucky as I had—as there were a few flecks of blood splattered across his lapel.
He looked so damn pretty standing there—the stars creeping into view in the purpling sky. His pale hair was wild—wilder than normal, and his red eyes shined.
“Quiet,” he said, his own voice barely loud enough to be heard.
Somehow, like magic—maybe because that’s what it was—the crowd silenced. Everyone. All at once. The peep of crickets was suddenly impossibly loud as Felix scanned the crowd for me. Glowing, glowing, glowing. There was something ethereal and terrifying about the way his red eyes burned bright in the dark.
Fairy lights danced across the yard—the immaculately dressed crowd, parting for him in tandem, like he was somehow…controlling them. Empty-headed puppets. Their eyes were as vacant as the corpse we’d left on his living room floor.
So this…was how he’d been getting away with murder.
As Felix strode confidently toward us—no hat, no glasses—all his brutal, supernatural strength on full display, I fell even more in love with him. I hadn’t even known that was possible.
He was a walking (literally) contradiction.
