Page 8 of Operation: Ogre

Chapter Four

Jaxon

Irolled over with a groan and even my bed groaned with me. These college beds might have been designed for larger monsters, but mine was still struggling with my bulk and protested random movements. I blurrily opened my eyes, and the light from the window, even through the curtains I’d brought, annoyed me.

“Oh, you’re up. Good.” Chris bounced, fully dressed, into my line of vision, practically vibrating. He was pacing in the space between the bed and the door.

The sight of his black hair sticking up in all directions and his wide-eyed, bright expression made a silly little sigh rush out of my lips. I wanted to drag him into bed with me and snuggle him close. My morning wood throbbed, agreeing. I looked down, flushing. What the hell?

“Get up. Get up. Get up,” Chris sang. “Come on.”

“Someone visited Mummy Mocha this morning,” I grunted, sitting up and bunching the blankets over my hard dick. No need to expose my very inappropriate reaction to him.

“Psh.” He waved. “I worked out, then went to practice, then for a run before I had two massive coffees.”

That explained it. Overloaded on sugar and caffeine. Chris was a morning person, damn him, but he was never this wired right after he woke up.

I paused in standing. “Did you say you did two different workouts and went for a run? Already? On a Sunday?”

“Of course I did. Coach is on our ass to do better this year, and you know I want off the bench, so that means putting in the hours. Besides, I was already up working on my secret project.”

I blinked. How in the hell had he been up before working out? It wasn’t that late. Only like eleven thirty in the morning. “What project?”

With a huge grin, Chris waved at his pinboard on the wall. I stood, my brows furrowing, and shifted to see it clearly.

“Sweet monster god,” I whispered.

It was a serial killer board. There was literally no other way to describe it. On top, in chaotic handwriting, which I recognized as Chris’s, was scribbled out “Operation: Ogre.” Beneath it was Aaron’s picture, circled in red. On one side was a list of his friends and their schedules as well as Aaron’s detailed schedule. His parents. His grandmother. Fuck. Her picture had a huge “DECEASED” in bright red ink. Likes. Dislikes. His car. The license plate. Also, red strings connected everything to other people or organizations that Aaron knew, was friendly with, or volunteered for. Hell, it even had all of his frat bros from Alpha Claw Omega.

Chris was standing beside it with a caffeine-fueled manic smile. If I didn’t know him, I would have been fleeing in terror from this human. Even knowing him, it was a very large, very creepy red flag.

“You made this?” I whispered, scooting away from him a bit.

“Of course. I take my research seriously.”

“Clearly,” I forced out.

“So I only went back a year on all his social media accounts, but—”

“A year?” I interrupted. “You went back a whole year?”

“Duh. I needed to be sure he was good enough for you.”

I just stared at him, my chest warming. No. I was not going to be touched by this stalkerish action. Nope. It was creepy. Still, the feeling remained.

“You’re my best friend. You think I would let you date just anyone? I mean, yes, I don’t actually have a say, but you asked for my help, so I’m going to make sure Aaron is good for you. And yes, he’s nice and hot and blah blah blah, but is he nice enough? Is he a murderer? Or is he just mysterious? How would I know unless I thoroughly run a background check on him?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” I said slowly, the warm sensation invading my whole body. It was sweet in an unsettling way, and Chris really was trying to protect me. I moved closer and pulled him into a side hug. “Thanks.”

He squeezed me back. “Of course. I would do anything for you.”

My throat closed up.

“Now, I think we should get coffee and go over this in detail, because I got a lot of information about Aaron and I mean a lot, a lot. Your dude does like his social media. Posts a shit ton of shirtless pics on Fangstagram if you want to check him out.”

Dropping a firm, and hopefully calming hand, onto his shoulder, I said, “You don’t need any more coffee.”

“I always need more coffee.”