Page 21 of Vicious Like Me

“That’s it, baby. Take that dildo and fuck yourself real good. You want to know what I wanted to do that time I had you tied to the bed?”

Oh god, I should stop this, take him off speaker, and make sure he doesn’t say anything revealing. But I don’t. I just continue to whimper, grinding my hips and thrusting. I’m so close to the edge, pretending it’s him fucking me like an animal.

“I would be shoving you hard against the mattress, biting you. Fucking you. I’d be breeding you like you’re mine to keep, because that’s what you are, Skylar. You’re mine. The man I’ve been obsessed with for years. Fucking years, you hear? I don’t give a shit if you usually dominate all your partners on camera, because I know you’ve been a good boy all this time, and saving your true desires for me.”

Thick white ropes of cum gush from my cock as my whole body locks up. Back arched, dildo buried deep. My cock throbs, unable to stop as the most intense orgasm of my life takes control. I must be screaming or moaning. Or maybe I’m whimpering. I can’t tell because I can’t hear anything but the blood rushing to my head and the faint groans of Jericho coming over the phone.

Several moments later, my mind lifts from its fog with full clarity. One distinct thread of thought keeps circulating in my mind. I’m so fucking obsessed with my mysterious brute. I’ll go to any lengths to learn all there is to know about this man who claims me as his.

Chapter ten

Jericho

Over the next several days, I try to step back into my normal routine. It’s a lot harder than I realized. Not only am I living in a constant state of paranoia, wondering when the cops are going to be pounding down my door, but I can’t stop thinking about Skylar.

At first, my thoughts focused on concern. Where did he go? Is he okay? Did he just go back to living his life as if nothing had ever happened? Or is he living in a constant state of paranoia, wondering if Franko or I will come after him?

But the biggest question that keeps pinging around in my head? Is he really the White Amethyst Killer?

Then, out of nowhere, I get that fucking phone call.

Stepping out of my shower, I reach for my towel and quickly pat myself dry. I’m already reaching for my 9-millimeter, my mind looping through the parameter checks I need to run before going to sleep. As soon as I step into my bedroom, I swear I smell a hint of amber wood and cedar floating around me. I realize it’s quiet. Too quiet. The normal hum of the AC is silent, and it puts me on high alert. I don’t bother to continue drying myself off, instead tossing the towel onto the floor and throwing on a pair of sweats.

Right there on my nightstand, in plain sight, is a note. Next to the paper is a white amethyst, only this time it isn’t splattered with blood. That pretty white stationery and the same neat handwriting continue to taunt me. He was here. In my house, while I showered.

Just in case, I glance around, trying to see if this is a trap. Nothing. Even that lingering scent of him seems to have faded. I pick up the note.

Check your laptop.

My heart races. My laptop is in the other room. The only way he could have found it, done what he did, and left a note during my shower was if he had cameras set up in my house.

All week, it’s felt like there have been eyes on me, and I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling. I should be calling Alessandro, checking in with him, and seeing how his sister is doing. I should be asking him to see if he can spare someone for backup. Because this constant paranoia is starting to get annoying as fuck. And now, I have proof Skylar was here, toying with me. If anything, I should be hunting down the little minx and figuring out what the hell it means when he leaves me these flowers.

Instead, I make my way down the hall to my sitting room and open my laptop. Right as I get rid of the screensaver, I find my internet browser open to all his social media sites. But they aren’t just on his page, no, they’re frozen on random posts. A clue. He wants me to figure something out. Going off a hunch, I sit down and click through news articles linked to the porn industry. I focus on the dates of the posts. Then I see it.

A missing person’s report of an adult film star after a man attended last year’s AVN Awards.

My pulse spikes for an entirely different reason. I remember that night. I remember all the photos Skylar posted on Instagram. The live videos on TikTok. His outfit. His nominations. His impromptu date. I remember the way he smiled at the host as she interviewed him before the awards.

I’ve spent years following Skylar on social media. I know almost every damn thing there is to know about the guy. His fucking skincare routine. His favorite local bars, and even his closest friends and recurring costars in his videos. He lives his life in the spotlight. It’s glamorous and beautiful and so full of light. But as I dig further into the man I’ve spent so much time lusting after, it dawns on me that the entire thing is an expertly crafted deception. A carefully constructed lie tied into a pretty little bow.

It seems the porn star I knew is being replaced by an entirely new individual. One who’s equally terrifying and fascinating… and that much more addicting.

And when I look into the encrypted police files and cold cases, a different Skylar starts to emerge from the data. I find a coroner’s report of a man who attended a big blockbuster movie premiere in Los Angeles three years ago. He was an adult film star turned Hollywood actor. Whispers suggest he’s a piece of trash predator behind closed doors.

He was found dead in his hotel room two days later. No signs of forced entry, and no struggle. The toxicology report found faint traces of white amethyst in his bloodstream, but not enough to be questioned by the authorities.

Two years ago, there was a fashion event in Paris that leads me to double-check the guest list. Sure enough, Skylar was there wearing a stunning emerald-green suit and a certain sparkle in his eye. Another person on that same guest list is a famous photographer, a man known for being a pedophile. He disappeared shortly after that event.

I zoom in on Skylar’s photo. “You’re as beautiful and smart as you are dangerous, aren’t you?” I whisper to my screen in awe.

Clicking on another file, I pull up a missing person’s report that details a man who was once arrested for sexual assault. He was released due to insufficient evidence. Three days after his release, he was found dead. Poisoned. Right there in the photo is the dead body with the White Amethyst Killer’s calling card: a single white amethyst flower with blood splattered on its petals.

I spend the next several hours descending into a rabbit hole. I find a hunting accident in the Alps, a boating mishap in the Caymans, and in every single case, the target not only had ties to the porn industry, but that person was also rumored to be a horrible monster. The kind of men I usually go after. Instead, Skylar was there doing the job I usually get done. He was always close by, or at the very least, in the same city as each of these men within days before they disappeared or were found dead.

He was probably right there, giving them that practiced smile or exchanging small talk while deciding exactly which poison to use to take them down.

I click on a video reel from a private yacht party Skylar attended last year. He’s talking into the camera and mentioning something about staying the night in the Bahamas with a few friends. His alibi.