Page 33 of King of Hollywood

He was shaky where I was solid.

But like a well-oiled engine, perhaps we worked because of those differences, and not despite them.

“Why’d you do it?” I asked him, my heart thumping.

“Kill him?” Felix frowned, expression pensive, those lovely pink lips flattening into a tight line. I wasn’t surprised he’d jumped to that conclusion, as we had just traveled all the way across our sleepy town to dispose of a body.

“No.” My hands were sweaty. I didn’t think they’d ever been sweaty before. Not even when I’d been about to execute my first kill. Not when I’d graduated high school and I’d searched the crowd for Dad—only to find out later he hadn’t come because Mom had just died. Not when I crashed our truck into the cow field—and had to fess up before we lost the cattle through the gap in the fence. Not when we’d moved to the city and the world had been different, different, different. Not when I’d gone to the bar looking for Alberta that night—and found her, but quickly wished I hadn’t.

“Why did you…” I tried again.

“Did I?” Felix tipped his head back, leaning against the headrest. His chin tilted to meet my gaze. He was half my size. Maybe less than that—and yet…he felt so very large tonight. As large as the stars he loved so much. Radiant, flickering—and as constant as he said they were.

“Why did you come to the party?” I licked my lips. My heart was thumping so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it—especially when his gaze snapped to my throat. “Why did you dress up to match me? You’ve never come to one of Barry’s awful parties before. So why…then?”

It may not have seemed like a big deal, but it was to me.

I had a hard time fitting in, even when I got the memo about stupid block party themes. Struggling socially wasn’t new. It was something I’d dealt with since I was a child. I was used to it, to the point that I’d spent many of my growing years researching meticulously how exactly to fit in—just because I was sick of sticking out like a sore thumb.

Every choice I made was carefully cultivated to make me appear more palatable. Every last detail. I knew the colors I needed to wear to be seen as trustworthy—pastels. What haircuts were in fashion. What clothing choices were respectable—flashy but not too flashy. Expensive, but not gaudy.

Years of research, of struggling, of masking who I was behind designer cologne and Italian loafers.

All in a desperate ploy to be likable.

To be disliked was to be observed.

That’s what I’d told myself.

I told myself that I still acted on my childish urges to fit in, not because I cared, but so that I could go unnoticed. So that I could get away with murder.

But…that was a lie.

The truth was—I cared, not because of my bloody hobby, but because at age thirty-eight, I was so…damn tired of not fitting in. I hated people, yes. Hated them with a burning passion. They were fickle, rude, callous, and superficial.

But I was still human.

And humans, by nature, are pack animals. Humans crave social structure. Cooperation and collaboration. Social bonds. Communication. Friendship. Connections. To be…liked.

Which was why I’d bought the damn Hawaiian shirt in the first place. Despite hating Barry (the bastard) with a burning passion—and therefore more willing to hit him with my car than attend one of his ridiculous soirees.

I’d wanted to fit in.

And then he’d fucked me over.

Beach Town was small. It was very easy to become shunned without even knowing it. I mean—look at Felix. I didn’t think I’d ever seen someone deliver him a casserole when he was sick, or offer to fix his flat tire.

Barry sent him invites to his parties once a year—but that was because Barry was an attention-whore who had a hard-on for sticking flyers on other people’s doors.

Aside from that, Felix was very much alone.

I had always wondered if his exile was self-imposed, or if he’d done something before I moved in that turned him into the floppy-hatted social pariah he was. But if that was the case…why not just move? There were plenty of other creepy-goth-houses he could hoard his collectibles inside.

Not that I wanted him to move of course, because I did not.

I supposed…there were a lot of things about him that made me curious.

More things than didn’t, if I was being honest.