When You Were Mine (Stone Lake 2)

“You’re not my mother, Luna. I know I shouldn’t be getting drunk. I was kind of thrown for a loop yesterday,” he mumbles.

“I know I’m not your mother, Gavin. I’m nothing to you anymore and haven’t been for a long time, but I am the mother of your son,” I growl. “And, I don’t particularly want him to hear the town talking about his father getting drunk and whoring around with the bartender.”

“Jealous?” he quips, and I can feel his gaze on me.

I’ve just pulled into the parking lot of the bar. It’s empty except for Elaine’s vehicle and Gavin’s rental. At his question, I slam my brakes, causing the vehicle to lurch into the gravel and our bodies to sling forward from the suddenness of the movement.

“Get out,” I order, not looking at him, my fingers so tight on the steering wheel that it’s painful.

“Luna, I’m sorry. Christ, you don’t understand—”

“Get the hell out of my car, Gavin.”

The silence between us is tense, and I’m afraid he’s going to speak again. I honestly don’t know what I’d say to him. I want to kill him for even insinuating that I’d be jealous, and I ignore the small voice that says I might actually be.

He releases a loud breath. Then opens the door. I’m not sure I breathe until he slams it shut and I’m safely in my vehicle while he’s outside, not breathing the same air that I am. I sit there as he crawls in his vehicle and pulls out of the parking lot. When my heart slows down enough that I can breathe without pain, I leave the bar in my rearview mirror—all while cursing the day I agreed to dance with Gavin Lodge. I should have kept him out of my life the first time and then maybe it wouldn’t be so painful around him now…

Gavin

I only feel slightly more human after I shower. There’s no sign of Dern when I get here, for some reason I half expected to see him waiting for me in my room. I’m glad he’s not. The scene I just had with Luna is enough for one day. I’m not sure I can handle much more—at least not sober—and Luna is right. I need to stay sober. I’m in Stone Lake for a job, a job that keeps people safe. I need to get my head out of my ass and concentrate on that.

There’s only one problem with that train of thought.

I have a son.

A son that hates me and his mother most likely feels the same. They both have good reason to, and I doubt me saying I didn’t know, and I signed my rights away while staring at some chick’s boobs will change either of their minds. I don’t know how to defend myself, because there’s not really a defense. I was stupid. It seems I’ve been stupid about a lot of things in my past and present.

I put my clothes on as if on auto pilot. The smell of coffee is filling the room because I had the coffeemaker going before I got in the shower. I pour a cup and take a sip, hoping it will help to clear my head.

I sit down in the chair at the in-room desk and pull out the personal file that I keep on the Cremator.

I hate that name, the press gave this freak that name years ago, because he cuts out their eyeballs and tongue, then poses the body. Hell, he ties them into place during the kill and usually by the time we find the bodies rigor mortis has set in. He burns their eyes and tongue with the coveralls he wears when he kills them and leaves them in a small urn by the body. I hate this fucker. You can tell he takes unique pleasure out of the kills and there’s all kinds of sick freaks in this world, but ones like him are the worst. The others are easier to trace, usually make mistakes. To guys like the Cremator, it’s a work of art to kill and leave the body for discovery, so much so, that he is meticulous in everything he does. The only time he stumbled at all was when he came after me personally and even then… it wasn’t enough to catch him—mostly because I was dying.

The women come from all different walks of life. Some are career oriented, lawyers, doctors, some blue collar, waitresses, postal workers, hell even a dog groomer. Some are just housewives or college students. There’s no rhyme, no reason. About the only common denominator is their hair color. All have differing shades of blonde and the fact that all of the women are over twenty-one in age. That’s it. The locations, the nationalities, race, everything varies from time to time. There’s nothing else even remotely similar. How do you catch someone that is so far off pattern that you can’t peg him down?