Tourist Season (The Seasons of Carnage Trilogy, #1)

by Brynne Weaver

First, check into the hotel. Second, go for a walk to loosen things up. Maybe find a sandwich. Third, start hunting down that bitch to give her the slow and painful death she deserves for making me suffer immeasurable grief and pain and torture and indignity. Fourth, hot tub.

Slay (literally). You go queen

Hope and positivity were not what drove me to wean myself from pain medications, or to relearn to feed myself, or to overcome the indignity I felt at having others bathe and clothe me. They’re not what helped me survive what I lost. I never found light in the chasm of pain. What I did find was the deepest, most lightless void in myself. A place where the man I once knew faded away, and a new one took shape.

“Shit. I forgot my wallet.” “Don’t worry, I know you’re good for it.” “No, it’s totally fine. I know I have some cash floating around in here.” I pull Bryce’s tinfoil-wrapped leg chunk from my bag and dig through the remaining contents until I grab a rogue ten-dollar bill,

EWWW the leg just casually there

At first, I don’t understand what he means, not until he nods to the tinfoil gripped tightly in my hand. “What did you get?” “Umm …” I swear I only blink, but that brief motion feels like it’s about a thousand years long as my mind scours through every item on the menu I have memorized, landing on the only word I can seem to summon. “Meat.” “Meat …?” “Ball.” The guy’s head tilts. My throat strains around a desiccated swallow. “Ballmeat. I mean, meat … ball. Meatball sub. Footlong. Ish.”

OH MY GOD LMAO

“I’d ask if I could buy you a coffee, but it looks like you’re all set,” he says as he nods down to the to-go cup in my hand. That teasing light is back in his eyes. “But if you want company while you eat some balls, I’d love to join you.”

STOP LMAO

Suddenly, I find myself wanting to say something witty, or cute. Poke fun at him maybe. Like, “Turkey and tea? You sound like trouble.” No, my God, that’s fucking awful. At this rate, I probably can’t trust that anything worthwhile will come out of my mouth.

Nolan’s eyes slide to the woodchipper and then back to mine, disbelief now mixing with the revulsion that still simmers in his face. “Did you name your woodchipper after the beloved Sesame Street character Cookie Monster and then teach a raven to beg for human snacks made from the people you murdered?” A thick swallow slides down my throat. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.” “No,” Nolan says as all the light leaves his eyes. “It’s worse.”

LMAO

“Make no mistake,” he says. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.” “I’m sure.” I can’t help the wicked smile that creeps onto my lips as I pump his hand twice. “Starting tomorrow.” With my other hand, I raise the bottle of Piss-Off! and spray him in the face.

LMAO he did come there with a knife soooo

I had a good home. A happy childhood. I thought I’d have a normal life. But the universe loves to prove you wrong. One day, it upends everything. One day, you might even wind up captured by a serial killer and thrown in his cellar as the universe really says, “Fuck your expectations.”

Wait WHAT

What the fuck. I am not flirting with the woman I might kill. Will kill. I will kill her. Later.

Mmhmmm suuuure

Rationally, I know that in his mind, I belong to him. Nothing and no one will stand between Nolan Rhodes and the life he’s come to claim. But to my not-so-rational mind, that is so fucking hot.

Real

Even now, as I slide into the driver’s seat, I catch a glimpse of my smile in the rearview mirror. “Shut the fuck up,” I growl at my reflection before I key the engine and pull away from the curb.

Real

“You burned yourself?” She pierces me with a glare, her silver eyes shards of pure malice. “Yes, and what the hell do you care? I’m not going to have your precious book sent to the FBI because of a fucking coffee incident,” she whispers before walking away down the aisle. I should get her a Keurig, a traitorous little voice in my head declares.

Nolan tugs my hand free of his mouth. “You drugged me?” I shrug. “Maybe a little bit,” I admit, chucking both our cups over the embankment. “And by a little bit, I mean probably a lot. Who knows.” “What do you mean?” “I kind of free-poured, you know? It’s not like I measured your BMI beforehand, is it?” “You’re a terrible person,” he whisper-snarls.

LMAO

Though I feel Nolan’s eyes on me, I don’t meet them. Not until he whispers something so unexpected that the threat of Sam suddenly seems like a distant memory. “You’re so beautiful.”

Even now, she’s staring up at me with her fucking intoxicating defiance, but on the inside, I know she’s retreating, folding in on herself. Running away. And if she thinks I can’t find her there, she’s wrong. Because I’m in her thoughts, just like she’s always in mine. I can see it in the shifting flecks of silver in her eyes. It’s in the rosy hue that illuminates her cheeks. It’s in the pulse that strobes currents of light in her throat, and the unsteady breaths that tremor in her chest. It’s in the desire that haunts her features when her focus drops to my lips and lingers.

“You were piloting the drone recently for Mr. Porter—six days ago, correct? The day that Jake Hornell was last seen.” The bitter taste of fear lingers on my tongue as the moisture evaporates from my mouth. I never gave him Sam’s last name.

OH SHIT

There’s more than just hatred, or anger, or determination in her face. There’s a very particular brand of fury. One I’ve seen in my own eyes. The kind that only blooms when the world peels back and you see the abyss of grief and loss and anguish that lurks beneath it. You might claw your way out, riddled with scars. You might hide your deepest, unhealing wounds just to make it through each day. You might survive it. But that’s the worst part. Because you can’t unsee it. You always know hell is there. It’s a creature lurking in the night, ready to rip another piece from you. You can live in fear of the next bite, or you can bite back. And Harper Starling is ready for a meal.