X Marks The Stalker: A Dark Romantic Comedy (The Hemlock Society Book 1)

by K.N. Wilder

“Who are you?” I whisper. He leans in closer, his lips grazing my ear. “I’m your secret admirer.” He pulls back, wincing. “That sounded much less juvenile in my head. I had several options prepared and somehow selected the worst one. I’d like to request a do-over, but I suspect the moment has passed.”

The call ends, but his words linger in the darkness. Dangerous. Yes. But as I curl into my sheets, sticky and satisfied, I realize I’ve never wanted anything safe.

But here I am. Arousal and adrenaline. The classic combo of poor decisions.

“Though I have to say, that’s a really fine ass you’ve got there.” I freeze mid-hop, pants tangled around my ankles, dignity a distant memory. “I... What?” “Your ass.” She points matter-of-factly. “It’s nice. Firm. Symmetrical. Good muscle definition.” “Uh...thanks? I do squats.”

“True. I think I might have a rare form of cardiac arrhythmia. Been monitoring my pulse for the last hour. Either that or I’m just really excited about this new donut shop opening down the street.” A pause. “What’s up?”

“Don’t worry, I practiced this on a cantaloupe first,” I assure him, adjusting the last pin. “Twice, actually. The first one rolled off the table. Not my finest moment. Turns out, cantaloupes are surprisingly aerodynamic. Who knew? Not me, clearly, or I would have secured it better.”

“I knew it,” I manage, voice raw. “I knew you were a killer.” Another wave of nausea threatens an encore performance, but I swallow it down with sheer willpower. “I wanted to show you I could handle it. That I could help with Blackwell.” I gesture toward the surgical table, focusing on literally anything else. “Well, that audition went spectacularly. From badass potential sidekick to vomiting mess in sixty seconds flat. But I can improve. I promise.” The eagerness in my voice surprises even me. What am I promising exactly?

“What’s happening?” he asks, bafflement replacing the cold calculation in his eyes. His gaze searches my face, clearly hunting for the fear and disgust that should be there. “Excellent question with zero helpful answers,” I admit, taking another unsteady step toward him. The gun still hangs at his side, forgotten. “But I think we both went past normal a long time ago.”

I blink. “Better? I threw up and couldn’t even finish what I started.” “You here, with me,” he whispers, eyes burning with reverence, “is everything. I’d burn worlds to keep this moment. To keep you.”

His eyes meet mine, and the storm inside them mirrors my own. The darkness I’ve hidden all my life recognizes itself in him.

I recognize that look because I’ve seen it in the mirror. The need for something human after witnessing something monstrous.

“Just feel, Xander. Stop thinking for once.”

I just had mind-blowing sex with a serial killer. The thought hits me. And the weirdest part? I’m not even bothered by it.

“Please don’t be dismembering someone in the bathtub,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the bed’s edge. “I’m not ready for that level of relationship commitment.”

“I don’t think so, but we assume yes until proven otherwise. Healthy paranoia is basically my love language.”

“Oh my God, is this international? Do you have branches? Like Murderers Without Borders?” Xander turns, eyebrow raised. “Is there a secret handshake?” I continue, questions spilling out faster than I can filter them. “Do you have annual conventions? ‘Best Dismemberment Technique’ awards? Is there a newsletter? ‘Killer Monthly: Ten Tips for Removing Blood from Suede’?”

“I made a calculation.” “What calculation?” I press, following him. He extracts two glasses, filling them with soda. “That keeping you safe outweighed potential consequences.”

“You seem nervous.” “Nervous? Me? No. I just brought an outsider to a secret location of a murder club against every rule and protocol. I’m not nervous. I’m having a full psychotic break.”

His work had struck me as beautiful, but unsettling.

“Oh my,” Calloway breathes. “The juxtaposition of your journalist ethics against your darker impulses is...chef’s kiss. Literally my favorite ethical conflict right now.”

A heavy silence fills the room. Calloway looks between us with undisguised glee. “What in the Bob Ross happy little accident is this standoff?” he whispers.

Calloway smiles. “Well! This has been absolutely thrilling. A midnight summons, a damsel in distress, the breaking of sacred murder club protocols... I haven’t been this entertained since we eliminated that art critic who called my installation ‘derivative.’”

“That went better than expected,” he murmurs. “They were going to kill me,” I state, the reality of the situation hitting me. “They were considering it,” he corrects, moving to reset the security system. “There’s a difference.” “Not from where I’m standing.”

“Calloway. He’s all happy and flirty on the outside, but his eyes...” I trail off, unsure how to articulate what I sensed. “They don’t match the rest of him. Like looking at a cracked mirror.”

“We’re both insane,” I whisper against his lips. “Clinically speaking, probably,” he agrees, the hint of a smile in his voice. “Though I prefer to think of it as uniquely compatible forms of damage.”

“Barely.” His voice holds a smile. “Your eyelids haven’t fluttered once. You sigh in your sleep, you know. Like a frustrated kitten.”

That feeling blooms in my chest again. The one I’ve been trying to ignore. The one that makes me wonder if I’ve lost my mind—putting everything at risk for this woman who stumbled into my life with her determined eyes and a bag full of snacks.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, fingers trailing down my chest. “How spectacularly fucked we are,” I answer honestly. She laughs, the sound vibrating against my skin. “Yeah, but what a way to go.”

Would it change your mind about coming if we were?” “Probably not.” I dig into my new coat pocket, extracting a pack of Red Vines with a crinkle that sounds obscenely loud in the car’s silence. “But I’d appreciate the warning. Corpse smell clings to hair like cigarette smoke.”

“So your little murder club is named after your boss’s favorite method of killing people? That’s some corporate loyalty.”

I don’t add that I still buy myself a present each Christmas, wrap it, and place it under my sad little artificial tree—a tradition that started my first year alone. Some habits are too pathetic to share, even with someone who’s seen me vomit at a murder scene.

“Perfect. I need to pee so badly, I’m considering your empty coffee cup as an option.” He gives me a scandalized glance that makes me laugh. “What? I’ve been holding it for like forty minutes.” “You could have said something.” He pulls up to the pump. “And interrupt your serial killer origin story? I have manners.”

“I’ll get the gas,” Xander says. “Try not to get murdered in there.”

The complete bewilderment on his face when he spots my fishy companion is almost worth the bladder discomfort.

The robber staggers backward, his screwdriver flying from his hand. It strikes the ancient condom dispenser mounted on the wall, puncturing it somehow. The machine starts dispensing its decades-old contents like a jackpot at a depressing casino.

His eyes widen as he takes in the scene. Me standing in shock with the fish in hand, the robber motionless by the toilet with condoms raining down on his body, and water flooding the floor.

“This is not on the itinerary,” Xander mutters, holstering his weapon and pulling out latex gloves from his jacket pocket. “This isn’t even in the appendix of potential scenarios.”

“Put down the murder weapon, please,” he says, his voice tight, “before you kill me, too. Death by trout was not how I planned to go.”

“Xander.” He stops, blinking at me like he’s surprised I’m still here. “I just killed someone,” I say, my voice shaking. “With a fish.” His expression softens for a fraction of a second before his analytical brain kicks back in. “Yes. Yes, you did. You okay?”

“Breathe? There’s a dead body, Oakley.” “I’m aware. I’m the one who killed him with a fish.” “Right. With a fish. In a gas station bathroom.”

Xander looks appalled. “That’s not a plan! That’s a sentence with action verbs!” Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up. “Welcome to improv murder, babe. Sometimes you gotta wing it.”

“Don’t move,” he says, as if I might decide to take the corpse for a quick stroll.

“You’re remarkably calm for someone who just committed her first homicide.” “I’m compartmentalizing,” I explain, surprising myself with the truth of it. “Complete breakdown scheduled for later. I’ve penciled it in right after we dispose of the body and before dinner.”

“You know what’s truly insane? I’ve known you for what? A month? And in that time, I’ve discovered you spying on me, helped you torture a man to death, almost gotten killed by Blackwell’s men, and now I’ve accidentally murdered someone with a fish. Yet somehow, this—” I gesture between us. “This is the most functional relationship I’ve ever had.” Xander coughs. “That’s...a concerning reflection on your dating history.”

“That was close,” I breathe, heart pounding. “Yes, because explaining a deer collision with a corpse in the trunk would round out this evening nicely,” Xander mutters.

“I panicked! I needed something specific enough to sound convincing. Better than telling him there’s a dead body in the trunk that I killed with a decorative fish,” I point out.

“That was the one detail that bothered you?” I laugh, feeling almost giddy with relief. “How about the emotional trauma from your childhood hamster’s death?” “Mr. Whiskers would have wanted me to move on,” he says.

God, I’m broken. I’m going to hell.” “Probably are. But not because you’re horny.” “Xander!” “Just saying.”

My mind can’t stop wondering how many bodies have made their final journey into that furnace. “Not that many,” Xander says. I jump. “How did you⁠—” “Your expression,” he explains. “Your eyes narrow, and your left eyebrow goes up. Also, it’s the obvious question.”

“I never thought I’d measure intimacy by how comfortable someone is teaching me to kill,”