Tastes Like Winter Read online

  Tastes Like Winter

  Penny Wynter

  A Dark Romance

  Contents

  Tastes Like Winter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Tastes Like Winter

  Sometimes I think that I was never meant to be alive. There's too much pain and darkness in my past—yet every time I try, I fail to end my own life.

  Then I meet my new neighbor and discover that he's a serial killer. It's perfect. That's my way out. Finally. He can finish off what I'm too weak to do.

  But he says that he's not a killer but an assassin, and he requires payment before fulfilling my wish . . .

  This is a dark and twisted romance novella with a guaranteed HEA.

  1

  The traffic is so loud that I can barely stand it. The fumes make my throat itch, and I fight the impulse to wave my hand in front of my nose.

  Instead, I clench my teeth and turn toward the street. I can do this. It's just one little step. Okay, maybe the step is not that little, but it's totally doable. How many steps have I already taken in my lifetime? What's one more?

  The blood is rushing in my ears, my heart pounding in my chest as I finally muster the strength to step forward.

  Standing there, eyes closed, I wait.

  Nothing happens. I feel a breeze hitting me, brakes screaming, tires squeaking, and when I open my eyes again, the driver of the black car honks as he drives off, cursing at me.

  Damn it! He was supposed to kill me, not evade me.

  Ugh. Another failure on my list. With a sigh, I step back on the sidewalk. Now I have to go home again. Yet another day wasted that I didn't want to live through anyway.

  Why can't I just kill myself?

  "Whoa, lady, that was close. Are you all right?" The man looking at me is handsome enough with his blond hair and a pretty boy smile, but I don't feel like talking to a stranger. So, I pull the hood of my black sweatshirt over my head and start walking home.

  I specifically chose this intersection as it's known for the many accidents that happen here every day. Apparently, not for me though.

  "Are you okay?" The man jogs a couple of steps to catch up to me and tries to get a look at my face. "Maybe you shouldn't be alone now?"

  If he had the makings of a serial killer, I'd be happy to spend my time with him. I'd follow him anywhere if he were to end my life. But I can see that he's a genuinely nice guy. The good Samaritan that you need in a situation like this—unless you're me.

  "Sorry to have scared you. I'm fine. I was just daydreaming. Stupidly so." I want to walk on, but he steps in front of me, blocking my path. The other pedestrians pay us no mind, as they are all busy going on and about their evenings.

  "I don't buy it. You had that look of pure determination on your face like you knew exactly what you were doing. Are you sure you're all right? Maybe let me buy you a drink? I'm here if you need someone to talk to. Or I can just listen."

  It's downright horrible how nice he is.

  "Yeah, I'm sure. I need to go home now."

  He simply doesn't give up. "Can I accompany you on your way?"

  "No." I shake my head, trying to figure out how to get rid of the savior I never asked for in the first place.

  "Please?"

  I pretend to squint over his shoulder. "Oh, my God. Is that child alone out here?"

  "Where?" He whips around, and I use the opportunity to slip into the dark alleyway between the two buildings next to us. My dark clothes will hide me in the shadows. Taking this path means a longer walk home, but I will gladly take the detour if it means getting rid of the blond man who so desperately wants to save me.

  I just don't want to be saved.

  Rubbing my arms, it's not the first time that I regret having donated all my stuff already, including my heavy winter coat. What I'm wearing is basically all that I own nowadays, which is why I have to wash my underwear each evening in the sink. This is not how I planned things to go down.

  I thought I was being organized and good to the world when I gave away what I had, donating what little money was left to the local homeless and animal shelters. I wanted my affairs to be in order for when I kill myself. Quitting my job, paying all of my outstanding bills, and preparing everything so the bank could simply take my house after my death since a dead person can no longer pay the mortgage.

  I just couldn't take this life anymore with all of its pain and hurt and agony and endless suffering. It never stops, and it was simply too much for me.

  So, I decided to end my life and acted accordingly.

  But somehow, I didn't anticipate how bad I would be at actually doing it.

  My first attempt was the old classic, cutting my wrists in a tub of hot water. A bit dramatic but not too much. It turned out that I can't stand the sight of blood. As soon as the first drop appeared on my skin, I lost consciousness. Which would be funny if it wasn't so sad since I can hardly count all the times I had cut myself shaving my legs, and that was never a problem. But something about that razor blade in my hand made me too queasy.

  The next day, I went to the hardware store and bought some rope to hang myself. In my opinion, I chose a nice, sturdy-looking one, but the second I kicked the chair out from under me, the fucking rope snapped. I bruised my ass pretty badly, to be honest, and didn't want to try again.

  Starving and dehydration came to mind, but time passes way too slowly for that. Unless you're locked away in a cell somewhere, I can't see how you would starve yourself to death. But that was probably Gandhi's point. Not that he died from starving, yet neither did I.

  My next attempt was jumping off a bridge, but the leg of my jeans got stuck on some barbwire wrought around the railing. By the time I managed to free myself, two police officers had arrived because an old lady had alerted them. I convinced them that I was just a stupid girl, trying to take a spectacular selfie because the truth would have landed me in the next-best psychiatric ward.

  With my desperation growing, I gathered what little money I had left and spent days trying to find an arms dealer. He sold me a shotgun. I never sweated so much in my life as on the day I carried that damn thing home.

  It misfired. Twice.

  And that fucker of a seller wouldn't even give me my money back.

  Since I'm running out of options now, I figured a good old traffic accident might be the solution to my problems.

  When I'm finally home, I find another foreclosure note pinned to my door and sigh. I'm out of ideas and out of time.

  Unlocking the door, I'm trying to think of yet another way to kill myself soon—a fail-proof and not too painful way–as I stumble over a package.

  Cursing, I bend over and pick the package up. I certainly didn't order anything. Besides the fact that I'm out of money and no longer own a cell phone or laptop, I don't need anything.

  The label says "Oryn Parks" and the address next door.

  Since it's late, I decide to take the package over tomorrow. I can't deal with this right now. I need to come up with a new plan to kill myself. Again.

  2

  I sleep way too long, and by the time I make it over to my neighbor's house with the package for him in my hands, it's already dark again.

  I'm about to step onto the nicely painted porch, but stop and stand still when I clearly hear a woman moaning. My heart skips a beat because it sounds so throaty and lusty, like straight from a porn movie. Why else would you moan like this unless an adult performer is drilling you w
ith his giant cock? No woman sounds like this when her boyfriend, Stanley, pulls out all of his four and a half inches and pumps away with the speed of a decrepit tortoise, while she dreams of said adult performer.

  I'm curious if my new neighbor watches porn in his living room because I can see the light coming from the window on the right side of his house. There's no fence keeping me from his garden. I could just take a quick peek before I hand him whatever he's ordered and say goodbye. Hopefully, forever since I'm planning on swallowing a whole bunch of sleeping pills after doing this one last good deed delivering his package.

  Curiosity gets the better of me, and carefully, putting one foot in front of the other, I sneak into the garden. The moaning gets louder the closer I get, and soon, I'm ducking right underneath the slightly opened window.

  Ever so slowly, I push myself up and peer inside. I almost drop the box and have to admit that I stand corrected.

  My new neighbor is not watching porn—he is the freaking porn.

  I barely glance at the naked woman on his coffee table before I rake my eyes over this gorgeous specimen.

  His bare chest is insanely chiseled, muscled, and I can't spot a single ounce of fat. Instead of fat, his body is covered with tattoos, old school motifs like skulls, and snakes and daggers, and roses, and candles and . . .

  I have to swallow hard to stop myself from drooling. Also, I know that I probably shouldn't be staring at him like this, watching him from outside his window like a creep. But damn, he's hot, and I can't bring myself to leave. Instead, my gaze drops down until I have to bite my lip to keep myself from moaning when I see his dick. I've never seen one so big in real life. No wonder that woman sounds like she does.

  He has his cock in his hand, rubbing the big fat head over her pussy as she whimpers with need.

  Oryn Parks is tall, built, and the most attractive man I have ever laid eyes upon. His smile is a bit unusual though, and I need to a few seconds to figure out why. It's his eyes. They're so light that they look like liquid silver and they're just so very cold.

  He looks down at the woman, completely focused on her, and although he's smiling, I don't think he really means it.

  His arm shoots out, and I flinch because he's that intense. My neighbor grabs the woman's hand and puts it between her legs. "Touch yourself," he orders, "I want to feel you cum on my cock."

  She licks her lips and nods hastily, and I'm done for.

  That voice. He's not only insanely gorgeous, but his voice is amazing too. I'm almost tempted to obey him myself and put my hand in my pants.

  I lean back and take in my surroundings. Why not? There's no one around, and this is actually the first time in forever that I'm somewhat horny.

  Okay. I'm totally horny from watching Oryn Parks. Knowing that a guy like him really exists almost makes killing myself seem like a waste.

  With a shrug, I put the box down and open the button on my pants. It's tight, but I can squeeze my hand in.

  Jeez. I'm dripping.

  The fact that I shouldn't be here, watching them, makes it even better. I start rubbing my clit, and a nice shiver runs down my spine.

  My excitement only rises when Oryn starts slapping the woman. He doesn't hold back as he slaps her face, her boobs, and then her ass.

  I don't get why this turns me on so much but the woman moans and pants like she's about to lose her mind, so I guess it's okay?

  The speed of her fingers rubbing on her clit almost matches mine, and I can feel that my orgasm is close.

  Oryn rams his thick cock into the woman, and her scream is both tantalizing and scary. Her eyes roll back into her skull, and the muscles in her legs tighten.

  I start shaking myself and rub even faster now. Faster, harder, relentless—just like how Oryn is fucking that lucky woman. He has a vicious grip on her hips, holding her in place as he pounds away. I'm almost envious because I'm sure she will have marks on her skin from this.

  She doesn't seem to mind though and instead cums with an even louder moan than the one that drew me to the window.

  I bite my tongue until I taste blood, so as not to whimper and give myself away as I reach my own climax.

  Damn. That was good. Better than good. Great.

  As I pull my hand from my pants, Oryn pulls his dick from the woman and shoves it into her mouth instead. His balls draw tight to his body as he shoots his cum down her throat. He probably doesn't want to get her pregnant. Smart guy.

  Not that it's any of my business.

  I stare at my sticky hand and realize that I can't give him the package now. He's naked, and I look like a mess, while my fingers smell like pussy.

  Picking the small box up with my clean hand, I decide to try again tomorrow morning before taking the sleeping pills. Or I could just leave it here, but then he might know that someone has been here, and that would be embarrassing given the fact that there's a high probability of me once again failing to kill myself.

  3

  I'm lying naked on the bathroom floor, sweat glistening on my skin. My chest is still rising and falling fast as I'm panting, but at least I'm not retching anymore.

  I've spent the last six hours hunched over the toilet bowl, puking my guts out. It probably wasn't my best idea to steal a bunch of sleeping pills with an expiration date from six years ago. I figured it might make them even more deadly when instead, this was probably why the pharmacy wanted to get rid of them.

  It was merely a coincidence that I found the bag full of sleeping pills as the employee in charge of disposing of them walked around the corner to have a quick smoke. I grabbed a handful of packages and ran.

  That's just my luck, I guess.

  With a sigh, I get up and take a quick shower to at least get rid of the sweat coating my skin. It really is a very quick shower because I only have cold water available.

  Then I brush my teeth to chase away the bad taste. Right now, I really don't feel too good. It's my own fault though, so I'm not complaining.

  Since I have nothing better to do and need some fresh air, I decide to take a walk while I try to come up with yet another way to kill myself. This is really getting old now.

  I slip on my jeans, black shirt, and my black hoodie, which are the last things I own and step outside. Again, I almost stumble over the package for my neighbor. Right. I left it outside, hoping he might find it.

  I pick it up and walk over to his house. It's not that I desperately want to give him the package, it's just that I suspect he might have female company again. I want to see more of him in action.

  Oryn Parks. What an unusual name.

  As I'm standing on his porch, looking for the confidence to knock, I hear a loud thud. I don't even try to make up an excuse for my curiosity; I straight up head for that window again.

  Anticipation is tingling in my belly, and I'm ready to open my pants then and there, when I realize that I'm not looking at my hot neighbor banging another woman. He's standing in the middle of his living room with no shirt on and bloody hands. And I don't mean a drop of blood on his left index finger or something like that. No. Actual blood is dripping from his hands. He's holding a razor, and beneath his feet, a thick sheet of plastic is spread out so that the blood of his victims is easier to clean off.

  I'm pressing the back of my hand against my mouth because I feel the sudden need to puke again. Violently.

  Oryn has killed two people—or at least two people that I know of. It's a complete mess, but instead of running and calling the cops, I find myself frozen, unable to look away.

  There's something so meticulous about the way he's handling things. He takes a step back as the blood pools around his victims and threatens to dirty his naked feet.

  He's just wearing a pair of dark denim jeans, and when I squint my eyes a little so that I don't see the blood, he looks like a model with those abs and that killer smile.

  Killer smile. Oh god. I'm going to be sick.

  The urge to vomit my intestines out gets worse when I
notice that I at least know his female victim. It's the woman he fucked last night. She's lying next to a man, and they both have their throats slit open. It's surreal.

  Oryn shrugs and turns around. He walks away, and I can only assume that he wants to wash his hands or something like that. Or maybe he has more people to kill stashed in his kitchen. And here I am, hoping he was maybe banging the woman from behind today so that I could get an even better view.

  Anyway, it's time for me to leave now. I can't risk him catching me here, so I sneak back to my own house, once again ignoring the foreclosure notice at the door. I actually want the neighbors to think that I've been gone for a long time so that none of the nice old ladies feel bad when my body is found—assuming that I one day might be able to finally kill myself.

  4

  My hands are shaking when I'm back in my kitchen, trying to open a bottle of water. I can't get rid of the pictures in my head. How Oryn smiled, standing there with blood dripping from his hands. I can't remember ever feeling as happy as he looked. His eyes were cold, but I assume that's just who he is. Not that I care.

  I'm downing the water and look down. Fuck! I still have his package in my hand. At this point, I will simply place it on his porch. That might be for the best. I don't want to annoy a serial killer.

  He is a serial killer, right? You don't think about putting plastic down when you kill someone for the first time, do you? No, that comes with practices after the fourth or fifth kill. I've seen enough documentaries to know that.

  At least I won't be around when people find out about it, and the media starts camping out on his front lawn to report about the house where the now infamous serial killer lived. By then, I'm hopefully dead.