Book Blitz~ Dark & Dangerous Box Set
Dark & Dangerous Boxed Set
Authors: C.D. Reiss, Clarissa Wild, Gemma James, Lili St. Germain, M. Never, Nashoda Rose, Skye Callahan, Skye Warren, Vanessa Waltz
Publication date: October 13th 2015
Genres: Romance, Suspense
*** 9 tales of dark desire from your favorite NEW YORK TIMES & USA TODAY Bestselling Authors! ***
Over 2500 pages of hot & dangerous alpha males - On SALE for a LIMITED TIME! These books cost over $20 to purchase separately, but you can get them now for only $0.99! So grab this deal before it's gone!
Delicious dark romance, toe-curling suspense, and sinful pleasure, all packed into one boxed set. We've gathered all your favorite Dark Romance and Suspense stories and combined them into one scorching bundle. These possessive alphas, sexy bad-boys, and savage heroes will claim your heart and leave you begging for mercy.
This anthology contains:
~ Mr. X by Clarissa Wild
~ Gypsy Brothers: Part 1-3 by Lili St. Germain
~ Overwhelmed By You by Nashoda Rose
~ Owned by M. Never
~ Breathe by CD Reiss
~ Epiphany by Gemma James
~ His Witness by Vanessa Waltz
~ Love The Way You Lie by Skye Warren
~ Irrevocable by Skye Callahan
KOBO ►
Excerpt
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
He stares down at me for a very
long time. His gaze feels heavy, and after what feels like forever, he gets up
and walks into the semicircular room with the table of torture. My anxiety
spikes tenfold as I hear the opening and closing of drawers. I almost get up
and dart into the bathroom, but Kayne returns before I can force my limbs to
move. He stands above my mostly naked body. Two pairs of handcuffs dangling in
one hand.
“You’ve been a good girl. Time for
a treat.” His breath is ragged as he drops to his knees. I squirm away, but he
grabs my legs and fastens one handcuff to each ankle.
“Give me your hands.” I don’t
move.
“Ellie.” He says my name harshly.
“Do you want me to turn you over and spank you instead? Pleasure or pain. Your
choice. It doesn’t matter to me either way. I like giving both.”
He reaches over me and grabs my
right hand, securing it to the handcuff on my right ankle.
“Kayne, please,” I beg, as he
repeats the motion with my left side. I’m bound.
Completely helpless.
No matter which way I move, the
restraints act like marionette strings biting into my skin. Pulling one of my
wrists up, my leg follows. Pull my ankle down, my arm gets yanked.
I’m gasping with fear.
Kayne hovers over me. My senses on
overload.
I tremble as I stare up at him. His
eyes are fierce, lustful, wanton, and
unrepentant. I know exactly what he wants.
Me.
“Tell me you don’t want me to touch
you,” he dares me.
“I don’t want you to touch me.” The
words flow, but there’s no fire behind them.
“Are you sure, kitten?” He massages
me over the thin fabric of my panties.
“Yes.” No.
“I think you do.” He slides my
panties over and I squirm harder in the restraints. My heartbeat palpitating.
The metal clinking as I shift. He circles his finger gently over my clit. I
close my eyes trying to reject his touch. When he sinks his finger inside me, I
gasp.
“You’re so fucking wet for me.” He
slides his finger in and out, every so often spreading the slickness through my
folds. My body tightens and aches, but I fight the urges he’s bringing forth. I
will not come. I will not give this man my pleasure. Kayne works his hand
faster, insistent. The sensations build and I clench my fists, fighting the
orgasm he’s demanding. As if aware I’m resisting, he simultaneously rubs my
swollen clit with his thumb while he fingers
me relentlessly. I moan uncontrollably.
No! No! No!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Just before I explode, Kayne
removes his hand, and I nearly weep.
“Not yet, kitten. I didn’t give you
permission.” If I wasn’t bound, I’d slap him. “I tell you when to come.
Understand?” I’m panting beneath him, burning a hole through his head with my
stare. He smirks arrogantly at me. Then leans down and whispers, taunting me,
“Ask my permission.”
“No.”
“You’ll regret that.” There’s
amusement in his eyes. This is all just a game. With no warning at all, he rips
my panties. The thin material tearing right in
two. I jerk, the metal cuffs cutting into my skin. He skims his tongue down the
inside of one of my thighs, and then licks a slow hot drag over my slit.
“Fuck, you taste so good. Like
cupcakes,” he pants. His specific description isn’t lost on me. A simple
cupcake is how all this began.
Kayne swirls his tongue over my
heated flesh, nipping and sucking, driving me mad. My body is bowing in
ecstasy, my mind trying to reject the pleasure. If I give in, what will that
mean?
Kayne stabs his tongue into my
entrance, and I moan loudly. Oh God, an orgasm is looming; hot and fast.
“Ask permission.” His hot breath
skims against my overly sensitive skin. I resist. Fighting him the only way I
can. With my will.
He sinks a finger deep inside me
and sucks on my clit, bringing me right to the breaking point. My heart is
hammering and so is my core.
“Ask permission. The way I told
you,” he orders.
I’m writhing in my restraints so
hard I know I’m going to have marks, but I need to disperse the buildup
somehow. I can barely breathe as he dangles me over the edge again and again,
yet another form of torture to get me to obey. I feel the slightest caress of
my orgasm, and I fracture, unable to withstand the torment anymore. “Please,
Kayne, may I come!” I scream out.
He chuckles. That
fucking bastard.
“Yes, you may, kitten.” He attacks
me, fingering me swiftly while lavishing my clit. I splinter in every
direction, my climax shredding me to pieces. I pull on the handcuffs—the pain
as potent as the pleasure—as I writhe and moan. When the quake dissipates, I’m
left limp on the floor, breathing
raggedly and close to tears. Kayne brushes his face against my inner thigh,
smearing my arousal all over my skin.
“Good, kitten,” he patronizes,
rising to his knees, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. I stare up at him dazed.
Inch by inch, he bares his chest, then tosses his shirt on the floor. He’s
sculpted and lean, a demonic perfection. Several tattoos adorn his body, a compass on his
left pec, barbed wire dripping
with blood around his arm, and a quote written across his rib cage. ‘A certain
kind of darkness is needed to see the stars.’
When he starts to unbuckle his
belt, I tense. He doesn’t say a word as he sheds the rest of his clothes, but
the energy in the room is unmistakable. It’s thick with sex and lust.
He said he wouldn’t rape me. He
said he wouldn’t rape me. I repeat
the mantra trying to stay calm. Once he’s as bare as me, Kayne hovers over my
bound body, bracing his hands on each side of my head.
“Who owns you, Ellie?” He stares
down at me with his majestic eyes.
“You do,” I answer
reluctantly.
“That’s right.” He kisses my jaw
softly.
“What do I want?”
I swallow hard. “My obedience, my
submission, my body.” The words barely come out as a whisper.
“Right again.” He brings his mouth
to mine, skimming his
tongue along my lower lip.
“Can I fuck you, Ellie?”
“No, Kayne.” I fight back the
tears.
“Fine.” He kisses me tenderly.
Rolling his tongue against mine, allowing me to taste myself on his
lips.
His change in demeanor is
unexpected. I don’t understand it one bit. My defenses stand at attention.
Kayne then shifts, grabbing his erection with one hand and moving down to take
one of my nipples into his mouth. Swirling his tongue against me, he strokes
himself, lightly at first and then more urgently. As his jerks become stronger,
so does the pressure of his mouth, nipping and sucking my nipple as he works
himself to a climax. There’s nothing I can do. There’s no place I can go
tethered beneath him. He bites my nipple as he comes, sending a shock of pain
straight through my body. I strain, helpless as he comes on my stomach. His
groans vibrating against my breast. He releases my abused nipple once he’s
finished. It’s red and swollen.
“Mine,” he declares victoriously
against my lips, like he just marked his territory. Then he kisses me hard and
unapologetically, making my head spin.
When he’s finished with my mouth, I
drop my head to the side, exhausted. My emotions are a shitstorm inside of me.
There are too many to even process at the moment. So I just shove them all away.
Excerpt
Walking to the bed, I try not to pay attention to her. Try not to notice
her fearful eyes and shaking hands as I tear the blanket away from her. I hold
up the gun and point it at her.
“Are you going to kill me now?”
“Yes.”
She swallows, tears flooding her eyes. I refuse to let it get to me.
“I understand …” she murmurs. “Please, let me watch the sunrise.”
“What?”
“The sunrise. I want to see it one last time.”
My mind suddenly stops working. Baffled. That’s what I am. This one
thing she asks of me peels away the layers of protection I built around myself
long ago. The request is one that I didn’t expect of her, even though I know
her so well. I never imagined she’d still want to watch it come up. Memories
long forgotten, but the desire to repeat past experiences still linger. She is
still that same person.
Only in a much more fucked-up way.
I shake my head and sigh again. I jerk at the ropes, undoing them
quickly, as I don’t want to waste any time. I refuse to let this get to me. I
have a job to do. This needs to be done, end of story. She needs to die. I will
be the one to pull the trigger.
Breathe
(bonus scene)
by
CD Reiss
Copyright © 2015
This
book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any
reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is
prohibited.
This
book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely
coincidental
Cover
art designed by the author
Monica
He
made me wait.
He
always made me wait when he was serious and the longer I waited, the more
serious he was. I thought, as I waited on the bed with my cheek to the
bedspread and my ass in the air, that he was making me wait longer than ever.
The anticipation made the backs of my legs tingle. I wanted to touch myself. At
first I thought, just to see how wet I was, but he’d know and he’d punish me by
not letting me come.
He
said nothing when he finally entered the room. He stood by me. I couldn’t see
him. I could only feel his presence, hear his breath, his intentions.
He
laid his hand on my lower back and pressed down. It was the standard
correction. My ass was never high enough.
“Thank
you,” I said.
He
stood and undid his belt.
“Thank
me later. Get on your back and open your legs. Knees up. I want to see that
cunt.”
I
did it. He positioned himself on the foot of the bed, where I could see him
between my legs. Half-open shirt and cock-strained trousers. Belt looped in his
right hand. Watch and wedding ring on this left.
I
almost came just looking at him. And when he reached over and pulled my legs
wider apart, I lost myself in a rush of sensation.
“Did
you just come?” he asked.
“I’m
sorry.”
He
shook his head. “You’re going to hurt for that.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Open
your mouth.” I did, and he put the belt in it.
“You
know I don’t do toys,” he said, running his hands over the length of my inner
thigh, engaging just enough nail to wake up the skin. “Toys are for children.
But sometimes I have to make allowances for safety.”
He
sat on the bed next to me and held up an oddly-shaped glass bulb about two
inches long.
“Do
you know what this is?”
“Yes.
It’s a butt plug.” I said it around the belt, and it sounded like a series of
grunts.
“I
don’t want to be gentle, but I don’t want to harm you either. This is the
solution. And I can’t makeshift one out of stuff I see around because I don’t
want to take you to the hospital when something breaks inside you.”
He
took the belt out. I had enough time to lick my lips before he grabbed my
cheeks, forcing my mouth open, and put the butt plug in it.
“Get
that wet for me.”
I
rolled my tongue around the slick glass, and he put it in, pressing my tongue
to the bottom of my mouth. I puckered my lips around the narrow part, sucking
until the flat stopper pressed against my lips like a pacifier.
Jonathan
went back to the foot of the bed and looped the belt back up. I held my legs
open with my hands.
“Now,
first. The original issue. You’re mine. When you let someone else get to you,
you deny me my ownership. That is not acceptable.”
He
tapped my inner thigh with the belt.
“I
own you. I can get inside you. I can hurt you. I own your pain. No one else.”
The
first thwack to my inner thigh came without
warning, and it was as hard as he’d ever hit me. I screamed into the glass bulb
and rolled.
“On
your back Monica. Take your medicine.”
I
rolled back and gingerly spread my legs. He whacked the other side. I screamed
again and tears rolled down my face.
He
waited, ever patient, until I got back to center. He yanked my legs apart.
“Don’t
roll again. You stay on your back and you show me what’s mine—only mine—to
hurt.”
I
spread my knees, biting the thin part of the plug. The places he whacked still
stung, even when he put two fingers inside me, the pain didn’t go away. It just
moved up a level to a layer of pleasure, and I groaned into the plug when he
twisted his fingers inside me.
“You’re
fucking soaked.”
He
ran his fingers twice over my clit, and I almost came again.
“Oh
no, Goddess. You still need to be punished for that.”
He
stepped back and I braced myself for what was to come. His face was deep in
concentration and arousal, lids hooded, lips apart slightly. His pleasure was
mine as much as mine was his.
On
that realization, he pulled his arm back and rained three strikes to my left,
and when I screamed and twisted he pulled me back, spreading my legs and giving
me three on the right.
I
couldn’t see him through my tears. He pulled the plug out of my mouth, leaving
a trail of cry spit between us.
He
made nothing of my sobbing. He owned it. If he didn’t want me to cry, I
wouldn’t be crying.
“Open
your ass for me.”
I
put my hands over my ass, and pulled the cheeks apart. He pulled me open with
his fingers, looked at what he had to work with, and pressed the plug to my
ass.
“How
you doing, goddess?”
“Okay,”
I sobbed.
“Do
you remember your safeword?” He pushed the plug in. It was wider than it
looked, and my asshole stretched out.
“Ah!
Hurts!”
“Safeword?”
“Tangerine
and fuck you.”
“Breathe,
brat,” he said, jamming it in, then out so the widest part stretched me.
I
breathed, and he stroked my clit slowly, then kissed it. My body relaxed when
his lips touched me, and when his tongue flicked it, my back arched with
pleasure.
The
plug slid in and stayed.
“Legs
down. Get on all fours. Let me see.”
When
I pressed my legs together, I felt the welts. They were shockingly painful, yet
I felt a rush of happiness and well-being when they stung.
Behind
me, I heard the rustle of clothing. He was getting naked. Bless him. Bless him
bless him he was going to fuck me. I closed my eyes and let the wash of
contentment run through my veins.
He
ran his hands through my hair, grabbed a fistful and twisted my head to him. He
looked at my face, as if checking on me. Satisfied, he got a knee on the bed.
“Open
your mouth. It gets fucked first.”
I
opened up. I had no choice. I wanted nothing more than his cock in my throat.
I
took it. All of it, looking up at him. He pushed all the way down, pumping my
face five times before pulling out so I could breathe.
“Safe
word? You got it?”
“I
know it.” I said, then opened my mouth for him.
He
gripped my hair hard. “Good.” He shoved my face onto his cock and fucked my
throat, pulling away long enough for me to breathe or safe out, then fucked my
mouth again. I was panting when he finally stopped.
“Good
girl. Would you like to come?”
“Yes,
please.”
“I’m
going to punish you for the first time you came. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
He
pushed me onto my back and opened my legs. He slid his hand between them,
rubbing me with four fingers, then he slid them inside.
“Oh,
God.”
The
next thing was a surprise, the slap right on my cunt was painful and sharp, causing
me to scream. It blossomed into a hint of pleasure.
“You
get three. That was one. Count.”
He
slapped it.
“Two.”
Again,
and hard. My back arched and I cried out. “Three!”
“You’re
so fucking good,” he growled, moving his hands over me. “Look at me. I love
you. Come now.”
I
didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not when he stroked me like that. I’d been bursting
before he even touched me, so on his third stroke my ass clenched and the pain
of the welts disappeared as I came into his hand.
I
came off the high when he pulled the plug out of my ass. I gasped.
He
reached for his night table drawer and got out a washcloth and lubricant. The
plug went into the washcloth, the lube went all over my ass.
I
put my hands in his hair and turned to my side. He got up on his knees and put
my right leg over his right shoulder.
“You
ready?” he asked.
“Yes,
please. Do it hard. Make it hurt.”
He
did, thrusting his huge cock in my ass in two strokes. It stretched me to the
point of pain just the way I liked, but it wasn’t the same sharpness as I felt
when he fucked it without a plug. I was full. Too full. Breaking softly around
his cock.
“How
is that?” he asked, leaning over my bent leg to kiss my cheek.
“Fuck.
So good. So fucking…my God.”
His
hips moved faster, deeper, pushing into my ass. He flicked my clit, and even
though I’d just come, the rising tide of another orgasm filled me.
He
put his face to my cheek and owned me, gasping in my ear. His right arm was
looped under my right leg, and he flicked my clit. Not one part of my body
wasn’t aware of his presence.
I
owned him. I made this beautiful man gasp in my ear. His pleasure was mine, and
my pain was his.
“Hurt
me, Jonathan. Hurt—”
He
pinched my clit and I screamed. Pain drove through me, and the orgasm was so
powerful, such a braid of sensation from both ends of the spectrum that I
nearly lost consciousness. My ass clenched, pulsing around him.
“Yes.
That.” He grunted and thrust deep, stilled in his release.
When
he took the last gasp, I rolled onto my back and he slid his dick out of me.
“You’re
amazing,” he said, kissing my face. His cheeks were rough and I enjoyed the
scratchy sensation. “Literally. You amaze me. How good you are.”
“I
love you.”
“I
adore you.” One last peck on the lips, and he stood up, holding his hand out. “Let
me take care of you.”
***
After
the shower he sat me on the cold marble vanity and had me spread my legs with
my heels on the edge of the counter. The welts inside my thighs were an angry
red and looking at them made me want to get fucked again.
“I
did a number on you,” Jonathan said, rubbing a soothing cream over them. His
touch was firm and gentle, healing and arousing.
“I
needed it.”
“I
was saving your cunt for last.”
“Take
it.”
He
carried me into the bedroom and made love to me, healed me, brought me back to
center. No one could hurt me with this man at my side.
TOMMY
“Please, stop!”
Please, stop. Please, stop!
It’s useless noise.
The words roll right over my shoulders. The noises he makes are like paper
clips thrown at a brick wall. They do nothing to me.
I flinch as a
particularly loud scream stabs my ears, and for a second I consider slashing
open his throat to kill the noise. It’s always the same fucking thing. Same
routine. I catch them. I torture them. They scream, beg, fight, and then they
die. All of them.
A man in my position
has an intoxicating amount of power. Sometimes, I’ll admit, it goes to my head.
I might not decide who dies, but I decide how they die.
Sometimes there’s information I’ll need to extract from them, but most of the
time I’m just fucking with them. There’s an artistry to what I do. You think
it’s easy to break someone, to wear them down until there’s nothing left? It’s
not. It takes a lot of energy and a lot of guts. Not many people can do what I
do.
Sure, there are plenty
of fucking psychos out there who’d gladly take my job, but are they
trustworthy? Can you count on a guy who acts as if he’s got nothing to lose?
No.
The only danger in
doing what I do is losing yourself from the things you’ve done. Pieces of you
get ripped away, little by little. You change. You’re like a beast, with blood
running down your front and a manic grin on your face. People look at you
differently.
We’re in a
stainless-steel room that’s supposed to be used for butchering meat, but lately
Jack has me butchering people here, too. In this room, blood saturates the air.
It’s a strong, metallic smell that stays in your nostrils for hours. I’m the
only one in his crew who can stomach this kind of shit. And you get used to the
screaming, the same old pleas, the threats, and all that boring shit.
We have him strapped
to a table. There’s nothing Jack wants from this guy.
The underboss, Vince,
watches from across the room, and I feel his discomfort. His eyes burn with
vengeance as he looks down at the man strapped to the table, but there’s a tic
in his jaw. It jumps and just that small detail tells me that he’s
uncomfortable. See, I can read people pretty well. I’m pretty fucking intimate
with human emotions. You have to be when you do what I do. I’ve spent hours
studying their faces.
It’s all in the eyes.
They change when the person feels hope, when they think I’ve granted them a
reprieve. It’s a lightening of the brow and a slight widening of the eyes. Like
right now. The poor bastard strapped to the table looks at me with so much hope
in his eyes that I almost feel sorry for him.
Vince crosses his
arms, trying to look unconcerned, but his fingers tap his elbow. It’s a nervous
tic. Every so often I feel his eyes and look at him. He can only sustain my
gaze for a few seconds before curling his lip in slight disgust. I turn my gaze
back toward the young man strapped to the table.
“I liked you the most,
Tommy. Please, please don’t!”
His wasted face
dissolves into sobs and the tears well up in his glassy eyes, spilling out like
blood.
Yeah, you liked me so
much you decided to rat me out, along with everyone else.
I slide the knife
inside Ben’s mouth as he screams, cutting himself all over the blade, and then
I turn the knife. It pierces his cheek and I make a sharp, flicking movement
with my wrist and I make his. His mouth becomes a bloody grimace.
Vince sends another
flicker of disgust my way.
It rolls over me. I
don’t give a fuck what he thinks. Or what anyone else thinks, for that matter.
I work my knife
through poor little Ben’s flesh, my ears vibrating with his screams. My knife
twists as an electrical bolt strikes my brain, sending a flash of heat over my
face.
The man lying on my
table belonged to a family I work for. He had privileges I’ll never have. He
was a made man. It’s a license to steal, kill, to do whatever the fuck you
want, and this asshole took a giant shit on the honor he was given. The fact
that I’m half-Italian, that I’ll never be made no matter how much fucking money
I make these pieces of shit, pisses me off.
So I take it out on
Ben.
“STOP! PLEASE!”
Now he’s finally
getting desperate. The pain is so intense, he’ll fucking say anything. Anything
I want. His young face is a crisscross of wounds, like a sharpening block for a
knife. I look at his eyes, whitened with fear.
“Tommy, PLEASE!”
I bend my face toward
him. “What did you tell the feds?”
“Nothing!” The gash in
his mouth opens obscenely. “Just license plates and shit like that!”
His stubbornness makes
my blood boil, and Vincent shifts against the wall.
“Just tell me, and
I’ll end it.”
But Ben knows too much.
He knows how much I like this shit, knows it won’t be quick and painless, no
matter what I promise. Tears leak out of his eyes and his small body racks with
pathetic sobs. Deep, gasping sounds that make Vincent squirm.
“MOMMY! HELP!”
This happens sometimes.
I’ve heard about it happening in war, too. You always see it in the movies.
Soldiers dying everywhere, spending their last breaths screaming for their
mommies. Well, it’s not fiction. It happens. Extreme fear and blood loss do
strange things to the brain.
I don’t like it when
they do it. That’s why I usually muffle their voices, but in this case I let
him scream. We need him to talk.
Vince curls into
himself and swears under his breath, ironing his face with his hands.
How can he feel pity
for this asshole? He’s just as bad as we are. We all deserve this.
I work on his hands
then, knowing how painful that area under your fingernail is. There are special
tools I use. A thin, long piece of metal with a razor-sharp tip, as broad as
your fingernail. I dig, dig, and dig. Soon his screams are shaking the table
and he’s thrashing so hard, I’m afraid he’ll rip out the restraints. He’s like
an unbroken horse. Jesus.
“What did you tell
them, you rat fuck?” I scream right next to his head.
Great, heaving breaths
shake from his throat. “I told them—I told them about the coke dealing at the
strip club, but that’s it, I swear!”
“Oh, fuck me.”
Vince grips his hair, his eyes wide. “What exactly did you tell them?” he
bellows. “Ben!”
“I can’t! I can’t!”
Ben closes his eyes and cries like a baby. It’s a high, shrill sound that makes
my ears ache. He might as well be a cow screaming before slaughter.
I set the tool down
and pick up a knife, and Ben lets out an even louder wail.
Giving up, Vince
throws his hands up, shaking his head. “Just fucking kill him.”
“I’m not done with
him, Vince.”
A steely look comes
over his face. “Just do it,” he spits out.
Make me.
A grin spreads over my
face. With this knife in my hands, he’s not making me do fuck all. I want to
sink this blade right between that fucker’s ribs, and I’m crazy enough to do
it. He knows it. I look right at him.
“No.”
He tenses. “No? What
the fuck did you just say to me?”
Vince eyes the knife
in my hand. I realize that behind his thinly veiled disgust, there’s fear, too.
Good.
“I make a lot of
fucking money for you, Vince. I only ask for one thing in return: I handle the
hits.” The gleaming knife twists in my hand as white-hot anger clenches my jaw,
making my face hot. “If you can’t take it, get out of my room.”
“Tommy, this is
fucking sick.” His dark gaze lingers on Ben’s pale body, which trembles
violently as blood leaks out of him.
Then get the fuck out
of my room, pussy!
“I earned this, and I
need it.”
Vince’s eyes glitter
strangely as he looks at me for several long seconds. I can feel the judgment
rolling off him in waves, which is fucking precious. He swallows hard, nods,
and walks out the door. Ben moans horribly when it closes. The last flicker of
hope in his eyes dies when Vince leaves. He knows he’s fucked.
I start to work on him
in earnest. He goes quiet when I’ve extracted every single scream that I can.
They all go quiet in the end, and only then do I kill them. With the knife, I
swipe open his carotid artery, and he’s dead in seconds. Dark-red blood spills
sluggishly from his neck. There’s blood all over the goddamn floor.
What a mess I’ve made.
A wave of exhaustion
hits me when I clean it all up and give the other associates his body parts to
dispose. It’s a catharsis. I don’t glory in the gore of it at all. I don’t like
seeing the blood, the fibers of muscle tissue, bone, or any of that shit. It’s
the violence that gives me relief from the anger poisoning my blood. It’s as if
there’s a monster banging on my ribs, clawing to get out. If I wait too long in
between kills, he takes over me. The rage consumes me, and I snap. I hurt
people who don’t deserve to be hurt.
I wash my arms in the
sink outside the room, but more blood keeps dripping from my soaked shirt, so I
tear it off and shove it in the bag with Ben’s arms and legs. I grab one of the
deli’s white t-shirts and pull it over my head, growling when several dots of
blood bloom on the shirt like pinpricks. Goddamn, that fucker got all over me.
Then I wring my hands
out and push open the double doors to the back of the store. I feel like a
doctor delivering bad news to a large family in a waiting room. Their eyes
avoid me completely. They know my arrival means Ben is gone.
Normally this room is
filled with the sound of people talking, bullshitting, whatever. Fifteen or so
men are in the room, and you could hear a pin drop. What’s there to say? A made
guy was caught talking to the feds. It’s an outrage. It’s a tragedy, too. All
of them look pale. Ben’s betrayal shook them. Everyone liked him, even me. Ben
had an infectious smile. Many of them regarded him as a little brother, but he
talked to the cops.
We all know what
happens when you do that.
Joe, one of the
captains, took it especially hard. He sits in one of the chairs, looking as if
his sister died all over again. They probably didn’t hear his screams—the place
is pretty soundproof—but Vince sure as fuck did. Jack places an arm around my
shoulders, unsmiling.
“Tommy boy, good work.
Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?”
I can tell from the
unhappy faces that I’m not welcome here tonight. It’s not that they don’t like
me, but I’m the one who killed the guy everyone liked. The mood just feels
strained. My footsteps echo hollowly in the deli, and I leave without so much
as a wave, exiting to walk into the stinging air. It feels colder than usual,
and it isn’t until I reach my car and look at the rearview mirror that I
realize my face is wet.
An invisible force
slams into my chest and I crumple over myself, my face falling into my hands.
It’s a strange tightening sensation in my chest. Air shakes through my mouth.
He always saved me a
seat at the poker table, always had a smile for me. He was a nice guy, but that
didn’t stop me from carving him up like a Christmas turkey.
Why the fuck did you
rat us out? You knew what would happen to you if we found out. Now you’re gone,
and your mother will get a visit from the FBI when you turn up missing, telling
her that we probably killed her only son.
I regret it.
Remorse swells my
chest, and I ball my hands into fists as a shaking sigh leaves my mouth. I sit
there in the freezing seat of my car for a while and I feel low.
Why did I do that to
him? Why do I do it to any of them? There’s no need to make them suffer so
much. No need to torture, maim, and kill them like I do.
But I can’t stop it.
Grief is like a tide.
It blows forward, its icy white fingers grabbing my chest, and then it recedes.
Then it comes back and fades again, ebbing and flowing. Each time it comes
back, it’s a little less strong. After ten minutes I don’t understand the tears
on my cheeks, just like I don’t understand how some men shake when I rob them.
The only thing I know is rage. The familiar stirrings begin in the pit of my
stomach. The guys’ faces run through my mind, kindling for the small spark.
And I’m angry again.
I wish I could tell
you that I was abused.
I wish I could tell
you that I had a shitty childhood.
I’m just sick.
Excerpt
In the first moments onstage, I’m
always blinded.
The bright lights, the smoke. The
wall of sound that feels almost tangible, as if it’s trying to keep me out,
push me back, protect me from what’s going to happen next. I’m used to the
dancing and the catcalls and the reaching, grabbing hands—as much as I can be.
But I’m never quite used to this moment, being blinded, feeling small.
I reach for the pole and find it,
swinging my body around so the gauzy scrap of fabric flies up, giving the men
near the stage a view of my ass. I still can’t quite make anything out. There
are dark spots in my vision.
The smile’s not even a lie, not
really. It’s a prop, like the four-inch heels and the wings that snap as I drop
them to the stage.
Broken.
A few people clap from the back.
Now all that’s left is the thin
satin fabric. I grip the pole and head into my routine, wrapping around,
sliding off, and starting all over again. I lose myself in the physicality of
it, going into the zone as if I were running a marathon. This is the best part,
reveling in the burn of my muscles, the slide of the metal pole against my skin
and the cold, angry rhythm of the song. It’s not like ballet, but it’s still a
routine. Something solid, when very few things in my life are solid.
I finish on the pole and begin to
work the stage, moving around so I can collect tips. I can see again, just
barely, making out shadowy silhouettes in the chairs.
Not many.
There’s a regular on one side. I
recognize him. Charlie. He tosses a five-dollar bill on the stage, and I bend
down long and slow to pick it up. He gets a wink and a shimmy for his donation.
As I’m straightening, I spot another man on the other side of the stage.
His posture is slouched, one leg
kicked out, the other under his chair, but somehow I can tell he isn’t really
relaxed. There’s tension in the long lines of his body. There’s power.
And that makes me nervous.
I spin away and shake my shit for
the opposite side of the room, even though there’s barely anyone there. It’s
only a matter of time before I need to face him again. But I don’t need to look
at him. They don’t pay me to look them in
the eye.
Still I can’t help but notice his
leather boots and padded jacket. Did he ride a motorcycle? It seems like that
kind of leather, the tough kind. Meant to withstand weather. Meant to protect
the body from impact.
The song’s coming to a close, my
routine is coming to an end and I’m glad about that. Something about this guy
is throwing me off. Nothing noticeable. My feet and hands and knowing smile
still land everywhere they need to. Muscle memory and all that. But I don’t
like the way he watches me.
There’s patience in the way he
watches me. And patience implies waiting.
It implies planning.
I reach back and unclasp my bra. I
use one hand to cover my breasts while I toss the bra to the back of the stage.
I pretend to be shy for a few seconds, and suddenly I feel shy too. Like I’m
doing more than showing my breasts to strangers. I’m showing him. And as I stand there, hand cupping
my breasts, breath coming fast, I feel his patience like a hot flame.
This time I do miss the beat. I
let go on the next one, though, and my breasts are free, bared to the smoky air
and the hungry eyes. There are a few whistles from around the room. Charlie
holds up another five-dollar bill. I sway over to him and cock my hip, letting
him shove the bill into my thong, feeling his hot, damp breath against my
breast. He gets close but doesn’t touch. That’s Charlie. He tips and follows
the rules, the best kind of customer.
I don’t even glance at the other
side of the room. If the new guy is holding up a tip, I don’t even care. He
doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who follows rules. I don’t know why I’m even
thinking about him or letting him affect me. Maybe my run-in with Blue made me
more skittish than I’d realized.
All I have left is my finale on
the pole. I can get through this.
This part isn’t as physically
strenuous as before. Or as long. All I really need to do is grind up against
the pole, front and back, emphasizing my newly naked breasts, pretending to
fuck.
That’s what I’m doing when I feel
it. Feel him.
I’m a practical girl. I have to
be. But there’s a feeling I get, a prickle on the back of my neck, a churning
in my gut, a warning bell in my head when I’m near one of them. Near a cop. My eyes scan the back of the room, but all I can
see are shadows. Is there a cop waiting to bust someone? A raid about to go
down?
My gaze lands on the guy near the
stage. Him? He doesn’t look like a cop. He doesn’t feel like a cop. But I don’t trust looks or feelings. All I can
trust is the alarm blaring in my head: get
out, get out, get out.
I can barely suck in enough air.
There’s only smoke and rising panic. Blood races through me, speeding up my
movements. A cop. I feel it like some
kind of sixth sense.
Maybe he feels my intuition about
him, because he leans forward in his seat.
In one heart-stopping moment, my
eyes meet his. I can see his face then, drawn from charcoal shadows.
Beautiful,
his lips say. All I can hear is the song.
I’m not even on beat anymore, and
it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because there’s a cop here and I have to
get out. Even if my intuition is wrong, it’s better to get out. Safer.
I’ll
never be safe.
The last note calls for a curtsy—a
sexy, mocking movement I choreographed into my routine. Like the one I’d do at
the end of a ballet recital but made vulgar. I barely manage it this time, a
rough jerk of my head and shoulders. Then I’m gone, off the stage, running down
the hallway. I’m supposed to work the floor next, see who wants a lap dance or
another drink, but I can’t do that. I head for the dressing room and throw on a
T-shirt and sweatpants. I’ll tell them I feel sick and have to leave early.
They won’t be happy and I’ll probably have to pay for it with my tips, but they
won’t want me throwing up on the customers either.
I run for the door and almost slam
into Blue.
He’s standing in the hallway
again. Not slouching this time. There’s a new alertness to his stare. And
something else—amusement.
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
“I have to… My stomach hurts. I
feel sick.” I step close, praying he’ll move aside.
He reaches up to trace my cheek.
“Aww, should I call the doctor?” His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “I
wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
I grip my bag tight to my chest,
trying to ignore the threat in his words. And the threat in his grip. I really do feel sick now, but throwing up on him
is definitely not going to help the situation. “Please, I need to leave. It’s
serious. I’ll make it up later.”
He’ll know what I’m saying. That
I’ll make it up to him personally. I’m just desperate enough to promise that.
Desperate enough to promise him anything. And he’s harassed me long enough that
I know it’s a decent prize. I’m sure he’ll make it extra humiliating, but I’m
desperate enough for that too.
“Please let me go.” The words come
out pained, my voice thin. It feels a little like my body is collapsing in on
itself, steel beams bending together, something crushing me from the outside.
Regret flashes over his face,
whether for refusing my offer or forcing me that low. But this time he doesn’t
let me go. “There’s a customer asking for you. He wants a dance.”
I huffed. “You can’t force this,
Ream.”
His brows raised and the corners
of his lips curved upwards. It was rare Ream ever smiled and I was a little
uneasy as to what he was thinking. “Oh, baby, I won’t need force.” He kissed my
forehead. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”
“How long what lasts?” My voice
raised an octave as I watched his eyes flicker with amusement.
“It will be entertaining.” He
grinned and my pulse rate tripled at the rare sight.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“What will be?”
“You denying us.”
“Ream. There is no us. And I’m
seeing—”
He cut me off. “Babe, there’s
been an us since the moment I saw you from the stage and wanted to fuck you.
You need us being friends first? I can do that. But I’m making you mine again.”
My voice rose. “Yours? Are you
insane? You can’t just make someone yours. Jesus, Ream, what the hell has
gotten into you?”
“You.”
“What?” Shit, was my voice
cracking? It never cracked, but my heart pounded so hard and my insides were
freaking out and in a war of melting mush and red-hot poker fury. I’d preferred
it when he was shooting insults at me and losing his cool. This … this threw me
off balance and he damn well knew it.
“You’re in me and that isn’t
leaving. I’ve fought it long enough, and I’m not doing it anymore. I told you
something I’ve never told anyone, but you needed to hear it to understand why I
freaked when I did. Now, there is nothing stopping us.” Any mild amusement left
his expression as he continued, “I fucked up. I won’t do it again. You need
help … I’ll be there for you. I won’t run, Kat.”
Blitz-wide giveaway (INTL)
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