Page 8 of Pretty Threats

KILLIAN

For a second, the window I pass looks like it’s painted black. After sundown, that’s the level of darkness behind the converted factory where two other guys and I live. At the last moment, I catch an angle through the window that shows dots of light from houses across the river and a mile or two south.

I hustle through the tricked-out kitchen, my boots smacking the white stone tiles. The building used to be a manufacturing plant or something. On the exterior, it still looks like one. Inside, it’s been renovated into a crib that could land it on a lifestyle blog.

When I get outside, I head to the three-sided carport that’s just south of the building. I sometimes use the carport for my new Corvette, but more often, we use it as a shed and staging area. For privacy, a black tarp hangs over the river-facing entrance as we prep for wet work.

I lift the edge of the tarp and step in.

War McCann’s already inside. As the name implies, he’s of Irish-descent, at least on his mother’s side. From the look of him, though, his mom went slumming with a Baltic giant because he’s big. War’s only got three inches on me in height, bringing him to six-foot-six, but shoulder to shoulder, he’s the width of a tank. The guy benches close to four hundred pounds. I’m strong, but he’s world-record-level kind of strong.

War’s hazel eyes, the only Irish thing about him, don’t match his thick black hair, which, right now, is pulled back in a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck. When we met, during what can only be described as an unholy apprenticeship, his hair was short. He kept it that way during the grueling weeks of training.

Then, we started at GU and a blonde with legs for days begged him to grow it out, which he did because she’s been letting him fuck her in every filthy way there is. One night, when we were deep into a bottle of expensive whiskey, he offered to share her. When she gave a light protest, he pulled her over his lap, yanked her skirt up and panties down, and blistered her pretty white ass until it was cherry red.

By the time he was done, she was sobbing. From her knees on the floor, she fucking apologized to us and was ready to suck my dick. I had a raging hard-on from watching him discipline her, but before I had time to decide whether to use her mouth, Jamie—our third— scooped her up, slung her over his shoulder, and took her up to his room. The door was open, so I could still hear him banging her when I went to bed alone.

I figured we’d never see the girl again, but two days later, War called her and ordered her to come over. Within the hour, he was nailing her to the bed with his cock while she screamed his name. In the morning, there was a jewelry box on the counter. When she left, she wore a gold necklace with half a dozen diamonds between the links.

I noted the gift, figuring it was to make up for things, but War said it wasn’t. According to him, there was nothing to make up. He’d seen her looking at me like she wanted a taste, so he’d offered her to me. Her refusal was a token protest at best. And as for making a show of spanking her in front of me, if a scene gets too intense, she’s got a safeword. Unless she uses it, she’s gotta take whatever he decides to do to her. Which apparently is exactly what gets her hot and wet.

I’ve learned more useful life skills with these two than I have in class.

Right now, War’s dressed in a white fluid-impermeable jumpsuit like we’re going to a crime scene to collect evidence rather than to create it. On most people, these suits are baggy, but War’s is stretched tight to accommodate his massive frame.

His voice is gruff when he says, “Time.”

I’m seventeen minutes late because I got distracted online while tearing down that CNC post on Side. I wanted it down before I left, but I shouldn’t have let that make me late. Tonight, the stakes are as high as they get.

“Yeah,” I say, not offering an explanation.

War doesn’t press. That’s not his style. If he thought I was late enough to compromise us, he’d punch me in the face and call this thing off for the night. Instead, he’s still dressing.

As I’m stripping down to skin and leaving my clothes in a pile, Jamie steps into the enclosure. He’s the pretty boy of the group with blond hair, blue eyes, and perfect features that mean, if he ever dressed in drag, he’d be prettier than most women. He’s no lightweight, though. Like me, he rows crew for the university and, when sparring, fights like he’s been doing it all his life. I haven’t figured him out. With us, he’s friendly, but a dark edge emerges when he doesn’t like someone. And when we were drinking one night, he admitted working for a crew is good practice because he’s got people to kill.

The days are numbered for whoever’s on Jamie’s hit list.

Jamie glances at War who’s pulling on a black tracksuit. The white jumpsuits are good for not leaving DNA or picking it up, but they’re like a fucking beacon when a streetlight catches them.

There’s fuckery in Jamie’s eyes as he says, “How’s the fit, War. Comfortable?” Jamie’s not afraid to low-key push people’s buttons.

“Yeah,” War grumbles. “Like wearing a fucking condom under boxer-briefs.”

Leaning against a work bench, Jamie grins. “Gonna sweat your ass off like a girl in a latex catsuit.”

The corner of War’s mouth twitches into a fleeting smirk. Their tastes run to the wild. Me, I’m not opposed to the hottest, stickiest sex I can get, but what I really want doesn’t require encasing a girl in rubber… or anything at all. I want her completely bare, so there’s nothing to keep my fingers out.

I suit up quickly and check my toolbox. Gun, ammo, mask, and night vision goggles are perfectly arranged in the metal box, like I’m the devil’s handyman.

We leave the carport, and War checks the truck one last time. No burned-out lights. Everything in order. It’s a short distance, but the last thing we want is an unexpected traffic stop.

We roll out at four-twelve a.m., safely past the time when police checkpoints near campus stop operating. By now, drunk students should be passed out in their dorms or apartments, and the police on patrol are sitting in some convenience store parking lot, drinking coffee and eating donuts.

The name of tonight’s target is Wilson.

I’m up as shooter.

My heart’s not racing, but I bet my pulse would clock in a little faster than normal. I don’t feel the same way about murder that most people do, but anticipation has me juiced.

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