Page 38 of Cut Me Down

“What the fuck?” I say lowly, whispering more to myself and the ghosts that roam the halls, but Ser hears it.

“What is it?” She steps towards me and glances over my shoulder as I grip my phone with both hands. Immediately going to my billing statements and payment history page. I almost choke on air as I suck in a deep gasp. My outstanding balance of over forty-thousand dollars…now completely gone… nothing but three zeros and one dot showing in its place.

“Are you sure I don’t have a concussion?” I ask without taking my widened eyes off of the screen.

“I’m sure, because I see it too. How the hell did that happen?” She scrolls with her own finger, since I’m not able to move, to see the amount paid in full. The transaction date showing that it was processed today. “Maybe it’s a glitch?” She suggests trying to keep her voice even.

My chest fills with a mixture of emotions. Relief and freedom on one side, but anger and resentment on the other. This is no glitch. This is Damien’s doing. I know I should be grateful, but I recognize this tactic. Paying for my needs to make me depend on him. To have me believe that because he wooed me with this grand gesture that I’m in debt to him.

Yeah, I don’t fucking think so. If he thought that this would do anything other than belittle my ability to take care of myself, then he is seriously mistaken.

Chapter fifteen

Damien

Tyler texted me last night to tell me that James Roatenbury had woken back up after he cauterized his hand. Well, where it used to be I should say. So, I came back to finish the job. Let's just say that with the horror of James’ demise, the night to reflect, and some…persuasion, the Dust bunny is ready to cooperate.

I shouldn’t love this part as much as I do, but there’s something about pain that fascinates me. How some people handle it better than others. How some find pleasure in it. Others can’t stand to watch it happen to someone else. I on the other hand find it entertaining.

Inflicting pain on my victims shouldn’t feel as good as it does. The relief I feel is unlike anything else. As if clouds of fog fall out of every crease of my muscles and float away. It’s satisfying to know that one more despicable human no longer walks the earth, and it was my doing. Their screams seep into my brain, and it’s as if I can feel the vibrations down my own throat. The smell of their blood mixed with the adrenaline falling from their pores washes over me like a plague, only I’m not sick after. I’m elated. I absorb every feeling from my kills, and it’s haunting when it’s been too long between them. Even now, Dust bunny’s screams begin to satiate my need.

“Okay! Okay! What do you want to know?” He thrashes and screams as I slowly press my knife down and pull it out of his shin slowly. It feels like pushing a guitar pick over the strings of muscle as it cuts into his flesh.Tick…tick…tick…

“What’s your name?” He breathes heavily and grits his teeth. Sweat drenches his trembling form. His mind is telling him not to answer, to hold out as long as possible, but his body is telling him differently. The stab to the shin, is only his eighth, and he knows there will be more if he doesn’t cooperate.

“Paul.” He seethes.

“Who do you answer to, Paul?” I shove my finger into the stab wound I put in his leg, then I slowly swirl around until I begin to feel bone. Bone isn’t as smooth as one would think. When you graze your fingertips across it, there are tiny ridges that have its own unique texture. It’s like running your fingertips on the palm of someone’s hand. Tough and course.

His screams fill the room again, only fueling the pressure that I push into his bone.

“Andre! His name’s Andre…” He yells out breathily as I remove my finger and wipe it on his jeans.

“Where is Andre?” I set my hardened gaze upon him.

“Probably getting ready for the meeting.” He replies lazily.

“What meeting?” He starts to lose consciousness. His head is unsteady and his eyes are trying to roll to the back of his head. So I smack him in the face a little to wake him back up. The sting rattling through my wrist. At least he’s handling the pain better than James. “I said, what meeting!” I demand.

“The Dust King, Dranan Hugo, sent his right-hand man from Seattle to expand distribution. They’re supposed to meet at midnight to discuss routes, dealers, girls, and locations.” The fog from his semi-conscious mind seems to clear as he gives me more detail.

Seattle? Don't fucking tell me…that would explain why he came back, besides Ashia. He may not have come back solely to kill her, but it wasdefinitelyon his to do list.

“Who is this big man from Seattle?” I’m sure to keep my face from any emotion. Being sure he’s unaware of any indication that I know about Cooper.

“His name’s Coop, that’s all we know.” I suppose the nameCooperdoesn’t strike fear into the hearts of his minions. I know that for the rest of my life, whenever I hear that name I’ll think of the limp-dick, grotesque, sack of shit that laid dead on the floor of Ashia’s apartment last night. I don’t really want to think of him, but if the moment I pulled the trigger and watched his brain splatter across the room replays in my head for eternity? I think I can manage.

“How exactly do they plan on expanding distribution?”

“He brought guns to sell. There’s a big buyer who wants the drugs and the guns, and if we can provide them…”

“They’ll keep coming back.” I interrupt him, confirming my suspicions, and grab his phone off the table. They want to turn the city into a black-market port, and we’re not going to let that happen. “You're going to call someone and ask how this meeting went.” He looks up at me confused. His eyes still looking around lazily.

“How long have I been here?” He asks, the words barely loud enough to hear.

“Long enough. Call. If I hear anything that sounds like you are tipping someone off, I'll stab you in the other shin.” He nods reluctantly.

“Devin. Call Devin.” I pull up the contact and hold the phone to his ear. I know I most likely shouldn’t trust that his phone call is going to yield anything important, but some information is better than no information. Even if he manages to tip someone off that he’s in trouble, it won’t matter. He’ll be dead soon enough, and he doesn’t know where he is. He was unconscious when my men dragged him in here. I hear it ring a couple of times before it picks up.

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