Page 7 of Cut Me Down

Fuck, I can’t wait to get home and wash off today. I hate the film these drug warehouses leave on my skin. Especially after losing innocent lives... It’s not often it happens, but whenever we can’t save all of the hostages, it takes a piece of me. It makes me all the more determined to bury Dust into the ground. Most of these warehouses have innocent women making the drugs. They kidnap them, then threaten to sell them to the skin trade if they don’t comply. We always try to get them out and away from Dust, and what they do with their lives after that is totally up to them.

I pay for an apartment outside of town specifically for girls we rescue when we have to, but it’s not much, and is lacking space. There’s not much we can do for them outside of getting out of town safely. We have my cousins Zander and Kelsey, who can make fake documentation better than anyone else. When the girls are saved and they choose where to go, we give them new identities, cash, and a plane or bus ticket either back to where they’re from or somewhere new if that’s what they choose.

That’s where the main problem is though, is the means to actually get them set up somewhere else. I’ve paid for a few apartments elsewhere, but most of the time the girls have to figure it out once they’re there. I’m currently working on a project that can house them more appropriately and give them time to think about what they want, but it’s not moving fast enough. The inspections and permits are a lengthy process. One that I'm not patient enough for.

“We need to cross here, D. There are officers incoming ten blocks up.” I don’t question Carter. Well, in the moment I don’t. He always gives me reasons to question him, just not about the work. To do what we do, he has an innocent mind. Hasn’t even had sex yet, but he’s a good guy, and an even better friend. He puts up with my bullshit, that’s for sure. He’ll probably have a stroke by the time he’s forty if I keep worrying him the way that I do.

We cut across the cold, hard street, disappearing into the alley ways and weaving our way through until we walk onto the sidewalk of another busy street. Almost on the other side of downtown, like we were never near the warehouse.

And that’s when my eye catches something golden. I look over to see a beautiful, marvelous woman dancing through a window. What is this place? I look at the building for the business name and find it spelled out on a metal sign above the door. Cut Me Down? Oh right, the barbershop. It’s closed, but everything about her is open. Well except for her pretty, toned thighs and I can open those myself.

Her eyes caught me, as the sun sets, and the last beam of light touched her face at the right angle as she turned and moved her hips to what I'm assuming is music. She’s wiping off shelves and sweeping, like a good girl being told what to do. The arch of her back perfectly dipped as she bends over showing that plump, round ass and wide, smooth hips.

But her face. That is a face I wouldn’t mind holding in my hand every day. Whether that be clasping her jaw as I fuck her or forcing it down on my cock. It’s soft, but held firm in her facial structure, and even though she works at an establishment that practically welcomes men to look at her, her make-up choice, or lack thereof, doesn’t make her look like a cheap whore.

Her eyes aren’t the only warm thing. Her skin is warm toned. White, but warm enough to know that if she would step out into sunlight every now and then she’d tan fairly easily. The notion that she doesn’t get out much doesn’t bother me, it means she doesn’t have time to have another man touch her, which is great considering no man will be allowed to touch her again after tonight. The tattoos that cover her right arm are smooth, healed, and well cared for. I bet all of her skin is well cared for from how smooth it looks from the other side of this window. The tattoo sleeve on her arm stretches out to halfway on her chest.

So, she can take pain? I love a girl who can handle pain.

It’s when she stretches up that she has me pulled. Showing off her flat stomach, clung to her tight shirt. Which would normally show off her enticing figure, but her baggy barbers shirt remains unbuttoned and draped around her to conceal it. Or try to at least. My eyes run up her body, and over the mountains that are her half-exposed breasts. Not huge to the point of looking artificial, and not small, they look big enough to fit in my large hands. No, perfect for my hands.

But no, that’s not it. It’s when she brings her arms back down. Her black nails barely scratch the surface of her face as she continues to dance, and she flashes herself a seductive, sirens smile, revealing her canines. What I’d do to have those graze my skin before taking a bite. The long, black strands of her hair drape over her shoulders as she flings her head, and the hair falls over her breasts more as her hands travel lower on her body. She’s free when no one watches her, or when she thinks no one is watching her.

Something is growing inside of me. A hunger I’ve never felt. Taking up the space in my lungs and in my gut. The physical urge to walk in and grasp her pretty little throat has me leaning on my toes. I can practically feel myself salivate at the thought. Something about her is so alluring. Gravitating me toward her.

On the outside, she looks sweet and innocent, but what about under that facade? It’s like I can smell it on her from here. The pain. The kick in the teeth from life. Something, or multiple somethings, have happened to her. It changed her forever, and I have to know what sent a girl like that spiraling down to the pit she feels every day. She is breath taking, and she could grasp my air by the balls if it inflated her chest again.

“Go get a haircut.” I tell Carter, my tone coming off as stern and sharp.

“What? D, we don’t have time.” I snap toward him, and it’s as if he can see the hunger in my eyes. He stiffens and straightens his posture to signal to me he knows just how fucking serious I am. “Alright, but if she fucks up my hair and Brittany starts bitching, I'm telling her to call you.” He walks towards the door nervously.

Brittany is his whiny, temporary girlfriend. Definitely not wife material. Not like this girl. Her hardened defenses allow me to believe that deep down, she wants to care for someone in a deep way, and that she has before. Although I’m guessing this person was stupid enough to cast her aside. A mistake I won’t make. She needs someone to pull her out of the depths and command her to stand in the ashes of her pain, and that is something I can do for her.

As Carter walks in, the opened door unveils the song she’s listening to. ‘Stuck In Your Head’ by I Prevail blares through the door.

She certainly will be.

I see her body stiffen as she stands up straight. Not like she’s scared, but as if her skin turned to steel, as if life has beaten her until she encased herself in metal, just like I expected. I can’t wait to break that down and soften her only to my touch, and she won’t be able to stop me. No one will be able to stop me. She will be mine, and she won’t have a fucking choice.

I watch as she looks out of the window, gently glancing at me before looking back to Carter and continuing the service. Fuck, those golden-brown eyes. Sweet like honey, but smooth like coffee. That one second of eye contact sealed her fate. Immediately intertwining our destinies and welding me into life forever. I have to have her. I will have her. I don’t believe in love, but if that ‘at first sight’ bullshit is real, that’s what just happened. I don’t know about a God, multiple or otherwise, or whatever afterlife or reincarnation shit people talk about, but I know about this. I know about her. She just took over my whole world, and she can burn it down if she wants, I’ll hand her my lighter and beg her to let me watch.

I light a cigarette and pull out my phone to text him.

Leave her something nice. It’s on me.

Chapter four

Ashia

The Next Day

Thanks to the nice tip from that guy I took after closing last night, I can go see Jason tonight. I rummage through my dresser drawer filled with clothes just for when I go see him. Tank tops and shorts that help keep me covered, but stretchy enough to move down and away when necessary. I rarely ever wear a bra when I see him, there’s no point really considering half the time I need to take it off, but I'll have one on for work so I can just put it in my bag when I change.

The thought of a man touching me in any way other than art is repulsive. I’ve had my fair share of unwanted touches, and I will never endure that again. As hard as I try to not let the images invade my mind, it’s near impossible sometimes. Especially when I go in to work on my tattoo. Sometimes he traces the right spot, and the moment the stinging sensation feels the same from that night, it almost sends me into a panic.

Jason’s been doing my tattoos for a few years now. He came in for a haircut and was telling me about starting his apprenticeship. Now, he owns his shop and is doing really well for himself. I was his first tattoo on real skin, and now whenever he wants to try a new brand of ink, or a new after care routine he calls me and gives me a discount to work on the piece. I don’t mind skipping group; I mainly go because Serena says I seem better after. But really, I feel like it just keeps stirring memories back up to the surface.

I don’t need to talk about what happened. It happened, and I lived. It was years ago now, and I don’t feel like I need to keep hashing it out. Especially when my head does that enough for me. The gasps as I wake up in a sweat, and the physical jumps to loud noises remind me all the time. Memories playing out and turning my dreams into nightmares is enough recollection for me.

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