Page 12 of In You
Slamming the hatchback closed, I crunch over the wet leaves to the driver's side and start the engine while he changes the topic and makes small talk about Jonathan, our mutual friend who couldn't make it this trip. One thing about Colin, whether or not our trio can get together as a trio never stops him from making time for me. He'll come with or without the big guy.
It's only fifteen minutes later when we're back at the house, settling at the wooden table in the kitchen, before he acknowledges what I said.
"You still like it pitch black, right?" I ask gruffly, handing him a plain white coffee mug. "Olivia hasn't softened you up enough to want some frou-frou cream and sugared up Starbucks type shit, has she?"
"Yeah, you know it," he says, shifting his weight on my creaky chair. "Speaking of wives," he says in a light voice, accepting the steaming cup of coffee with thanks.
Leveling him with a stern stare that's one level shy offuck off,I cut him off before he even gets it out of his mouth.
"I don't want a woman," I say in a calm but sure voice. "And besides, what kind of woman would want a man like me anyway? You know I'm too fucked up." I glance over at Colin who, despite my moral conflicts and black stain on my consciousness still shows up for me. Hasn't abandoned me. Said he knows what abandonment feels like, and will stick with me to the end. So far, he's stayed true to his promise even after the decades taking us in two different directions.
Colin takes a sip of his coffee and narrows his eyes at me. "Do we have to have this talk again, pendejo? Stop speaking those types of things out loud. You make happen what you say. You are not fucked up. You're a vigilante. Like a walking Frank 2.0, and I admire you for that."
At the mention of our fearsome general from our life way back when, I snort, not even bothering to mention that Frank had a lot more honor than I've ever managed, or even desired to possess. "Is that what they're calling serial killers these days?"
He eyes me. "Don't you remember rule number two?"
"Do I remember…" I say sarcastically, downing a third of my coffee in one go. "Who doesn't?" I fight to roll my eyes.
I swear to God I will never be free of that man and the rules he hammered so deep into our skulls that I have no hope of ever not remembering them. I'll be on my deathbed reciting the shit like a mantra he ingrained them so deep.
Rule number two: Sons,youare the Judge and the Jury. Only kill those who deserve to be killed. Every life is a soul, and every time you take a soul, you'll have to tell the Big Guy upstairs why. Don't you meet him andnot have the answers. He's the only thing scarier than me.
His voice reverberates in my brain like it's a part of my very psyche. Out of all thirteen hundred kills in my career, Frank's voice has been the one I've heard every time. Not God, and sure as hell not my conscience. I may not believe in God, but I do believe that when I die, I'm going to meet Frank. He'll be the one I answer to. We all will.
And help us all if we're found lacking.
So yes, every single kill I've ever done has been a person that has earned the misfortune of dying by my bullet.
And Calvin Figureira is my next mark.
5
Please
Tamryn
Game Night
"Pleaseletmewashup," I dare to whisper, keeping my eyes downcast lest he think I'm being too bold.
Stupid bitch. Why would you say that? Now he might hurt you…
I fight not to place my hand between my legs to alleviate the itch in the crease where my thighs meet my mound. The Captor stands at the porcelain sink in the master bath, wiping a towel over his hair roughly, and then down his face, neck and chest. Clean from a shower, his skin flushes pink from the humidity of the room.
I take a small hand towel and wipe it over the vanity, collecting all the spray droplets and then place it to the side.
"No, Camilla. You know I enjoy your smell," the Captor says simply, wetting his toothbrush. He pauses, flicking his eyes to mine in the reflection of the rectangular mirror. "Is the lamb cooked?"
The clipped, warning tone of his voice causes a tremor of trepidation to shudder down my spine, and I lower my eyes demurely. "Yes, sir."
"Is it cookedright?"he asks in a stern tone.
"Yes, sir." I immediately abandon any thought of asking him for a bath.
His eyes leave mine, and as he puts the toothbrush in his mouth I swallow thickly, so desperate to clean myself that I'm tempted to take this towel I just cleaned the sink with and wipe between my legs.
He's fucked me every day for the past four days, and my smell has become more and more pungent. The uncomfortable itchiness is beginning to be unbearable.
