Page 32 of Dirty Quinn
He buries his head in his chest and shakes it.
“You are laughing, aren’t you?”
He turns his back toward me, standing up straight after a moment before pivoting to face me once again. “No, babe. I was not laughing. I would never make fun of your shite. I mean plight.” He convulses into laughter finally, loud guffaws that echo off the walls of my hospital room. I look around for something to throw at him.
“I’d make a poop joke here, but the one I have is really crappy.” He bends over at the waist, his hands on his knees, laughing so hard he coughs, trying to catch his breath. “Wait, wait, we could watch the movie constipation while you poop, except it never came out.” He continues to roar with laughter.
I’m trying to be angry with him, but it’s hard when he’s obviously enjoying this so much. Regardless, I steel my facial expression and wait until he’s finished.
“Are you through?” I ask.
“No, I got one more, wanna hear the poop pun?” He barely waits a moment before continuing, “Never mind, it’s too corny!”
Watching him in near hysterics makes my heart happy. I’m not happy about the two of us discussing my bowel movements or the aftereffects. But I know the last few days had to have been hard on him, and if I can give him a bit of brevity, I want to. So, I say nothing as he continues to poke fun and laugh at my expense. He saunters toward the bed and he controls his mirth, leaning down to kiss me lightly on the lips.
“Baby, there is no one’s ass I’d rather wipe more than yours.” He winks and returns to his chair, still chuckling to himself.
And it hits me—hard—just how head over heels in love I am with this man. I’m at my absolute worst and he still looks at me with such admiration shining in his eyes. We are stuck in a situation so fucked up we should be sinking in self-pity. And instead he tells me he’s happy to wipe my shitty ass, then he makes jokes about it.
How can Inotneed this man in my life forever? I’m keeping Mack as mine. No more taking it slow. The minute I can move without pain, I’m going to fuck the shit out of him.
No pun intended.
18
Reed
So far, the work I’ve done for Andrei has been about an inch onto the left side of the law. I justify it in my mind by reminding myself that it’s for the greater good. I’m doing what the FBI can’t. And if I’m to believe what Viktor says, the bureau not only knows about it, but they condone it. Which is why I’m able to take pleasure in beating the shit out of this guy in front of me.
I don’t know what he did specifically, and I don’t want to. I balked at first when Andrei asked me to take care of him until I heard he’d tried to sample the goods of the girl Andrei’s got tucked away. Which is one hundred percent against the rules. Andrei’s and mine. Because if there’s something I hate more than that oafish Russian excuse of a man, it’s men who abuse women.
Andrei couldn’t give a fuck; he just doesn’t like that the guy didn’t follow his orders. According to the thugs that brought him down here to me, they caught this guy just in time, whatever that means. There aren’t degrees of no. If the lady didn’t want it, the guy needed to leave it alone. Assault isn’t defined by penetration; it’s anything unwanted.
My fist glances off the side of his head, causing me to lose my step a bit. We were drinking vodka again this morning. A lot of it. That’s what we do, apparently. I try to keep a clear head every so often just for the fuck of it. The rest of the time, I give into the temptation that is the blur of the booze. Because it’s good to forget. Forget how I’ve treated Quinn. Forget the laughable excuse of a career I lost. And the absolute mess I’ve made of my life.
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d discover my best friend was trafficking women right under my nose, that I’d give in to blackmail and become some sort of Russian mafia errand boy, that I’d throw my entire career with the FBI in the toilet and be drinking to forget, I would have said you were fuck nuts crazy.
I stop to catch my breath and wipe my hands on a nearby rag. I can’t tell if the moisture on my hands is from blood, sweat, or the guy's abundant use of hair grease. Not gel. Grease.
For that all day dripping wet look, I suppose.
It’s not attractive on him, and it’s a fucking mess to deal with. The more he sweats and bleeds, the more it runs down his face and neck, under his shirt, pooling in his nether regions. Speaking of, part of me wants to cut this guy’s dick off. But another part of me doesn’t want to touch it.
I have an entire selection of instruments and tools to use, I’m sure one would hold his appendage without my having to touch it, but I’d have to unbutton his pants. And the very idea of that disturbs me. I’d have him do it, but judging by the way he sits slumped against the back of the chair I have him bound to, I don’t think he’s able.
If he were, I’m sure he’d be trying to break out of his confines. The duct tape has since loosened because of the bodily fluids he excretes and ice water I douse him with to keep him awake. We learned the basics of torture techniques in the FBI, but nothing like this. Nothing like what Andrei has down in this basement of his. Most of the implements of pain are self-explanatory, others I improvise with.
Like the tire iron looking thing with the hook on the end that I just impaled into the side of his neck, giving him a too easy way out of this. I tuck my fists into a bucket of ice water to take some of the sting away. That and the blood, more his than mine. His nose still drips from when I broke it, but the large gaping wound in his neck seeps more.
He’ll bleed out soon. It’s disappointing because I was kind of enjoying myself. But at the same time, it’s hella fucking exhausting trying to beat someone to death. I mean, I’m not in poor shape, but I’ve not been working out like I should, my diet lately is shit, and I’m pretty sure more vodka than blood is leaking through my pores. At least if the way I smell is any indication.
I should go for a run in the morning instead of chasing the hair of the dog with more hair. As someone who spent most of his life following the rules, doing everything right, believing in justice, and that right will always win out over wrong—well this new sloth-like alcoholic devil may care existence is a nice break from it all.
I wipe my hands for the last time on a cleanish rag and leave the body for someone else to take care of. Andrei didn’t specifically say I should kill the guy, but he also didn’t say I shouldn’t. I figure it’s his problem now and he can deal with it however he wants.
I leave the room and head down the drafty hallway, pausing near a door where I’m almost certain I hear a woman crying. I wonder if it’s Andrei’s woman, the one he’s so obsessed with. I try the doorknob, but not surprisingly, it’s locked. The minute I rattle it, the sobbing stops. She’s scared of whoever might come in, that much is obvious. With what she’s just been through—if it is the same woman—who can blame her.
Leaving well enough alone, I continue on down the hall and make my way up the cement stairwell toward daylight and civilization. If we’re to consider Andrei and his cronies civilization, that is.
