Page 4 of Wicked Spite
Someone like her, wild, untamed, and crazy, needs a better name. Should have one. Nothing so simple as the most common fucking name in the country. It’s no doubt a fucking fake, which means you’re hiding, running, or both from something.
For a second, one wild fucking moment I flash to seeing her name as Reagan Blackwood.
Now that’s a fucking name. It tastes like fire and ash on my tongue as I whisper it once before shaking the idiotic thought from my head.
Absolutely the fuck not.
I adjust my baseball cap, hiding a smirk. Men and women, they’re good for one thing: their mouth holes. My mind flickers briefly to Reagan’s full lips and a thrill courses through me. They’d look good wrapped around me as long as she doesn’t mind a little curve right down her throat.
“Hey there,” a voice interrupts. I glance up to see some random guy standing by my booth, a cocky grin on his face. “What’s your kink and can I buy you a drink?”
Well, isn’t he bolder than brass? I wonder how he’ll hold up.
“I am the kink.” I raise an eyebrow, letting sarcasm drip from my words. “Sure, rich boy, I’ll let you slum it with me. Buy me a drink.”
The guy’s eyes light up, clearly turned on. He slides into the booth next to me, practically purring with excitement. Amusing. I place my hand on his thigh, trailing it upwards slowly. His breath hitches, anticipation clear in his eyes.
“How’s this for some kink?” I whisper, pressing my switchblade against his balls. His eyes widen, fear flooding his pupils, and I feel myself get hard.
God, they’re always so gullible and easy.
“Whoa, man, what the fuck?” he stammers, the initial bravado fading fast.
“Just a little fun,” I reply with a wild grin. “Now, fuck all the way off before I decide to make this permanent.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking crazy!” he scrambles out of the booth, tripping over himself in his hurry to leave. I lean back, laughing softly.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” I taunt in a maniacal tone, thoroughly enjoying the moment. “You’re missing out on all the fun!”
How pathetic.
My gaze returns to Reagan, who’s now hopped up onto the bar top, her tight, fine ass perched confidently up there. Her long legs swing gracefully against the rough, weathered wood. My eyes trace her curves as she perches there, like a queen surveying her kingdom.
A guy steps between her thighs, clearly enthralled by her presence, and I can’t fucking blame him. She commands a room without even trying and if this was a different scenario I’d be halfway in her mouth by now. She grips the fucking guy’s chin, tilting his head back and grabbing a bottle of tequila.
“Open wide,” she teases, her voice husky over the din of the bar.
As she pours it into his eager mouth, I can’t help but lick my lips, imagining the burn of the liquor and the exhilaration of having her long legs wrapped around me.
He swallows, throat working visibly as the liquid disappears.
“Atta boy,” she purrs, before flinging her hand out and slapping him right across the face. The sharp crack echoes through the bar, mingling with the amusement and chatter as the guy and his friends all burst into laughter. Her own little crazy grin spreads across her face. A mirror of the madness I feel bubbling inside me.
“Fuck yeah,” I mutter, feeling a rush of excitement that demands immediate attention. Adjusting myself, I can’t help but think about how I should’ve made that guy from earlier suck my dick before scaring him off with my knife.
As I watch Reagan laughing with her adoring patrons, I can’t help but think about how it’s such a shame I have to kill her. Staging an accidental overdose feels so pedantic and impersonal.
“Fucking Graham,” I grumble, remembering how he was the only one of my brothers who wasn’t sex-distracted. Level-headed, responsible—basically, a fucking buzzkill.
It’s night four, I remind myself, tapping my fingers rhythmically against the table. Four is my lucky number. Tonight will be the night. I’ll follow her, and I’ll kill her. Simple, efficient, boring.
So goddamn boring. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the thrill? I don’t even get a single drop of blood. I’m going to have to take a stupid fucking job from Robert just so I can let loose.
I guess that’s why they call it work. I lean back in the booth once she hops off the bar and goes back behind it. My gaze fixates on her once more, watching her every move, every flicker of that wild spirit. Reagan Smith deserves better than an unremarkable end.
It’s almost enough to make me reconsider.
Almost.
