Page 43 of Fragile Facade
TO SHARE AN AWKWARD LAUGH
GHOST
Gregory Malone is screamingbecause Axel Graves is making him relive the day we threw him in his cell at the asylum. He flinches, remembering the daggers and throwing knives that embedded in his body as we caught him in Neon Demon, and then he’s verbally begging his wife to reconsider his punishment. He’s telling her his pension isn’t worth letting him rot for two years, and then he’s crying when she makes that choice anyway.
“Isn’t he a sexy thing?” Kyd asks.
“He’s a piece of shit stalker who is nothing more than Axel’s plaything and Remiel’s punching bag,” Krypt answers, not great at picking up social cues.
“Not him, Krypty. My boyfriend.” Kyd’s eyes scan the length of Axel’s impeccably dressed body. Who the hell wears a suit by choice? Especially in a place as dark and dank as this? Who sees him for him to want to look good?
I’ve been watching the doctor long enough now to realize his eye isn’t lazy. It’s focused and alert, the same as his other eye. It’s just his eyelid that flutters sometimes, especially when he tries to make eye contact. When he’s watching his research, looking through scans or scopes, it’s as sturdy as anyone else’s. Maybe he’s just awkward and used to being alone with his brain-dead patients instead of interacting with rational-ish people.
“What’s the plan for Malone?” I ask.
“Better be death in two years,” Krypt says, never taking his eyes off Malone.
Remi is in front of him, back to his chest, with Krypt’s arms wrapped around him, but not in a loving way. More a possessive, don’t fucking move, kind of way.
“He’s practice,” Kyd answers. “Dr. Hottie gets to test new techniques on him, and then he throws him back in his cell to try those techniques on the Reaper Corp captives. Fun on fun on fun!”
“Your idea of fun impresses me, Kyd.”
We all turn when Riot walks up. Dressed in black tactical pants, an open black jacket, and a white t-shirt, he slips into his casual, sexy persona—the one that draws him all sorts of wanted attention, gets him invites, and charms the pants of anyone he sets his sights on. His hair isn’t as long as Krypt’s, but it’s just as unruly, slightly wavy, and hangs haphazardly over his forehead, framing his steely eyes and masking them when he needs it to. His lips, pulled into his trademark grin, draw my eyes. Because fuck, those lips have been wrapped around my cock and coated in my cum…
Riot’s grin widens when he catches me looking. I look away… because I won, right? Whatever sick fucking game that was last night, I won. I got the blowjob. I got free. I took power. That means I won. Though the smugness flowing from him doesn’t come across as defeat.
“What happened?” Remi asks, nodding at Riot’s bandaged hand and the slight cut on his neck.
Riot’s eyes shift to mine, and something weird happens. A pause. A temporary truce that feels a lot like an inside joke. A lightness from the memory of the way he swallowed around my cock while his hand stayed fastened to the countertop.
“Someone pinned me exactly where they wanted me,” Riot answers.
Now my blood burns. Fuck him. That’s not where I wanted him, but it was the only place to put him when I needed to win the round. Krypt and Remi look between the two of us, but Kyd keeps his eyes on Axel’s ass. I sense their attention, but I don’t look. I’m too busy having a malevolent stare-down with Riot. He’s challenging me to dispute what he said, and a part of me wants to, but… I still fucking won, and maybe that’s enough to make me match his grin. As soon as I do, his widens into something genuine, and the two of us laugh.
“The fuck?” Krypt asks.
I stop laughing right away because it feels weird. I don’t have jokes with Riot. I don’t have anything but dares, challenges, and twisted games with him. This is just another one of those games, but lately, instead of them being exciting and dangerous, they’re thrilling and sexy. Like, who the fuck paralyzes a guy in his future gravesite and then uses his dead hand to jerk off? Riot, that’s who, and I’m a little impressed by his creativity for the dead arm handy.
Gregory Malone screams, shattering the moment. Well, their moment. Riot is still looking at me, and for whatever reason, I’m still looking at him.
You had a knife this whole time and never cut yourself down.
Fuck, does that mean he won?
“Hey, sweetheart,” he purrs, stepping closer. The definition of his chest and abs is obvious through his white t-shirt, and because the fabric is so light, I can see the outlines of his tattoos through the material. “How’s your neck?”
“How’s your throat?”
“Barely raw.” He tilts my chin, looking at the red, abrasive line under my jaw from his noose. “Can’t say the same for yours.”
I smack his hand away but butt my chest up to his. His masks fall away, and the real, mostly raw Killian comes out to play. “True or false, Riot?” I whisper. “You spit whatever was left of my cum on your cock and jerked off with it as soon as you left, didn’t you?”
“True. True or false, Ghost? You jerked off again when you got back.”
My grin is wicked and it makes me feel more alive than I was a second ago. “True.” I reach up and pull down on his bottom lip, watching the corners of his mouth open. It pleases me to see they’re a bit bloody and cracked, like I forced my cock down his throat so hard his lips split in the corners. I smile about it before I drag my thumb over his lip and let it go. “Maybe you’ll be the one who begs.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “But I have a feeling whatever front you’re putting on right now is gonna crack in half soon.”
