Page 13 of Three
So why the fuck did Phoenix ask to meet a mediocre hitman and then stand him up?
There must be something else. What am I missing? “What else?”
He suddenly laughs, a short irritating chuckle. “You know what I like most about my job? The excruciating pain I can create in a person’s soul while I’mworkingon their loved ones.” He coughs, spitting blood, but that unfortunately doesn’t shut him up. “They always beg me to stop, to take their lives instead, and blah, blah, blah. Why the fuck would I, when witnessing their unbearable agony is so sweet?” Another wheeze, and in the heavy silence, it sounds like a loud curse in church.
I’ve heard, seen, and experienced worse, could even say I’m used to it. I’m blasé, almost unaffected, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to listen to this crap.
I tighten my fingers on the skewer, and wrapping my other hand around his neck, I start pushing the sharp wooden tip into the donor’s stomach.
“It is indeed sweet. Now be a dear and describe in detail how this skewer slowly sliding inside you and perforating your organs feels.” His only answer is a gasp and a weak croak followed by a splutter.
“Concise, but I’m afraid I’m going to need words.” I grab the other skewers, and one by one, I keep piercing him like a cheating ex-boyfriend’s voodoo doll.
The others are watching the show without delivering any comment, and I should be one hundred percent invested in what I’m doing since my succubus will soon suck away my senses again.
But it’s as if I left my mind in that alley with Grizzly. Can’t stop thinking about him. He piqued my already very heightened curiosity to another level. I’ll know everything about him before the sun rises.
I need to.
Every single thing.
HUNTER
With a twist of my wrist the bike roars, leaping forward.
My vivid black Harley Nightster is going one hundred miles an hour. Perfect speed for this time of day—or rather, time of night—whenkids are safe in their beds, to let the monsters creep around.
The gravel road ahead stretches in the dark.
I squeeze the throttle and rev it, tucking myself against the tank as I pass a slower old Ford Explorer. I’m driving along the moving car when it suddenly swerves into my lane. It forces me onto the side of the road, and I fight to keep the bike upright, guiding the wheels back to the lane. I look up just in time to see a bunch of four-by-four wooden planks lying across my lane a few feet ahead. I automatically press the rear brake pedal and feel my Harley’s tires losing friction on the paved surface, the back one starting to spin.
I grip the front brake and shift my weight to the rear, yanking the handlebars to the right with force. My body gets abruptly thrust to the left, but I hold tight, putting my foot down for balance. The squeal of rubber sliding on the road is quickly followed by a cloud of smoke coming from the back of my bike as it stops parallel and a few inches away from the pile of planks.
The smell of bike exhaust and burnt rubber fills my lungs, bringing some easiness to my racing heart. I let out a long, relievedfuck. And just then, I remember the old Ford. I turn my head toward the road over the wood and see two red taillights recede and disappear into the darkness. It’s too damn dark to get a good look at the plate.
My eyes fall back to the planks. They lie all over the road, leaving only a very narrow space to pass by. Whoever was behind the wheel of that gray Explorer knew what he was doing. Remarkable skills or damn luck? And why did they almost push me off the road?
They didn’t even stop.
I lower the kickstand and pull my helmet off before dismounting to check that my baby has no scratches on her. Luckily, she’s fine.
I unzip my leather jacket and grab my phone from the inside pocket, dialing 911. I don’t want to make the call. But I can’t just go and hopethat a patrol car will pass by. This road is never busy at night, but it's too dark, and someone could get hurt. So, the police it is.
After a very quick anonymous call, I wait fifteen minutes, during which no car drives by, before seeing the unmistakable glow of the red and blue cop lights in the distance.
Since I’m already late and I’ve done my redeeming good deed of the day, I quickly straddle my baby, and after firing her up and enjoying her low, deep-throated, somewhat syncopated vibration—such a distinctive, sexy sound—I pull on the clutch. I pick up speed as I head up the road, revving the engine and flying past blurry buildings, enjoying the last minutes of my ride.
An image of the redhead from two nights ago starts a flutter low in my belly. I thought he was a beggar when he turned up in the alley. That long unkempt beard was ridiculous. His playful, flirty attitude was such a contrast with his smooth and vicious fighting style. That caught my interest, even though I know that guy is bad news. He took August Baker—his brother, Marcus, told me all I needed to know after I broke both his knees and some ribs—and threw him in a blacked-out van while his blond accomplice sedated the fucker.
And he did it all while checking me out with those gold-brown eyes.
I shift gears, slowing as I take a turn to the left onto a local road. I ease into the brake as the bike comes to a crawl and then stops in front of the cemetery gates. It’s closed at night, but that’s the only time I come here.
I hang my helmet on the bike’s handle and walk to the brick wall that surrounds the graveyard. I let my fingers stroke the stones until I feel the depression in one of them. A hole perfectly sized for the tip of my boot. I quickly climb the wall, using a nearby tree branch to haul myself up, it slightly cracks under my heavy weight, and then I jump down on the other side. My boots land on soft grass, and I straighten, checking the surroundings. The small flashlight hanging withmy keys isn’t necessary—I’ve come here so many times in the last years I could walk in the dark and still find her grave—but I turn it on anyway.
A gust of wind suddenly hits my face, and the fragrances of greenery and dry flowers assault my senses. My brown boots stop near a bench, and I sit, leaving the flashlight near my knee on the wooden seat, pointing right at the tombstone.
Loretta Mary Jefferson. 2001—2018. Loving daughter. Left us too soon, the epitaph reads.
