Page 33 of The Misfits
Leaving me hanging.
I’m snapped from my thoughts when Dexter’s feet slap the floorboards. After securing a pair of tiny jeans from a discarded bag, he throws them at my head. “Put these one, then get in the car. We have a long trip ahead of us.”
Gone is the man who devoured me whole using only his eyes, replaced by a man who looks like he wants to carve out my liver and eat it for dinner.
Remaining quiet, I yank on the skintight jeans. I hate his silence, but I have no way of ending it. I haven’t uttered a syllable in such a long time, I’m beginning to wonder if I know how.
When Dexter spins around to gather the bags left on the floor, I sneakily close the razor and slide it into my jeans pocket. “You’ll need more than a two-inch blade to take me down,” he warns, startling me. After pivoting to face me head-on, he continues, “But I’ll give you half a point for attempting to fight.”
I run my thumb over the razor’s blade. It’s so sharp, I’m certain one nick to the artery pulsating in Dexter’s throat would drop him to his knees. But for some reason unbeknownst to me, I didn’t secure the razor to hurt him. I took it to protect him.
“There you go with that look again, Megan,” Dexter half-growls, half-moans. “A little angel with a heart as black as death rushing in to save me.” He helps me to my feet, his movements not as abrupt as earlier. “You already killed a man for me. You don’t need to prove your devotion any more than that.” He taps my bottom in the same manner my father did to my mother before things went sour, then exits the cabin. “If you’re not in the car before me, find your own way to Ravenshoe.”
Trusting his threat, I snag my medication off the floor and skirt past him before he’s even halfway out the door.
eleven
DEXTER
Megan sits in silence the first four hundred miles. That isn’t surprising considering she’s mute, but she’s not communicating in a non-verbal way either. She’s mad at me. I can’t fathom why? I’m traveling over twelve hundred miles to take her to the man she is obsessed with. I even made her presentable for him with fruity shampoo and a glistening snatch. She should be thanking me.
Megan is an attractive woman, but it’s obvious she was raised by a man. She doesn’t have a clue about seduction or how to make herself sexually appealing to the male eye. I guess that’s why she is so naïve? No one has ever paid her any attention.
She wouldn’t have an issue if she removed the psycho from her eyes and switched up her wardrobe occasionally.
Outside of her clothes…fuck.I don’t have any words. I rarely use the term beautiful, but I would for Megan’s body. I can still smell her seductive scent on my fingers. That’s why I’ve been scrubbing my stubble so rampantly the past several hours. I want her scent embedded in my skin so deeply it will have no chance of being removed.
I grip my steering wheel tightly, annoyed at my train of thought. This isn’t the first fucked-up one I’ve had today. It’s not even the second.
I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. It’s been years since I’ve had a cunt presented before me like that, but even then, none smelled as amazing as Megan’s. It was a little musky with a hint of spice. I’m certain it will taste as good as it looks and smells.
The restraint it took not to carve my name into her bare snatch was one of the biggest battles I’ve undertaken. I didn’t just want to warn other men to back the fuck away. I was aspiring to discover if her blood smelled as erotic as her cunt. I should have done it. I should scare her to within an inch of her life, then maybe she’ll stop peering at me from beneath lowered lashes.
Although, being denied her sneaky glances may agitate me more. I like her eyes on me and the way her teeth rake her lip when she peers at me like I’m a god. I can see she is confused, but for the most part, she’s eager to submit.
I think.
I honestly don’t know. This chick is messing with my head, fucking me over better than any medication I’ve swallowed. I’m getting edgy, which is bad. Bad shit happens when I let my brain run wild. That’s how I got in this situation to begin with. I was so mesmerized watching the life in Cleo’s eyes drain when I took care of her bastard child, I let my game plan get away from me.
First, Richard fucked everything up by choosing Cleo’s life over his own. Then the undercover agent guarding Cleo’s house was a tank who refused to go down. You’d think six bullets would have stopped him sounding the alarm, but no, that fucker didn’t stay down even while carrying multiple bullet wounds. Next time I’ll aim for the wrinkled skin between his brow instead of watching his blood ooze from his stomach and spleen.
Megan’s eyes dart to mine when I abruptly yank my GTO down a dusty driveway. The hotel parking lot I’m pulling into is the standard two-star joint you find on every highway between New York and Florida. It’s dingy and cheap, making it the perfect location for me to realign the pieces of my chessboard.
If I don’t center myself, I’ll do something I will regret.
Revenge should be on the forefront of my mind, not wondering how loud Megan screams in ecstasy. The only good thing that has come from Megan’s attention is how occupied she’s keeping my mind. I can even say Marcus’s name without my blood boiling. It still simmers, but it’s nothing compared to the usual fury I feel.
What the fuck is this woman doing to me?
Maybe it is the drugs Lee gave me? He did hit me with a three-month supply in one night. Maybe I’m still tripping? It’s unlikely, but I’m open to any possibilities, no matter how fucking whacked they are.
I need to get my dick sucked. That will clear up my confusion.
The stitches in my back niggle when I clamber out of my car in front of the motel’s twenty-four-seven lobby. Megan remains seated, following the routine I enforced each time I stopped to pump gas or take a leak. The only time her ass lifted from its spot was when she used the bathroom one hundred miles into our trip. I made her pee in the bush. Not just because I’m an ass who was pissed she cracked my new phone, but because she has a highly recognizable face. It has occupied my dreams numerous times the past six weeks, and I’ve only ever seen her as a pawn to be used and discarded, so who’s to say some random won’t recall it? It has been flashing across news bulletins every hour on the dot for the past twelve hours.
Before throwing open the warped door, I lower a cap over my eyes. I can alter my face with a few days of stubble and a change in glare, but nothing can modify the scar above my left brow. I got it when my mother tried to drown me in the tub within hours of my birth. When my father wrenched me out of her arms to resuscitate me, my head smacked into the vanity.
The scar bothered me when I was a kid—more how I got it than its lightning strike design—but as I got older, my opinion of it changed. It reminds me why I am the man I am. It stops me from being weak and makes me strong. It is a constant reminder of how gods prosper and cowards cower.
