Masked (Darker Steamy Shorts #3)

Chapter 1

RICKON

All Hallows Eve.

Such a splendid time of year.

For most, it’s a night to don a mask, rush into the streets, and terrorize the neighborhood for treats or tricks. Show your dark side without consequence.

For me, it’s the one night I can take the mask off.

And how better to kick off the celebrations, than kicking in someone’s teeth?

“I’m disappointed that you made me come here tonight, Johnny.

Thought we had an agreement,” He’s sitting.

I’m standing. A tactic from the good old days I haven’t yet learned to shake.

In my younger days, it made me feel powerful.

Scare them by making myself bigger than I already am.

Puffed chest, flared nostrils, narrowed eyes, carrying dark intentions.

But time has a way of disabusing silly notions. I’m not scary because I’m tall, big and mean looking. I’m terrifying because of the destruction I leave in my wake.

“We did. Do. It’s just—”

I can smell his fear. Stale sweat and dry piss. A God’s bouquet.

“Don’t bother wasting your breath on excuses. I’ve heard ‘em all before.” A .38 Special sits heavy in one of my hands, a bullet it in the other.

Only one bullet, held into the light to convey its authenticity. Spun around to give it dimension. If I hadn’t tied his hands to the chair already, I’d have him hold it. Feel the weight and sting of cold brass against his fingers. Make him understand that he’s found himself in quite the pickle.

He looks as long as he can manage. Observes, cowers, and recoils.

I slot the bullet into the .38 Special. Roll the cylinder around with my palm so neither of us know where it lands. A classic start to a round of Russian Roulette, but we’re not gambling tonight. It’s all for show. To get under his skin and bury myself in his mind.

See, the wraps around his wrist aren’t fastened very tight, and in a minute, this poor fool has a choice to make. One that opens my options on the best way to deal with him.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” No reason not to be polite while I wait for it to happen.

“Sure,” he says, on the verge of tears. “But come on, Rickon, what are we doing here?”

“Gave you a finger and you took the hand.” I rest the gun on the table in front of him. “Time to take my pound of flesh.”

Shouting upstairs. Mrs. Gilford, on the phone to the cops, probably. It’s the second voice I can’t place. Someone soothing the potentially soon-to-be widow. Whoever it is, she sounds pleasant. Kind.

The revolver stays on the table and I head to a cart a few chairs over. Atop it, a fancy bottle with Aqua on the label, three tall, thin drinking glasses and a silver tray carrying a lot of weight on its back to make this shit hole restaurant look fancy.

“How does the owner let you live above ‘em, if your old lady’s shouting, screaming and clopping her feet against the cheap wood floors, John?” I pour, never bothering to look over my shoulder at him.

Might be a strange reaction having a weapon in arms reach. Might be I’m a little insane. Might be needing a grave for two on a job that should’ve been done and dusted twenty minutes ago.

Any moment he could free himself, lift it and shoot me. Kill me dead where I stand, right?

Wrong.

Safeguards are in place to mitigate the risks. An obstructed barrel is all it takes to ensure my safety. If he’s got big enough balls, he’ll squeeze that trigger until the bullet fires, malfunctions against an inch of welded steel, and blows his hand off.

Still, there’s a chance it all goes horribly wrong.

My survival odds are around ninety-six percent.

The rest is split between a malfunction that leaves a hole through my chest, or some other freak accident I couldn’t account for in my calculations.

Something stupid like tripping onto a steak knife that pierces my heart.

Nothing in life can ever be one hundred percent certain.

And it’s the gamble that keeps things fresh. Makes them exciting.

You might think kicking the shit out of people for money is a fun gig. Most are too scared to fight back because I’m big, scary and in control. I’m taking candy from fat, sweaty babies, and you’d think it would be sweeter for it.

It isn’t. It’s stale and boring.

So, from time to time, I roll the dice. Level the playing field a little. Test the limits of the man sitting opposite me. See if they have what it takes to do anything for survival.

“They’re not usually so loud,” he’s quivering. It rings out on his voice. I’m sure I’d see him shaking like a leaf if I turned around. “Margaret’s in a bit of a panic over your visit, is all.”

“You told her you’d take care of it?” Spinning on my heels, I face him squarely.

He hasn’t moved from his chair. Didn’t loosen his wrists and reach for the revolver.

How disappointing. “That we were having a pleasant conversation downstairs. That you’d square me off with promises of payment and I’d be satisfied? ”

“Yes.” Shame floods his face. Turns him redder than a cherry tomato.

“Then why the panic?” I walk over, set his drink on the table, and collect my gun.

“Yo—” He clears his throat. Takes a moment to consider his words. “It was noisy when the restaurant cleared out. She probably heard it and—”

“Thinks I’m going to kill you.” I cut in before he can dress it up in nicer words. No more lies and sugarcoating. We don’t have all night to play this game.

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s her lucky day.” I lift the glass up to his mouth and let him drink to half. What he doesn’t want after the first sip, spills off his face and onto his shirt. “You’re not going to die.”

“I’m not?” Relief replaces his red-faced regret.

“I’ll never understand that reaction. The implication of death drives men like you to pay me, sure. But what kind of business would I be running if I killed all my clientele before they could pay me?”

He gulps, noticing the shift in my tone. Momentary playfulness, replaced by the severity that brought me here.

“Give a dead-beat, down on his luck dock worker four grand? I won’t be crying if I lose it.

” I tuck the pistol into my pocket and crack my knuckles.

“Do it for ten, twenty, a hundred of ‘em? That’s a lot more than a drop in the bucket. If I iced every one of you who couldn’t pay me back on time, before long, I’d be where you are now.

Asking handouts from men I shouldn’t be fucking with. ”

I take a few steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. Each one making him shrink further in fear.

“So, no, you’re not going to die tonight.” I grab his shirt and tie in a fist. “But there are a lot worse things in life than death. Hurting being rather high on that list.”

“Wha—”

I cut him off with a blow to the temple. His eyes gloss over, stunned by the impact. Second strike connects with the bridge of his nose. Something cracks against my knuckle. Third and fourth open the flood gates, and a stream of red gushes from his nostrils and a cut on his lip.

Letting the pain and reality of his situation set in, I grab him by the scruff of the neck. His whimpering’s back, though this time it isn’t out of fear of dying. It’s because my message is starting to set in.

By the end of tonight, he’ll be begging for death instead of another round with me.

“I’ve been patient, Johnny boy. Mighty patient,” I squeeze his neck, feeling the fat contort and twist between my fingers. My free hand waggles a finger in front of his nose. His eyes barely keep up with its movement.

His head lazily shifts away from my finger, his dullard stare meeting mine. “I understand, Rickon.” Defeated, distraught, on the verge of collapse.

“Do you?” I hit him again. This time a slap, hard enough to make his jowls jiggle.

If this weren’t the serious bit, I would’ve chuckled.

“’cause soon enough, your luck’s gonna run out.

And your wife’s screeching won’t come from what might happen.

It’ll be at the coroner’s side while he hauls your fat ass out of here in a body bag. ”

The slap woke him up just in time to hear my threat and take it in. No minced words. Sometimes, that’s the way it has to go.

“Next week. I won’t let you down,” he says.

“Next week it is.” I release him.

But before I get my chance to leave, a bell above the restaurant’s door notifies me that someone has entered.

No look needed, I draw the .38 Special, and train it on whoever entered.

Sure, I can’t shoot it, lest I want my hand blown off in the process, but I find the threat is often enough to deter even the goodest of Samaritans.

A yelp of fear from a female voice makes me regret my decision to draw. Johnny, for all his crimes against common sense, deserves this. His wife, does not.

Shit.

I lower the gun and face the woman.

But that isn’t Margaret.

She has the same facial structure, soft, dainty and elegant, but no wrinkles and lines from a hard life lived. Even through the black paint covering half her face, no doubt the foundation of her Halloween outfit, I can see how pretty she is.

Her dazzling blue eyes sparkle in the ambient yellow restaurant light. Tears welling in the lids amplify their sparkle. Make them shine like precious diamonds coated in muddy, black dirt.

Young, fit, and beautiful enough to floor me where I stand.

“Dad? Are you okay?” Her lower jaw chatters in a mix of fear and anger.

“Dad?” I echo.

You’re telling me this sack of shit produced something precious? Man, if he’s up there, God has a funny sense of humor.

And I kinda like it.

“It’s okay, Baby. I’m fine,” Father of the year right here, putting on a brave face and lying to his girl.

“I don’t think she’s gonna buy that one,” I say. With his hands tied and his off-white shirt splattered with red, she’d have to be blind to miss it.

Realizing I’m not about to make another life-ending threat, the firecracker sprints toward us. She stops in front of me, slamming both tiny fists into my chest, using all her might to force me away from him. I give her credit for trying and take a sympathy step back.

She flops down beside her father and cups his bloody face in her hands, looking for any lasting damage. There won’t be any, once his broken nose and black eye heal.

I watch in silence as she inspects his wounds. More accurately, I watch her.

This close, I have a great view of her petite, athletic frame in the black leotard hugging every curve. Massive tits squeezed together and peeking out the top of it. Tight ass that has a perfect peach shape, begging for a spanking.

God damn, I love Halloween.

“What did you do to him?” Her ire is directed at me. She flicks her long hair out of her face, until it runs down her back in a river of blazing red curls.

“Hit him.” No use denying it.

Tears flood eyes, but they’re not of sadness. She’s pissed. Absolutely furious. My kind of woman.

“You’re a monster,” she yells while freeing her father’s hands. No caution or care for what I might do next.

A warrior’s spirit.

“It is the spooky season, Sugar. Time for my kind to crawl out of the woodwork and cause a little chaos.” Hmm. It’s not like me to act this way, especially with unwarranted interruptions. Then again, it’s not every day I get to beat a man and fall in love all at once.

“Fuck you,” she spits.

“Taylor,” Johnny raises his voice in some feeble attempt to settle her rage.

Taylor. Yeah, I like it. Fits her, somehow.

“Calm down,” he adds. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Make her beg and scream, perhaps?

And isn’t it just a wonderful idea. Something tells me it’s gonna happen sooner than either of them knows, only, it won’t be for her life.

It’ll be for more, more, more.

“No, fuck this. Fuck him.” Taylor roars with untethered rage. It ignites a spark in my belly that courses straight into my rock-hard cock. “I won’t let him walk all over you.”

Feisty. Fiery. Fantastic.

“Taylor, you can’t speak to Rickon like this,” Johnny says, hushed, whispering, as if I’m not close enough to hear. “He’s—”

“About to leave.” Man, I love cutting him off. I also have a decent sense of self-preservation, and if I don’t get out of here soon, this stunning little thing’s gonna cave my skull in. “We’ve got a deal. Don’t disappoint me again. Next time, I won’t go so easy on you.”

I start walking.

It doesn’t take long for them to stir behind me. The girl helping her father out the chair and him whispering promises of everything being okay. But that’s when I hear it. A shift in his voice that pricks up my ears.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. You’ve been excited about this party for months.” Johnny, if you weren’t a piece of trash, I could kiss you right now. “Don’t let my problems get in the way of your fun.”

“What? No, I’ll stay home—”

“Out of the question. You’ve been waiting for this all year,” he speaks with his dad voice. It’s a ploy to get Taylor out of the house. Give him and Mrs. Gilford some space to figure out how they’re gonna pay me back. “I want you to go. Have fun. You’re only young once.”

I remember those days.

Young, horny and dumb.

I’m about to turn forty though so it’s a good thing I’m still one of those two, or I might’ve been smart enough to leave this alone.

That’s why I get in my car, and instead of driving home and watching a movie, I start the engine, lie back in my seat and watch. Taylor drags her father out of the restaurant, his arm over her shoulder. They disappear behind a door leading to the stairwell up to their apartment.

My wait begins.

Because I’ll see you soon, Taylor.

Whether you know I’m watching, or not.