Chapter 8 Royce
ROYCE
The ride is fast, causing my hair to hang toward the earth, which feels miles away.
I am free. The only restraints are the ones crossing over my chest. Adrenaline is how I feel alive in my suppressed world.
Each deep breath welcomes fresh air to my lungs, and as the ride spins, the breeze flutters against my skin. I am happy.
Raising my arms, the ride circles around once more, and my body releases a therapeutic scream.
Embracing it, I squeeze my eyes shut and give it all I fucking have.
Passing the bottom, my body is upright, and my hair falls over my face but doesn’t stop me.
Thankfully, straps cross over my waist, ensuring the children and elders don’t get a full view of my coochie, compliments of my dress.
On the last spin, I relax into the bodyboard and just be for five more seconds. The seconds pass swiftly as the ride comes to a stop. It’s my turn to jump off. The carnival worker unbuckles me, and I hop onto the platform. His eyes are looking me over, more specifically my arms. The scars.
Pointing to my largest cut with a ridged scar that most definitely could have used stitches, I toy with him.
“I used hedge trimmers, nearly lost my arm.” He’s startled from my casual statement.
But I feel no shame. It’s him who should feel embarrassment.
His lips move, an apology about to follow suit, but I have no interest in hearing it and instead walk away, silently.
The guy is a goblin, and he should really be the last person to judge, but they are known for being pretentious assholes, just like Prince.
Beckham is waiting for me off to the side.
It takes a moment for my eyes to find him, and when I do, my lips stretch in a smile while my eyes take him in.
Biting my lip, I skip over to his strong body that’s leaning against the railing.
His arms wrap around my delicate frame while my face tucks into the crook of his neck.
Inhaling deeply, Beckham’s scent overwhelms me with familiarity and happiness, musk and wood.
Lips kiss the crown of my head, and I ease into him fully.
My home.
Small circles trace against my exposed back, and I wish for this to never end.
For us to be like this always. And for a few minutes, we get to feel what it always would feel like.
No one bothers us; time stands still while I wish for my dreams to come true.
But that’s the thing about dreams; they aren’t real, just our minds playing tricks on us, raising hopes while life crushes them.
But I’ll take these moments and remember them always.
The sound of laughing clowns and excitable children echoes in my ears. The distinct honk and then wheezing laughter give them away.
“Is my baby okay?” Beckham’s words make my body tingle.
My heart nearly skips a beat as I nod into him. “Yes, I just like it here.”
His arms squeeze around me tighter, keeping me safe. “Me too.”
The words are simple yet powerful. He chose me, just as I chose him. Two things I’ll never take for granted.
We stay together, intertwined, until a freezing gust of wind prickles our skin. Shivering, Beckham’s hands rub against my skin, and I can feel the entire mood shift, not just with us but all of Fright Night.
Raising my head, I glance at the worried faces. Parents hurry their kids back toward the exit, and teenagers walk cautiously forward with uncertainty.
Looking above, my brow furrows. Clouds are moving rapidly as birds chirp, flying in flocks back to the safety of the forest.
Beckham reads my mind. “I don’t know, Royce.”
He says my name instead of baby. I hate when he does that, and the brat in me wants to stomp my foot, but even I can read a room. This is serious.
The wind picks up, the fabric of the tents flutters, cracking sounds fill the silence, and the rides begin to shut down. More commotion follows as the main paths fill with more people. People still fill the tents; no one peeks out, they are oblivious.
Anxiety riddles my core, the tips of my toes digging into the gravel. Something is wrong.
Just as the thought races through me, a bright white flash fills the dark black sky. Loud screams, high-pitched enough to break a mirror or glass, join as the light remains illuminating.
Beckham’s hand grasps mine. “We need to go.”
Shaking my head, I still don’t understand.
“Baby, this one time, please, I need you to listen to me. This isn’t fucking good.”
The light goes out, the screams stop, and all the air from my lungs start getting sucked out.
Hunching over, desperate for breath, Beckham leans with me with panic ruining his gorgeous face.
Each time I try to inhale, my body deflates further, my chest begins to convulse, and tears of fear stream down my cheeks.
My lungs wheeze; I am dying. With heavy eyes, I begin to collapse as my body loses all strength.
Then, suddenly, the freezing breeze comes to an end, and I’m finally able to catch a breath.
Falling to the ground, gravel sticks to my face as I lie there shamelessly. Beckham grips my face. “Holy shit, you’re as pale as me… maybe even as white as a ghost, baby.” He’s scared. His tone tells all. And if he’s scared, then I should be fucking terrified.
PRINCE
The tiny vibrations of the tattoo machine against my neck are comforting. The needle pulsates against my spine with precision and purpose. And the tongue licking my cock from base to tip is a helpful distraction from the image of her being fucked senseless by that vampire fucker.
Dead man walking.
I’m aware he is technically unalive, but I’ll be the one to put the stake through his heart, killing him permanently.
Teeth tease my cock, soft lips following.
Predictable.
Gripping the bright pink, purple, and green hair, I push his mouth farther down. He gags, and I start fucking his face mercilessly. With hard thrusts into the back of his throat, my cock throbs.
A firm hand grips my shoulder. “Sit fucking still,” the artist growls through gritted teeth.
Asshole.
Drool drips down my new friend’s mouth, but I don’t let up, keeping my fingers firmly intertwined in his locks.
“You don’t get to breathe until I come.” A little motivation for him to work harder.
My cock restricts his airway, and subtle wheezing follows from the lack of oxygen, which brings a smile to my face. On the brink of death, choking on me, what a way to die.
His head bobs desperately.
My eyes hood, captivated by the power.
As the needle on my neck releases me from its pleasure, I allow my dick to come.
Ropes coat his throat, followed by more gagging and choking. “You will fucking take it,” I command, holding his head down as I ride the wave of release.
The tent surrounding us startles, rippling fabric followed by the howling of the wind. My arm hairs rise. A storm is coming.
This is all that remains of my gift, my power, the ability to detect when treacherous weather is looming ahead of time.
My balls empty, and my fingers release from the man’s head, allowing him to fall backward with a flushed face.
He coughs, catching his breath with my cum mixed with saliva and tears streaming down his chin and neck.
Shoving my cock back into my trousers, I stand to zip myself up.
The tattoo artist remains sitting, rolling his eyes at me, which I pay no attention to.
“Do you want to see?” he asks. I nod once in response.
I move to the long mirror, and he follows with a smaller one facing my neck. Her eyes reflect back at me. Staring into my soul, burnt into my brain.
Mine.
Satisfied, I step away, taking a wad of cash out of my pocket, and I pay him. I throw a few bills at the poor fuck still on the floor before me.
“Gentlemen,” is all I say before excusing myself.
Stepping outside, the carousel spins and spins, lights flashing off the figurines that children are riding on. A manic operator keeps pushing the large red button as frantic parents scream to get their children off.
The night is ominous.
My eyes shift as a flash of white light shines down upon us, feeding my soul and bringing life back into my veins. Fists clench, my chest tightens, and my muscles tense. Electricity is flowing through me as if I were hit directly by lightning.
Then it all stops. The wind. The light. The chaos.
The world is calm.
Breathing deeply through my nose, my eyes open, and a man points at me. “Oh my god, they’re white.”
Memories of New Orleans flash into view.
From moths fluttering around me to the humid air washing over me. Raising my arms, I embarked on a journey that changed the trajectory of my life. It’s what led me to Hollows Grove, to Agatha, to what’s mine. Royce. And I wouldn’t change a fucking thing.
I regret nothing. I crave it all more with each day that passes. And now, the all-too-familiar feeling coursing through my veins has returned.
I am free.