Chapter 8 Tati
Tati
The satisfaction that pumps through my veins at the sight of Griff’s dead body as a familiar sensation prickles my skin.
Ignoring it, I tap the earpiece, happy that we agreed to link our comms. “Did you hear me, sir?”
The word—almost a plea, packed full of sensuality, reflecting my growing need for release.
Focus Bitch! Your work isn’t done.
Shifting my attention away from my wanton wayward thoughts, I take in my human pinata.
I pause, mulling over my analogy. “Hmmm. Maybe he’s more T-ball than pinata since he’s stuck on the pole?”
Whatever he is, I need to move my ass before Brax gets a kill. I lock in, grounding myself, and get to work.
Extremism is a cult—a parasite that latches on to the altruistic, seeing everything in black and white, willfully ignoring the shades of gray that actually make up societal norms. It will teach those of weak minds that their martyrdom will drive the cause forward, upsetting the base and fueling the revolution that will bring about a “just society.”
But what is a just society?
Grunting, I swing Guilie and bask in the squish made once she connects with Griff’s unmasked face, the barbed wire ripping off chunks of his flesh as tissue and blood splatter all over the place.
An eyeball hangs slightly out of its socket, and I can’t help but flick it, chuckling when it bounces around.
Then, I do it again, and yet again, fully amused each time it smacks the caved-in portion of his head.
“Bet you didn’t expect your eyeball would be used to play Tether Ball,” I snark, allowing myself to drift into another ramble.
Is it the people in power influencing the laws to bend in their favor, trampling on the rights of so many as their pockets get fatter?
Or…
Is it the voice of the people being heard, but not seeing change?
Even engrossed in a myriad of thoughts, I reach around, ensuring his mask is still in my back pocket before dropping my bat.
Sometimes, the voices of many do more harm than good.
They shout the loudest, drowning out the truth with their propagandized extremist beliefs.
The expectation—the people to follow without thought—puppets ruled by the puppet master.
Ill-equipped for judgment—voices borrowed, not earned.
If people vote on things they don’t truly understand, how can the masses determine the fate of the informed?
“It’s all lies,” I huff, wielding a machete.
My body hums to life with each chop through muscle, cartilage, and bone I make. I find myself pondering the complexity of humans, and it has me ready to ride on someone’s dick… face—shit, even fingers at this point.
Brax immediately comes to mind when thoughts of riding anything—because when I do ride, I want to come hard… with the kind of force that feels like my Rose cranked to the max—pulsing, ruthless, and instant—immediate squirting.
“You should be in the majors with a swing like that.”
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
I don’t turn, recognizing his gait long before he speaks a word. Brax stops next to the trench. “Which team do you think would draft you?”
“You’d better hurry your ass up, and not worry about my batting technique,” I retort.
There’s a pause, and he must have squatted down because his voice sounds closer and crisper the next time he speaks. “Don’t you worry about me, little fox. Watching you run circles around this merry band of sickos is probably one of the best parts of my day.”
Cutting through the last of the skin attaching Griff’s head to his shoulders, I yank and turn before it gives way.
Despite the sharpness of my blade, there are still chunks of flesh scattered amongst the blood, pooling at the base of the spiked pole, before being sucked into the tainted soil.
If this were a fantasy novel, some curse would either have been lifted or cast at the blood offering.
“Then you need to reevaluate what constitutes ‘best,’” I offer, imagining hundreds of things that would make my day. My pussy clenches as if it’s raising its hand to answer the question or to say, “Pick me.”
Down, lady boner.
Needing a distraction, I hold Griff’s head in my palm, ignoring crimson running down my arm as I dig my gloved hand into the base of his skull, pondering which it would be.
Cast—definitely cast.
There’s no chance this sack of shit’s blood could ever lift any curse. Especially not after everything he’s done. The way he killed my—
Don’t!
The command roars, stopping all thoughts from going back to that night.
Tonight’s about justice—it’s about vengeance and restitution.
Clenching my teeth, I sneer under my mask, giving Griff a final look before I chuck his head out of the pit. Then, I grip the exposed rock, using it for leverage as I kick forward, lodging my toe into the dirt wall of the ditch.
I’m nearly to the top when hands wrap around my forearm and pull me up until we’re chest to chest. Well, as chest to chest as one can be with someone almost a foot taller than me.
Sparks shoot up, down, and everywhere at our closeness. The frenetic beat of my heart thumps so loudly I swear he can hear it.
“Me too, little fox. Me too,” he murmurs, and I’m grateful for my mask as I’m about as red as one can get.
The growl in Brax’s voice is enough to make my knees give out. It’s deep and raspy, and each inflection is like a flick to my clit.
Fuck, he’s unnerving me.
His left hand grips my waist with a possessiveness that feels like home, while his right hand travels down my back in a caress that feels like it belongs only behind closed doors. A swirl of emotions batter at my chest—unfamiliar and unwanted, unfurling like a feline stretches before a nap.
I don’t do feelings—especially not these feelings.
Give me anger, rage, and three sides of chip on my shoulder. These are the only things I want to feel.
Horny—you can’t forget the horny, bitch.
Snorting, I savor my sassy ass thoughts before pulling away from the cesspool of emotions Brax is trying to drown me in.
Refusing to be distracted, I step out of his reach and mutter, “Thank you.” Then, I scoop Griff’s head up, tossing it in my duffel before hightailing it as far from Brax as I possibly can.
“You can run, little fox, but you can’t hide—not from me… not from this… from us.” His laughter lingers, niggling in my ear like a gnat that refuses to die.
I’m just outside the perimeter of the Gordons’ property when I slow to a jog until I ultimately stop.
“Where the fuck did Griff go?” a voice I’d recognize in any state barks as I climb the tree.
“That idiot is probably fucking whichever whore he got until he kills her too,” Fredrick states.
Humming, I mumble inaudibly, “If by fucking to death, you mean his own, sans fucking, then yeah.”
“Now isn’t the time for his bullshit,” Mikah spits. “We need to switch gears. I think Talia’s here.”
Of course I’m here. Who else will make you regret the day you were born?
It takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to jump from this tree and flip them off before turning this into a battle of wills. Instead, I listen with rapt attention.
“It doesn’t really matter now, Mikah,” Jackson declares. “We need to get rid of this livestock first, and then we can hunt her down. We already know she’s not leaving here alive.”
Mikah’s head whips left so quickly, I think it may just snap. And we can’t have that—it’s mine to break.
Grunting, Mikah nods, “Fine. But if he’s not back by the time we do, I’ll kill, stuff, and mount him to my goddamn wall.”
Mikah’s anger is palpable, emanating off him like waves during high tide, before he turns and runs off into the night.
“We really need to figure out a way to rein him in,” Jackson hisses.
My brow arches. The girlies are fighting.
“That’s a future us problem, Jackson,” Fredrick argues. “Tonight—tonight, we revel in the blood of our victims while we dance with their carcasses.”
I don’t think this one’s wrapped too tight.
“That’s weird. Even for you, Rick,” he exclaims as he runs in the opposite direction from Mikah.
Shrugging, Fredrick shouts, “I know you’re listening, Talia. I can smell the sweat that is uniquely yours.”
I don’t respond. There’ll be a time in the very near future when we’ll have our own special conversation.
His lips thin.
I know this dumb fuck didn’t think I was just going to jump down and make it easy for him.
“Fine,” Fredrick shouts. “I’ll have your pussy split in two just like I did your—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, instead opting to plaster on a smarmy smile before his Freddy Krueger mask is firmly in place. Then, like the two before him, Fredrick disappears into the night.
My skin feels too tight. The memory of my sister’s body. The horror of what unchecked power can do churns my stomach—rotting like whole milk sitting in the peak desert sun.
Fueled with rage, I hop down from my perch and verify the direction Fredrick disappeared in. Then, I secure Guilie to my back, ignoring the stench of Griff.
It’s time to squash a roach.