13. Judge
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Myla’s lying. She’s been gearing up for another kill for days; I could feel the change in her energy. Tonight must be the night, and she’ll need someone there when she comes home—if she comes home. I shake that thought away because losing Myla is unfathomable. Mounting my bike, I shoot off a text to Sugar, letting her know I’ll be out for the night. Like the protective mom she is, she likes to know if we plan to stay out all night so she doesn’t worry. I shake my head as I put my phone away. I’m a forty-two-year-old man, yet I still check in with my mommy when I leave the house.
The days are starting to heat up, making riding uncomfortable, but living in the high desert means cooler nights and right now, I’m thankful for it. To me, this is the best place in the world to live. I feel like I have a right to make that judgment since my studies have taken me all over the world. Still, I always come back to Reno. Even if I hadn’t found the Sons, I’d still probably live here.
It may be dark, but the heat that the asphalt absorbed during the day still radiates, warming my legs as I ride out to Myla’s apartment. There aren’t a lot of cars on the road since it’s too late for a meal and too early for the clubs and bars to let out, making it a faster-than-normal trip. I choose a parking spot around the corner from her place, hoping she doesn’t see it, and when I get to her door, I type in the code and let myself in.
Not wanting to alert her to my presence, I keep the lights off and settle on her sofa, perfectly content to be alone with my thoughts for however long it takes for her to get home. Straightening my spine, I rest my hands on my knees and quiet my mind, focusing on my breath. An image of the way Myla looked spread out on her bed with my face between her thighs crosses my mind, and I push it away. But being in her space, with her complex jasmine perfume invading my nose, makes it nearly impossible.
I’m consumed by a sick obsession, a twisted pull toward the woman I can’t seem to escape. Her mere presence renders me weak and exposed, two traits most would run away from, but I’ve learned to embrace painful vulnerability. There’s always something to gain from discomfort.
Minutes or maybe hours pass before I hear the unmistakable rumble of a Harley pulling in. I’ve long since given up meditating and instead turned my hyper-fixation on the woman I’m here to see. If I’m right about where she really was tonight, she might be in a bad place like she was last time. So does that mean I’m only here because I’m hoping to get laid or because I want to make sure she’s okay? Can both of them be true at the same time?
The sharp click-clack of Myla’s heels echoes through the stairwell, signaling her impending arrival. As she fiddles with the lock and enters the code, my heart races in my chest, a nervous lump forming in my throat. Myla’s always accusing me of being emotionless. But inwardly, I’m a tornado of feelings, constantly battling against the fa?ade I must maintain for everyone else’s sake. I may not show it, but I feel everything deeply. It’s what drives me to continue absolving others of their sins, even as those same sins weigh on my soul and threaten to consume me.
The door opens, and Myla walks through with purpose, slamming it shut and locking it behind her. She makes it four more steps before freezing, sensing something’s off. I’m not sure why, but I don’t move or speak. Slowly, her hand lowers to her purse. I can see the vague outline of her with only the light above her oven lit, but since I’m on the opposite side of the space, I’m hidden in the dark.
“You should know I’m armed.” Her voice remains steady, making me proud.
I catch a glint from something metal and realize she has a knife. That’s good. She should be prepared for anything, but I don’t want a repeat of last time. I might not get as lucky. Her heels click on the linoleum that the kitchen and entryway share as she steps toward the living room. She must not like that the sound gives her away because she pauses to remove the shoes. They must’ve been very tall heels because she shrinks quite a few inches. Without seeing her profile or features, she could be mistaken for a child with how small she is.
“I have no problem killing a motherfucker, so I suggest leaving now.”
I stand, sending her back a step. “It’s just me, killer.”
“Judge? Jesus Christ, I almost stabbed you.” She walks over to the wall and flips a switch, bathing us in light. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She ducks her head, puts away the knife, then turns to the side before lifting her chin. It feels intentional, like there’s something on the other side of her face that she doesn’t want me to see. What the fuck? I charge toward her, tipping her chin up to take in the bruising around her eye and her split lip.
Knowing what I’ll find, I unzip her leather coat and push it down her arms, then tug off her long-sleeve Henley. Underneath is a sparkly blue dress that’s bunched around her waist. I pull that up and off, leaving her in a black strapless bra. Her arms are covered in streaks of dried blood, and there are red splatters on her chest. I’m equally disappointed and pissed.
She has on a pair of black leggings that I lower to the floor and have her step out of. She doesn’t fight me, though she looks extremely uncomfortable, but I don’t think it’s because she’s nearly naked in front of me. I think it’s more about me knowing another of her secrets. I set the Henley and leggings on the linoleum to be disposed of later and drape the leather coat over the couch.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You know what happened.”
“Who did this to you?” I pinch her chin and turn her head to the side, inspecting the injuries from all angles.
“A man.”
“Why?”
“We had a disagreement. He thought he should stay alive, and I thought he should die. He got a couple swings in, but ultimately, I won the argument.”
“That was so stupid, Myla. Your DNA is probably all over his hand.”
“I doubt it because he backhanded me, but I wiped him down just in case.” She sniffles and blots her nose with a knuckle. It makes no sense why she’s doing this to herself. It’s clear it upsets her to end a life, but for some reason, she’s forcing herself to keep going.
“You sure he’s dead?”
“I cut his carotid.” It’s barely a whisper as she wraps her arms around herself.
“Go take a shower, and I’ll get an ice pack.”
She nods and heads to her room. I sigh and walk in the opposite direction to her kitchen. As I search for a plastic bag, it strikes me how odd this life of mine is. The woman I’m falling in love with is almost to serial-killer status, and that’s the least interesting thing about her. Meanwhile, I’m treating it like an inconvenience. I’m more worried about her getting wounded or caught than I am about the victims. In the Torah, it says, “Do to him as he had conspired to do to his brother,” and everyone knows the Bible quote about “An eye for an eye,” so in my opinion, these men made their beds.
Once the ice packs have been procured, I wait for her on her bed. The bedroom lights are still out, but she didn’t close the bathroom door, making it easy to look around her room. There have been changes since the last time I was here. The light, airy vibe is gone, replaced by something much moodier. Any shade of purple or white has been taken over by deep jewel shades of green and blue. It perfectly fits the version of Myla I know.
The water turns off, and seconds later, she’s standing in front of the mirror, her hair wrapped in some sort of turban. She avoids her reflection as she rubs body oil over her arms and legs before allowing the towel to fall so she can access the rest of her. I take a moment to appreciate the view because when you see a body like hers, it’s impossible not to notice. My cock thickens as she rubs the oil over her breasts and ass, making them shine like beacons in the night.
The last time she killed, I used sex and a night in my arms to bring her back from the brink. Is that what she needs tonight? I want to believe that I have the strength to resist her, to protect us both from sinking deeper into this destructive cycle, but I’m powerless against her. We are the epitome of a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any moment. Yet even as my own self-preservation instincts scream at me to run, I can’t stand by while she loses herself to this thirst for vengeance. So I’ll stay by her side, sacrificing my well-being in a desperate attempt to save her from herself.
Before I can second guess it, I’m on my feet and behind her, squirting some of the jasmine-scented oil into my palm and rubbing it into her shoulders and back. Her muscles are knotted up tight, and again, I wonder what happened to her tonight. I will find out, but first, I need to take care of her.
“That feels so good,” she moans, her head lolling on her neck.
“Come lie down on your belly.” I take her hand, a couple towels, and the bottle of oil.
“You don’t have to—” She watches from the doorway as I light the few candles she has on her nightstand and dresser before turning off the bathroom light, bathing the room in a gentle glow. A bed isn’t ideal for a massage, but I can make it work.
“Breathe with me.” I place my hand over her heart and bring one of hers over mine. It’s a little woo-woo, but I need to connect with her.
“This again?”
“Inhale.” I suck in air through my nose. “And exhale.”
I’m sure she’s used to being naked because of her previous job, but I’m still impressed with the way she can stand before me like this with so much confidence. Straightening her posture, she follows my lead, and I set an intention to give this woman peace of mind. Now that part is very woo-woo, but I feel the energy of her walls coming down and her heart opening.
“Now come with me.”
“Okay.”
I shake out the towels over her comforter. “I don’t want to ruin your new bedding with the oil.”
“Makes sense.” She lies on her stomach, her head turned away from me and her arms at her sides.
Squirting more oil into my palm, I warm it up before bracing a knee on her mattress and beginning her massage. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing—I’ve never given or received a massage—but the concept is simple, so hopefully the execution is too.
“What happened tonight? And don’t skirt around it because the only way our deal works is if I’m certain you’re safe,” I say softly.
She sighs and begins speaking, her words jumbled with her cheek mashed against the bed. “Cory Barlow is a piece of shit who likes to beat up sex workers and then make them disappear when they report his behavior. I’ve been following him for a couple weeks because his schedule wasn’t as predictable, but on Friday nights, he always takes a client out to dinner and then to a club. He has a family at home, so the club was my only shot. I lured him to an area where the cameras didn’t reach and stabbed him.”
“Can’t be that simple if he was able to hurt you.” I knead the muscles in her back and shoulders before moving down each of her arms, working my thumbs into her palms. There’s no doubt in my mind that Myla’s assessment of this man is accurate. She’s not a psychopath; she isn’t killing for killing’s sake. She’s strategic and thorough, but she’s also a small woman who can easily be overpowered.
“The problem with trying to conceal a knife under a form-fitting dress is that it can’t be very big. The puncture wound to his side when he came in for a kiss wasn’t deep enough to cause much damage, and he was able to get a hit in before I got to his neck.”
“The ice,” I say, remembering the ice pack I made. Picking it up off the corner of the bed, I set it near her face and she places it over her eye.
“Thanks.”
“What would you have done if he’d overpowered you and turned you in?”
“I thought about that, and I would’ve claimed self-defense. I mean, who’s afraid of a five-foot-nothing woman who looks like a strong wind could take her out?”
“If he was able to escape charges with the sex workers, why do you think anyone would believe you over him?”
She seems to think about that for a minute. “Fair point.”
“The cons are beginning to outweigh the pros.” Do I dare feel relief that Myla’s not in a manic state like before? Or do I recoil at the thought of her losing pieces of her humanity as she becomes more comfortable with murder? She’s so strong, resilient, intelligent, clever. . . it would break my heart to see any of these qualities stripped away.
She pushes up on a hand and peers over her shoulder at me. “Maybe in numbers but not in value.”
I encourage her back down with a palm to her back. “It was just a suggestion.”
“A dumb one.”
I dig into her lower back, where she has two cute dimples right above her heart-shaped butt that I can’t ignore any longer. If she told me to stop, I would, but she only moans as I knead the globes of her ass. Each time my fingers dig into a healthy cheek, I get a glimpse of what’s between them, and that, along with the sounds she’s making, have my cock straining against my zipper.
“Please don’t stop. This feels so good,” she moans.
When I can’t, in good conscience, spend any more time on her ass, I move lower to her legs and feet, finding the right amount of pressure to make her body sink into a deeper state of relaxation. I twist my fingers around her toes and pull gently on each one, noting that even her toes are cute. That’s when I realize I’m unbelievably and irrevocably gone for this woman who sees me as nothing more than a confidant and occasional fuck buddy.
“Turn over,” I say.
She doesn’t even hesitate. “I was starting to get a migraine when I got home, but what you’re doing has pushed it away. You have magic hands.”
“I’m glad.” I rub up her arms, over her shoulders, up her neck, stopping to work my thumbs into her jaw. She clenches when she’s stressed, and the muscles are hard as rocks. “Two questions.”
One eye pops open. “What?”
“Do you have coconut oil, and do you trust me?”
“Yes to both. I use coconut oil for oil pulling, so there’s a bottle in my bathroom, and you know I trust you.”
I walk away only long enough to get the bottle of oil. The jasmine-scented one was fine for the major muscle groups, but it won’t work on the more delicate and sensitive skin of her pussy.
“Let me know if I do anything to make you uncomfortable,” I say.
“Pothos.” Her smile is like a bolt of lightning, striking me with its devastating beauty. I don’t so much as blink, afraid that the moment will pass before I can fully commit it to memory. This rare glimpse of perfection fills me with hope that she’ll still be herself at the end of the road she’s traveling.
I stroke a thumb over her cheek. “Good girl.”
After pouring a healthy drizzle of the new oil over her chest and abdomen, I sit on the edge of the bed in a position that gives me good access to her entire torso. With my hands under her armpits, I run my fingers over her pectorals in a half-moon shape, stopping when I feel a knot so I can work it out.
Myla’s body tells me stories her mouth won’t. She carries the bulk of her stress in her traps, jaw, and pecs, and I wonder if her migraines were brought on by her concussion but have continued because of the way her muscles impinge on her nerves.
“When I was around your age?—”
“Don’t say shit like that. Makes you sound old.”
“I am old. Older than you, at least.”
“Sometimes I forget you’re more than twenty years older than me.”
“Yeah, well, you’re an old soul.”
“That’s what years of not being allowed to be a kid will do to you.”
“What did that look like for you?” I pick up her right arm and rest her elbow on my thigh as I work the muscles in her forearm and hand. I’m not in any rush, and if she’s in a sharing mood, I’ll do whatever I can to encourage it.
“From as early as I can remember, there was this big focus on morality. Even at five years old, my mom drilled into my head that my body was dangerous. At home, I was taught to lock the door when I bathed or changed clothes. I had to sleep in pajamas with long sleeves and pants, and God forbid I ever walk from the bathroom to my bedroom with just a towel wrapped around me.”
“Was your dad a molester or something?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. He was just a dad; not too emotional, and sort of left the parenting up to my mom. But he did like taking us to do fun things now and then. I think my parents were just hardcore religious. Church twice a week, at least. Monday nights were spent at home learning about the gospel with my family, and I was expected to participate in all the young women’s stuff.”
“So it was a church policy to teach girls it’s their responsibility to keep boys and men from raping or molesting them by covering their bodies?” I move to the other side of the bed to work her other arm.
“It wasn’t just that. We were responsible for any impure thoughts they had too, so from five until I was thirteen or fourteen, I felt ashamed of my body.”
“What happened at thirteen?”
“Dance.” Her face lights up. “I quit ballet, which was all about technique and control, and started taking classes like hip hop and anything I could find with Latin dancing. The first time my hip-hop instructor had us thrusting our hips, I thought I’d die of embarrassment, and I was so jealous of the other kids in the class who were so comfortable moving that way. I was used to ballet and technique classes. Being given the freedom to move in whatever way felt good was life-changing. I started to see my body as a beautiful tool and not as a weapon.”
I remove my cut to save it from the oil, but I couldn’t care less about ruining my clothes. Climbing on the bed, I ease her legs open, butting my knees against the backs of her thighs and bending each leg to rest on top of my thighs. “Your body is beautiful.”
“Thank you.” A small blush creeps up her chest and onto her cheeks.
“Have you ever heard of a yoni massage?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.”