Chapter 3
STREETER
What the fuck are these fucking weirdos doing?
Snow swirls around me, the broken window not making visibility any better. But if my eyes aren’t fucking deceiving me, they’re trying to assault the little twink.
Yeah, not gonna happen. One thing I hate more than a liar and a thief is a fucking rapist.
One of the guys—the one closest to the window I broke so I could see inside—looks at me, his face a mixture of incredulity, fear, and shock.
His eyes bounce between what I’m sure is a pissed-off expression and what I have in my hands, and he stumbles back, falling into the arms of two guys who finally look my way.
Moving away from the window, I heft the ax I grabbed from a stump in the front yard on my way from my car and hurry to the door.
Rage like nothing I’ve ever felt flows through me and these fuckers will feel it. Five fucking men the size of trucks assaulting a little twink who could probably be knocked over with a feather? Yeah, perfect motherfuckers to work my rage out on.
After my shitty shift and that shitty fucking song blaring through my speakers, I knew I had to find a way to let off some steam.
The twink and Asshole McGee were the perfect targets, and with the snow coming down like it’s trying to blanket the fucking planet, I figured I could take my time with them and play until my heart’s content.
But seeing how they’re all surrounding that twink, like they can’t wait to sink their fucking claws into him, gave me more targets to play with.
Heads will fucking roll.
After I got off my shift, I headed home so I could change into darker, warmer clothes and put on my heavy boots. The snow had started to come down harder, and I figured if I had to walk the rest of the way up the mountain, I wouldn’t risk slipping and falling.
Looks like that’s a good call, because I need heavy boots to kick this fucking door in. Knowing the rich fuckers who had this place built, the door is probably made of cheap, shitty material. If it’s not, I can always Jack Nicholson this bitch.
“Who the fuck are you?” someone inside yells. “You’re not invited, so get the fuck out of here!”
“It’s that insane fucking guy from the store I told y’all about,” Asshole McGee says. God, I can’t wait to sheer his fucking face off. “He’s crazy.”
Yeah, I’m something. Someone who abhors people picking on someone smaller, and I absolutely despise rapists.
I’m their worst fucking nightmare.
Raising a booted foot, I kick the door near the knob. Nothing happens. So I do it again. And again. And again, until it splinters and flies open.
All the guys—except the twink, I notice—are huddled together.
A few have kitchen knives in their hands, but they’re holding them all wrong.
Instead of gripping them by the handle, they’re holding them outward, like they’re going to poke me.
They probably think it’ll hold me off. I swear, all of them are fucking useless.
I can’t get started until I have my music playing, so I adjust my headphones, then reach into my pocket to get it going. But before I can press play, one of the big lumbering assholes lets out a fucking war cry and rushes over to me, holding his knife out toward my belly.
Grabbing the ax in both hands, I bring it up and swing it in a wide arc. The man’s body keeps running, and I step aside to let him go, but his head rolls onto the ground, back to his companions who were trying to huddle together.
For a moment, it’s silent in the room. The only sound is the fire crackling in the fireplace.
Then I reach into my pocket and press play on my phone, and Christina Aguilera’s “Dirty” blasts into my ear. Fucking love this song. The perfect song to slice off body parts.
Though I should play that bullshit Mariah song. That would keep me angry enough to swing this heavy ax when my arms get tired.
“Wait!” Asshole McGee says, running over to twink and thrusting him toward me. “Take him. We… we… we can share him. I saw how you looked at him in the store. Please. We won’t even tell about Garth.”
Huh, Garth is a fitting name for my first victim.
The twink looks at me, those big eyes wet with tears and fear. “Please don’t,” he mumbles, face pale.
I scoff. I’m not here for ass, though he is pretty as fuck. I’m a killer, not a rapist. I’d never take anyone against their will. I’m here to work out some frustration. Offering me a sexy twink won’t guarantee they get out of here alive.
Using my foot, I kick the door shut to stop the snow from coming in.
Then I get started.
It’s about time for my arrival, indeed.
I look around, and my gaze locks on the man who had his arm around the twink in such a possessive way, keeping him caged in against him when it was apparent he didn’t want to be.
Pointing the ax at him, I say, “Tag. You’re it.” His eyes grow wide and I think I see a faint stain on the front of his sweatpants.
The men try to run away, but they end up colliding together, falling down in a tangle of arms and legs. The one who’ll be my first—well, second—victim has a knife, and it ends up in Asshole McGee’s leg. Asshole McGee yells and holds on to the weapon, but is smart enough not to pull it out.
Good. He’s mine, not his clumsy fucking friend’s kill by accident.
With a roar of my own, I bring the ax over my head and bury it in the scalp of Mr. Grabby Hands, cutting off his cry of fear.
Quick as a flash, I yank it out and slice the throat of the man who’s gaping up at me, frozen in terror.
The last uninjured man gets to his feet and races through the kitchen to the back door.
“Please,” he cries, looking back at me as he yanks on the doorknob. “I didn’t wanna be here. They… they… they made me. I wasn’t going to touch him. Tell him, Remi. I was always nice to you. Please. I don’t wanna… no! No!”
He drops to his knees with his hands up, and I swing the ax, cutting through the bone and muscles of both wrists like butter. He screams loud enough he’d have burst my eardrums if I didn’t have Lorde telling me about royals. I silence his shout by beheading him.
Turning around, I see that the twink is still kneeling in the middle of the floor where Asshole McGee left him, and Asshole McGee is trying to drag himself towards the door, his hand fumbling in his pocket.
I whistle along to the music, dragging the ax behind me as I slowly make my way over to him. My music is low enough that I can hear the drag of my weapon against the floor and Asshole pleading softly, his bottom lip trembling.
“Look, man,” he says, and I tilt my head to the side as I watch him slide backward towards the front door.
“I didn’t mean that shit in the store. I have money.
” He removes his shaky hand from his pocket and tosses his wallet at my feet.
“Take it.” Asshole McGee looks at the blood and carnage around him, his face paling before it goes green and he leans to the side and pukes. I scoff at his weak stomach.
He wipes the back of his mouth, then continues to slide towards the door, trying to get away, a trail of blood following him.
“Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s… it’s his fault.
” He points a trembling finger at the twink, who is looking around with glassy eyes.
His reaction would be heartbreaking if I gave a fuck.
Turning away from him, I just manage to duck from the knife Asshole McGee throws at me. It manages to graze my ear, pissing me off.
He lifts his hands, crying in great heaving sobs as I grip the handle of the ax so hard my knuckles crack.
Growling, I stalk over to him and raise the haft, bringing it down through his hands to bury in his chest. His mouth peels wide in shock, looking down at his missing body parts and the blade in the center of his ribs.
Planting my foot in his belly, I yank the weapon out, and blood spurts everywhere. That seems to get his attention, and he screams louder than Kelly Rowland telling me about her motivation.
Annoyed that he’s ruining one of my favorite songs, I bury the ax in his face. I plant it so deeply I can practically see his brain—what little of it there is.
He gargles for a moment, then stops moving.
Throwing my head back, I let out a long sigh. Frustration and anger bleed out of me in a rush. After Asshole McGee’s bullshit, that fucking song, and all the fucking snow, I needed this.
Self-care is important, after all.
I turn around to check out my handiwork.
I’ve never killed five people at one time.
The most I’ve come up against was two, and they were more formidable than the fuckholes who are littered around the cabin.
How the fuck do five people—two with knives and all of them bigger than me—manage to get murdered, and all I have is one scratch on my ear?
Fucking dipshits.
The song ends, and through the silence, I hear whimpering at my feet. My gaze flicks over to the twink, his wide, fearful eyes locked on me.
Reaching up, I pull my headphones out and stuff them in my pocket. My bloodlust is drained, but he’s seen my face. I can’t let him live.
Right?