Chapter 24 #2
He slaps my thigh, earning a gasp and a narrowed look from me before reaching around to the door handle and turning it easily. Those fucking idiots. Who doesn’t lock their door anymore? Don’t they know there are serial killers running amok?
The apartment smells like cheap air fresheners and stale food, made worse by the electric heater that’s plugged into the kitchen outlet.
The couch that’s pressed against the far wall sags, but looks fairly clean.
There aren’t any visible bugs, but you won’t catch me sitting on anything in this place.
Horny wails float into the common space from behind a door that must be the bedroom, and there’s another door that’s open. One glance inside reveals pale pink tile, a sink that’s a little rusty around the knobs and a shower with a clear liner.
“We should let them finish, don’t you think?” I ask, turning to find Lincoln’s brow kissing his hairline. He shakes his head and walks the three paces it takes to get to the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, he finds three unopened beers and holds one out for me. Shaking my head, he shrugs and pops open the tab with the edge of the counter before downing half the bottle in one swig.
The noises get louder and I can’t help but wiggle my brows at Lincoln. He turns, walking back into the living room area and crossing his arms.
“She’s faking it,” I whisper, stalking over his way. Pushing my body into his, I rub my hands over his bulging arms. “Would you make me scream, Shadow? Or would I have to fake an orgasm to stroke your ego?”
Looking down, he smirks and releases his arms, pressing his body forward, forcing me to take a step back. The fire behind his eyes has my thighs pressing together. I like when he looks at me like I’m prey.
“When I fuck you, Menace, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll be screaming at me to let you cum. I’ll take you there, right to the edge, over and over again until you’re crying, sobbing, begging me to let you finish.”
My mind empties, I have nothing to say–a shocking development, I’m aware–and I just stand there with my mouth gaping open and closed like a dying fish. After a moment, Lincoln lifts his hand, and using a single finger closes my mouth without ever breaking our eye contact.
Listening to his words, and getting lost in his eyes, I’d forgotten about the touchy twat with her loud boyfriend and the show they were putting on that seems to have ended.
Probably not happily for her, serves her right. The bedroom door opens, and out the latter comes, spent dick and balls waving between his legs.
“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, eyes bouncing between Lincoln and me. “Get the fuck outta here!”
His teeth are yellowing, and his scratchy voice tells me he’s a smoker. That must be the stench I smelled coming in.
Reaching behind the door, he whisper-yells something else. But I can’t focus on that, Lincoln’s already in front of him, gripping him by the hair and punching him in the throat so hard he gurgles blood. Shoving him onto the couch, the waitress from earlier screeches and launches out of the bedroom.
She must not have seen me.
Rude.
As she flies past me I grab her hair, yanking her back.
Her naked breasts sway as she settles where I’ve got her pinned against the wall, my forearm across her throat. Her eyes round, makeup threatening to run down her face.
“You let her go!” The loud guy tries to yell, and coughs up more blood.
“As if, you loud fleshbag.” For good measure, I cock my arm back and knock her head into the wall and she crumples to the floor. Lincoln holds a hand to his forehead and rubs his temples. Cutting his eyes my way, he knocks the guy back into the couch when he tries to get up.
“What? She’s breathing.”
I think.
Her naked body lays at my feet, hair spread over her face, it blows slightly away from her mouth and I look at Lincoln with a triumphant smile.
“What do you want?” The guy has dropped the tough guy thing, instead his eyes are darting from us to the door. “We don’t have any money.”
His voice really bothers me. I don’t know if it’s because he’s choking on his own blood from the way Lincoln absolutely obliterated his throat, or if it just sounds like that. Either way I don’t like it.
Rolling my eyes, I take out my scissors and flip them over my fingers. “We don’t need your money.”
“The-Then what do you want?” He starts to blubber.
Lincoln grabs two chairs from the little table they have sitting in the kitchen, and brings them into the living room. Picking the touchy twat up off the floor, he unceremoniously drops her into the chair and begins securing her with… “Are those zip ties?”
He nods, but doesn’t look up.
“You carry zip ties in your pocket?” I wonder aloud. “Kinky.”
He sighs and looks down after he’s satisfied with his work. “Not everything is about sex, Menace.”
“It is if you haven’t had it in,” checking my nonexistent watch I tap my wrist, “months.”
“It hasn’t been months,” he argues.
“Okay, weeks. Still, that guy doesn’t count, you slit his throat before I could–”
“We aren’t arguing about this here.” His flat stare brokers no room for argument.
The loud guy’s made it to the door, hand on the handle, when I fling my scissors. They embed in his wrist and he bellows.
“Are you trying to leave the party fleshbag?” Bending down to his level, plucking the knife from his wrist, I whisper, "Again, so rude.”
Hiking him up by his sweaty armpits, I deposit him into the other chair and wait while Lincoln does his thing.
Fleshbag is spewing every promise he can think of the whole time until the touchy twat wakes up, and then he starts talking to her.
Promising they’ll get out of this, how he’ll be good to her, yada yada.
“I’m afraid his promises don’t mean too much,” I laugh, “considering he has no say in what happens here.”
“You!” Touchy twat yips, “You’re the one from the diner!”
“Ding, ding!” I shout, waving my scissors around in the air and twirling. “You’ve won….” I pause for dramatic effect, “Well, death.”
“What?” She screeches, tears flood her face and she sniffles. “Why?”
Lincoln sighs, I guess he’s not immune to the ridiculous questions either.
“You touched something that belongs to me,” I giggle, “and because I want to.”
Her crying is irritating me, so I wander into the kitchen and start searching for a solution. Opening a drawer I find some duct tape, and a dish cloth hanging over the faucet.
“That’ll do.” As I make my way back over I see Lincoln take out his knife and carve into the guy’s thigh.
Peeling away flesh, exposing muscle and sinew.
I’m a little jealous of how steady his hands are, even with a whimpering mess as a canvas.
Because of the punch to the throat Lincoln delivered earlier he can’t scream–or cry like his twat girlfriend–and it’s beautiful.
His cuts are smooth, almost perfect, and blood seeps out of every missing piece of flesh that Lincoln avoids with surgical precision, creating a patchwork effect.
“So neat,” I mock, drawing his attention.
“Better than wearing my kill.” His knife stalls, but continues until he’s finished with one leg and the guys garbled attempts at screaming have dulled to whimpers.
“That’s no fun.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I observe my prey. She’s looking at her boyfriend's mangled legs, eyes wide and tears leaking over the tape.
“Try it,” Lincoln instructs, but I’ve been around him long enough now to notice the undercurrent of challenge in the words. “Let’s see how neat my Menace can be.”
His. Menace.