22. Nutz
Chapter twenty-two
Nutz
Ipack my cigarettes on the palm of my hand as I exit the convenience store.
I don’t acknowledge the cashier as I leave.
I never do. It’s not that I don’t like the kid, but I smell fear on him.
The kid damn near pisses himself every time we make eye contact.
Can’t say I blame him. My soul walks outside my body in the form of my sunshine, Jessica.
I feel for the weaker creatures, and that’s it.
I kill for pure sport. I enjoy it with every fiber of my being.
There’s something so damn erotic about watching a predator's soul leave its body, turning them into my prey. It gets me hard just thinking about it. I wasn’t always this way. That monster made me the way I am.
The prospect is already waiting next to me, sitting on his bike, ready for me to hand him the signal to roll out.
Joke’s on him, I’m going to have a smoke first. I sit sideways on my Harley and light my cigarette, taking a moment of silence in the deserted parking lot before making the roughly twelve-mile stretch back to the compound.
It’s late. The moths float around the lights that illuminate the gas pumps.
One flickers every few seconds, like it’s on its last leg.
It’s quiet. I don’t like quiet. Quiet makes the noise louder.
My heart rate picks up in the stillness of the air.
I start scanning my surroundings as I take each inhale of my smoke.
My left hand subconsciously reaches for the plush alligator keychain Sunshine got me when we went to the Zoo last year, which is hooked onto my knife holstered at my hip.
I rub it between my fingers as I finish my smoke.
I keep my body relaxed, but with sharp eyes I watch. I always watch.
A van slows down enough to shove something out its open side door.
A crimson-and-black mass is thrown toward the gas pumps about fifty feet from me.
I know it’s a body long before it hits the pavement, rolling further toward the gas pumps.
The van speeds off down the road, a man in a black ski mask slamming the side door shut.
White van, Arkansas plates. I memorize the plate numbers, repeating them over and over in my head before committing them to memory.
I stand from my seat on the bike and toss out my smoke.
I hold out my hand, signaling the prospect to stop.
“Wait,” I say. I cross the parking lot toward the body, the air thick with the stench of blood and death.
I roll the body over, and even with her face so battered, I know this woman anywhere.
I drop to my knees, scoop her into my arms, cradle her head against my chest, and rock her back and forth.
“Oh, no, darlin, no,” I whisper into her ear.
I lift my head and holler for the prospect to call the club.
“Get them here now, prospect, or I swear to God you won’t see tomorrow.
I’ll have your hands mounted in a jar on my mantle!
” I snarl. He takes off running back into the gas station to get help.
I focus all my attention on the broken little lamb in front of me.
I stroke my hand up and down her bloodied hair.
“Not again, not again.” I blink a few times to pull myself out of the childhood flashback and focus on the woman in my arms. “I’m here for you, darlin.
Nothing more will ever hurt you. Brother Nutz is here, darlin, okay?
The club is coming. Cops don’t like me, darlin, fuck.
” I keep stroking her hair, her blood coating my body.
The feeling wouldn’t normally bother me, but this is innocent blood. We don’t take that.
“Call 911,” I shout, making the decision even though she probably won’t make it in the hour it will take them to arrive. The death smells too close, the breath too shallow.