Bleeding Outside the Lines
1. Cassius
one
Her tongue darts out, catching the drop of cum that dribbled out of her mouth. She shifts her gaze, and her big brown eyes look up at me from where she kneels on the floor, young and eager. I quickly stuff my cock back into the confines of my pants before it gets any more ideas. Annoyed that my body is still stiff in every other way, I massage my temples. I keep thinking that this is the answer to releasing the cords that wind me up, but all it does is frustrate me more. Apparently, orgasms are not what the doctor ordered.
A lesser man might turn to drugs to scratch the unscratchable itch, but I am not a lesser man. One might say that using women makes me a lesser man, but I dare them to say that to my fucking face. People have died for less.
“Clean up and forget you were in here,” I bark at the girl still kneeling expectantly in front of me. A pout distorts her pretty face, but she doesn’t say a word, pulling at the hem of her skirt as she stands. Her cleavage spills over the neckline of her shirt, and her tits scream at me, begging to be fucked. I huff, disinterested and push my office door shut behind her, seconds later the electronic lock mechanism beeps. Metal scratches on metal as the deadbolts rotate into place.
Fuck me. I unzip my pants and settle into my chair, my legs propped wide. My dick is hard again, and I grip it tight. My hand glides easily up and down my shaft, still slick with her saliva. What I wouldn’t give to be between her tits right now, my tip grazing her lips with every thrust. I have been insatiable lately. My balls are their own shade of blue, regardless of how many times I get my dick wet. None of these bar bunnies have been enough. But it’s hard to know what’s enough when you don’t know what you crave. I thought it was sex, but based on my escapades recently, I think it’s safe to say that’s just a cover story. A life of dirty money and blurred lines makes it easy to lie to myself.
Pushing my frustration aside, I tighten my grip, desperate for relief. The smell of the bar bunny lingers in the air, sweet and spicy. I picture her big brown eyes looking up at me as I fucked her mouth.
Fuck her eyes . They watered as she took my full length, but she never backed down, never once pulled back. My dick throbs in my hand with every stroke as I think about her hard nipples playing peek-a-boo in her barely-there shirt. I find one of my own nipples beneath my shirt and pinch it to the point of pain.
I'm right on the edge, teetering on that fine line between pleasure and needing more. But more what? I release my grip on my cock.
“ Fuck!” My voice booms in the empty room. Rolling my shoulders, I take a deep breath and then fist myself again. I thrust my hips, fucking my hand harder than is usually necessary, and pinch my nipple again. My hand glides up and down my shaft. Up. Down. Tighter. Faster.
Fuck her pouty lips that left a pink lipstick ring on my cock.
Fuck.
A light throbbing starts in my balls before they tighten, and I shoot my load all over my empty desk, continuing to pump my cock until the last drop dribbles down my fist.
It's not until I reach for a towel to clean up that I see the problem. My desk isn’t empty. Right in the middle, now coated in my cum, is a small red envelope that wasn’t there before. I grab the towel out of my desk drawer and make quick work of wiping off my hand and then the envelope without bothering with the desk. Once again, I tuck my cock safely back into the confines of my pants.
I don’t need to see the black wax seal on the back of her signature red envelope to know who it’s from. With a hesitant hand, I grab my knife from my pocket. I stare at my last name, Cross, in neat script on the front of the envelope for what feels like hours.
Who does this bitch think she is? And worse … who had the balls to hire her?
I slide the knife into the envelope, tear it open, and pull out the cream-colored paper. Red filigree adorns the edges, and swirly black script fills the page. A blood-red signature sits at the bottom.
They say she’s a ghost. That she hides among the shadows. Nobody knows what she looks like, yet everyone knows who she is. She’s a master of disguise, with no age and no heart. They say that a letter from her is an instant death sentence. Anger works its way up my spine and settles in my chest. The letter crumples in my tightened fist.
Fuck that dumb bitch. I pull a tablet out of my desk drawer and turn on the video feed for the bar. Sitting directly in front of the camera is the woman who was just on her knees, worshiping my cock. Her tits rest on the bar while her eyes taunt me through the screen.
Her lips are painted a bright shade of red, no longer the sorority girl pink she wore in my office. They lift into a triumphant smile before she plucks the cherry out of her drink and passes it through her freshly painted lips, stem and all.
Determined to catch her before she leaves, I stand, shoving the unread letter in my pocket. I quickly turn the levers to slide the deadbolts out of place before barreling through the door, pulling it closed behind me. I take the stairs two at a time, down to the bar. The stool sits empty; only a knotted cherry stem remains as proof she was ever really there. I don’t know if I want to put a bullet through her skull or spank her ass until she apologizes for not swirling her tongue on my dick like that. I repeat, fuck this bitch.
I scan the rest of the bar, but it’s pointless. She’s gone.
“Move,” I yell, pressing into the crowd of bodies, shoving dancing men and women out of my path. “Get out of my fucking way.”
Above me, strobe lights flash and the bass from the music pounds through me, matching my anger. Motherfucker. I am too far away to catch up with her, the bodies in the bar growing thicker, sweatier, and more defiant. But I continue pushing against the crowd, forcing my way through.
I reach the edge of the dance floor, and there she is, her back to me, standing at the exit.
“Stop her!” I shout to my bouncer, but he must not hear me over the music because he doesn’t move. As if sensing my presence, she turns her head, and her eyes find mine. I’m still too far away. I reach for my gun. I should shoot her between the eyes right here, but I can’t in this crowd of people.
Her fingers touch her red lips, and she blows me a kiss before walking out of my club.
The kiss of death.
I don’t know what’s worse, knowing someone wants you dead and not knowing who it is, or being turned on by the prospect of going toe to toe with the queen herself. The world spins around me, but my feet are planted firmly on the ground. Energy pulses through my veins, and every hair on my arms stands up. Even the colors are brighter. It feels like the ultimate high, like I’m alive for the first time in months. It's ironic, really.
I force myself to move. I have things to accomplish. I cannot stand here while she’s out there. I have a bitch to kill. I am Cassius fucking Cross. I destroy anyone who threatens me. I’ve worked too hard and too long to get here. I push bodies out of my way, voices of protest following in my wake.
Again, I take the stairs two at a time, my long legs barely straining. The door to my office is open, which is impossible because I know I fucking closed it.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” I pull my gun from its holster before I enter, ready and willing to shoot a bitch between the eyes. She’s not fucking here, but somebody was, and I slam the door behind me, hearing it lock.
“Stupid fucking slut!” My foot connects with the trash barrel, sending its contents across the floor. Picking up the chair in front of my desk, I hurl it at the wall. It hits with a thump, leaving a hole in the sheetrock, but the chair falls back to the ground unharmed. I pick it up again, this time throwing it at the bar cart. Bottles of liquor and glasses fall to the floor with thuds and crashes.
I crack my neck and lean over to pick up a tequila bottle, broken at the neck, but still partially full. Digging through the debris, I also find a shot glass mostly intact, except for the small chip in the rim.
I pour myself a shot, appreciating the sting as it burns its way down my throat, and sit behind my desk. Picking up my tablet, I tap on the camera feed from my office, rewinding it an hour and lean back in my chair, confident that I have achieved what every person before me has failed, capturing this cunt on camera. As an added perk, I can watch her sucking my cock whenever the mood strikes. An audible laugh escapes me, and I watch the screen as the door to my office opens, revealing me behind it. Then it happens again. And again. I fast-forward and watch as the door opens on a loop for twenty fucking minutes. And then I am shooting my load on my desk and picking up the envelope.
Motherfucking bitch.
I refill my shot glass and then switch over to the bar camera. Again, I rewind the feed. Again, she’s never there, but when I zoom in, the cherry stem sits on the napkin. I know it’s pointless to look, but I follow suit with the rest of the video feeds anyway. The feed from behind the DJ booth that shows the dance floor, the feed at the door, and the feed in the hallway. All of them, empty of the brunette. What remains of the tequila bottle smashes against the wall.
I need the night to get my head straight, and I can’t do it here. I can’t think without seeing her on her fucking knees. I leave through the back exit and climb into the driver's seat of my rebuilt Impala. My feet press down on the clutch and brake, and I turn the key. She purrs to life. My cock does a little bounce in greeting. I bought this car as a bucket of rust and used the money I won from my first big card game to rebuild it. Every time I turn her on, it’s like losing my virginity all over again. I pull out of the lot, the power beneath me feeding the tension in my body.
I’m not worried about this bitch killing me. Truly, I’m not. She hides in the shadows, beneath disguise and fancy fanfare. I own who I am. People fear me, not the idea of me. I am a tangible, real-life person. She’s a rumor. A hushed conversation in a dark corner. But fuck me if she doesn’t have me all revved up.
I need to know who the fuck hired her and why. I stick to my own corner of the darkness that lurks beneath this city. You won’t find me running drugs or pimping out women. You won’t even find me buying drugs or sex. Gambling is my vice. I learned how to count cards as a kid, and by the time I was twenty-four, I had opened the club, but only as a cover for the underground micro-casino. My vice turned into a million-dollar business. We have high-stakes poker, blackjack, and a few craps tables. It’s invite or referral only. I don’t have goons. I handle my own shit. You fuck me over, and you face me—or the end of my fist, or maybe my trusty hammer. And if it’s still not handled, you go missing and stay missing.
I rack my brain, trying to think of who would be brave or stupid enough to hire this woman. And who has the funds? The pricks that run the drug and sex trades aren’t this stupid. And it can’t possibly be anyone who owes me money, because if they have the funds to pay this bitch, they have the funds to pay me, making killing me pointless.
I punch the code and drive through the gate and up the long driveway to my home. It sits on a little over seven acres right outside the city and is surrounded by an eight-foot stockade fence armed with monitored cameras. It screams nobody fucks with Cassius Cross . I pull the Impala into the garage, head into the house, and make my way to the bar.
I pour a few shots of tequila over ice and get comfortable in my home office. The letter that weighed heavy in my pocket for the last hour now sits crumpled in front of me. I smooth it as best I can on the surface of my desk.
I stare at the letter, reading it over and over. Memorizing it. I have so many questions and no answers. But I do know one thing for sure, I’m not going down without a fight. In fact, if anyone goes down, it’s going to be her.
On her fucking knees. Again.