44 - Bullseye
Logan
We’d set a date for the wedding and booked the venue.
Scar was eager to get things in motion. He’s still angsty that Cordelia’s not ‘under my thumb’ enough.
And if I’m completely honest with myself—she isn’t.
It’s very much the other way around. He knows it; I know it.
I’d do just about anything for my little hellion.
Case in point: I’ve just left her with my bank card. Yes, my entire life savings. If that doesn’t say I love, you; I’m royally fucked. Money and good looks are my last saving grace.
She’s meeting up with the girls today to discuss wedding preparations, and they’ll most likely spend the afternoon sipping expensive cocktails (mocktails for my girl, obviously) and getting far too excited over petty details no one really cares for.
For me; it’s simple. All I need is my willing bride, good food, and a bed to consummate the deal when the night comes to an end.
The bed isn’t even a necessity; that’s just a bonus.
I’m a simple creature, and the floor’s more than good enough for me.
But Cordelia’s getting bigger by the day, so it might be a long stretch for her.
“Check. Mate.”
My eyes fall to the glass chessboard, where my king is deemed helpless, flanked between Ezio’s two impervious rooks. His toothy grin makes me want to smash his teeth.
“Bollocks,” I curse, scratching my jaw.
“Time to pay up, Amigo,” Ezio taunts, shoving his open hand under my nose. The wad of cash fills his palm, and Alan Turing’s goddamn comb-over taunts me from the ￡50 note laid on the top of the stash.
I grunt. “You only won because I can’t concentrate with the–fuck!”
The wretched scream tearing from the fucker Clarke’s torturing echoes off the thick stone walls.
He always brings his marks here. There’s something rather cathartic about bringing someone who’s destined for death to a disused morgue.
Ironic, too, if you ask me. It’s the ideal location; dark, dreary, and awash with tormented souls of the past. I’m pretty sure there’d been plenty of heinous crimes and experiments performed upon victims on the very stone altar where we played our game of chess too.
“You lost me money, Winters.”
Clarke pivots to face me, the sharp point of a dart pressed between his fingers glistening under the single bulb dangling precariously from the ceiling.
“You won’t need any extra help with that. Now you’re getting married.”
The sinister chuckle spilling from his lips would make Stephen King himself proud. The dart soars from his grasp, arcing through the air and finding its target swiftly. It penetrates the flesh with ease, eliciting a strangled cry from the guy strapped to the chair.
“You could have gagged him,” Ez grumbles, staring indifferently at the dart protruding from his thigh. There’s one in his right arm, nestled in the crook of his elbow, and another sticking out of his hairy chest.
“And where’s the fun in that?” Clarke sounds bored as he steps up to retrieve his darts, plucking them from his victim’s body like he’s nothing more than his personal voodoo doll.
The guy screams in his face when he’s close enough; useless threats and vitriol that just amuse the predator looming over him.
“Attaboy, " he muses mockingly. “You get it all out of your system. No one can hear your fucking whimpering down here, anyway.”
He’s right. We’re a good few metres underground.
The morgues linked to an abandoned workhouse above, in the middle of fucking nowhere.
No one would ever stumble across it just out on a casual stroll.
Besides, the chain gate surrounding the entrance is padlocked, and only we have access.
Ventilation’s a bitch down here too. The bodies stored within are long gone, but even so the air is thick with the stench of decaying flesh and faecal excrement.
It’s bearable, for a short while, but not the kind of place you’d want to spend any length of time in.
“You guys playing or what?”
Ezio and I turn in unison. Clarke’s gaze shifts between us, demanding an answer.
“If you shut him up,” Ez grimaces, nose wrinkling. Ezio is the most sensitive of the three of us. He’s not the biggest fan of the tortured screams and yowling.
I incline my head in a nod. Clarke mutters something under his breath about us being pussies and vacates under the stone arch. When he returns, he’s clutching a rusty nail between his fingertips. He shoots me a look.
“Hold him down.”
With a sigh, I follow him across the room, slipping into the sliver of space between the wall and the metal chair.
I wrap my hands tightly around the dude’s jawline.
Clarke holds the nail aloft, eyes wickedly bright in the dimming light.
I have a damn near perfect bird's-eye view when he presses the metal tip to the guy’s fat lip.
Using a twisting motion, he forces the implement through the fleshy upper lip, veins and brawn bulging under the strain on his huge forearms. Fresh blood spurts from the new opening, coating and staining my skin.
All the while the guy thrashes around, like a cat in water.
“Will you hurry up already?” Ez bleats, clapping his palms over his ears.
“We’re trying. Hold fucking still, will you, Nial,” Clarke growls at his victim, like the guy’s being uncooperative for no reason and not fighting for his life. Finally, the nail pierces through, popping out the other side. “It can’t be that bad. Just like having a really shitty piercing.”
I shake my head, increasing the pressure on the guy’s face.
Much more and I’ll end up crushing his jaw like a tin can.
Clarke makes quick work of the second piercing, and once he’s finished, takes a step back to admire his handiwork.
I step out from behind the chair and catch eyes with the captive.
Tears stream behind the whites of his eyes that are pinned open with some sort of clockwork orange device, mixing with the vibrant fluid dripping from his swollen lips.
The crusty nail does a good job of keeping his mouth shut.
If he even attempts to open it, it's going to fucking hurt.
“There’s a good boy.” Clarke’s condescending tone as he leans in to tap the guy’s cheek seems to be the last crucial element needed to bring Nial’s terror to the surface. His skin turns ashen, and a violent tremor wracks his naked body.
“Who is this guy, anyway?”
Clarke turns to me. “Nial here was spotted with a young girl matching the description of Octavia Luciano,” he explains and my brows rise of their own accord.
Scar’s daughter. “He also likes to play with little girls, don’t you, buddy?
” He addresses the guy again, with a fist tangled in his hair, forcing a nod from him.
My lip curls into a brutal snarl, and I kick the leg of the chair.
“Happy now?” Clarke throws over his shoulder at Ezio, who shrugs with a nod.
“Alright. First to 50 points wins. You can go first.” He thrusts the dart into Ez’s hand.
Ez manoeuvres himself into position, widening his stance, eyes on the prize. With a flick of his wrist, it starts off smooth but ends up curving slightly early and falling short at the last minute. Into Nial’s shoulder. Ezio’s a crack shot with a gun, but darts, not so much.
A strangled whimper leaks through Nial’s fused lips. I’m up next. I swing my arm back, but seconds before I release the dart, my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I completely balls up the aim. It doesn’t even land on him, just bounces off the stone wall behind.
“Fuck.” I yank the phone to my face, eyes narrowing at the notification from my bank. “What the fuck is a favour? And why does it cost 10k?”
My gruff voice amuses the guys, who snicker in response. Clarke lands his dart in Nial’s foot; a deliberate shot that must sting like a bitch.
“Shitty little gifts you give to your wedding guests,” he replies. No idea why he has that knowledge. Pretty sure he’s the last person you’d add to your guest list.
“I’m paying ten fucking grand to gift other people?”
“Charitable,” Ezio says with a chuckle before taking his turn.
“Yeah. Except I’m not a fucking charity. What’s in them? Blocks of solid gold?” I snatch the dart from Clarke’s open hand, not at all deterred by the blood smeared over the spike. Two more notifications ping over, equalling another fifty grand.
“I need to ring my Mrs.”
“At least take your shot first.”
I grunt at Clarke and whirl back around.
I’m barely paying attention, and certainly not aiming when the dart slips from my fingertips.
And nails Nial right in the left eye. The quiet pop that fills the room is enough to make even the non-squeamish squirm.
Nial lets out an almighty scream, which tears the nail from his bottom lip, pissing blood everywhere.
“Bull’s-eye,” Clarke hollers, clapping me on the back. “Nice shot, Cox.”
I roll my eyes skyward as the two of them have a mini celebration to drown out the god-awful sobbing. Then I press the button to call Cordelia. The secure connection we had installed down here keeps our phones from becoming useless bricks.
Cordelia answers on the first ring, most likely anticipating the call. “Bonjour, mignon. What can I do for you?” Her tone is brimming with suppressed laughter, and I can hear the other girls tittering away in the background.
“Vixen.” My deliberately low tone causes her to sputter a giggle and probably sends heat straight to her core. “Care to tell me how you’ve managed to spend over 100,000 on this low-key wedding of ours in a single day?”
She clears her throat, speaking in a sickly sweet I’m-so-fucking-innocent voice. “Because sweetie pie. You were silly enough to leave me with full rein of your finances.”
More giggling.
I inhale a deep breath, dragging my fingers through my hair. Don’t flip at her. Don’t play into her devious little hands. Just file it as a reason to spank her bare bottom later.
My eyes snap to Clarke as Nial lets out a sudden wail in pain, and Cordelia gasps at the end of the phone.
“Wha.what are you doing, Logan?” Her voice has gone squeaky, nervous.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I grumble, flinching as I watch my mate rip another dart from his victim. With that one sticking out of the dude’s eyeball, they’ve only got two to play with now. The less Cordelia knows about this, the better. “Are you going to be spending anymore of my money?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Her blase response makes my cock strain against my jeans.
“Do I need to come over there and remind you who’s in charge in front of your friends, my love?”
“You have no idea where we are.” Her tone is smug, which is even more satisfying when I can prove her wrong.
I chuckle. “I’m tracking your location on my phone as we speak.”
There’s a few seconds of silence whilst she scrolls through her apps. When she sees for herself I’m telling the truth, she whispers a fuck under her breath.
“You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“C’mon, vixen. You know me better than that.”
“Fine,” she hisses when she realises I’m not fucking around. “But I’m booking one more thing. For you. It should come through any minute now.”
Rolling my eyes, I pull the phone from my ear to read the notification.
“A manicure?” I question dumbly. “Cordelia. What the hell?”
“I’m not having your shitty bitten fingernails ruining the photos.” Is her immediate reply. “Au revoir.” Then she cuts the call. I’ll give her fucking au revoir.
“What the hell just happened?” Clarke howls at my rapid blinking and open mouth.
“You just got shot down. Your hands are ugly. In her defence” Ezio adds.
Brows furrowed, I stare at them, flipping them over, one side to the other.
They’re not my most attractive feature, I’ll admit.
Years of brutal fights, punching walls and self-mutilation have taken their toll.
The sun-tanned skin is smothered with scars from my past. And the padding on my palms is no longer squishy, but thick with calluses from lifting weights daily.
My fingernails are jagged and uneven, an unfortunate by-product of a habit of a lifetime I can’t seem to shake.
I guess I could take better care of myself.
I could even have them tattooed, but personally, I don’t believe in masking reality.
What happened, happened, and whether you try to conceal it or not, nothing can change the fact.
Besides, I don’t see her complaining when they’re buried knuckle-deep in her sopping wet cunt.
With a grunt, I snatch the dart from Ezio’s open palm, spin on my heel and hurl the dart in Nial’s direction.
And what d'ya ya know? I win. With a double bullseye.