Chapter 30
Quill
Eighteen years old
“Ilost it.”
I open one eye then the other, hearing the uncharacteristically grumpy voice of my chirpy cricket as she walks in, slamming the door behind her.
She doesn’t even bother to be quiet. She knows Dad isn’t home because his car’s not out front, and we spend so much time at each others’ places that she comes into my room like it’s hers.
Which it is, because there isn’t a thing on this Earth that I own that she doesn’t share.
Right now, though, she’s not looking particularly happy about any of that as she stomps across the room and stops before me, her arms crossed, breathing heavily as she glares at me.
I pat the mattress next to me, hoping she’ll just… sit down and let it go. I’ve never seen anyone let things go as easily as Piper does, though I guess letting things go is a necessary quality to have when you spend any time with me.
Today, though, I have a feeling she’s not letting whatever it is go. I also have a feeling I know just what that thing is.
I groan inwardly. I’ve had a pretty hardcore morning, and I do not feel like dealing with shit or even moving.
Last night, I fucked up my contract for the first time.
It’s not even the tenth one, and I’ve already got a black mark on my name.
I really fucking hate that. I never thought I cared about the soldiers, I just thought I found some relief in the actual killing part, but seeing the way Tragen looked at me after the fuck-up felt pretty shitty.
It made me want to go back in time to change the outcome of that contract just to wipe that disappointed look off his face.
I’m also pissed at Aaron, who was leading our team of three, for fucking up, because it was definitely his fault.
It’s my first year working, which means I get teamed up with older guys for every kill, and barely make five grand on contracts that I know are worth ten times more.
I was stuck with Aaron, the biggest fucking idiot on the planet, who never even lets me pull the trigger when we’re teamed up.
By now all the others I’ve teamed up with have figured out I need to be the one to pull the trigger. Both because I’m the best shot by far, and because I don’t feel an ounce of guilt after.
But Aaron insisted that as the leader, it was his job. He gave me a long self-important speech, and then, when it came time to do the deed, he froze.
He hadn’t even wanted me to carry a gun, so I couldn’t do a thing but watch our contract squawk like a fucking chicken and flap his arms in fear, before scampering off.
He had to be hunted down by a group of five men the next day, all because my fucking team leader nearly shit his pants at the thought of taking a human life.
He’d done it dozens of times, so how the hell did it suddenly become a problem last night? Tragen told me, right after putting a bullet in Aaron’s skull, that it does happen occasionally. You get some sort of mental block that prevents you from doing your job. Like a burn-out.
He punctuated his sentence by putting a bullet in the other guy’s skull. The second-in-command of our team who did carry a gun, but who didn’t do a thing but watch Aaron fuck up, shock written all over his features.
I fully expected Tragen to do the same to me, killing the trio responsible for making the higher-ups get off their asses and finish off the contract themselves. But instead, he beat the shit out of me then let me go.
“Do better next time, soldier,” he barked.
It wasn’t the killing off of my team members that did it for me, or the beating. It was Tragen’s eyes. Fuck me, it makes no sense, because I don’t give a shit about him.
But I don’t want him to look at me like that, not ever.
I don’t want to let him down again.
I wince as Piper nudges me roughly, still huffing. “I said, why the hell did you send them that?”
Oh. She’s been keeping up such a steady stream of words that I never even heard her question the first time. She’s surprisingly easy to tune out. I used to find her voice grating, but these days, it relaxes me and makes me happy.
I do try to listen most of the time, because I want to care about the things she cares about. But I also have the bad habit of letting her voice wash over me, lulling me into a peaceful state of mind.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” I grunt, patting the mattress beside me again.
I don’t want her to see the bruises on my chest and sides, but I do want to feel her lying beside me, her arm circling me. I know that’s all I would need to feel better, but right now, she’s clearly not in a cuddling mood.
“Turns out,” she snaps, “they wouldn’t have let me keep my scholarship if I took a gap year. But someone wrote to them saying I had decided to take it, so they revoked it! I’m not getting it back!”
“Oh, that.” I’m rubbing the mattress beside me in a robotic way, knowing she won’t sit there because she’s pissed, but feeling unable to keep from touching it.
I always get those weird compulsions around her.
To touch objects, to count in threes, to spank her.
To feel my arms around her, my fingers inside her, reassured that I own her, that she’s mine.
That she’s not going anywhere.
I’d never been scared before, but ever since she told me about UCLA, I’ve been downright terrified she’ll leave me. So terrified I’ve gotten into the habit of waking her up in the middle of the night just to hear her say she’s mine.
“Yes, that,” she hisses, in response to my distracted words. “What the hell, Quill? Why did you do that?” She blinks away angry tears. “I lost my scholarship, and I won’t be able to go to UCLA. I’ll be stuck going to community college.”
Good.
But I’m very aware that my immediate reaction won’t cut it. I don’t know what reaction would cut it, so I’m back to patting the mattress more insistently.
“C’mon.”
“Quill!” Her voice is practically a shriek by now, and I’m definitely not finding it all that relaxing anymore. “I don’t want to sit down! I don’t want to cuddle! I hate you so much!”
She nudges me harder, a shove, really, right against one of my bruises, and I can’t help but wince. One second is all it takes for the dynamic to change, because she just fucking shoved me.
I once told her never to raise a hand at me, and she just fucking did.
I swing up from the mattress, suddenly full of energy, while she stares at me, probably going from the very quick realization that I’m injured to the next realization that I’m pissed. Her face has gone from fury to guilt, a guilt that’s mixed with fear.
I’m going to remind her again that her anger’s got nothing on mine, and she knows it.
She steps back hurriedly, pressing herself against the opposite wall as I eat up the distance between us.
Then I let fall my arms on either side of her, completely trapping her.
I’m panting heavily, because Tragen’s punches aren’t light, and I’m in pain.
But I’m also hard, my cock tenting in my gym shorts.
She’s looking at me, her face white, her chin trembling. She thinks I’m furious, but the truth is, I don’t think I could ever really be truly angry with her. If I were, she’d be dead.
This version of anger is the kind that gets me nice and worked up, and ends with the kind of fuck that she enjoys just as much as me.
In fact, despite her apparent fear, she’s running her tongue over her lips, her gaze going down to take in my dick.
But then, she remembers her anger. Or maybe she’s trying to provoke me into giving her an even harder fuck.
Or both.
“I wanted to go to UCLA, Quill,” she says, her voice harsh in her futile attempt to keep the tremor out of it. “You’ve ruined my future. Are you okay? You look like you’re in pain.”
“I’ll ruin a lot more if you don’t shut up,” I breathe into her neck, ignoring her last question, because I want to get to the punishment fuck, and I know if she softens up too early that’s not going to happen.
I flip her roughly so her front is flush against the wall.
“It’s not fair.” She’s back to provocation, clearly wanting whatever pain I’m going to dole out just as much as I do. “You’re not taking me seriously. You’re not listening. I’m trying to talk to you about something very important, and you’re going to have sex with me…”
“No,” I correct. “I’m going to fuck you.”
With that, I pull down her jean shorts and her little bubble butt bursts out. I slide my hand over it, first over the panties, then under them, biting down on my first instinct to rip them off her because she did ask me to stop destroying her clothes. And I do listen. Sometimes.
I couldn’t really see the big deal about her running out of panties at the rate I was ripping them to shreds until she threatened to go commando under her short dresses. No fucking way will I ever risk her showing any part of herself to anyone who isn’t me.
She won that battle. I do let her win, occasionally.
Never on the big shit, though.
So I behave and keep her panties firmly intact as I slide my hand under them, wondering exactly what I’m going to do to her.
“Quill,” she protests, but it’s coming out like a moan. “I wasn’t finished talking…”
“You never are.”
“Quill!”
I cut off her protest with a stinging smack, but I don’t feel like spanking her today. In spite of being a bit angry, I’m still kind of in a cuddling mood. The kind that makes me want to play with my little cricket.
Well, play in a manner of speaking. I’m not going to be soft with her, not by any means. She’s not getting off easy.
Without giving her a chance to steel herself for it, I plunge a finger into the little puckered hole of her ass.
She clearly wasn’t expecting it, especially since I still haven’t taken off her panties, and they’re currently snug over the back of my hand.
But that doesn’t prevent me from fingering her hard, and soon she’s on tiptoes, trying to accommodate me.
“Quill,” she wavers, but I shut her up by adding another finger and speeding up my rhythm.