13. Dre
Chapter thirteen
Dre
I lean against the bank of scratched metal lockers, ignoring the stench of stale sweat and mediocre male as I watch the little princess scurry away. Her fine ass disappears around the corner. Fuck , she's a temptation.
I resist the urge to chase after her, demand another taste despite the fact I know her lips were just on this pathetic fuck.
My jaw clenches and my hand instinctively reaches for the knife in my pocket. The weight against my palm soothes the storm in my soul.
I don't like others touching what's mine. And she might not know it yet, but the little princess is most definitely mine.
I should go after her. I want to go after her. But I'm needed here. I prop one foot on its toes, balancing my weight as I use the sharp tip of my blade to scrape at the dirt under my nails.
Am I imagining it's that fuck's face? Maybe. He deserves everything that's coming to him and more. One thing he most definitely doesn't deserve? The little princess. The pretty little snowflake I want to catch on my tongue until it melts.
Will she break if I play with her? Most people don't like broken toys, but I think there's something hauntingly beautiful about them.
I wonder if she'd spill her secrets to me if I brought her the slug's heart. I flick my eyes up to where he's trying to stand firm against Saint. His chest's all puffed out like he's something impressive. I bet he'll deflate real quick if I stab a hole in his gut. The look on his face is all disgust and defiance. Like he's better than us because daddy has more money.
Didn't stop him from needing our services. Certainly didn't stop him from trying to fucking stiff us. And that just won't fucking stand.
"You got a fucking problem hearing me?" Saint demands.
I can't help but smile as Saint's voice rumbles through the air, the tension in the room palpable. The slug cringes, his face a mask of unease. I let out a low chuckle, my eyes never leaving my hand.
Despite his bravado, the little fuck knows better than to mess with us. He's just a man, like any other. Less than, really.
"Are you questioning my ability to pay?" The slug demands.
"I sure as fuck am questioning your sanity. Because I know we gave you a fucking deadline. And, yet, here I stand. No money."
The slug's face twists into a mask of rage. He takes a step forward like he's planning to go on the offensive. Big mistake. Saint moves with unparalleled precision; his hand shooting out faster than any arrow, grasping the slug by the throat.
The slug's eyes dart around the room, looking for an escape as he grips Saint's wrist. He won't find one. He's backed himself into a corner, and he knows it.
I take a deep breath, savoring the moment. The slug's pathetic attempts at intimidation have only served to piss us off even more. I can see the fear in his eyes, and I can't help but smile.
"You really think that's gonna work, huh?" Saint growls, his voice shaking in the silence of the room. "You ain't got the balls to take me on, you cowardly piece of shit."
"You requested our services. You signed the contract. Services were rendered. And, yet, we haven't been paid," Chess recites calmly.
"My father can blow that contract out of the fucking water. I don't owe you shit," the slug spits.
"You'd think that, wouldn't you? But I can assure you our contracts are air tight. And, in order for daddy to save you, you'd have to tell him what exactly you contracted us for."
"So," Saint's voice is barely restrained rage, "we can either release the video you were so desperate to hide—and all the others we managed to find in our sweep—or, you can fucking pay me. Yesterday. Seems an easy choice to me."
The slug's face contorts further, his eyes darting between us like a trapped animal. He's still looking for a way out, but there's nowhere left to run.
I'll find him.
I like the chase.
It makes the kill all the more sweet.
"Fine," the slug finally spits. "I'll get you your fucking money."
"He acts like it's a choice. How cute," I drawl.
"I don't have the cash on me."
Of course he doesn't.
"I'll have to go get it."
"You've pushed too fucking far, Preston," Saint sneers his name like a curse. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your fucking word for it. We'll need some collateral to ensure you're not stupid enough to walk away with my money a second time."
Saint's grip loosens and a slimy slug falls from his open palm. He juts his chin toward me and sweeps it toward the heap at his feet. Tag. I'm it.
I push off the lockers and snatch up the slug, slamming his back against the cold metal. The sound reverberates through my bones. I press my forearm against his chest, pinning him in place, and hold the sharp tip of my knife just inches away from his pathetic little balls.
They didn’t deserve my snowflake’s attention. I should cut them off just for that and that alone. I press my knife in further, temptation bleeding past sense.
The slug trembles, his eyes darting to the others as if they'll save him before meeting my cold, emotionless gaze. I can almost taste his fear. It’s delicious.
"You're nothing," I whisper menacingly. "No one turns their back on us, Preston ."
"You want collateral, Saint?" he snarls, his voice thick with false bravado. "You want something to ensure my business is square? Fine. You can take my fucking car. I'll bring you the money this afternoon."
"No," Saint's tone brooks no argument. "We want the girl."
The slug's eyes go wide, and it's clear he thinks we're joking. But we're not. The girl is ours. He just doesn't know it yet. But he will.
"The girl?" he stutters. "You can't have her. It's mine...she's mine."
I freeze. I think even my pitiful, underused heart stops in my chest. It. He said “it.” Either he views the little princess, the icy little snowflake, as an object, which, honestly, is possible. Or…
Goddamn. She's a virgin .
"It's the girl or your balls, Preston. Once again, an easy choice. I suggest you bring me my money. Because, if you don't, I'll take what you seem to think belongs to you. For good."
Preston fights against my hold, but I press the tip of my blade deeper. His yelp suggests I may have drawn blood. Fuck. Now I'll have to sanitize my favorite knife.
Saint laughs coldly, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "Make your decision, Preston. We're not in the mood to play games."
"I swear to fucking god if you touch her..."
"We will do whatever we please. You will bring us the money. Yes or no?"
"Yes," the slug seethes.
"What's his outstanding bill, Chess?"
"Three grand."
"Three grand. You'll bring it to Iggy's this afternoon. Believe me, you do not want to try me again. Release him, Dre."
I press the blade in just a tad further, not enough to gouge but enough to remind him of the consequences of his actions. Then I step back, allowing the sniveling excuse for a man to crumple to the floor.
The room is quiet for a moment as Preston hesitates, his eyes darting between us. His jaw tightens with determination and I widen my stance to prepare for what comes next.
But, the little coward never comes.
"You'll fucking regret this."
"I fucking doubt it."
With that, the little slug slithers away, shooting us dirty looks over his shoulder as he goes. Good riddance.
My snowflake is officially ours.