Chapter 9
RAZOR
The day I met Sunday
Shit gets real fast in the Reaper world, and this mission was a fucking test of my sanity. They nearly always are, but when it involves kids, it’s always sweeter when the target is sent to hell in the cruelest of ways.
The guys are subdued but relieved it’s over, and the traffickers who escaped a jail term received justice in a far more final and brutal way.
Blade, my twin, walks beside me as we head into the compound.
“Fuck, man. I could sure use a beer and a whore right now.”
“Who are you thinking of ?”
We are both aware that the women—or whores as they prefer to be called—are the ones who get to choose and never the other way around.
“The first one who smiles in my direction, I’m guessing.”
“Good luck with that.”
He chuckles because we both know competition will be fierce because the single Reapers all get the same shot at the candy on offer and there isn’t enough to go around.
Blade is like me, a surly son of a bitch, and we give nothing except a dark gaze and the promise of a night of passion. Many of the other Reapers at least attempt conversation, something we share the inability to master, meaning it’s unusual for us to be the first choice.
Failing to secure a warm body for the night, I will probably train in the gym to oblivion to blur the images of the kill and crawl into bed where I’ll pass out until my body wakes me for another day doing the devil’s work.
“Hey.”
Creed, one of the newer Reapers, joins us as we head toward the bar. “I heard there’s a new angel to fix, and she’s one hell of a looker.”
I’m mildly interested. I also heard there’s a new angel in town, but I’m already resigned to being at the back of the line because fresh meat is like a battle cry to the horny bunch of renegades I live with.
“I’m going to try my luck. I hope she’s up for the challenge.”
Blade shrugs. “You’ll scare the panties off her if you go in hard, and Ryder will be pissed if you hit on the newbie before she’s even unpacked. You should back off and let her come to you instead.”
“It sucks being chivalrous.”
Blade chuckles, but I disagree. Chivalry is all we have left.
The life we lead is hardly honorable when it involves slaying vermin and sending them to meet the devil in the most painful way possible.
We are named The Twisted Reapers for a reason.
Doing the devil’s work is not for the fainthearted and twisted is our preferred method of dispatching them to the afterlife.
A visit from a Reaper ends up only one way for the scum who have the misfortune of falling on our radar.
“What about you, bro?”
Creed turns his attention to me, and I grunt, “A cold beer in my hand, and I’ll see where the evening takes me.”
Blade nods. “This shit burns sometimes. Let’s hope the whores are happy to play tonight. And there are enough to go around.”
Many people would never understand the life we live at the Rubicon.
Hell, I don’t even understand it myself most times.
The women here call the shots, and they know it, and if anything, the men are the whores.
Answering the call from a sweet smile, a suggestive wink, or the crook of a well-manicured finger.
We don’t get to choose and are forbidden from hitting on a woman and making her uncomfortable.
It is always their choice whether they take us up on our offer of a bed companion for the night.
Many of the Reapers have old ladies, something I can’t understand because this life is hard and dragging a woman into it doesn’t sit well with me.
Blade pushes open the door of the bar, and the noise deafens me as always. Music, loud conversation, and usually a game playing on the enormous screens dotted around hit me as I head inside, aiming straight for the bar.
My gaze falls on her like a heat-seeking missile, and something malfunctions inside me.
I can’t look away.
The prettiest woman I have ever seen is behind the bar, a serious expression on her face as she listens to Britney, who is demonstrating how it works around here. She’s obviously new and learning, deep in concentration, and Creed whistles beside me. “Fuck me, have you ever seen anything like her?”
Blade is silent. I fucking hope he isn’t feeling what I am because it hits me like a lightning strike. Whoever she is deserves my full attention.
The guys crowd around the bar, and she keeps her eyes on the job, a faint blush of pink staining her cheeks, telling me she’s overwhelmed already.
She stands a little behind Britney, who is smiling at one of the Reapers as she places his order, the new angel listening intently and watching as Britney fulfills his request.
Britney whispers something in her ear and nods her encouragement, and she takes a deep breath, forcing a smile as she steps forward.
We reach the bar at the same time as I slide out my usual stool, Blade beside me, Creed immediately hitting on the newcomer.
“Hey, darlin’. You’re a sight for battle-sore eyes.”
She blushes, and he grins, that lopsided one that gets most of the whores pointing their attention his way.
Creed is a hot property with women. They love his movie-star looks, endearing banter, and the way he has of making them believe they are the most desired woman in the world.
The complete opposite of me, who merely repels them with my surly attitude and fuck-off vibe.
I don’t stand a chance with this woman as long as Creed is interested.
“What’s your name, angel?”
He leans on the bar, and she blushes under the intensity of his attention.
“Sunday.”
Fuck, her voice hit me directly in the soul. Soft, sweet, gorgeous. I could listen to her all day.
“Great name. Were you born with it, or is it something you chose, a nickname perhaps?”
“I chose it.”
She blushes under his scrutiny, and despite wanting a beer more than air right now, it appears I am hanging onto every word that shoots from her pretty little mouth.
“Why Sunday?”
“Because that was the day I got my life back.”
He makes to speak, but Blade cuts in.
“Welcome, darlin’. I don’t suppose you have two beers behind that bar.”
Creed rolls his eyes and winks at her, and she smiles nervously. “Of course.”
Her gaze lingers on me, and I swear my heart stops beating, and the small smile she offers me is worth more than all the gold in the Federal Reserve.
She looks away and turns to grab some cold beers, and I hate how Creed’s eyes linger on her ass. I clench my fist, and I have no idea why, because I am usually indifferent to any of the women in the Rubicon. But Sunday, well, it appears that she is the exception to the rule.