Chapter 3 Reed #2
I rumble around the brush, ensuring that I can’t be seen unless I will it. Settling behind an old oak tree, away from the reflection of the water. The earthy scent of the dying autumn leaves wafts in through my nose.
An orange tabby pads its way through the brush, tiny little steps that crinkle the leaves. All whiskers and confidence. This pussy is highly brave treading near me.
It mews once, a tiny punctuation mark that breaks the silence of the evening air.
Does it expect milk and cookies? Bless its gullible heart.
It rubs up against my calf, arches it back, tail a jaunty flag. Filthy. Soft. Weak. The Quinn side of me rumbles an approval at the idea of ending its little, trusting life right here. Instinct and training. I can’t let this silly little feline ruin my cover.
I loop my palms around its neck, feeling the warm, fuzzy purrs vibrate through my skin.
Reed, don’t. This is what your father would want you to do. To end its pulse. To bury it in a grave and earn another sinister nod of approval.
My fingers hover at its throat. How merciful it would be for me to end its fluffy misery. Fuck. It's your lucky day, kitty.
I give the orange beast a violent hiss, then fling it behind me, up the hill like a furry cannonball. It meows furiously in the air as it thuds onto the ground.
Don’t you dare come back kitty. Next time you won’t be meowing when I toss ya.
I sink into the ground, gaining my composure, my eyes fixed on the pavement, my heart slowing to that of a hibernating grizzly. There hasn’t been a single biker or jogger thus far.
This damn River Stalker. Ruining my hobby.
Once I find out who you are—God help you—I’ll make you regret ever stepping foot in my territory.
I tug the mask down until it sits snug against my cheekbones—painted teeth where my mouth should be. My warm breath returns against my skin. It’s realistic enough to consume those that see it with panic. It’s a performance after all; a mask is theater with teeth.
Women tend to wail in soprano, a lovely, high shriek that rings in the air like a siren in the sea.
Men falling apart are a delicacy. The instant their posture crumples and the bravado evaporates is delicious.
The gender expectations strip away and what’s left is a very honest squeal.
Like little bitches screaming for their mommies.
I check my footing. Ankles rooted. Ready to spring. Timing is everything. Too early and you ruin the surprise. Too late and you miss the performance. My ancestors would be proud of my prowess—if I weren’t so shy to use the blade to its intent.
A runner appears around the bend of the paved trail. My blonde little mouse, with dazzling blue eyes. You brave and stupid boy. Last night wasn’t thrilling enough for you?
He jogs on until he stops in the center of my vision, next to a park bench half-swallowed by withering weeds. The moonlight catches the drops of sweat on his forehead perfectly. His eyes search the woods, as if he’s waiting for me to pounce on him.
I guess I didn’t scare him properly. Bold, suicidal prey.
Can’t say that you come across these ones too often.
But fuck, does his rump look delicious outlined in those black booty shorts.
Tasty enough to make my pulse misbehave.
I can only imagine what he tastes like with a little bit of adrenaline coursing through his veins.
My prick spasms against my jeans, this hunt may end up a bit more satisfying than the average.
He leans forward to stretch, showcasing his well-built ass, flexing every muscle fiber, his lungs trembling slightly from exertion. He must be completely oblivious to how inviting that movement looks from this angle.
So open. So unguarded.
A precious little field mouse, poised to sate my appetite.
It makes me wonder: how well can he take my bite?
I ache to startle him, to step out from the shadows and watch his bravery dissolve to my saliva. Maybe I can teach this blonde fool a tad of respect, and maybe a tad of surrender—if he can handle it.
“Hello?” he calls, his lips quivering, voice seeping with desperation. His lips are hanging open, aching to be filled. By anything, by anyone.
He takes a hesitant step toward the tree line, shoes crunching the leaves, quads flexing. Another step, then another. Each one slower than the last, like he’s offering himself up to me.
He’s starving for attention. I can see it in his steps, submissive and hesitant. He would rather be scared shitless than to be alone.
He stumbles backward, catching himself on the park bench, chest panting. “Is someone there?” he whispers into the night, the sound swallowed by the roaring Mississippi.
My entire body freezes. My lungs forget to breathe. Every instinct begs me to go forward and claim those pleading, desperate lips for myself.
But could I stop? How far would I go?
I can feel the investment sinking in with this one. Could I let him live, after we touch?
I clench my jaw, grinding my teeth until I taste blood. I’m supposed to be better than them. Better than my father. Better than the Quinn lineage that demands carnage.
I don’t want to become a beast again.
But the images come anyway: ripping into his flesh, stripping his shorts and tearing off whatever underwear he might be wearing.
Shoving him into the dirt until he can’t breathe anymore, until pleasure and suffocation blur into one helpless, beautiful sound.
Taking him until his pulse falters under my grip—mine, mine, mine.
Get out of your head Reed. That’s the past. You couldn’t control yourself then. You can now.
I can taste the false lie I try to tell myself, biting into my gums.
The rage builds in my chest. Rage at my bloodline, at my weakness, at the way one trembling boy has me unraveling in the woods.
This is my domain.
I’m the gamemaster. The one who pulls the strings and decides who gets to linger near the forest.
Not some blonde bimbo from the farm. The audacity this little bitch, trying to overtake my territory with his innocence.
Oh believe me, I’ll teach you boy.
My thoughts spiral as he dances on the trail. Go. Run. Claim. The words racing through my mind, my heart surging in conflict.
Every instinct screams to take control. Step out, let him meet what he has been asking for.
But a voice of reason comes forward.
Don’t.
Not tonight.
The moonlight catches him for a final time before he dashes on, a look of disappointment spreading across his lips.
I watch him trot off into the distance, one foot after another.
I catch a final whiff of his smell, reminiscent of sunshine and fresh hay, that maddening mix of sweat and purity doesn’t belong around me.
The scent clings to the air as I savor every second of it.
Imagining how his sweat would taste across my tongue, how succulent his lips would be.
My cock twitches, begging to be freed, to explode.
I stay in position, in case he back trots. The wind twirls around me. As if the forest is upset at the lack of theater tonight. “Don’t worry, soon,” I whisper to the branches.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My pager rattles against my hip, the shrill vibration jolting me to reality.
Bless.
Nothing like a triple trauma to stop a man from committing a felony.