Blood to Dust(37)

He fists my hair, bringing my ear to his hot mouth. “First, the latter,” he whispers sinisterly. He’s killed before. “And then, I’ll decide who deserves to be killed for this.”

He’s at it again. Grabbing my ass in a way that’d surely leave a nasty mark, he slams his hips into my flesh back and forth. I keep my mouth shut by biting into my lower lip hard, but even that doesn’t stop the moans from escaping.

I’m working up a solid orgasm, my legs shaking all over, but Nate doesn’t even warn me. He drives into me one last time and empties inside me, groaning against my sweaty back for what seems to be a full minute. I feel his condom expanding with hot cum. It feels like he broke my body and sliced my legs open with a cleaver.

And I love it.

He releases my hips and I slide down the wall until my feet hit the floor. I shimmy my dress down, my wetness sticking my thighs together. What the hell just happened? Technically, it was sex. But physically and mentally, it felt like butchery. Nate takes a step back. He went against Godfrey’s order and f*cked me with everything he’s got and then some. His empty balls are in my cute little palm now.

Everyone knows Godfrey has a lie detector in his office. One sit-down with Nate and the needle will be dancing like a hippie at Woodstock. I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing—everything’s changed now that he stuck his dick in me.

“Shit,” he mutters behind me as the new reality settles over the room. “Fuck, f*ck, f*ck!”

Even though my back is still to him, I can feel him pacing the room. I’m trying not to dwell on it, because my plans are so much bigger than being semi-rejected by a weird man-boy with a cock the size of a rocket ship. Still, it stings.

But I know his name.

And he f*cked something that belongs to Godfrey.

He is screwed.

“Listen, Nate. . .” Before I get the chance to turn around and launch at him with another pep talk, the door slams shut, the walls around me rattling with the impact. I wait a few seconds before taking off my blindfold and looking around.

He left.

I kick the food and beer he brought for me, picking up the Guy Fawkes mask he forgot to take with him before he stormed away and stare at it, willing it to come alive and fight with me.

I can’t believe him. I can’t believe me. I shouldn’t care that he ran off. Just be thrilled that he’s played into my plan, and that I can now manipulate him even more.

Nate Vela will be back. I know he will. A whole party couldn’t distract him. He came for me. He came in me. He has no interest in whatever the outside world has to offer. From the moment he gets to his house every day, his life revolves around me.

The way he f*cked me today? It proved one thing: this man needs me just as I need him.

Bad.





I need to step out of this mess before she assassinates me in a way a whole army of crazy Nazis tried and hadn’t succeeded. She’s going to ruin me. . .and I’m going to let her.

No. This stops here.

I don’t know this girl. I sure as f*ck don’t need this girl. This girl, other than being the proud owner of a magic, sleek * I tend to respond to like it belongs to Aphrodite herself, is nothing to me. Nothing. She’ll pull the trigger on me without even batting an eye. She’ll f*ck her way to freedom even if it were under the bodies of other men. Like Irv, or Stan Hathaway, or even f*cking Camden Archer himself. She’ll stop at nothing to get her life back, and I can’t blame her.

But I can end this.

It’s her problem, not mine. Her tragedy, not mine. I’ve got my own f*cking sad story to torture the ears of the average folk with. And that shit about a kid? I may be tanked, but I saw her face twitching when she answered.

Where are you hiding your spawn, little Pea, and who the f*ck takes care of them?

Stumbling out of the basement, still thoroughly drunk, I take a wide step over a naked girl on the floor who is masturbating using an empty beer bottle in front of a cheering crowd. Jesus f*ck, what kind of people does Irv hang out with these days?

I trudge straight to the stereo that’s whining “Hey” by The Pixies and pull the plug out of the outlet, holding the cord in my hand like a lasso, and point it at Irv, who is sprawled out on our sofa, getting a blow job from a woman in a mini-skirt, who looks to be pushing fifty and has a pink hair curler stuck to her skull.

“Everybody get the f*ck out. Party’s over.”

Irv bolts up to his feet, flicking his lit joint onto the hole-filled carpet and staring me down like people expect him to. This shuts up everybody in the room instantly, which is unfortunate, because I have an angry, strong woman in my basement, who just got screwed six ways from Sunday and could very well be screaming her little lungs out.

“Calm your hot ass down, dawg. Who the f*ck are you to decide?” he spits. I’m so mad at him for spilling my name in her ears, I’m about to cut his ugly ass face in front of all these people.

“I’m your motherf*cking roommate, and when needed, I’ll also be your goddamn boss.” I take a step in his direction towering over him by at least six inches. “I never agreed to have people over. Fold this shit down before I strangle you alive. I already got a rope.” I squeeze the cord in my fist for emphasis and raise it to his eye level. “Now, dummy.”

Ten minutes later, the house is empty. It’s just me, him and Prescott downstairs. I walked out on her before even zipping up. Hell, my boxers are still damp with the cum I didn’t have time to wipe off. Trying to swallow my embarrassment down—I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me, she was begging to be f*cked and I gave her what she wanted—I throw my pillow over my face and squeeze it, half-wishing I’d suffocate myself to death.