by K. L. Savage
And it’s me.
I smirk to myself as I stalk him from the corner of my eye. My hand brushes against the bark of the tree, and I dip behind another when he stops in his tracks.
Oh, he can sense me again. I let one eye peek around the thick trunk and see him stare into the dark forest. He feels something watching him. It’s going to be like that for the rest of the day. He’s going to chalk the sensation he has slithering up his spine and causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up on paranoia.
What a sense of accomplishment. I love fucking with my victim’s head.
He strides toward the large blue cooler and pulls out a beer. It’s well deserved since the sun is bearing down on him as they put together this wonderful party.
Oh, it’s going to be so much fun.
The fear is going to be life-threatening, to say the least.
Another man comes up beside him, shorter, a bit thinner, with tattoos and blond hair at the tips. Hmm, maybe he will be a good victim.
“Eeny meeny miny moe, catch a Ruthless King by their toe. If they struggle, don’t let them go.” I drift my finger to each man, unable to decide which one I really want. I feel like I’m at an all-you-can-eat buffet. I want them both, but tradition says I can only have one. “My momma died when my father. Cut. Her. Throat.” I change the direction of who I’m pointing to. “And you.” Point. “Are.” Point. “Not.” I land on the person who gets to keep his life. “It.”
Looks like it’s my original target all along. “I’ll be seeing you,” I whisper in the wind, hoping he can hear me. Without looking away from him, I walk backward into the woods, whistling until I can no longer see my chosen. The darkness engulfs me, and since I’ve studied the land over the last few days, I don’t need to see where I’m going. I’ve memorized every outlet, every escape, just in case things go wrong.
They never do. They always go according to plan.
When I get to the back road, I spin on my heel and head toward my bicycle that is laying against the ground. I pick it up, swing my legs over, and casually pedal toward the plot of land I’ve selected to start digging the grave.
I inhale a deep breath, letting the humid air coat my lungs and the scent of exhaust fumes tickle my need to get high. I take a right, holding my arm out to let anyone behind me know that I’m turning because safety first. I bicycle around the compound, and when I get to the side of the road where I can see them and they can see me, I wave.
“Hi, how are you?” Reaper yells, waving a kind hand at me from across the fence.
I give him a grateful smile for asking and keep on pedaling. They have no idea what’s coming for them.
Trick or treat.
I can sense your grief.
Chapter Five
REAPER
Halloween Day
“I am not going to wear this,” I gripe, staring at myself in the long bodied mirror. I look fucking ridiculous. I trusted Sarah and Tongue to go out and buy everyone their requested costumes for this expensive charity party we’re throwing, and Sarah brings me back a Peter-fucking-Pan outfit. “I don’t wear fucking tights!” I grip the material beneath my balls and pluck it out of the crease so the boys can breathe. Jesus Christ. I’ll never live this down. My cock can’t breathe, and I don’t even think it’s appropriate to wear to a function that’s kid friendly. I can visibly see the outline of my cock.
I’m not walking around in this.
“I’m not wearing this. This better be a joke, doll. I am the President of the Ruthless Kings MC. We kill people, we fight, and we sure as hell do not wear green fucking spandex. Doll, you can see everything,” I say with slight disgust. Even I wouldn’t want to see me parading around in this. I would be scarred for life.
“But why?” She pouts, gripping my ass with both hands.
Ow. That’s … that’s a bit rough.
“Your ass looks so good in these tights, baby. Damn…” She lifts her hands and smacks my right cheek.
Startled, I jump and yelp. This is unexpected. “Sarah—”
“Seeing you in this is getting me wet.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I catch her licking her lips, roaming her eyes up and down my body. I’m wearing a hat that has a red feather, and there isn’t anything for the top of the outfit besides a vest that’s too damn small.
Who am I kidding?
Everything about this outfit is too damn small, but the way her eyes roam up and down my body has my cock hardening in a very tight space. “You’re serious? This is turning you on?”
She nods slowly and bites her lip. “Oh, yeah.” She grabs my ass again, pushing me up onto my tiptoes from how hard she is gripping me back there. “How about I get changed in my outfit and we can … examine one another?”
Her hands roam to my cock, and our eyes meet in the mirror again. Who am I to deny my little maniac? She’s fucking crazy. Who gets off on a Peter Pan costume?
“Look how big your cock is.”
My eyes roll to the back of my head as she strokes me. Maybe this outfit isn’t so bad. “Fuck, doll, that feels good,” I moan, thrusting my hips forward with every caress her hand gives me. I don’t think I’ll be going to the party tonight if she keeps this up. I can hear everyone outside the room right now, setting up last minute details for the party. There’s this tiny aspect of getting caught since we’re supposed to be helping. No doubt someone is going to come looking for us soon. If there’s one thing to be said about the MC, we hate slackers.
But there needs to be a rule about ol’ ladies stroking our cocks, it’s an automatic out and an excused absence from all club activities for the day. Oh, yeah, I’m making that rule at Church next time.
She pulls the tights down my thighs until I pop free from the spandex constraints. She watches her hand in the mirror, jerking me from root to tip, and I have to lean my hands against the wall to support myself. “Why don’t I bob for something else besides apples?” she purrs, lowering herself onto the ground and sliding toward my front until her eyes are level with me. Her golden brown eyes swirl with heat as she licks her lips while staring at the angry plum colored head. A bead of pre-cum drips from the slit, and my hungry little maniac slides her tongue across to gather the fluid.
“Fuck me,” I groan, tilting my head back onto my shoulders while she sucks the crown between her lips. I reach down with one hand and run my fingers through her hair while the other goes to take this ridiculous hat off.
“No,” she says, pulling off me with a pop. “Keep it on.”
My brows raise to my hairline in surprise, and she winks at me causing my cock to jerk. Well, what the lady wants, she gets. I lower the hat slowly onto my head again, and she hums, sucking me down to the back of her throat.
If this hat is having this weird sexual craving coming off her suddenly, then I’m never going to fucking take it off. I’ll wear it everywhere. Every day. I’ll be her Peter Pan whenever she wants.
Sarah fondles my sack and tugs until the slight edge of pain has me hissing and curling my fingers against her scalp. I tug on her hair and make her look up at me. “If you keep going like that I’m going to spill down your throat, doll.”
“Maybe I want you to…” She traces her tongue around the flared head. “Maybe I want you to fill my belly, Jesse.”
Her filthy words have my orgasm tingling at the thick base. My mouth drops open, and I’m about to tip over the edge when the door slams open.
“Reaper, I need help with—Oh, fuck!” Boomer screams.
“Boomer, what the hell!” Sarah screams. The last puff of breath ghosts over the tip, and I can’t stop it. No matter how hard I try. It’s too late. Things are about to get real awkward and afterward, I’m going to kill Boomer.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I can’t stop my orgasm. It doesn’t even feel good because Boomer fucking ruined it. Three thick streams paint Sarah’s face, and both of us are horrified. Sarah spins around, giving Boomer her back, and I tuck myself in my tights; no
t that it matters. I’m still fucking hard.
“Oh my god, I’m blind. I’m ruined for life. I can never unsee that.” Boomer gags. “I’m going to be sick. What the fuck, guys?”
“You were the one who didn’t fucking knock!” I roar at him, and then I remember how ridiculous I look. I sling the hat off and throw it across the room. Sarah runs into the bathroom and slams the door.
In two long strides, I’m in front of Boomer and grabbing his cut, throwing him against the wall. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t carve a heart in your chest for interrupting me and my ol’ lady?” I say through tight teeth.
His eyes are squeezed shut, and his skin is pale. “Because I can never forget what I just saw, and it’s going to haunt me for life. I want to throw up and I don’t see that feeling going away for awhile. Have mercy, Reaper. I just witnessed something I never want to witness again. Peter Pan?”
“Shut up.” I shove him against the wall and lift him a few inches off the floor before letting him go. “This doesn’t leave this room. Understand me? If it does, I’ll take one of your other fingers.”
“Like I could speak the words without puking, Reaper.” Even though his eyes are shut, I can see them rolling behind his lids.
“Get. Out. And I’m warning you, learn to fucking knock!” I push him out the door and slam it. When the wood meets the trim, a thunderous boom shakes the floor from the force I used. For good measure, I lock the damn door and bury my face in my hands, laughing.
I can’t stop.
This has to be one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire life. Coming while Sarah’s brother walks through the door? I knew I should’ve stopped the entire thing from happening. Fooling around in a Peter Pan outfit cannot be good.
The water is running in the bathroom, and on an exhale, I walk toward the closed bathroom door and tap my knuckles against the wood. “Doll, you okay?” I bet she’s embarrassed too. We aren’t the kind of couple that likes to share what we do. We like to keep our passion behind closed doors; it’s private. We aren’t like Skirt and Dawn, who regularly have Bullseye join in with them, but what they actually do together is something we don’t know, and I don’t ask.
It isn’t anybody’s business.
“Doll?” I ask again, getting worried that she isn’t answering me. I turn the knob and crack it open. I peek my head inside and see her on the floor, shoulders shaking. I rush to her side and gather her in my arms. “Doll, it’s okay. I know it was embarrassing but—”
A squeal of high-pitched laughter rips from her throat. I lean back to get a better look at her face to see she’s laughing so hard tears are streaming down her face.
“Oh … my … god, his … face,” she gasps. “I can’t breathe.”
I snort, smiling, and shake my head at her. “Come on, let me change, and we can go help put the finishing touch on the place before the party begins.” Right as I stand, a tearing has me freezing.
Sarah stares at me wide-eyed, red cheeks, and when I turn around to see why my ass is cold, she’s falling on the floor again, cracking up at my expense.
“I knew these damn pants were too tight,” I grumble. The rip is all the way down my ass crack.
If me and Peter Pan are ever alone in the same room, I’m giving him real pants.
“It isn’t that funny,” I say with a slight pout.
She’s trying to push herself up, but she’s laughing too hard. “You’re right. It’s hilarious!” Another roar of chuckling continues, and it turns into one of those laughs where she can’t stop. It’s infectious, and she has me laughing right along with her.
“We should get you assless chaps. It’s a look, baby. You’re pulling it off so well.”
I deadpan her and give her a playful push out the bathroom door. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Oh, they’re ordered.” She waves her phone in the air and wipes her cheek on her shoulder. “One-click purchases are their best. And don’t think for one second that this means you get out of wearing this costume. I bought extras, in different sizes; you know, just in case.” She lifts a shoulder and pretends to shine her nails.
“You little—” I launch myself at her and tackle her against the bed, tickling her sides until she’s screaming with sweet giggles.
I know damn good and well I’ll be wearing those chaps because anything that makes her happy, makes me happy.
Chapter Six
SLINGSHOT
30 minutes before the party begins.
I rub my hands together and look around. No one is here besides me, Tongue, and Knives. Right now, Tongue is busy getting his face painted by Sarah. Knives is putting the final touches on his ninja costume, and I’m dressed up as a taco.
Tacos are fucking life.
They bring my soul joy, but carnitas are my favorite. Granted, I have to be careful because I have a sensitivity to them. My belly gets upset. I’d rather die with a taco-filled belly and in pain than eating fucking lettuce or something.
Plus, it’s Halloween. It’s practically a holiday, and I’m allowed to treat myself before the festivities begin. I’ve taken my pill to help with my … issue. I have ten carnitas in front of me, and I’m going to eat every single one of them.
The smell of marinated cooked beef wafts in my nose as I lift the beautifully folded corn tortilla to my mouth. Saliva pools and nearly drips down my chin. Cilantro is heavy, just how I like it, and the sour cream is perfectly aligned down the middle with a ton of salsa on top with a few droplets of hot sauce.
Oh my god, I’m in heaven.
Is there a taco heaven?
When I die, that’s where I want to go.
I wrap my mouth around the first bite, and my eyes close. I groan when the flavor bursts across my tongue, and I start to chew. The way the pickled onions have a hint of crispness with a slight hint of vinegar is perfection.
“A taco eating a taco? Really?”
I scream and drop my food on the plate. I hold my hand to my chest and try to catch my breath and chew at the same time. “Oh my god, Tongue. What the fuck? Where are you?” I look around the room, which is dark because Tool thought it would be funny to take most of the bulbs out of the house to give it a ‘true’ dark effect. Now, I can’t see shit. I’m eating with a flashlight on. “Tongue,” I warn him. I know he’s hiding in a corner.
He’s always in a corner.
His villainous laughter echoes around me as he moves throughout the dark. I look left, then right, and then I think I hear him in front of me.
But then I hear a swipe on the table and when I look down, one of my fucking tacos is gone.
“Tongue, didn’t your mother ever teach you to not touch a man’s taco!” I roar.
“I didn’t have a mother. I wouldn’t know.”
Oh.
That … makes me feel really bad. “Aw, Tongue, man, I’m sorry—”
Another swipe on the table has me standing up and getting my slingshot out. “Listen, I was just about to feel bad too, but now that you’ve taken two of my damn tacos, that’s grounds for a fight.” I grab the half-eaten taco on my plate and stuff it in my mouth before he can take it.
His laugh sends chills up my spine, and I swear I feel his breath against my neck. “What are you going to do?”
I load my slingshot with a scoop of guacamole and pull the string back. “I’m going to annihilate you.”
“Mwahaha,” he darkly chuckles again, zipping to the other side of the room.
He’s feeling way too damn playful. Sarah must have given him a shot of whiskey. Tongue always gets a bit wild when he drinks. He can’t hold his liquor, but he doesn’t think people notice.
“Boo,” he scares me from the corner to my right, and I let the guac fly. The rubber band slaps, and I hear the dip smacking against something.
I smirk. “Ha! Fucker. Take that.”
The kitchen light flicks on, which I didn’t think worked, and Reaper is standing there with a large dollop of guac
on his cheek. I desperately look around for Tongue and jump when I see a painted skull in the corner. Tongue smiles and gives me a finger wave.
“Missed me,” he gloats, coming out of the corner in a biker skeleton outfit. His outfit looks awesome, and it suits him. He looks terrifying.
“Asshole,” I grumble. I lay my hand on the table and give Reaper a tense smile. “Hi, Prez.”
He crosses his arms, and the move has the guac sliding off his cheek, puddling on the floor. I try not to smile, but the Peter Pan outfit is making it difficult. “Why are you flinging guacamole? Why aren’t you outside preparing for the party like the others? And those better not be more tacos on the table, Slingshot. I swear on all that’s vile, I will lose my fucking shit.”
I purse my lips, and Tongue giggles next to me. I swirl my finger in a circle and lift a shoulder. “It isn’t … tacos?” I say, staring at the obvious evidence laying in front of me.
Reaper rips off a paper towel and wipes his face clean. “You two, out front, now. There’s a meeting, and I’m giving directions on who is going to be doing what. So you better lay off the tacos, Slingshot. I don’t need you leaving your post because you’re going to—”
“I got it, Prez.”
“Tongue, lay off the whiskey. We all know it makes you playful. And playful you with a knife isn’t a good combination.” On that note, Reaper turns on his green slippers and stomps his way down the hallway.
“But knife play is so much more fun sipping whiskey,” Tongue drawls in a pout.
I roll my eyes and sit down in the chair. I’m not about to let all of these tacos go to waste. I pick up another and eat it in two bites. “Help me, Tongue. We have a few minutes, and these need to be gone.”
“Prez finds out, he’s going to be pissed.”
“But tacos, Tongue.”
“You’re right.” He plops down in the chair, and the wood groans from his massive weight. “Let’s do this.”