“I am Magda Russo’s uncle.”
I tilted my head but otherwise ignored his question. Of course I knew who these men were.
“That man over there,” he nodded toward mustache, “is her brother.”
I really wanted to correct their use of the present tense when discussing Magda’s aliveness, but I didn’t want them to just go ahead and kill me. I simply shrugged and said, “What does this have to do with me?”
He narrowed his eyes and growled, “She was last seen at the restaurant, going into a back room with Shy. Hasn’t been seen in over two weeks.”
I rolled my eyes. “Again, what does this have to do with me?”
“He’s made it clear exactly who you belong to. He’ll come for you,” he leaned closer, blowing a stream of smoke in my face.
I flashed another tight-lipped smile. “Yes,” I agreed. “He will.”
Before he could reply someone banged on the metal door, the sound reverberating throughout the warehouse. I couldn’t help the smug happiness that I was sure flashed across my face. The old man nodded toward one of his henchmen, sending him toward the door. The guy pulled a gun and swung the door open, pointing his weapon. Everyone waited with breathless anticipation.
No one was there. The guy stuck his head out the door and looked around. Nothing happened. He shrugged, stepped back inside and kicked the door shut.
I looked at Russo and asked, “Can I get a cigarette?” He raised an eyebrow. I shrugged. “Call it a last request.”
He flicked a hand at mustache who pulled a pack from his pocket, lit one and handed it to me. I nodded my thanks and took it from him, settling back in the chair again.
“You’re pretty relaxed for a dead woman,” the old man rasped, annoyance clear in his voice. He wanted me rattled, begging for my life.
I sighed softly and lifted a shoulder. “Again, that’s a matter of perspective.”
He leaned forward in his chair, growling in his creaky voice, “We’re going to cut you to pieces, you mouthy little bitch.”
I took the cigarette from between my lips and blew, exhaling the smoke, enjoying the sensation. I rarely indulged in cigarettes. I winked at old man Russo. “I’m not worried.” I took another drag and studied the man in front of me, taking in the exhausted slump to his shoulders. It was probably time for him to retire. “Want to know why?”
“Why is that?” he demanded sharply.
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Because I know something you don’t know.”
“And what the fuck would that be?” he asked angrily.
I nodded toward the table and raised an eyebrow. “Missing something?”
All eyes landed on the table where the gun and switchblade remained, but the machete was missing. Everyone started shouting and pointing, trying to figure out where it went. Russo’s eyes were on me, narrowed in question. I stared back, a smile spreading across my face as I watched the machete rise up behind him, high in the air. It was a beautifully dramatic moment. No one saw it except me. My lover must have guessed how much I would enjoy the show.
“Say hi to Magda,” I said to her uncle, just before the machete buried itself deep in his neck.
The look on his face as he realized he was about to die was priceless; something I would take pains to burn into my memory. Blood sprayed from his neck, all across the table and one of his guys. I laughed and took another drag of my cigarette. One of the henchmen pulled his gun, making him an excellent next target. Apparently, my invisible lover agreed. The switchblade flew off the table and buried itself in the man’s left eyeball before he got a single shot off.
The next man made a run for the door, but Rasputin grabbed the gun off the table and shot him in the back. Mustache was next. He tried to grab me, reaching for my arm, rightly thinking he could use me as a shield. Unfortunately, he underestimated his foe’s speed and agility. The table flipped to the side and before mustache could lay a single finger on me, he hit the cement so hard I heard bones crack. I turned my head to the side and watched in fascination as Rasputin began systematically breaking each of the man’s limbs, bending and smashing until they snapped. Mustache screamed, cried and begged for mercy as an invisible man, a ‘ghost’ beat him to a bloody pulp, beat him until he quit moving, quit breathing.
When Rasputin was finished, when the last man was dead, he straightened. I could hear his harsh breathing as he stepped away from the body and turned toward me. He stopped a few steps away and reached a bloody hand out. I could see the red-painted appendage floating in the air in front of my face. I tossed my cigarette to the side, twisted in the chair and stood, placing my hand in his.
He brushed the hair gently back from my temple. I felt the barest brush of his lips against the cut on my head. “Let’s go home, doll,” he said in his sandpaper voice.
I smiled and followed him outside, pausing under the streetlamp next to the warehouse. I tilted my head up and opened my eyes wide, staring into the night. “The rain stopped.”
Epilogue
Two years later
Rasputin
“Stop right there!”
I froze. How the fuck did she know I was there? She was the only person in the world that could sense my presence. No matter how often I tried to sneak up on her, tried to fuck her like I’d done that first night. The night she admitted she’d known I’d been stalking her all along. Admitted that she’d been fucking herself on purpose just to get me all hot and bothered. I’d spanked her ass for that particular prank, after we’d sorted out the whole Magda fallout. Then I’d forced her to masturbate for me again and again, re-enact that same scene for me until I would jump on her and finish it my way, the way I always wanted to when I was forced to just stand back and watch, a lonely shadow in her doorway.
“You know the rules, baby,” she pouted, pointing toward the front door. “Get back over there right now.”
I heaved a sigh and stomped back toward the front door, standing on the plastic welcome mat. She made her way slowly over a mischievous grin spread across her gorgeous lips.
“Thought maybe we could skip it this once,” I growled as she dipped her slim hand into a pot of paint and then slapped it against my chest. It always amazed me how she never missed what she aimed for. My face, my chest… my dick. “I wanted to wake you up with my face between your legs. You’ve been napping more lately. Thought it would be a nice change.”
“That’s sweet, baby,” she cooed, running her fingers up my neck and slathering the paint all across my shoulders, her movements practiced. “But you know I’m not willing to take any chances. Not since that time the housecleaner walked in on us having sex and thought I was having a seizure. That was the most embarrassing trip to the ER I’ve ever taken. And you laughing the whole way didn’t help. The paramedics were convinced they were transporting a naked ventriloquist with epilepsy.”
“Locking the damn door would be a lot cheaper and less time consuming than all this paint,” I snapped, grabbing her wrist as it slid between my ass cheeks.
She went up on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear. “But I love being able to see you.” She walked behind me, slipping her hand in the paint before crouching to put the jar on the floor. She stood and began massaging my shoulders before moving all around me, light touches here, heavier touches there, sliding her fingers between mine. I dropped my chin, watching her smaller fingers slide between my much thicker, now blue fingers. My breath caught at the sensation of her skin against mine, only the slippery texture of paint separating us.
“I love that you can see me too,” I whispered back.
She carefully dropped to her knees my hand at her elbow, helping her down. She gazed up at me with those big, dark eyes, so knowing, so wickedly powerful, taking in the colours that she’d painted across my stomach, chest, face and neck. She stuck both of her hands back in the paint and then slid them up my thighs landing two beautiful handprints on me. She grabbed the base of my cock in one yellow-tinted fist and staring up at me, she said, �
�You look like a god.”
I groaned out loud and flexed my muscles, rippling the paint for her as she took the top of my erect penis into her warm, wet mouth. She knew exactly how I loved it. Long, slow, torturous licks with her peeking up at me through the dark curtain of her hair the whole time. I tried to be good, tried to keep my hands to myself, but there was only so much I could take. After a few minutes of heaven and hell, courtesy of Nola’s soul-sucking mouth, I clenched a fist in her hair and reached under her chin to tilt her face up with my other hand.
It was like looking into the face of an angel. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever looked upon. Everything about her was perfect, from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her toes and everything in between. I didn’t know why she agreed to settle into this life with me and, frankly, I didn’t give a shit. As long as she was here with me nothing else mattered. I took her hand from its place on my thigh and gave her a tug, urging her to stand. She blinked in confusion and released my cock.
“Why…?” she started to ask, but I held my hand up. At times like this I was grateful for the paint. We could communicate without words.
“I need to be inside you tonight,” I said, holding her tight against me, my fingers making short work of the zipper at the back of her dress.
She seemed to understand. She helped me remove her bra and panties until she was standing naked in my arms. She reached up, winding her arms around my neck and tugging my head down to hers. I gave her everything, told her exactly how much I loved her, thought about her, obsessed over her in that kiss. I slid my hand down her body, over the taut roundness of stomach and into the folds of her pussy. She widened her legs and moaned into my mouth the moment my fingers found her. My doll was more than ready for me.
I swept her up in my arms and laid her back on the couch. She pulled her knees back and held her arms out, her eyes soft and languid. I went into her embrace, my cock easily finding home in the dripping heat of her tight vagina. She wrapped her arms and legs around me as I thrust into her, burying my head against her neck. We made love just like that, wrapped as tight around each other as two people could get. She pressed her cheek to mine, taking the slight roughness against her smooth cheek and turning her face to nip my jaw as I moved deep within her.
I could feel her orgasm begin to build as her cries grew louder in my ear and her nails dug deep into my flesh. I crushed her against my chest, but hunched my body protectively over hers, forcing myself to thrust slow and smooth, mindful of her delicate condition. She didn’t seem to care. She thrashed and screamed at me to fuck her harder. I grinned and refused her crudely worded request, instead carrying her over the edge of her orgasm by whispering sweet words of love in her ear and grinding myself against her clit.
I followed her into orgasmic bliss, filling her with my seed and grazing my teeth along the slim column of her throat. I forced myself to sit back so I wouldn’t accidentally crush her. Looking down at my disheveled wife I grinned. She was covered in blue and yellow paint.
She smiled back knowingly. This wasn’t our first foray into sexy painting. “Help me up,” she said, struggling to sit. She reached for the edge of the couch.
I slid a hand behind her back and shifted her, then helped her to her feet. She was definitely having more difficulty getting around. But my Nola was a trooper. She didn’t let nothing get her down. She sighed and rubbed absently at a spot on her lower back. I took note vowing to give her a good back rub later on. I stood with her and together we went to stand by the windows, gazing out at the city together, one of Nola’s favourite activities. She loved surveying our kingdom.
She picked up my hand and placed it on her rounded stomach with hers on top, encouraging me to bond with our unborn child of seven months. I closed my eyes and released a long breath before looking back out at the city below.
“What if he’s like me?” I asked in a low voice, my hand tightening slightly over her flesh. An unspoken threat to anyone that might cause harm to my small family. “What if he’s invisible to the world?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, seriously pondering the question. She stared at the glass. I knew she wasn’t looking at the city, as I was. She was looking at our reflections; her pale pink skin smeared in paint… and me. A disembodied blue and yellow monster, only visible where my wife had touched with paint-smeared hands and brought me to life. Though she’d coloured my head and face there was nothing but black emptiness where my eyes should be.
She reached up, placing her hand on my cheek. She turned my face until I was looking down at her. She smiled and said, “If this child is like you then fuck this city, we’re taking over the world.”
THE END
Also by Nikita Slater
If you enjoyed this book, check out some other works by bestselling author, Nikita Slater. More titles are always in progress, so check back often to see what's new!
Angels & Assassins Series
Book One – The Assassin’s Wife
The Queens Series
Book One – Scarred Queen
Novella - Alejandro’s Prey
Fire & Vice Series
Book One – Prisoner of Fortune
Book Two – Fight or Flight
Book Three – King’s Command
Book Four – Savage Vendetta
Book Five – Fear in Her Eyes
Book Six – Bound by Blood
Book Seven – In His Sights
Book Eight – Burning Beauty (Coming 2019)
Driven Hearts Series
Book 1 - Driven by Desire
Book 2 - Thieving Hearts
Book 3 - Capturing Victory
Other books
Because You're Mine
Mine to Keep (a novella)
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The Tombstone Tourist
Copyright © 2018 by B. Bennett
All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Authorized for use in The Horror of our Love Anthology, 2018.
“We are made of all those who have built and broken us.” - Atticus
Chapter 1
I close my eyes and listen to the breeze rustling through the trees. Opening them, I watch the fallen leaves dance waywardly between rows of dead bark – the gravel road capturing a departed leaf every now and then. I blow out a cloud of smoke, and once again regret putting the poison in my lungs. Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure I’m dying young, anyway. I shouldn’t think that way, but I know there’s something inside of me, eating away at my organs. Maybe I’m just insane.
Looking to my right, my eyes scan over the graves until one sparks my interest.
Justin J. O’Leary, Oct. 14th, 1985 – February 25th, 2004.
He was nineteen when he died. Reaching into my pocket, I type his name into the search bar with “obituary” behind it. I read over the mediocre obit as I sigh. Boring. I prefer the interesting obituaries. The ones with character. Like the guy that wrote his own, claiming that he was Spiderman, or the woman who told all her loved ones to “go fuck themselves,” which I was surprised to find in the records, asterisk and all.
“What do you do for fun?” Men, prospective lovers, ask me constantly. Instead of the truth, I answer with the typical, mundane response. “Oh, I love live shows. Music is great. I enjoy museums and long walks on the beach.” It’s always the same.
And couldn’t be further from the truth. My life is strange, and I try and keep all the strange bits to myself. I’ve always been odd, so maybe it’s how I cope. Lying about everything that I am, for fear that I’ll be the cliché weird girl who’s too skinny and wears too much black. My eyes are the only bright things about me. They’re the only reminders that there’s some life in
this shell I’ve become.
I cough before snuffing the cigarette out onto the bottom of my shoe. Standing, I grab my bag and my rubbing kit before making it back to my car.
My eyes scan the empty rows between graves, and I shrug. It would be nice to one day see someone out here, like me, taking amateur photos of epitaphs and googling obituaries. That person would be my soulmate, friend or otherwise. Somebody I’ve been waiting my entire life to meet since I was the little girl playing in the cemetery next door to my childhood home. All the other kids were afraid to venture into “The Land of the Dead” with me, but it was there that I found my “normal.”
Today, I had to come to this cemetery, which isn’t one of my favorites, because there was a funeral being held at Old Oak. This one has small, older plots, but they’re surrounded with newer graves. I always appreciate the older, more weathered ones. They have a story to tell, and without most of those obituaries being available, I always get to guess.
How did they die? Who did they leave behind? Was this life worth it, for them?
Those are also the graves that have been forgotten over the years, each generation caring less and less. There are never any flowers, which is why I always take a dozen fresh roses with me on each trip.
Nobody deserves to be forgotten.
I place my last rose on a baby’s tombstone before kneeling and snapping a picture with my camera. The statue of an angel has collected moss in the grooves where the letters are formed. Charlie has been here since the 1800s, and I sit on the grass and stare at the old, wooden block that sits on his grave. I reach out and gently run a finger along the “C,” wondering who left it there.
The Horror of our Love: A Twisted Tales Anthology Page 26