Ghostface Killer ~ M. Never

by Never, M.

  He doesn’t need to ask or demand because I’m already there. His pelvis strikes my clit like a match, and I catch fire. Everywhere.

  I screech as I come, yanking unapologetically on his hair. Baz lets loose a low baritone groan, sliding his hand down the back of my thigh to grab my ass as he slams his cock into me one last time.

  It sounds like his orgasm causes him physical pain. It’s as satisfying as it is arousing.

  Once his climax discharges him, Baz pulls out of me lethargically and rests by my side. He’s wiped. We both are. That was taxing in every way. Mentally, physically, spiritually. I think even the baby is zapped.

  Baz holds me close as the fire crackles and pops, dotting lazy kisses on my shoulder as we drift off to dreamland.

  The last thing I hear before falling asleep is Baz’s velvety timber. “Mine. All. Fucking. Mine.”

  I WATCH BAZ chop wood through the kitchen window. He’s been out there all morning blowing off steam. Shirtless, sweaty, and sexy as sin. It’s early May, and although there are still slight traces of snow on the ground, the sun is warm and the air is fragrant with spring.

  I place my hand on my belly where a small bump has finally made an appearance. The bright rays filtering through the paned glass over the sink makes my bold engagement ring glitter.

  Who in the hell am I right now? I wonder as Baz swings the axe and the wood piece split’s in two. Pregnant, engaged, and deliriously happy.

  Happiness is a farce, Stevie. Benny’s words slice through my perfect moment. It’s an idea that’s sold to the weak and devoured by the desperate.

  Benny could be mean and bitter at times. It was difficult to tell what made him tick. But one thing’s for sure, his cynicism, skepticism, and suspicion definitely rubbed off on me. I don’t believe happiness is a farce, and I also don’t believe our little bubble is going to float peacefully through the air forever. You don’t just escape or evade the people I work for, even if you are related to them. Sooner or later, everything is going to go pop!

  That exact moment I witness the bubble burst. The gunshot rings aloud, and Baz goes down.

  My skin prickles from my lower back to the tip of my scalp as I scream inside. I don’t utter a sound, though. I just do what I’ve been conditioned to do. I fight back. I hit the floor as bullets fly through the windows, shattering the glass. My main concern is Baz, so I pull out the two automatics I stashed under the sink, stand up, and open fire out the broken window. I didn’t see the trajectory of the bullets, but I can guess where it came from. I send a spray out into the woods as Baz Army crawls across the dirt to the door. Relief briefly flutters in my stomach as he moves in my peripheral vision. I provide cover long enough for him to slither inside.

  “Stevie,” he calls my name, holding his shoulder.

  “I’m fine.” I continue pulling the triggers until I’m out. “I think there’s more than one.” I base my assumption on the amount of shots fired into the house in the short period of time and the locations of the bullet holes. Unless that one hitter is packing some kind of monster of an automatic. Not likely. “We need to move. Upstairs.” I drop the guns in the farmhouse sink and creep over to Baz, making sure to keep down. We need to move quickly.

  “Upstairs?” he questions as I hook my arm around his and lead him to the stairs. “We’ll get trapped in.”

  “No, we won’t,” I argue. “We’ll have total visibility of the house from the second floor. The floor plan is too open to hide. We’ll draw them into the house and then pick them off.” We start up the stairs on all fours, keeping our heads down. Another shower of bullets flies through the house just as we make it to the second floor.

  “Fuck, they’re closing in.” I draw Baz into the master bedroom and shut the door. We never discussed an escape plan if something like this ever happened, but it doesn’t mean I don’t have one. “Show me your shoulder,” I demand in a hurry as I pull a sniper rifle and shotgun out from underneath the bed. Blood is seeping through his fingers covering the wound.

  I cock the shotgun in one hand as I inspect the hole in Baz’s shoulder. “It went straight through.” Thank God.

  “It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

  “Now’s not the time to be a pussy. I assume you know how to use this.” I hand over the double barrel.

  Baz takes the gun with an incredulous expression on his face. “You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”

  I smile cheekily. “Let’s go kill some bad guys and get the fuck out of here. The honeymoon is over.” I head to the door. “Stay behind me.”

  “You’re being very bossy right now,” Baz whispers.

  I glance back at him and smirk. “Two very important people’s lives are at stake. I have the right to be bossy.”

  I drop to the floor and inch across the wood, slipping the neck of the rifle through two spindles of the banister. From this angle, I can see the front door and still be hidden from anyone creeping around the wall to come up the stairs.

  “Stevie?” Baz mummers.

  “Yeah?” I look through the eyeglass, getting ready.

  “When did you hide firearms under the bed?”

  I smile, exhaling into a comfortable position, my finger resting on the trigger.

  “I told you I don’t like to be blindsided.”

  When Baz told me there was ammo underground, I took it upon myself to go snooping. I found a hatch door under a rug in the back of the house by the washer and dryer. When I climbed down into the hidden room, or should I say warehouse, I discovered the motherload. It was like walking through an armory. If it maims, kills, or blows up, it was down there. I helped myself, stashing all types of guns around the house wherever I could. Baz may hate Benny, but he can thank him for making me paranoid.

  I inhale a deep breath when I see the barrel of a gun sneak around the wall to the staircase. Let the duck hunt begin.

  I hold still, maintaining my patience until a head follows the floating gun. I pull the trigger as soon as a man’s face comes into view.

  Bullet straight to the temple.

  I hear Baz’s choppy breathing and uncomfortable moans behind me.

  “You better not be dying on me back there.”

  He huffs. “I’m good, killer.”

  The nickname sends a cold shiver down my spine. Baz has never seen me like this. In my element. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  “Shit,” I hear a deep voice mutter as the body at the bottom of the stairs is nudged. As soon as the second man turns the corner, I shoot, sending two into his chest. He collapses on his “friend.” The bodies are piling up.

  “Stevie.” Baz struggles to inhale. I glance back to find him sweaty and pale. He’s losing too much blood.

  “How far away is the truck?” I ask, overly concerned.

  “Quarter mile.”

  “Do you think you can make it?”

  He nods.

  “We’ll have to make a run for it. We can’t stay here.”

  “It’s fine.” His eyes are droopy. Baz keeping his truck parked far away in the woods is smart but inconvenient in this situation.

  “Can you grab a towel and shirt from the room?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Go. I’ll wait here just in case any more of their buddies show up.”

  Baz is in and out in a matter of seconds, pressing a white towel to the wound on his shoulder.

  There are a million things to worry about all at once, but I have to keep my priorities straight and not lose my head. There’s too much at stake to start fucking up now.

  We sneak down the stairs, me going first with the rifle still perched in my arms. I check to make sure it’s clear, listening for breathing or footsteps or a click of a gun. There’s nothing, just the melody of the birds chirping in the trees.

  “Let’s go.” We hurry to the front door, and I check outside. This is dicey. There could be an army waiting for us to exit. I always think the worst.

  I go to step out ont
o the porch, but Baz pulls me back. “Let me go first.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  “You’re pregnant. That life”—he points to my stomach—“is more important than my life.”

  I know this is no time to melt, but I do. That statement just scored him back door booty for a month. Maybe a year, provided we live that long.

  Baz steps in front of me, swaying a bit on his feet. He takes a deep breath and pulls it together, then takes my hand. I drop the rifle to my side and prepare to run.

  “Ready?”

  “Always.” I nod, and we take off into the woods.

  We run until the two-door truck comes into view. And just as I sigh with relief, bullets ricochet off the trees. Shit, another one.

  Once we reach the truck, I let go of Baz’s hand, but instead of jumping into the cab, I scale into the bed.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Baz snaps.

  “Just drive!” I bark, opening fire in the direction of the gunshots.

  “Fuck!” Baz climbs into the driver’s seat, and the Sienna turns over. A bullet sparks off the metal next to me, and I go down.

  “Stevie!” Baz bellows as he peels out all over the soft earth. I stick my thumb up.

  The gunshots quiet in the distance as we escape, pulling onto a paved road less than ten minutes traveling through the woods. I lie in the bed a while longer just to make sure there aren’t any more surprises waiting for us.

  Luckily, there aren’t.

  When the coast is clear, I crawl through the rear window and settle in the front seat. I look over at Baz, who is fading fast.

  Flimsy fucking bubble, I grumble.

  “Fuck, that stings,” Baz hisses as I apply some alcohol to his wound.

  “I know.” Straddled over Baz’s lap, I pat around the hole with some gauze, cleaning off the blood. I press a square bandage over the bludgeoned skin and secure it with tape. We randomly turned off Route 812 S and followed the signs for fuel until we finally found a gas station with a halfway decent store.

  Baz was smart, stashing an extra set of keys and some cash in the truck just in case. It helped save our asses today.

  Medical supplies were in thin supply, but I was able to purchase the necessities. Including a clean T-shirt for Baz that reads Empire State College.

  All I keep picturing are all the ways I’m going to torture and kill Regina once I get my hands on her. I think I’ll torch her closet first and make her watch all her stupid vintage Valentinos turn to ash.

  “You look very serious right now,” Baz comments as I apply the last strip of tape.

  “How am I supposed to look?” I glare at him as I begin to salivate for blood. “We were just fucking ambushed. Now we’re hiding out behind a ghetto-ass gas station while I clean out your bullet wound. I’m going to kill Regina.”

  “I believe it. You’re nasty with an AK. What other talents are you hiding from me?” He tries to tickle me, but I push his hand away.

  “Are you seriously trying to be cute right now?” I’m pissed. I’m so pissed, and mad, and fuckin’ shaken up. Watching Baz fall to the ground like that? For a split second, I thought he was dead, and I was overcome with incomprehensible loss for the first time in my life. Not even Benny’s death lanced me with the kind of pain I felt fearing Baz was gone. That’s an eye-opening realization. A life-changing experience.

  “I almost fucking lost you.” I clutch his face. “And I was helpless.”

  “You weren’t helpless, Stevie. You fired back ten seconds later.”

  “If that asshole hadn’t missed, those ten seconds would have been too late.”

  “He did miss. And it wasn’t too late.”

  “We should have been more careful.” I slide off his lap and back into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel as I start to shut down. Maybe Benny was right. Maybe happiness is a farce because it’s something you can’t hold onto. It slips through your fingers like sand, providing just an illusion and a tease of what you can’t permanently have.

  “Stevie,” Baz whispers my name. I can hear the concern, but I tune it out.

  “We have to figure out our next move. We can’t stay in the truck forever. You need a doctor, and we only have a limited amount of cash, and they’ll keep—”

  “Hey.” Baz grabs my wrist, but I can’t look at him. I don’t want to burst into tears. I’m suffering from a bout of PTSD for sure. “We can go to Gianni’s.”

  I tear my attention away from the front window with that suggestion. Walking into Gianni Velona’s house may be more fatal for me than a gunshot. “We need a safe place.” He slides his hand over my tiny bump. “And I’m not the only one who needs a doctor.”

  Holy crap. Can this situation get any worse? I picked off a dozen of Gianni’s best men like they were tin cans on a county fence. Cultivated the name Ghostface Killer because they never knew when or where I was going to strike until it was too late. I created fear and chaos within the family without ever giving myself away. That’s not easily done, or tolerated. If Gianni finds out who I am, it’s lights out. He won’t hesitate to kill me. No matter if I’m Baz’s fiancée or pregnant with his child. Gianni Velona is a ruthless monster, just like Benny and Regina, even if “mobster” isn’t the title he goes by. Bottom line, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s a corrupt motherfucking duck.

  I hate lying to Baz, but thank God I didn’t cave and tell him who I really am.

  “Stevie?” Baz beckons me out of my spiraling thoughts. “Are we going to sit here all night, baby, or are we going to drive?”

  I take a deep breath and put the truck in D. “We’re gonna drive.”

  I DON’T KNOW whether to drive fast or slow.

  It’s been a few hours since Baz and I have talked, and I think the silence is getting to him. He’s fidgeting in his seat and has changed the radio station seventeen times. Conversation is a challenge for me presently, mainly because I don’t want to pop off due to my bubbling emotions or say something I’ll regret. Silence is safe, but it’s driving Baz bat-shit crazy.

  He finally settles on a hard rock station, and I say a silent thank you. All the static was starting to irritate me.

  I don’t recognize the song, but Baz seems to know it. He hums the dark, heavy melody as he stares out the window. “My Name is Human” by Highly Suspect scrolls across the touchscreen on the dash.

  When Weezer’s “Buddy Holly” pumps through the speakers, Baz immediately livens up.

  “Nice.” He makes it louder and begins to play the drums on his thighs. I didn’t take Baz for a Weezer fan, but he loves music, so why not?

  When the second verse begins to play, Baz sings along, looking right at me as he belts out the lyrics. I try not to entertain him as I’m still blistering with emotions, but his enthusiasm, his energy, and his animated faces make me involuntarily smile.

  Goofball.

  Baz bops in the leather seat, shaking his head as he sings passionately, some hair escaping from the elastic tying it back, but he pays it no mind as it falls into his eyes. He even attempts the air guitar with his injured shoulder but can’t quite exaggerate the movement. He gives it all he’s got, though.

  The best part is when he leans over and croons in my ear that I’m his and he’s mine, as the song goes.

  It reminds me of the day we went to the spring. He sang to me that morning, too. He has a great voice. He has a great everything, if I’m being honest.

  I turn the music down once the song ends. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Oh, are you speaking to me now?”

  “I was never not speaking to you.” I was avoiding confrontation.

  Baz’s features contort. “Bullshit.”

  I don’t want to get into this. The last thing I want to do is fight. Silence is my defense.

  “I didn’t take you for a Weezer fan.” I spin the conversation like a top.

  “They remind me of my mother.”

  “How so?”


  “When I was younger, I was so hard to handle. The ADHD made me overly energetic. It drove Benny nuts, so to keep me occupied and out of his hair, my mom would put on music, and we would have dance parties in my room. For hours. She always joked I kept her in great shape.”

  “She sounds like a great mom.”

  “She’s the best. Weezer was one of her favorite bands. I know all their songs.”

  I picture an unruly five-year-old Baz jumping around his room with his mother.

  “I never knew my mother,” I randomly share. “Or my father. The only thing I have from either of them is this ring.” I hold up my index finger.

  “I was wondering why you always wore it.” He takes my hand and twists the gold band gently. The same way I do sometimes.

  “Why didn’t you ever ask?”

  Baz shrugs. “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

  My lip quirks. “You’re way too good to me.” I lace our fingers together and rest our joined hands on the arm rest.

  “You’re sort of an angel.”

  I snort. “Of death maybe.”

  “An angels an angel,” Baz testifies.

  “If you say so.” I’m not sure I buy it.

  “I do.” He settles into his seat assuredly, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

  I glance over at him, squeezing his hand in adoration. His big paw engulfs my small palm.

  Baz’s fingers have explored the inside and roamed the outside of every inch of my body, but these simple connections are the most profound. They forge an alliance, prove an affinity exists between us, and affirms our relationship is real.

  I’ve come to thrive on real. Revel in it.

  Relish it.

  Real is not something I’m willing to let go of.

  Or surrender easily.

  Or even give up at all.

  ALMOST EIGHT HOURS later, we pull up to a security gate enclosing an estate in Southampton. My pulse flutters so hard it feels like I’m on speed as we stop at the guard station.

  A built man in a dark suit appears out of the gray-shingled, little, house-like structure.