Instead of choking him, instead of shoving my fingers down his throat until he asphyxiated on his own vomit, I ignored that urge, just like I imagined Karen would ignore the aisle of discount wine and grab a Kombucha instead. I thought of what Karen would do, and I kept working over myself until my muscles tightened. Then I pushed to my knees, and I sprayed ribbons of come all over his face. Fucking bastard, coming before me like you’re more important.
And what a letdown that orgasm had been. Weak. Barely worth the effort. Two shitty orgasms in one night. What a way to end this motherfucking year. Annoyed, I pushed to my feet and went to the bathroom to clean up.
It wasn’t until I glanced up at the mirror that everything came crumbling down. There was a hint of a smile on my face. I had started out withholding, making Malachi feel that sense of inadequacy he’d infected me with. But now. . . Now I looked like some love-sick fuckwad caught in the realm of post-orgasmic bliss.
I’d let him have me. Fuck me. I’d allowed him to use me again. And that’s not what I’d planned at all. Goddamn it, Karens of the world with your stupid New Year’s resolutions. You dumb cunts!
I turned the taps and splashed cold water onto my face, gritting my teeth while I tried to temper my anger.
I gripped the counter until my knuckles washed white. Until the heat consuming my body had grown into a full-blown inferno. I glanced at my reflection. That dark demon danced in my eyes, begging to be freed, and I shook my head.
“There’s not enough time,” I whispered.
But I could see the reflection of the clock in the mirror, and really, there was ample time. Fifteen minutes until midnight.
“Malachi?”
He didn’t answer, and when I glanced over my shoulder, I found my bed empty. Bedsheets crumpled and soiled but eternally empty. Dropping my chin to my chest on a hard exhale, I tapped my fingers over the counter. Pinky, ring, middle. Index, middle, ring, pinky—then swiped everything from the counter in one fell swoop of my arm.
“Dammit!”
I scratched my fingers through my hair, trying to catch a breath. Telling myself, I wasn’t inadequate. That I still had time before the new year rang in. What the fuck did it matter if Mr. Good Guy, Slut Bag, thought he was better than me? He wasn’t. But as I watched myself in the mirror, as I watched the way my cheeks reddened, the way my chest rose in ragged, uneven swells, I thought, maybe. Just maybe he was. . . And I couldn’t have that, now could I?
The ten minutes left until the New Year mocking me with each heavy tick of the second hand. I had to do something. I rushed into the kitchen. The dull, silver handle of the butcher knife beckoned from its place in the butcher block, and I obliged, snatching it up.
“Malachi?”
I hadn’t heard the door open, and when I rounded the corner, I found the chain lock still in place. “Malachi?” I whispered, tiptoeing back down the hall, my limp dick bouncing with each step. All it would take would be one swift swipe of the blade. I imagined him gurgling, drowning in the crimson waterfall from the slit in his trachea. And I smiled. Dammit. I smiled because I still had time. I still had time to give in to this awful demon before the clock struck midnight. “Oh, lover?”
But I was greeted by silence.
A whiff of rose and amber, of the pretentious perfume Meredith wore caught my attention. My blood simmered. I wanted to ignore that Malachi had sunk his dick into her gaping hole before he’d been with me, but that damn smell wouldn’t let me. I imagined her grinding on his cock while he told her she was the best fuck he’d ever had. And dammit Meredith, that would be a lie. Because it was me. I was the best lay that goddamn whore would ever have. I was the best lay either of them would have!
I slunk around the corner, knife gripped in my clammy palm. “It’s almost midnight.” I tiptoed along the hallway, my pulse thrumming in my ears. “It’s bad luck not to kiss someone. Come out, come out wherever you are, you whorebag fuckwit!” Oh, the anger was getting to me.
I stepped into one of the spare rooms, and hands were at my throat. I wielded the knife, cutting and scraping. We wrestled, naked. Skin slapping against skin until I overtook him and pinned him to the floor.
“Did you fuck her tonight?” Blood pulsed through my ears, and he bucked underneath me. “Did you fuck Meredith?”
The perfume was strong now. So strong, my stomach churned. “Did you fuck her?”
“You should know.” A maniacal laugh bubbled from his chest. “You were there.”
Without thought, I grabbed his dick and swiped the blade across the base. Oh, the cacophony of screams. The way he writhed. That made up for the shitty experience I’d had earlier.
I’d admit, there was a lot of blood, and it was quite the mess—not to mention the amount of godawful noise filtering up from the streets when the ball dropped in Times Square. All those people kissing and starting on their resolutions while I had to deal with the shitshow of hallowing out a now useless cock. Although, I must say, Malachi’s dick did fit snuggly over mine, which made the grunt work worth it. Wearing another man’s cock wasn’t something I ever imagined I’d do, nor was it how I’d plan to ring in the New Year, but this wasn’t about me. It was about Mr. Perfect, Nicey-nice guy, it was all about showing him that not even his dick was better than mine. And the only way I could prove that was to fuck him with his own dick.
And now he knew, there’d never be a better fuck than me.
Chapter 3
New Year’s Resolutions. I underlined that title, then scribbled “fuck the Karens” to the side. It had been a week into the new year, and I already hated the new me.
I started my list, and, of course, number one was not to kill anyone. Number two, I began to write about not severing dicks but stopped due to the incessant chatter of Ronnie, the imbecile rocking back in forth in the chair beside me. The pointless rambles made me want to take the TV and smash in his fucking head, so I underlined number one on my resolutions list. Over and over, while glaring at him, until the pencil scratched through the paper.
“Mr. Derevichi.” One of the nurses leaned down beside me, holding out a tiny paper cup with an assortment of pills. “Time for your meds.”
With a grumble and a roll of my eyes, I tossed the medicine back and swallowed. Then, as was the protocol in places like this, I stuck out my tongue to show her they were really gone. When she turned around, I lifted a middle finger, and the idiot beside me chuckled. Maybe smashing his head in would have been a bit extreme. He appreciated my humor, even if he was a nut job.
Sighing, I continued my list, refraining from marking out not killing and putting getting out of this psych ward in its place. I figured the people here wouldn’t like that. I mean, after all, I couldn’t argue that I was a little off. As I’d said before, killing people versus cross-stitching takes a special kind of someone. . .but the fact that they don’t believe me about Malachi—that makes my blood boil, makes it sizzle and pop like lava begging to be released from the depths of a dormant volcano.
I sat in my chair with my unfinished list, watching three episodes of Scooby-Doo with the rest of the drugged-out ward. A commercial came on, and Rocking Ronnie whistled, which started a catalyst of hoots and hollers, claps, and a few crotch grabs.
The smell of vanilla and amber reached me before she did. Meredith pressed a kiss to my cheek, then ran a hand through my hair. “How was your day?”
I looked up at her without thought. And like it was almost second-nature, I swept my hand through her pretty, blond hair before pulling her to me and pressing my lips against hers. Warm. Sweet. Perfect.
When she pulled away, she choked back a sob. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I love you. Please, remember that I love you.”
My brows furrowed at the memory of my taking her hand New Year’s Eve and leading her away from the party at her house, at the absence of Malachi and the very real memory of her naked and beneath me, fingers scratching at my back while her heavy breaths rustled over the shell of my ear.
Her eyes searched mine before she glanced down, wringing her hands. “Shit.”
“Meredith. . .”
“Benji. He’s not real. You made it all up. He’s not real.”
But he was. He was Mr. Perfect. He was. . .I pushed up from the chair, holding out a hand when Meredith tried to grab onto me.
“Please. Remember,” she pleaded with me, and fragments of my life rolled through my mind like a tattered movie reel.
A wedding. A shitty apartment in the slums of New York. A countless string of men. . . I dragged a hand through my hair and doubled over. The stitches in my groin pulled, and a lancing pain shot through my gut. And I remembered. Oh, I remembered things I wish I couldn’t. Chasing Meredith around our apartment with a knife, then locking myself in our room and. . .
My stomach churned, and I rushed into the bathroom but froze between the toilets and sinks. There, in the foggy, plexiglass, suicide-watch safe mirror, was Malachi. His deep blue eyes staring right back out me. I stepped toward the sink and placed a flat palm onto the mirror, touching my hand to Malachi’s.
Our nostrils flared as we fought the emotions. Our fingers tapped over the glass—pinky, ring, middle, index. Middle, ring, pinky. We were angry. Angry because they’d made fools of us both.
A frown etched our face. “New Year. New us. We just won’t tell.”
Muse
Ker Dukey
A DELICIOUS DARK NOVELLA
(A Devious Resolutions Title)
By Ker Dukey
Copyright © 2019 Ker Dukey
Editor: Word Nerd Editing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Blurb
Every New Year, I begin the hunt for my next muse.
Someone to inspire my new art collection
There’s something different about this one.
The way he bleeds is more poetic than the rest.
He’s special. But the clock is ticking.
It’s time to create my final piece.
Books by Ker Dukey
Empathy Series:
Empathy
Desolate
Vacant – Novella
Deadly – Novella
* * *
The Broken Series:
The Broken
The Broken Parts of Us
The Broken Tethers That Bind Us – Novella
The Broken Forever – Novella
* * *
The Men by Numbers Series:
Ten
Six
* * *
Drawn to You Duet:
Drawn to You
Lines Drawn
* * *
Standalone Novels:
My Soul Keeper
Lost
I See You
The Beats in Rift
Devil
* * *
Co-Written with D. Sidebottom
* * *
The Deception Series:
FaCade
Cadence
Beneath Innocence – Novella
* * *
The Lilith’s Army MC Series:
Taking Avery
Finding Rhiannon
Coming Home TBA
* * *
Co-Written with K Webster
* * *
The Pretty Little Dolls Series:
Pretty Stolen Dolls
Pretty Lost Dolls
Pretty New Doll
Pretty Broken Dolls
* * *
The V Games Series:
Vlad
Ven
Vas
* * *
KKinky Reads Collection:
Share Me
Choke Me
Daddy Me
Watch Me
Hurt Me
Play Me
* * *
Joint Series
* * *
Four Fathers Series:
Blackstone by J.D. Hollyfield
Kingston by Dani René
Pearson by K Webster
Wheeler by Ker Dukey
* * *
Four Sons Series:
Nixon by Ker Dukey
Hayden by J.D Hollyfield
Brock by Dani René
Camden by K Webster
* * *
The Elite Seven Series:
Lust – Ker Dukey
Pride – J.D. Hollyfield
Wrath – Claire C. Riley
Envy – M.N.Forgy
Gluttony – K Webster
Sloth – Giana Darling
Greed – Ker Dukey & K Webster
Without my muse, I am but an empty canvas.
For my friend and brain twin, K Webster.
In the darkness we thrive. Thank you for always being there for me.
I love you 1000%
Merry Christmas
Hades Pierce…
* * *
Colors, rich and vibrant, spread across the canvas in delicate strokes, telling me a story. My fingers yearn to reach up and touch the image, but I refuse the urge.
“What do you think?” the intern asks, a wisp of desperation on her tongue as her eyes sweep up and down my six-foot frame. Lingering at my cock.
It’s inspired. A piece that should have been created by a haunted soul, not this preppy, puppy-dog-eyed twenty-four-year-old. A wave of darkness swarms my vision, the old friend washing through me, staining me in its corruption. Welcome home, hunger.
My jaw aches from my teeth clamping so tight, the muscles coiled taut. I’m not proud of my irrational hatred for this girl, but here we are. I thought it was better to take on a female so she didn’t get a fucking crush like most boys who know me tend to do. But it appears, liking ass, the male variety, doesn’t stop her from wishing I’ll make an exception.
“It’s you,” she says, in the hope it will spark a better response from me. It only inflames my rage. I can see it’s me—that’s the problem. How the fuck has she seen me so vividly? She’s only been here three fucking months. I should have trusted my instincts and not allowed anyone to intern here. I had the status of being a lone wolf, an enigma, and that intrigued people. I didn’t want anyone looking into me further, so I took on an intern to bring some normalcy to my studio’s reputation. What a stupid mistake that’s proving to be.
“Merry Christmas, my dark muse.” She smiles, a dimple popping in her cheek, her blue eyes bright. My hands fist, and I know it’s going to happen before I reach for the letter opener just to the right of me, sitting on my desk like a shining beacon.
I see it so clearly in my mind’s eye, I get an overwhelming sense of déjà vu as I palm the back of her head in fast, precise movements. My heart pounds in celebration when her eyes flash wide with shock. The steel handle cools my palm as I fist the object and uppercut her jaw, strong, swift, deadly, burrowing the small silver blade into her chin.
Euphoria soaks into my core at the sight of fear in her expressive eyes, sending endorphins racing through my veins.
Blood, thick and pulsating, spills from her pink, plump lips, dripping down her small chin and coating my hand and forearm.
With shaking hands, she attempts to reach up for the blade. To understand what’s happening, but she’s growing weaker by the second. So frail and pathetic in comparison to my size and stature, she only ends up clawing at he
r neck for a second before her arms drop limp beside her.
Exhaling an exhilarated breath, I jiggle the blade. It takes me a couple of tugs to pull it free from the bone. A squelching sounds and blood splatters out, adding to the symphony of her soft, gurgling cry. Such a sweet sound.
With one skilled strike, I burrow the blade into the side of her head, puncturing her temple, silencing her forever.
I hold my breath as I listen to the last wisp of life leave her body. Such delicate creatures we are.
She falls like a stone being dropped from a cliff, the thud echoing around the large room. “I’m no one’s muse,” I snap down at the empty carcass at my feet—where she belongs.
A crimson river flows across the white marble floor. I long to dip my brush through the liquid and coat the image she painted of me with her own life essence. Before I can do anything, a rap sounds on my office door, startling me.
Fuck.
I look at the clock and frown. No one is supposed to be here.
The handle drops without further warning, and in walks my assistant, Bridget. Head bowed, distracted by her phone, her heels click-clack across the polished floor. Her lithe frame almost glides through the space. She’s so graceful and light, it’s part of her charm.
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