Devil In Her Bed

by Amarie Avant

  But…

  Lincoln kisses me harshly on the mouth. “Now, look at these lips. So fucking glorious. I will fuck a smile on that face.”

  He is growing, rapidly. He presses his thumb over my mouth, my lips part ways. “I need you to learn to take more of me, Siobhan. I'm going to push my cock so far down your throat tonight, baby. I had plans of waiting longer to teach you, but your mouth has gotten the better of you.”

  His thumb is in my mouth now. My lips pucker around it, tongue twirling over the rough padding of his thumb before sucking it all the way into my mouth. My throat purrs against his tip.

  “That’s right, you suck a thumb well, but concentrate on taking all this dick, beautiful,” he says. I begin to suck his phalange vigorously, sucking the whole thing into my mouth.

  “Now, get to your knees, do the same to my cock.”

  Lincoln sinks down onto the couch across from his bed, I follow suit before him. His arms drape across the back of the couch, giving the aura of a king.

  I take the base of his shaft in my hands. Before my lips graze against his dick, he grows, as if the tingle of my breath against his smooth shaft is magic. His fingers roam through my kinky hair, and I begin to give him head. Like with his thumb, I beckon him toward the back of my throat, inch by inch. My tonsils knead against his heavenly crown, my tongue sliding over his shaft.

  He fists thick strands of my tresses with one hand, and I hum against his cockhead. This relaxes my throat more, allowing him to offer more of himself to me.

  “See, Siobhan, how beautiful you are sucking my cock.” His tone is delicious. During our runs, he has incited me to reach further into myself and perform at higher peaks than I imagined, and damn it, here I am bowed to him, eager to please. I devour all ten inches of him, my lips kissing the base of his shaft.

  The back of my throat clutches the head of his erection, tightening around the tip.

  Lincoln groans. His legs tense at either side of me. A wonderful feeling of being able to please him blossoms into euphoria as his climax surges down my throat. The delicious taste spurts and spurts, like a never-ending volcanic eruption, filling my tummy with his creamy seed.

  I lean back on my heels.

  He pushes forward, grimacing at the pain at his side. Lincoln rubs his hand across my throat, clamping down just enough to make me aware of catching my breath.

  “You thought I broke you before, beautiful, and you loved it,” he whispers against the achy flesh of my lips. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you shatter. I will not stop until the only tears you know are happiness.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Stalker

  Warm, sticky blood coats to my hand and the rough washcloth I used to rub the gash at my cranium. My fucking head leaked all night long. I hadn’t expected to make it through the night after pulling myself into the bed half unconscious. I'd slept in my hoodie, jeans and boots.

  Sunlight attempts to stream through the misty morning haze from the tiny window across from me.

  “Grrrr,” I roar, forcing my upper body from the mattress. Wide legged, I sit at the edge of a lumpy bed. I’m not tall in stature, but my knees almost come up to my head; the bed is just that low.

  I contemplate what transpired last night.

  I felt bad. The coroner had Regina’s body for two weeks at the district attorney’s request. Now, Regina Godwin’s funeral is a day away and my deception has caused Siobhan to miss the calls and voicemails from her family and friends, in hopes that she'd attend.

  And last night I'd gone to her. I had worked it into my mind to offer Siobhan some sort of sign. It wasn't that I gave a fuck about Regina. The bitch had to go. But for Siobhan to miss the chance at a last good bye weighs heavily in my gut.

  Leave it to my being caught all up in my feelings as I conducted a routine I’ve done a dozen times over, climb my Siobhan's wrought iron gate. I hadn't known until it was too late.

  That motherfucker, Lincoln Zager, had been at least a quarter mile away. From the location where I always climbed over, there is a limited view of the front door. My feet had touched down on the mossy grass on Siobhan’s side of the gate and that motherfucker pounced.

  Of all the others, none of their boyfriends had put up much of a fight. Hell, disengaging the fucking Murrell guy had been a cinch. But in the blink of an eye, Zager had appeared, tossing punches in his wake.

  “Motherfucker!” I stand up, discarding the drenching wet towel to the dusty floor. I stop short of hitting my skull against the low hanging ceiling and knocking myself unconscious. Shit, I probably already have a concussion.

  I need to rehash what the fuck had gone so wrong. The attic room is so dim it’s easy to place myself back on the dark scene. My life had flashed before my eyes. With combatting skills of my own, I did my best to block Lincoln’s quick bricks for hands until the asshole got me to the ground, attempting to splatter my brains against the damn asphalt.

  A scream of anger is at the tip of my tongue, but I will bite the muscular organ out of my mouth before being so loud. Willow Bluff wasn’t my home. The Los Angeles home I owned after being booted from the army is on the eastside, and in not so nice a neighborhood as Siobhan’s previous apartment. The old bitch downstairs—or on the second or third level— in her mansion is none the wiser that she has extended, uninvited guests.

  I reached down and pull my cell phone from my jeans pocket. I click onto the tracker application.

  I grab the wallet and a burner cell phone from my pocket. The red light flashes. It’s my only source to Siobhan, and just staring at it should cause the pounding in my brain to cease. I should be content, but Siobhan is far away from me again. Man, I’d driven like a bat out of fucking hell to San Diego weeks ago.

  I hold up the credit card which doesn’t read my name and weigh the pros and cons of scoring a flight to San Antonio where Siobhan has to be on her way to. She is moving way too fast through New Mexico to be in a car or train.

  The pro: be near her. I must be near her.

  Just that alone, makes me strive to see her. Fingers crossed, I make the call to Southwest Airlines.

  Now for the con?

  Since following Siobhan, I haven’t taken on any side gigs and I abandoned my job at the hospital. Shit, my old psychiatrist has always commented about how extreme my fixations are. But what is an obsession if it didn’t consume you? Now, I’m in the throes of desperation, and too damn stubborn to leave Ms. Lowe alone long enough in order to add some weight to my pockets.

  The tranquil string music ends, leaving me no less content. I need money! I pick ruthlessly at the callused scab on my fingernail bed.

  The woman on the other end of the line has a cheery tone as she thanks me for calling and asked my name.

  “Donald Dudley.” I give the name on the passport I’ve used for a while now. “I need a flight for San Antonio this afternoon.” I glance at myself in a dusty antique cherry-wood mirror, rooster red hair coated in an even more coppery color.

  “You’re in luck, Mr. Dudley, we have one. The last boarding call is at two forty-five this afternoon. There are just a select few seats left.”

  “Luck, I could use some luck. I’ll take it.”

  We begin the process of transcribing and correcting my credit card information.

  “Um, is Hosea Murrell around in order to offer consent to the use of his credit card?”

  “Yes, he is.” I grin and pivot on the heels of my stainless-steel boots.

  Hosea Murrell’s hands are in chains over his head. Ankle cuffs lock his feet into position. He isn’t going anywhere soon. His brown skin pale and gray. His lips, cracked and blistered, are surrounded by a thick beard from lack of shaving.

  The clothing Hosea had worn on the night of his abduction, cling to scaly skin and bones. His head is bowed, eyes closed. The lazy bastard does more sleeping than anything.

  But Hosea Murrell isn’t in any position to speak, so I modify my voice. The nail of my index finger
digging into the flesh of my thumb.

  “All right, Mr. Murrell, thank you. Please give me a few moments…” The woman’s chipper tone cracks.

  I continue to pick at the crusted, torn skin of my thumb. It never takes so long. Then again, I had fake credit cards in Donald Dudley’s name. Those credit cards had maxed out since following Siobhan.

  “Jeffrey, listen to me. You’re on your fifth employer. One of these old days, hospitals will stop weighing the accolades you received as an army medic over all the job abandonments.” The therapist’s words are imbedded to my memory. My shrink had run out of fingers, counting on her hands the hospitals I’ve worked at since my service was over. “I bet if we took a trip to your house right now there wouldn’t even be enough food in the cabinets let alone the refrigerator to sustain you… Jeff, you’re worrying me here. It’s been a good length of time since you worried me so.”

  I know the drill. The next step would’ve been 51/50’d, being held in psychiatric hold against my will. There is no fucking way I will consent to it, voluntary or otherwise. And the bitch wasn’t even aware of all of the girls. My therapist was supposed to be my friend—

  I dig my fingernails into my palms so hard that the warm, wet feeling submerges into my thoughts. I glance at my phone. The Southwest operator has left me hanging for almost ten minutes. What the fuck is this cunt doing? Fuck, Hosea has been reported dead. His credit card has been reported! Shit, shit, shit!

  “C’mon Jeffrey, you’ve gotta fucking think!” I growl. This wasn’t added to the lengthy list of disadvantages for following Siobhan because the sole advantage of seeking her out means everything. I was so anxious I didn’t consider this. I almost drop the phone while my hands shake in order to press the end-call button.

  I haven’t been this stupid in ages. The therapist is right about my addiction. There is no way in hell I’d be able to use Hosea Murrell’s credit card.

  Click.

  “Fuck,” I mouth. I crouch down next to Hosea and slap him across his face a few times. “Wakey, wakey.”

  Hosea looks up. Every time he awakens, tears spring into his eyes.

  “Listen, Hosea, you ain’t on no vacation. Look at that television.”

  I grab Hosea’s chin and force his gaze to the laptop which is placed on the floor across from him, plugged in. Thanks to Zager, the screen is now looped. I placed the video of Lincoln banging Siobhan against the accent table at the front door, on a looping sequence the very day it was done just to fuck with Hosea, forcing him to watch. But being that she’d left, there will be no live feed—no life source for the two of us.

  The tears in Hosea’s eyes slither across his ashen skin.

  “That motherfucker didn’t even close the damn door before he started beating in her cunt,” I say. “That piece of shit has an elephant truck for a dick. He’s pounding our lady’s pussy to the ground.”

  Hosea stares, unblinking as he has been taught, but he doesn’t respond to my taunts.

  Hatred becomes a veil over my eyes as I recall unleashing the beast of a dog on the two. I misinterpreted Siobhan’s feelings for Lincoln. Surely she has to be madly in love with Murrell. Yet there she is, being wooed by the rich man while her childhood love is being held in captivity.

  In that instant, I hated Siobhan, almost as much as I love her. I fucking cried like a bitch when the dog lunged at them. I gave a fuck about her, and this is how she repays me?

  She allows Lincoln Zager to save the fucking day.

  Rumpling my hand over Hosea’s hair, I say, “Zager, he’s the bane of our existence isn’t he?”

  Hosea says nothing.

  I’m attempting to build a fucking connection with this idiot, and he says nothing? “I’m talkin’ to you. Siobhan has betrayed us. You know what, I could muzzle you like the stupid animal you are.” I shake my head. I only muzzle Hosea when leaving.

  For now, I need someone to talk to. This is a lonely sport.

  “Tell me what you think about Zager, saving the day. Stealing our bitch.”

  “Siobhan… is… isn’t a bbbitch.” Hosea’s lips quiver. It is normal for me to have to slap his face until his lips busted in half in order for him to talk. Yet, the choice word cause Hosea to speak.

  “All right, so whadaya think about her bodyguard?”

  Hosea’s thick eyelashes slowly ascend. He is always like this. In and out of consciousness.

  Picking at the torn skin from the nail bed of my thumb, I glance at the scanner again. They are almost to El Paso… San Antonio would be next.

  I snatch my cell phone from my pocket, and dial the only person to help. Take that you dumbass shrink, I don’t need a nine-to-five. I’ve got my ways to make money.

  Grant Husted runs what he called a very reputable operation. He often utilizes my services since I work the medical field and I have access to many prescription medications. Besides, I often become consumed with the chase and only work part time. Therefore, helping Grant out on occasion makes ends meet which otherwise wouldn’t when I am too obsessed with the past…

  “Jeffrey fucking Peterson. Nice to hear your voice,” Grant says.

  “Do not say my name, fucktard.” I punch a hand through the air so harshly it makes a swooshing sound.

  “Whatever,” Grant tosses back. “You haven’t answered when I needed you, you little shit, might as well lose my fucking number then.”

  “I need a job.”

  “Well, my clientele is jumping ship, and I need consistency. How about them apples?”

  “I’m sure you’re cutting and stretching and praying over your fucking magic pills. Or are you already out of what makes them so magical?” I bark. “So who’s the little shit now?”

  “Yeah, whatever. Like I just said, I need consistency. People depend on me,” he huffs. “Can I finally depend on you to come through?”

  I smile. Siobhan depends on me. “Uppers, downers? Smarty-pants drugs? What do you fancy?”

  Deep breathing comes through the line. “All right, Jeff—asshole, you know damn well I want it all. I haven't forgotten how expensive you are. I'll wire the money now and you bet your ass I want bang for my buck. You know the drill.”

  “Got it,” I lie, ending the call. Grant always gives me 48 hours to pull through. Unfortunately, I no longer have Klonopin or Oxycontin at the tip of my fingers. And the smarty-pants drugs like Adderall that college students paid top dollar for, is also out of grasp since I’ve abandoned my job as a medic in L.A. to follow Siobhan here. But Grant is unaware.

  My cell phone pinged. A transaction has hit my PayPal account. I whistle. “Fifteen K, just to bust a move. Hell, I don’t need a damn nine-to-five, doc.”

  I am by no means an extravagant man. Hell, the food in the chow hall has been decent, but the MRE, read-to-eat meals I grubbed on while on missions sustained me well enough. However, the multiple zero price tag is the only thing these days that adds a pep in my step, other than Siobhan Lowe. But really, I am only happy because I have more than enough money to follow her to San Antonio now.

  A ferocious grumble tears across my stomach. The noise is so loud even Hosea looks up. His eyes are somber. He is hungry too.

  When’s the last time I fed ’em?

  In order to feed myself, I will sneak down to the kitchen for a quick breakfast. I often eat the old woman’s leftovers.

  But what to feed Hosea? After all, the guy has spent countless months telling me of the good times when Siobhan was young. I know my limitations when it came to Siobhan, and hell, all of the other women too. So having Hosea around to tell me about her, always made me feel alive. Regina would’ve lived a tad longer had she not been so cruel.

  Hosea and I are connected over the sweet, beautiful girl next door.

  I scan the room. I glance into the trashcan near his bed. A few nights ago, I’d craved a cheeseburger after visiting Siobhan. A sliver of the double-double cheeseburger I purchased is in the wastebasket. I pick it up, brush off the tiny bits of debri
s and toss it.

  “Ah, you’re in luck, Hosea.” I realize that I’m using the same word the Southwest operator had. Luck. I hardly believe in such a trivial word. I bend down again with a grunt and pluck a large cup from the trash. The lid and straw are still in it. I shake the cup, it swooshes as a bit of soda hit against the walls of the paper cup.

  “Here’s something to wash it all down. Now, let me figure out how I’m going to gather a bit of luck too.”

  No thank you? Just dreadful silence.

  “Hosea, we are on the same team. The sooner you realize that, the better life will be,” I assure, as I grab a clean pair of jeans to sneak off to the third level for one of the many bathrooms. “Can’t say I never gave nothing to you—well, besides the greatest gift of all. Life.”

  I heft my duffle bag over my shoulder. I’m considering searching for a few perishables in the kitchen for Hosea since I’m not sure how long Siobhan and I will be in Texas, but he speaks.

  “Jeff…” Hosea calls out, his voice hardly rising above a whisper.

  I turn toward him.

  “Kill me, Jeffrey, please.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Siobhan

  After the murders of Samuel and his fiancée, Hosea and I traveled home for Sammy’s observance. The airplane had coasted through the sky, dots of rain quickly crashing and breaking to a million tiny pieces sprayed against the oblong-shaped window of the 737 airplane. But I had been the only one to leave the tiny window open, other travelers delighted in shuteye.

  The two passengers in front of me had hardly introduced themselves an hour ago, when the one in the middle’s head began to lull and he snored in the window passenger’s ear—who was directly in front of me.

  Hosea sat next to me and hadn’t seen that much action in the past week; I had already began the process of pushing him away. Pushing everyone away.