Jax laughs, bringing his drink to his lips as he shakes his head. "Ridiculous, huh?" He smiles around the edge of the glass and winks.
I have no idea what I'm doing here, why I'm drawn to him like this, but I don't like it—and I like it all at the same time. Something about him seems safe and familiar, and as we sit here and talk, with every stupid, awkward comment I make, he grins. Maybe he gets my little quirks.
By the end of the night, I have my arm slung through his as we walk to the exit. I find myself leaning closer to him, pulling in the scent of his cologne. I too easily get lost in his smile and those eyes that tell me there's so much more to him than most people try to see.
We round the corner of the brick building, turning into the dark alleyway that leads to the parking lot. We've barely made it two feet before Jax stops and gently pushes me against the rough brick, pinning my shoulders to the wall. We share an intense stare in the brief moment before his lips crush mine. His hand sweeps up my neck and cups the side of my face as his teeth rake over my bottom lip. He pauses, his warm lips barely resting against mine.
"Yeah, I’m definitely in trouble,” he says with a sweet smile.
And in this moment, I know I'm fucked. Because even though I hate the vulnerability, the way he makes me feel is worth the possibility of having my heart ripped out. And if you know that's what will happen, are you really that vulnerable after all? So I give in to him.
I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging his body flush against mine. I try to quiet all the thoughts whirling around in my head so I can just enjoy how right this feels because it’s not often I've felt anything in my life was right. But Jax, at this very moment, with his soft lips pressed against mine, his hands roaming over my body… that's exactly how he feels.
“Killing Time”—City & Colour
My fingers wind around the leather steering wheel, my breath fogging the driver's side window with each angry exhale. I knew it was a man she's been talking to. I could tell by the way she spoke, the way she reacted, the stupid, silly little smile on her face. But I didn't for a second think he'd be local. I didn't think that of all people fucking Janine would play a role in it. I could fucking kill her. My thoughts roam to Janine lying on her back with both hands pointlessly held up in defense as an ax comes heaving down on her. Splitting her fucking face in two after mangling her hands and fingers. The thought brings me immense pleasure, and a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
I will kill Janine.
For an hour, I've been sitting outside the bar, rage flooding my veins, adrenaline simmering just beneath the skin, ready to explode.
Watching them joke and laugh and kiss, seeing him take what is rightfully mine right before my fucking eyes… it takes everything in me not to remove the gun from my glove box, walk into that fucking bar, and shoot every last motherfucker in there. All I can think about is them going to a motel room, his hands roaming over her body. I'm overwhelmed by visions of him penetrating her and her loving it. I bet she'd love every fucking minute of it.
Miranda doesn't think of me like I think of her. If she did, she wouldn't be giving herself away like this. She wouldn't be hurting me like this. The pain suffocating me is overshadowed only by an incredible anger I don't think I've ever felt. I slam my palm against the edge of the steering wheel over and over until my entire hand stings.
I'm struck again with an intense urge to kill… anyone and anything. Fuck plans. Fuck methodical thinking. Someone's going to fucking die tonight, but it's gotta be smart. I think of Janine as I put the vehicle in drive, but I know her murder must be planned—if I ever hope to not be caught, that is. She’s just tied to me too closely.
A whore on Tenth Street will have to do. I tuck my hair into a hat and pull it lower over my face. Just as I pull my vehicle onto the road, a lifted truck, metal balls dangling below the tailgate, comes screaming past me. I stomp on the brakes just as the truck's horn blares and a skinny middle finger darts out the window.
I feel a slanted, wicked smile fill my face as anger surges through my body until I'm in an all-out tremble. Streaks of light take up my vision. Rationale fades.
I pull my vehicle out slowly and follow the truck, which is now quite a ways down the road.
To my complete satisfaction, the truck continues out of the city and into the farm-rich countryside. I follow him for a good forty minutes, a safe distance behind, anticipation shaking me to my core. As a thick patch of darkness surrounds us, the city lights long since faded in the rearview, I snag a police light from my glove compartment and set it on the dash. I've never used it before, but right now, I'm happy I picked it up.
I flash the lights, and moments later, he pulls to the side of the barren road. I pull in behind him and put the Range Rover in park. Grabbing a Bowie hunting knife in its sheath in the glove compartment, along with a snub-nose revolver, I climb out of the vehicle. I slip the revolver into my front pocket and the knife behind my back in my waistband.
The walk is endless. Each step sends shivers up my spine. I can taste the kill. I can smell the iron in his blood. And I see Miranda's lover. In my head, it's him I'll be killing. It's his pathetic eyes staring back at me in horror as the life is ripped from him.
One day it will be.
"There a problem, officer?" the redneck asks, arching his head out the window just as a bullet rips through the door.
His high-pitched squeal lets me know I hit him, and I can't help but smile. A German shepherd barks at me from the backseat, its lips reared back, teeth gnashing, but he's leashed to the back door.
Opening the man's door, I direct the gun toward the dog's head. The man's confused eyes meet my own. I crook my neck and smile.
"Wh-why are you doing this?" he bellows, two hands grasping his blood-soaked knee.
I shift the revolver's aim from the dog, down to the man's already destroyed knee, and pull the trigger again. A blast ricochets out into the vast nothingness. The man slams his head back into the seat, screaming in pain. The dog wildly licks the man’s face.
I crack a smile, studying his thrashing body as I stow the revolver back in my front pocket and retrieve the knife from my waistband. I hold it in front of his face, letting him get a good look at it.
He whimpers as he bats at the mess that once was his knee. "Please," he begs hoarsely. "Please, stop." His eyes drift to mine, pitiful as can be. "Please."
"Please, save me your tears. I have no use for them. Now your blood." I grin. "That's a whole other matter."
I pull the knife back then thrust it up into his chin. All six inches settle in his skull.
I catch a glint of moonlight off the sharpened blade through his open mouth, then with one quick motion, I pull the knife back out.
All I see are the whites of his eyes as he slouches over the middle console, motionless.
Slipping the blade back into its sheath and returning it to my waistband, my eyes wander to the dog in the backseat, still barking wildly and sending surges of anger throughout me. I want to kill it too, but before I can retrieve my revolver, a brilliant scenario plays out in my head—a dog eating its owner. I’ve read stories about it, and the idea fills me with a giddy, childlike wonder.
Depositing the revolver back in my pocket, I pull the knife out of my waistband as I turn the car off with my other gloved hand. Shutting his door, I creep around to the back passenger side door. I open it and quickly cut the leash before closing it again.
I wander back to my truck, a smile taking up my whole face as I imagine what it will be like for the man’s family to walk up on this scene, the dog snout-deep in the man’s guts. I imagine his family on the news, crying over their stupid little redneck fuck-up who was “going to make something of himself one day.” Please.
As I reach my Range Rover, the police light still spinning blue and red into the quiet night, my eyes drift back to the metal balls hanging from the back of his truck… those stupid fucking metal balls. I hate those fucking things.
; “My Name is Human”—Highly Suspect
"How long's it been here?" I ask as we pull the Charger up behind a mess of county police vehicles taking up the side of a two-lane country road outside the city.
The road is completely closed, with police tape surrounding a jacked up Ford F-150. A swarm of cops and medical personnel stand around, presumably bullshitting as they await our arrival.
"Farmer called it in around noon. He'd seen it sitting here all morning," Tommy says as he groans his way out of the passenger side.
I meet him at the shoulder of the road, and we both duck under the police tape. A sergeant—Sergeant Callahan, his name tag reads—meets us behind the truck.
"How y'all doing?" he asks, extending a hand.
I shake it, and Tommy follows suit.
"Just another day in the life. What do we got here?" I ask.
"Well, first off, you noticing anything odd about this little scenario?" The sergeant motions to the truck.
I scan it, see nothing out of the ordinary, and my eyes meet his again. He's got a knowing look in his eye and a smile tugging at his lips.
"Look closer." He smiles.
I look again, scanning the truck more intently, and I can tell Tommy catches it as I do because he bursts into a wild fit of laughter. The other officers around the scene look at him judgingly, shaking their heads, and after seeing what I've just seen, I can understand why.
A set of balls—a human set of balls—sack, pubes, veins, and all, is tied with rope to a pair of metal balls that hang just below the tow hitch.
I crouch to look at them, my hands rubbing my cheeks and my head shaking slowly.
"That's got to be the funniest shit I ever seen right there." Tommy snorts, continuing to laugh obnoxiously loudly.
"We've got a murder victim in that truck, Detective," the sergeant says sternly, pointing toward the truck.
Tommy tilts his head, a smirk on his face and an easy look in his eyes. "Sergeant, with all due respect, go ahead and fuck yourself. You need us. We don't need you. Remember that." Tommy takes one last look at the balls with a chuckle before he walks to the driver's side door hanging wide open. "Hoooo shit, partner. You're gonna wanna see this mess."
As I meet him by the open door, the smell of ammonia hits me hard and forces me back a few steps. "Holy fuck,” is all I can manage.
"Yeah," Tommy responds. "Looks like somebody was trying to cover their tracks, huh?"
"You're not fucking kidding," I say, scanning the man slumped over in the driver's seat with his pants around his ankles and a patch of fatty tissue where his dick and balls should be. "You think he fucking used enough ammonia?"
"I think he wanted to be real damn sure." He nods toward a German shepherd lying limp beside its master's head, a gunshot wound to its stomach. "Think it had anything to do with the dog?"
"I think you're on to something."
“London Bridges”—Second Skin
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I pound the steering wheel as I speed down the country road to the nearest twenty-four-hour Walmart ten miles away, a bloody aftermath left in my wake.
I can't believe I could be so fucking stupid. Why did I go back? Why didn't I just leave it as it was?
As I steer with my knee, I wrap a dirty T-shirt from the backseat around my bleeding hand. That piece of shit dog bit me. My blood at the scene, my own fucking DNA, has the downfall of my entire career playing out in my head. If a trooper happens to be driving by, as unlikely as it is, and sees a truck abandoned on the side of the road, he's likely to check it out. When he discovers a mutilated body on the other side of the truck window, I imagine it's only a matter of time before they link it to me. My whole life spent as careful as can be, yet I wind up fucking myself in the end.
Walmart is only moments away though, and I pray they have what I need. Whom I pray to, I'm not quite sure, but somebody better fucking listen.
As if a punchline to a fucking joke, a car jerks out from the side of an overpass onto the road behind me, and blue and red lights pierce my back window in flashes.
I toss the bloody T-shirt to the floor and kick it beneath my seat, digging the revolver from my pocket. I imagine killing the officer as he approaches then speeding back home. I'll take my briefcase with all the necessary escape material—fake passport, driver's license, cash, and disguises—and Miranda to the Asheville airport where my private plane sits waiting, ready to take me to South America forever.
Miranda and I will begin anew, killing and writing under a new name. My career—our career—will be reborn. She'll have to learn Spanish of course, but I can help her with that.
Instead, I slip the revolver into the middle console and slide my bleeding hand beneath my leg, readying my driver's license, insurance, and registration with the other.
A portly officer approaches, a flashlight shining into my open window. "Good evening. Any reason you're going so fast this evening?"
I hand over the documents and he takes them, analyzing each. I force a smile. "Just got caught up in a night drive, officer. I'm an author, and when I get writer's block, sometimes I just gotta get out and drive. Lose myself to the music, you know." I laugh as I scrutinize the officer.
His focus is still directed toward my driver's license. He finally looks at me with an eyebrow raised, a slow smile creeping over his lips.
“Lucky for you,” he winks and disgust ripples throughout my body, “I’ve met my quota of tickets for the month.” He hands me back my documents before rapping two knuckles against the car door. “You have a good night and slow down, alright?”
“Sure thing, officer.”
Then he turns on his heel and heads back to the cruiser with a dance in his step. A wide smile takes up my face as I pull the Range Rover back onto the road, shaking my head at my own damn luck.
“Take Her From You”—DEV
I watch a flock of geese fly over the top of the pine trees, losing myself for a moment. I glance back at the screen, my eyes drifting to the word count that's barely budged over the past day. Yesterday, Edwin refused to write and locked himself in his bedroom.
This morning, he sat down, wrote a disjointed paragraph, started swearing at the computer, chucked the keyboard across the room, then hopped up and went out to the shed. All morning he's been going back and forth from the cabin to the shed.
And now, he’s just pacing, his cheeks red. Finally, he plops down on the sofa, turning the TV on, and flips channels. Stopping on the news, he groans and leans over his knees, dragging his bandaged hand through his messy hair. I glance at the time on the computer screen and breathe a sigh of relief. Janine should be here any minute, and she can't get here fast enough.
I pull up my email, reading over Jax’s messages for the tenth time today:
I bet that pretty little voice of yours sounds even better when you beg.
I don't beg, was my reply.
You say that now, but wait until I get you all alone and naked, teasing you with my mouth. I will have you begging me to be inside you.
And I find myself smiling like an idiot. These emails started off innocently enough, but over the course of a few days, they’ve turned into foreplay. Message after message. Each one more descriptive and vulgar than the last. I skim over more of his promises—threats—and exhale.
I'll ruin you…
I'll let you.
I like it rough.
I like to be choked.
It's much easier for me, at least, to come across as flirtatious by using unspoken words, when I’m not face-to-face with someone who can hear the slight tremor in my voice, the uncertainty. I am, after all, a writer. It's been two days since I saw him, and no matter how hard I've tried, I can't get him out of my head. A distraction—Jax is a distraction. I try to plot or write, and somehow, my train of thought veers from screaming girls and hacksaws to his lips pressed against mine, his hands in my hair… me naked beneath him. To me being that girl.
The floorboards creak. The smile fades from
my face as I turn in my chair to find Edwin looming behind me, his gaze glued to the computer screen, his nostrils flaring. I glance back at the message, close the screen, and clear my throat.
"Uh…" I push back from the desk and stand, skirting around Edwin, whose stare has yet to move away from the computer screen. "Janine should be here in a few. Sure you don't need anything from town?"
"No."
I swallow and give a quick nod as I grab my purse from the coffee table and head toward the door. It's cold as shit outside, but I don't want to be in here with him. "Okay, well—"
"When are you going to be back? We need to write."
Write? Now he wants to write. No, I think he just doesn’t want me to leave. He wants me here with him.
I freeze, my hand on the doorknob, my hairs standing on end. "I don't know."
I breathe a sigh of relief when I pull the door open and see Janine's car already in driveway. When I turn to close the door, Edwin’s crossing the living room, his jaw tensed, fists clenched at his sides. "Miranda…"
Janine's horn honks. She clambers out of the car, shielding her eyes. “I’ve got another splitting headache.” She opens the passenger door and plops down into the seat.
"Annoying bitch," Edwin mumbles, catching the door and slinging it open. He shoves past me and stops on the steps.
Janine rolls down her window, and I quickly walk past Edwin. I swear I can feel his eyes boring a hole into the back of my head as I hurry down the stairs, nearly missing the bottom step and tripping. I catch myself and go straight to the car, opening the door and climbing in without giving Edwin another glance.
"Oh"—Janine arches both brows and nods toward the porch—"he looks pissed."
I don't look back. I don't want to.
"Janine," he shouts from the porch.
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