Likes avocado toast
Gets coffee from her local coffee spot
I close my black leather notebook. Tracing my fingers along the images I have tucked inside the lined pages next to the notes I’ve gathered about Jace’s very tempting sister. I’m stalking her, watching her, lusting after her while also being in debt toher brother. Jace Park helped me out of prison ten years ago. He helped me find better care for my mother, and helped me exhume and move the murdered bodies of my sister and niece so they could restin peace. And now I’m lusting after his sister. A woman twenty years my junior. My moral code has long since disintegrated into nothing substantial; the sense of right and wrong has rotted away like leftover garbage. But there is enough of the boy I once was. The boy who was raised by a Christian mother to know that this is wrong, but of course, I don’t care because feeding the voyeuristic beast inside me feels too fucking good. Watching her when she’s oblivious to my gaze is high like no other, and I’m addicted to her.
My mark is a creature of habit, full of patterns that I’ve memorized. Her every move is burned in my brain. Her diet, her likes, her wants. She’s methodical and thoughtful. Lastly, I enjoyed watching her shop at the corner market. She moves with grace, unlike any woman I’ve ever met. The women in my world are harder; their softness has been honed to a sharp edge. My cock was hard watching her pick fucking fruit. The way she methodically perused each one, sniffing and smiling as she moved along the rows and trays of colorful fruit. When she took out a pencil and marked off items on a list, my cock started to leak; the precise nature of her movements was a beautiful dance.
But the moment she went to the pharmacy and put condoms and lube in her cart, it tested my limits. I knew she wasn’t having sex with the jackass she shares a lease with. The same man who is fucking at least three other women. I wonder if she knows or cares. They come and go when Camryn is not around, and my hatred doubles. She shouldn’t be with him, and the fact that he’s a piece of shit. Last night I punctured three of his tires with my knife and sliced his ignition wires. I don’t want to kill him, yet. Not until she’s away from him. That would cause complicationsfor her, but theStrychnos nux-vomicapowder I sprinkled in his car will hopefully kill him slowly.
I wonder what their relationship is. I need Riggs to get into their place, but Reed Spencer is always home with a woman in tow. But the condoms are throwing me off. Because she isn’t seeing any man. I’ve made sure. So when she bought an extra-large box of condoms, I saw red, wrath eating at me about the possibility that I missed something. Missed the moment when someone else touched. The thought that any other dick but mine would be inside her mouth, pussy, or ass was unacceptable. Those orifices belong to me, whether she knows it or not.
She visits a mansion on the other side of the town every other week, but more often than not leaves about 20 minutes later. The last time in tears. She has a curvy blond friend with curly hair. I recognize her. New York Senator Albert Charleston’s daughter. Kingsley Savannah Charleston. 25 years old, single. Her bodyguard sucks at his job. The woman is always eluding him.
Riggs was finally able to discover that she doesn’t go by Camryn Park, but Camryn Whitter. It’s her mother’s maiden name. He was looking for Camryn Park, who, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist.
It’s been a month of watching her, standing in the shadows while she lives her life, unbeknownst to her, that the man she met months ago is addicted to her. Every fucking night that I’ve been able to get away from my duties to the club, I observe.
She works for hours at the hospital, leaving the apartment dressed in cute scrubs. I would laugh at the irony of it. She’s studying to become a doctor to heal people, while I kill. Never mind that only a few people know that I have a PhD in forensic anthropology. I remember studying what she’s studying now. After classes, she leaves and goes to the studio for the rest of the night, barely eating. She stays well into the night and then goeshome to him. I want to get inside, but as Riggs said, it’s damn near impossible. The only camera feed is on her front door.
The best times are when I can watch her at the studio. The large glass windows work in my favor. Her intensity reminds me of when I’m hunting and de-fleshing. Her facial expressions transform at a rapid pace, going from confusion, irritation, and my favorite is when she bites her lips, her eyes become hooded, and she looks hungry and aroused. I want to know what she’s looking at, but the damn angle makes it hard for me to see.
I’ve become addicted to catching glimpses of her walking back and forth in the studio. Other people are there with her, but she keeps to herself. She sits at the pottery wheel, working the clay between those elegant fingers. Other times she stands, blow-drying. I’ve caught her even using a blow torch. Sometimes her work is frenzied, other times slow and methodical.
Tonight her hair is in a braid, and I want to stand behind her, fucking her as she paints, seeing her talent on the canvas with my cock deep inside her.
Neither Riggs nor Onyx knows the level of craving I have to know Jace’s sister’s every move. The way I analyze the tracker I put on her car. The electrical feel I get when she looks around, unsure if someone is there. I like it when she narrows her eyes, looking annoyed. I’m irritating her, and I like it. I want her to know. I want her to feel me stalking her. I can’t have her, but I can have this. This subtle chase that we participate in.
The man leaves, getting into an Uber, and I watch her continue to paint on the easel. She stands and picks up the large canvas, carting it away. I stub out my cigarette and walk across the street, opening the door, inhaling her scent. My cock jerks.
Walking over to her chair, I know I only have moments before she comes back, and I don’t want her to find me. It’s too delicious to keep a secret. The glint of five knives in a leather sheath brings me up short. Their blades are irregular; some arelong and cylindrical, like spatulas, while others are triangular and pointy. I trace my fingers along the edges and tips of the ones I’m drawn to. They could puncture and spear. They’re sharper than I thought. Useful.
I test the weight of one when I pick it up. It’s old, clearly vintage. I lift the handle closer to my nose, sniffing what smells like a mix of Camryn’s lotion and paint thinner, with the scent of acrylic. Smiling, I take the knife and put it in my back pocket. Mine.
My eye catches a tube of blood red paint. Picking it up, I toss it in the air and head for the door.
The rumbleof my bike echoes in the darkness as I pass through the isolated part of New Jersey called the Barrens. It’s where most of the New York club members live. The abandoned home, now the headquarters for the club, was once part of a thriving town filled with settlers determined to find riches and glory, but now it lies in ruins. The town is just as dead as the secrets that we have buried on the land. The crimes we commit are hidden in tall pines and swampy bogs.
On either side, there are towering pine forests that butt against the Atlantic coast. The forests surrounding the headquarters are federally protected. But little does the government know that by protecting the lands, they inherently protect us, preventing people from venturing too close to our clubhouse.
The Barrens is just what it says, barren of life, barren of the rule of law. In this 20-acre stretch, the members do as they please. Lawlessness prevails in the bogs and murky environment, where nothing can grow or live.
“Do you want me tonight?”
The voice has me looking behind me as I step through the club doors. Denise hasn’t changed much over the years. Her makeup is still expertly done, but her eyes have lost their luster. They’ve seen too many horrors.
Her man, Koda, had been murdered by a rival gang during my first years with the club. She is a few years older, and the night she kissed 21-year-old me, I let her. I let her lead me into one of the back rooms and fuck my while she cried, missing her man, asking me to let her pretend. I didn’t mind her using me, her saying how I reminded her of him.
Before prison, she was the only woman I fucked, the only one I played with. I don’t fuck sweetbutts as a rule, and my interactions with Denise were few and far between. I haven’t fucked a woman consistently since I was 20.
I used her and she used me. She taught me some of what women liked. She let me experiment with dominating her, gagging her, and, one time, she let me cut her. I finally understood what I needed during sex. My desires require something darker. Something I get by finding women outside of the club. The need to blood-let during sex isn’t something I talk about with anyone. The only person who really knows is Onyx. He caught me once, early in the years I was with the club, and we were dismembering a body. I had an erection that I couldn’t hide. Onyx never spoke to me about it, but I saw the knowledge in his eyes.
I was sick with shame that I enjoyed killing, until I realized my bloodlust was connected to certain types of people. The kill could get me hard, but the strongest ejaculations happened at the sight, feel, and taste of blood on the female form during knife play. I came the hardest when I touched it, smelled it, felt the slippery texture, and then tasted it, sucking it from her willing skin.
Sighing, I stare at Denise. I could. It would be so easy to sink into her pussy. I know she’s had a few relationships with men outside the club, but now she handles the club’s finances and is single. The men respect her, and the new leader needs to keep her safe. She knows too much about the money and criminal activity that goes on in the club to be treated poorly. She’s smart, and I’m sure she has her own insurance plan set up in case anything happens to her.
But her bottle red magenta hair isn’t inky black and straight. Her heavy, caked-on makeup face isn’t what I want. I want the glow ofherskin. The scattering of freckles alonghersmooth skin. I want to seeherface twisted in pleasure pain, covered in sticky white streams of my cum, not Denise’s.
“Not tonight,” I tell her and walk away, deeper in the shadowy depths of the club. Members mill around. A thick layer of smoke hangs heavily in the air, making it difficult to see. Music blares somewhere in the distance. Most of the noise comes from the chatter and brash laughter. I peer through the cloudy air and spot Hadrian. My stomach turns in disgust. I tolerate the new leader of the Legion Lords, Riggs’s half-brother. Hadrian Borges. Sadistic and borderline psychotic. I would know. But the difference between us is that I don’t hurt those who don’t deserve it. He preys on the innocents. The vulnerable.
