Chapter Eleven
Dexter
Megan sits in silence the first four hundred miles. That’s not surprising considering she’s mute. But she’s not communicating in a nonverbal way either. She’s mad at me. I can’t fathom why? I’m traveling over twelve hundred miles to take her to the man she is obsessed with. I even made her presentable for him with fruity shampoo and a glistening snatch. She should be thanking me.
Megan is an attractive woman, but it’s obvious she was raised by a man. She doesn’t have a clue about seduction or how to make herself sexually appealing to the male eye. I guess that’s why she is so naïve? No one has ever paid her any attention. She wouldn’t have an issue if she removed the psycho from her eyes and switched up her wardrobe occasionally.
Outside of her clothes. . .fuck.I don’t have any words. I rarely use the term beautiful, but I would for Megan’s body. I can still smell her seductive scent on my fingers. That’s why I’ve been scrubbing my stubble so rampantly the past several hours. I want her scent embedded in my skin so deeply, it will have no chance of being removed.
I grip my steering wheel tightly, annoyed at my train of thought. This isn’t the first fucked-up one I’ve had today. It’s not even the second. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. It’s been years since I’ve had a cunt presented before me like that, but even then, none smelled as amazing as Megan’s. It was a little musky with a hint of spice. I’m certain it will taste as good as it looks and smells.
The restraint it took not to carve my name into her bare snatch was one of the biggest battles I’ve undertaken. I didn’t just want to warn other men to back the fuck away. I was aspiring to discover if her blood smelled as erotic as her cunt. I should have done it. I should scare her to within an inch of her life, then maybe she’ll stop peering at me from beneath lowered lashes.
Although, being denied her sneaky glances may agitate me more. I like her eyes on me and the way her teeth rake her lip when she peers at me like I’m a god. I can see she is confused, but for the most part, she’s eager to submit.
I think.
I honestly don’t know. This chick is messing with my head, fucking me over better than any medication I’ve swallowed. I’m getting edgy, which is bad. Bad shit happens when I let my brain run wild. That’s how I got in this situation to begin with. I was so mesmerized watching the life in Cleo’s eyes drain when I took care of her bastard child, I let my game plan get away from me.
First Richard fucked everything up by choosing Cleo’s life over his own. Then the undercover agent guarding Cleo’s house was a tank that refused to go down. You’d think six bullets would have stopped him sounding the alarm, but no, that fucker didn’t stay down even while carrying multiple bullet wounds. Next time I’ll aim for the wrinkled skin between his brow instead of watching his blood ooze from his stomach and spleen.
Megan’s eyes dart to mine when I abruptly yank my GTO down a dusty driveway. The hotel parking lot I’m pulling into is the standard two-star joint you find on every highway between New York and Florida. It is dingy and cheap, making it the perfect location for me to realign the pieces of my chessboard. If I don’t center myself, I’m going to do something I regret.
Revenge should be on the forefront of my mind, not wondering how loud Megan screams in ecstasy. The only good thing that has come from Megan’s attention is how occupied she is keeping my mind. I can even say Marcus’s name without my blood boiling. It still simmers, but it’s nothing compared to the usual fury I feel.
What the fuck is this woman doing to me?
Maybe it is the drugs Lee gave me? He did hit me with a three-month supply in one night. Maybe I’m still tripping? It’s unlikely, but I’m open to any possibilities, no matter how fucking whacked they are.
I need to get my dick sucked. That will clear up my confusion.
The stitches in my back niggle when I clamber out of my car at the front of the motel’s 24/7 lobby. Megan remains seated, following the routine I enforced each time I stopped to pump gas or take a leak. The only time her ass lifted from its spot was when she used the bathroom one hundred miles into our trip. I made her pee in the bush. Not just because I’m an ass who was pissed she cracked my new phone, but because she has a highly recognizable face. It has occupied my dreams numerous times the past six weeks, and I’ve only ever seen her as a pawn to be used and discarded, so who’s to say some random won’t recall it? It has been flashing across news bulletins every hour on the dot for the past twelve hours.
Before throwing open the warped door, I lower a cap over my eyes. I can alter my face with a few days of stubble and a change in glare, but nothing can modify the scar above my left brow. I got it when my mother tried to drown me in the tub within hours of my birth. When my father wrenched me out of her arms to resuscitate me, my head smacked into the vanity.
The scar bothered me when I was a kid—more how I got it than its lightning strike design—but as I got older, my opinion of it changed. It reminds me why I am the man I am. It stops me from being weak and makes me strong. It is a constant reminder on how gods prosper and cowards cower.
That’s why I’m still breathing and my mother isn’t.
Old gospel music crackles over a radio in sync with my wingtip boots when I cross the tiled floor of the lobby. For how rundown this motel is outside, its insides are on the opposite end of the spectrum. The white tiles are so gleaming, I see my lips move when I throw two Benjamin Franklins onto the counter and say, “Twin for the night.”
My tone alone reveals I have no intention of signing the guest registrar, but in case it doesn’t, I add another two hundred dollar bills to the stack.
“Are you sure you want a twin? She’s mighty fine-looking,” replies a voice with a deep southern twang. “If you don’t want her warming your sheets, perhaps you should send her my way. I won’t even wash the sheets when she bleeds out. The scent of her blood will give me many peaceful nights.”
I raise my eyes, bringing them level with the man standing behind the counter. He presents as a typical hotel clerk—rounded stomach and all—but the evil in his eyes exposes his true self. He is the vicar to the devil. A founding member of my father’s club.
“Joseph.” I lower my tone, playing the game as I’ve been taught.
Joseph, a man in his mid-sixties with a crooked smile and greasy hair, doesn’t return my greeting. He is too busy drinking in every visible inch of Megan to formally invite me onto his playground.
Joseph isn’t called The Vicar for no reason. He was a priest before his love of hunting altered his perspective on good and evil. A lesser man would assume his oily hair is because he isn’t taking care of himself. I know better. It isn’t grease; it is sweat from his ogling of Megan. She is exactly his type: shy, demure, on the verge of pure.
“She’s still in training.” I take a step to my left, blocking Megan from Joseph’s hopeful eyes. “You should have seen her when I caught her: malnourished and weak. In a few weeks, she’ll be good game. Perhaps then we can exchange digits?”
Joseph’s lips purse before he nods. He’s what the others like to call a “capture and release” hunter. He doesn’t release his victims once the game is finalized, though. He takes them back to his dungeon, repairs their injuries and releases them before once again capturing them. His variation in rules means his kill count is poultry compared to my father’s. At last calculation, he was only sitting at fourteen victims.
Annoyed I’ve removed Megan from his radar, Joseph lifts his deadly black eyes to mine. “Bring her in; give her something to eat. That will get her energy levels up.”
