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 lobby’s tiled floor. 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 register, but in case it doesn’t, I add an additional two one-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’s too busy drinking in every visible inch of Megan to formally invite me onto his playground.
He 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 ogling Megan. She isexactlyhis 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… so 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 is 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 paltry compared to my father’s. At last calculation, he was only sitting at a measly 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.”
I nod at his suggestion. I don’t have any other choice. It’s either accept his invitation or blow my cover that Megan isn’t my target. If I announce she isn’t mine, Joseph will claim her as his in less than a nanosecond. I don’t know why, but that bothers the fuck out of me. Megan isn’t mine, which I don’t mind, but she isn’t Joseph’s either, which I find greatly pleasing.
“She will eat with us, but she will not thank you for the meal.” Joseph’s eyes snap to mine, the violence in them picking up. “She is not doing it to be rude. She’s been summoned to silence as penance for an earlier wrongdoing.” Because not all my reply is a lie, it presents as honest.
Joseph quivers, news of Megan’s muteness enticing an unusual response from his body. “Come, bring her in. We will have Scarlett serve us.” He slides a hotel key across the counter. “She is also in training. Perhaps you can take her for a spin after we eat?” His eyes expose a question his mouth failed to produce.Then perhaps you’ll consider sharing your new toy?
His unspoken words have more impact than his spoken ones. It frees the chaos from my mind, finally allowing me to see things clearly. Megan isn’t my pawn. She is a toy, a new plaything for me to explore. She isn’t like the dolls I usually play with. She’s more feisty—more real.She challenges me. Just the way she snuck the blade into her pocket earlier today proves this. She will be a fun way to occupy my mind until therealgame begins.
“Yes?” Joseph verifies, interrupting me from my delicious thoughts.
Smiling to hide my sneer, I confirm, “Yes.”
Mistaking my validation as agreement with his unspoken question, Joseph’s eyes light up.
It is a foolish move on his behalf, one I plan to exploit.
Unknowingly, Megan plays the part of a captive well. She bows her head when Joseph’s slave serves her food and waits to eat until she is instructed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she has been enslaved before. She is nearly a spitting image of Scarlett—same light brown hair, bright hazel eyes, and sultry figure. The only difference is she sits at Joseph’s side instead of at his feet as Joseph commands Scarlett.
Scarlett must be a few years into Joseph’s game because she doesn’t flinch at his sharp tone or cower when he raises his hand in anger. Megan is on the other end of the spectrum. She spends more time silently begging to be excused than she does consuming nutrients. She looks uncomfortable as if the razor in her pocket is weighing down her morals.
I really wish she would express herself freely. Joseph may be an acquaintance of my father’s, but I don’t owe him anything. If Megan wants to slit his throat because he inappropriately grabs her every time he thinks I’m not looking, she can. I won’t hold it against her.
Joseph, on the other hand, needs to be reminded of the rules. Whether it is true or not, as far as anyone is concerned, Megan is mine, so Joseph has no right to touch her. Especially not directly in front of me.
I don’t know if he is aware of my recent incarceration or he has forgotten who raised me, but his insolence cannot go unnoticed for a second longer.
After placing an empty glass of red wine on the cozy four-seater dining table Scarlett set up for our impromptu get-together, I tap a napkin at the Bolognese sauce in the corner of my mouth. The instant the stained napkin lands on my half-consumed meal, announcing I’m finished, Megan’s eyes lift to mine. Her plea is more apparent than ever.
I suck in a deep breath, relishing the panic rising off her before asking, “Are you ready to call it a night?”
She nods before half the words leave my mouth. I’d scold her impatience if I didn’t find it endearing. Her eyes have never been so wide, her scent more provocative. Precum has seeped into my jeans many times tonight from the frightened-lamb look she’s given me. There’s just one difference between her scared expression and the dolls I generally play with. She doesn’t want Prince Charming to ride in on a white horse and save her. She wants an imp on a stallion, a monster who will slay the dragon before drinking its blood. She wants a massacre, and that is precisely what I will give her.
“Go with Scarlett and grab your coat.” My voice is husky with need and raw with desire.
Megan peers up at me, wordlessly announcing she didn’t arrive with a jacket. I shouldn’t love how easily I can read her, but I do.
