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“How did you know it was one of ours who killed him?” Copper asks, brow arched, features pinched in confusion.
“You ask enough question you eventually get answers.” Fisher coughs, spitting.
“What did you mean you were going to give me to him?” Ruby interjects, her arms folded, posture rigid.
The sound of our collective breathing fills the tense space before Fisher answers her. “I used to bring girls for him, had since I was a teenager. He had particular tastes.” Fisher attempts a nonchalant shrug.
“Kids, asshole. Not particular tastes, he had a sickness. He liked teen girls,” Copper butts in, a look of disgust screwing up his face.
“Who fucking doesn’t?” Fisher laughs, but it’s weak, like him. “There’s something about that innocence, and you had it in spades,” he once again directs to Ruby. I want to cut his tongue out and watch him choke to death on his own blood. “Damn, such a beauty,” he drawls. “You were fourteen and your whore mother had been on a bender and owed drug money. Do you remember that day? The first time I took you out.” He smiles, reminiscing like we’re at a school reunion and not his death party.
“You were waiting for me after school,” she says. “Said you were taking me home, but you didn’t. We went to that apartment in the sky.”
“Yes, I was planning on letting him have you. I’d taken a lot of my girls there, slipped something in their drink, let him take his fill.” The sick fuck.
I’m in front of him before I’ve realized I’ve even moved, the steel of my blade plunging into his stomach. Grunting in pain, the prick continues to smile. I twist the blade with a flick of my wrist, inhaling a satisfied breath when the warmth of his blood coats my hand. The wet sound of sliced skin as I pull the knife from his body gives me a rush.
“Did you do that to me?” Ruby asks, tears sheening in her eyes. “Did you drug me and let him touch me?” she demands, smacking him around the head with a flurry of manic movements, her irate voice echoing through the large space. “Answer me!” she screams, her tone desperate. Rage pulls her away from Fisher, cooing soothing words into her ear. She sniffles and relaxes in his hold.
Fisher’s head is floppy on his neck, almost dangling to his lap. I may have gone too deep. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I yank his head up. “Answer her,” I demand, restraining my inner beast wanting to take his eyes from the sockets so he can’t look at her anymore.
“No, I didn’t like the way he looked at you like you belonged to him. You didn’t. You were mine,” he breathes.
“I’ve never been yours,” she bites out, narrowing her eyes, taking the words from my mouth. “Did you touch me?” she asks, a tremble vibrating her throat.
“I wanted you to give yourself to me on your own.” He winces in pain. “Come closer. Let me smell you, look at you one last time,” he brazenly asks. This motherfucker wants to hurt. Rage steps in front of her, blocking Fisher's view. Before he can engage her further with conversation, I straddle his lap. Taking my blade, I pinch his eyelid and cut through the thin skin, removing one then the other before flicking the skin to the ground at his feet. The squeal coming from him as he attempts to buck me off is the only thing worth hearing from him tonight.
“The only person you’re going to see before you die is me, motherfucker.” I pull on the tip of his nose before carving my blade through the skin and gristle, tearing it from his face. “You’ll be smelling your own blood as you choke on it.” I push the tip of his nose into his mouth and hold my hand across his lips so he can’t spit it out. Thrashing, he chokes and howls. “You fucked with the wrong club, the wrong brother, and the wrong girl, you piece of shit,” I state. Clasping his cheeks in my hands, I force his face to mine. “That Cage bastard, Mr. Right cunt, whatever the fuck his name was, wasn’t your daddy. He groomed you to get teenagers for him. You were a tool in a sick fuck’s toolkit. Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing him in hell real soon.” He chokes, the piece of nose going down his gullet, blocking his windpipe. “I smell your fear,” I taunt as he pisses himself, finally understanding he’s nothing but a scourge of society and dying.
Pushing off him, l take a pistol Koyn offers. The others all cock their own weapons, and we aim at the little cunt who caused death and mayhem all because some pervert got what he deserved. We open fire, filing him with holes. His entire frame jerks, seizing as we pepper his flesh with lead. The chair falls backward, his body limp and oozing. I could have dragged his death out, but he’s taken enough of our time. When the gunfire ceases, I hand Koyn back the pistol and go to my woman. Unlike Fisher, I’m not delusional. She is mine, and she proves it by rushing into my chest, despite me embodying my namesake, covered in my and Fisher’s blood, still brandishing my knife.
