Page 10 of Gangsters and Guns


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Chapter Four

Ihide the switchblade under my pillow when I get home. Mischief curls up with me on the couch as we eat the last of our food, and then he falls asleep right there, snoring adorably. I slip from under him and kiss him goodnight. Strolling in the dark to my room, I shrug out of my clothes and climb between the cold, shabby sheets. Reaching up, I stroke the blade under my pillow, remembering the burst of power I felt. For one moment, I wasn’t weak, I wasn’t scared, cold, or hungry. I was… I was happy. I finally took control, finally acted on the urges inside me. And being bad? Well, fuck, it felt good.

For much of my life, I’ve been a passenger, sitting shotgun but never being the driver of my own story. It felt good to take life by the balls and squeeze. To make something happen instead of waiting for chance to happen upon me.

Stroking the blade, I close my eyes and remember how the blood felt across my hands, the surprise on his face, and the fear and resignation in his eyes before it drained away. My heart starts to slam, my pussy turns slick, and my nipples pebble painfully as I try to resist these dark desires unfurling within me—something I never knew existed. There’s a monster inside of me waiting to get out and rip through this dark underbelly of the city, killing all those who would hurt me.

Use me.

Destroy me.

A moan leaves my lips at the thought, and I bite down, trying not to wake Mischief. Gripping the blade in my hand, I run the other across my chest, squeezing my breasts before flicking and twisting my nipples. My pussy pulses in time with my touch, begging for release. I’ve been with men before, fuck, I’ve even been with women too, wanting to know what the fuss was about, though I definitely preferred cock. But having a steady boyfriend is a no-go. Usually, I pick someone up at a bar, go to their house, use their body, get what I want, eat some of their food, maybe steal a thing or two, and then leave. Maybe it’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid, but I can’t resist stroking my hand down my stomach to my pussy.

My cold fingers skate across the smooth, wet skin as I part my lips and explore, feeling how wet I am from my daydreams alone. My fantasies of being this badass bitch who takes whatever she wants and does whatever she pleases. I remember the way the blood dripped, the warmth of it, and the power of the knife in my hand.

How easily he died before me.

How quickly he changed from predator to prey.

How easy it would be to do it again.

Gasping, I slip my fingers inside myself, raising my hips to meet them and rocking into my touch. Pleasure storms through me as if pulled by the cold blade in my hand. Feeling dirty and fucked up, I bite my lip as I slip the blade under the cover, keeping it closed as I glide it down my stomach to my pussy.

I hesitate, but when the pleasure gets to be too much, blinding me to the fear and indecision that comes with being human, I finally relinquish control. I let it strip me of my inhibitions, and for the second time that day, I do what the fuck I want. I press the blade against my clit, holding it there hard, and rub myself on it as I move my hips faster, chasing my release.

I’m so close, so fucking close.

And when I remember the way he watched me, the shock in his eyes… I come with a muffled moan, clamping around my fingers so hard my leg kicks and my eyelids glue closed. My chest arches into the air, pressing against the cool sheet as I ride through my release.

When it’s over, I slump, pulling my wet fingers free and removing the blade. I lie there, panting, feeling the aftershocks.

What have I become?

And more importantly…

Do I even care?

* * *

Runwood Recovery towersbefore me like a gleaming symbol of hope. For me, it’s a reminder of the pain I have endured and what I do to keep my brother here. I left Mischief asleep this morning after kissing him goodbye and giving him some bread for breakfast, then I hopped on the bus and began my monthly trip here.

Today, when I see my brother, I wonder if he will remember me. Sometimes he doesn’t, his mind decayed, and sometimes he doesn’t even talk. Others, it’s like he’s back to the kid I knew. I actually enjoy seeing him those days when he’s happy, laughing, and joking with me, reliving the good old days. When he’s in a good mood, his doctors allow me to take him out of his room and get him some fresh air. We walk around the beautifully manicured grounds, visit the wishing fountain and the pond, and watch people fish, just enjoying each other’s company, sometimes spending hours together.

Other times he’s mean. Cruel. A fucking bastard I no longer recognize. Those days, I don’t stay long, unable to take it. My heart cracks at every insult, and I flinch at each slurred name he calls me. Those days, it’s like a monster has taken over control of his body. His mannerisms change, even the way he looks at me is different. I try to remember that this is what often happens to addicts—they become a shell of the person they once were, but fuck, it’s just so hard.

The bus stops over a mile away from the facility, so I have to walk down the country road and the private driveway. My feet are killing me after wearing those heels yesterday. When I reach the wrought iron gate blocking the entrance, I buzz the intercom and say my name, waiting to be let in. It’s cold today, and I wrap my coat tighter around myself as the gates slowly open, permitting entrance.

Slipping through, I walk down the winding path, my eyes catching on the luscious, rolling grounds surrounding the estate, which is more like a mansion than a facility, even if there are bars on the windows and fences all around. There’s a garden to the left for the patients to plant flowers and produce and harvest them at the right time. Around back is an orchard with an abundance of fruit trees just waiting to be picked. A water fountain, a swimming pool…

It’s really fucking nice.

The house itself stands tall amidst it all. The large, white towering pillars hold up the second-floor balcony, the many windows facing outwards between the orange bricks. White inlays decorate the brickwork, with the roof being flat. I remember when I first came here. I was very aware of just how different I was, how much poorer I was. Even now, there is a Bentley parked outside.

Stepping up to the door, I ignore the gold plaque with the name of the founder and ring the buzzer and wait—another thing which shows this isn’t just a house, but a medical unit. I’m allowed to enter and walk into the reception area, which looks like a fancy sitting room with a big desk and smiling nurse behind it. She takes my name, and that’s how I know she must be new, because everyone else here knows who I am—the poor sister to the wretched man in room 144. She kindly offers to show me to my brother’s suite, but I decline and step past her, heading up one of the two curved staircases to the bedrooms up top.

The doors themselves have bolts on the outside to keep those with Alzheimer’s or dementia, who have a tendency to roam at night, safe and secure. And even though the rooms are comfortable and lush, they are still very much safe, with no breakable mirrors, sharp objects, or anything patients can use to hurt themselves. I nod at some of the residents I know and remember seeing until I reach my brother’s room at the end, his name proudly displayed outside the door with his interests, behavioral issues, and allergies listed underneath.

A noise makes me look around, and I freeze, staring sadly at the old lady sitting in a rocking chair before the bay windows looking out onto the balcony. She is covered in a knitted blanket, her long black and gray hair covering her face as she sings.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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