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News flash: they’re not fooling anyone. The furniture is bolted to the floor, and the knickknacks on the side tables and bookshelves look to be glued down too. Not that a little superglue would stop anyone in a rage. Certainly not me.
I wonder if the books are fake. I hope not. I do like to read, and I happen to know five fail-safe ways to kill someone with a book. Six, if I’m in a pinch. It wouldn’t be my weapon of choice, but I do enjoy a challenge.
My eyes skip over the droning monologue bore. Shame really; he’s quite fit.He definitely gets my heart pumping, I think as I lick my lips. And he’s probably closer to my age than the guy my eyes come to rest on.
Hello Daddy.
My core clenches. Holy Hell. Yes, please.
I love an older man, and this guy looks…droolworthy. Probably not old enough to be my actual daddy, thank fuck, but he definitely fits the vibe. His dark locks have a slight wave to them and tiny streaks of silver flash in the light as he scans the room. He’s also ignoring the snore-fest guy. It almost makes me like him. His dirty, off-white, stained wife beater has seen better days and looks suspiciously marked with blood on the collar. Not his; he clearly hasn’t shaved in a day or twelve, judging by the sexy stubble that would feel divine scraping between my thighs that he’s sporting, and there’s no visible cuts on his neck from whenever he las shaved. More’s the pity. I love picking at old wounds.
He’s wearing a silver chain around his neck, but whatever pendant is hanging from it is hidden behind his shirt, tucked away from my prying eyes.
I want to see it. I want to see him stripped bare and silently begging for mercy as his life slips through the links of the precious chain I’ll strangle him with, while I fuck him into everlasting oblivion.
He catches me staring and smirks, probably reading the desire on my face but mistaking it for straight up lust, rather than the bloodlust I’m actually feeling. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes him look dangerous. Deadly, in fact. And it gets my pulse racing. I lick my lips and wink at him.Later, bad boy.We’ll get acquainted real soon.
The brown-haired, baby-faced tattooed guy is still banging on about kicking a snowman or some other shit, so my eyes dance to my next newest inmate. Another guy.Shocker.
This one I like. He’s got that dirty blond, grungy looking hair and is wearing your stereotypical bad boy cliché leather jacket. Only his looks like arealmotorcycle jacket and not a fashion piece. That piques my interest. Not that I’ll be going on manybikerides during my sentence. Sadly, my riding activities will be restricted to dicks only. Luckily, they’re my third favourite Ds to ride. Ducatis being the first, obviously. And well, if you can work out the other, let me know and I’ll give you a prize.
Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and I reckon if he keeps the jacket on and I close my eyes and pretend real hard, it could almost be as good as the real thing.
“Miss Kingfisher, do you have anything to add?”
My drool fest is interrupted by the peppy counsellor, who I scowl at. She’s nowhere near as easy on the eye as the rest of the beating hearts in the room, and I’m annoyed she’s pulled my attention away from perusing my next victims.
All eyes are on me, and it warms my skin. Not in an uncomfortable, embarrassed sort of way. More like in the same way that spotlights on stage bask the main character in a warm glow. This ismyspotlight, and I happen to love it.
But after that snore fest from face-tatt guy, I’m not ready to share. I want a captive audience when I reveal what a psycho I am. I want the shock and the wow and the awe factor. If there ever was a definition of theX Factor, I’m it. I’ll command their respect. Their admiration and their fear.
But not today.
I allow a slow feline grin to spread across my features as they eagerly await my response, and I pause a beat longer for dramatic effect. I could have been on stage, been anything I wanted….you know,if I wanted.
What I wanted wasthislife. The one I chose. The one I crafted. And getting caught was just step one of my mission.
“Sorry boys,” I breathe out in my best Marilyn Monroe impersonation, completely dismissing the counsellor from the conversation and my radar. Stretching and fake yawning to push my tits out and highlight my long, slender neck, I hold them all captive. Even the snowman guy who loves to want to hate me. “I’m crazy tired and just about ready for four orgasms and then my bed.”
There’s a snigger and a gulp, a nervous sort of laugh and a snort of derision. I’ll take those reactions. All of them. There’s no such thing as bad press, onlynopress, and so long as I’m garnering their reactions, I have their attention.
It won’t be long before they’re eating out of the palm of my hand.
“Thanks for sharing, Kayla,” the counsellor replies cheerily. Honestly, she looks like she should work at Camp America or volunteer to build schools in Uganda or some such shit. She is far too…happy to be working with a room full of psychos. I wonder what her name is. Bet it’s Brittney or something equally chipper.
“I prefer Kookaburra,” I lie.
Her smile slips a little, but she catches it and responds smoothly. “We don’t tend to use…umm nicknames here, Kayla.”
I raise a brow at the counsellor.
Maybe Chelsey or Lindsay, or Barbie. It definitely has that drawling ‘ey’ sound at the end.
I’d bet one of my orgasms on it.
Then I worry that by this time next month I might look like Herman the German without access to any of my usual beauty products. Why did that pop into my head just now? Fuck. What was she saying?
I turn to the stupid fit snowman guy. “What’s your name?”
