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Then wewillkill them.
And the body will never be discovered unless it’s required. We hardly ever outsource. A few know of what we do, but those who are informed would take it to their grave. Grayson is one of those men. He owns a club full of people fucking, some would call it a promiscuous club, a place full of desires, but I like to keep it simple, it’s a sex club. He grew up with us and came from the same neighborhood. And he’s almost as fucked-up as us because of it.Almost.
Pressing call on my phone, it rings three times before I hear her sexy voice. “You’ve reached Sage from You Beat It, We Spit It. First, let’s start with your name.”
“Zuko.”
I hear her breath suck in on the other end at the mention of my name.
It’s been a few weeks since I called her.
And how I have missed her sweet sexy voice.
“I thought you would stop calling,” she says.
“Do you want me to?” When she doesn’t reply after a few moments, I ask, “Have you missed me?”
“I don’t know.” I hear the surprise in her voice. “Have you missed me?”
“I’ve been thinking about another woman. Would you consider that cheating? That it’s her who I want to bend over right now and fuck.”
“So why did you call me?”
“Because I like to hear you come.” And I tell no lies. I do, very much so. I’m pretty sure she uses a vibrator on the other end of that phone, and her voice picks up and gets harsher as she comes. “Can I text you?” I ask. “If I want to call and can’t, can I text?”
“The same rates still apply,” she states. “Regardless of text or call.”
“I don’t care about the cost.” I growl out the words becoming impatient. “If I paid you enough, would you send me a picture of yourself?”
“Depends on the price.”
The door bursts open, and Kyson stands there dressed in his usual black suit. “Get the fuck up, it’s go time.”
“Who was that?” she asks.
“I’ll text you,” I tell her, then end the call.
“You found him?” Kyson nods as Kenzo rolls up his sleeves showcasing his arms which are covered in ink before he opens his phone, typing out something, barely looking up at us as we leave.
“Pops said yellow shirt,” Kenzo replies. When he does finally lift his gaze, he mutters, “Found him,” as he slides his phone into his pocket.
“He’s been hiding from us. It’s been a long time.” Kyson sneers.
“Six months. Did he really think we wouldn’t find him?” Kenzo relays as he slides his gun into his waistband at his back.
As we step outside, two ladies stroll by us, giggling.
Kyson smiles at them, always the ladies’ man.
The night breeze is cooler this time of year, and some wear jackets, while others opt to wear jeans or long pants. All three of us are dressed in black from head to toe. It’s not because we prefer the color—it’s solely because it’s harder to see the blood.
Blood likes to splatter.
Blood likes to stain.
If I wore a white shirt, as I have once before, blood is a bitch to get out. It lingers where it’s not wanted. And I would end up throwing that shirt out.
Doesn’t help I can’t wash my clothes to save my life.
