by Elena Monroe
I couldn’t tell if Oscar was this delusional or if he actually thought of himself as untouchable. It sparked an unforeseen laugh and smirk across my face. He had to be joking, and if he wasn’t, then I was some kind of dark.
My hand wrapped around his throat quickly, and I pushed him down against the table. “Do you think I give a fuck if you’re famous or who your parents are? Don’t cross a Rothschild.”
Choking on his own words he spat out, “What do you care? It’s just some girls!”
No justice crusader. He knew me enough to know I gave little, very little, fucks. The answer was easy when I made sure to find his eyes with mine: “Abigail.”
As I held Oscar’s throat tighter, Khaos didn’t make his presence known easily. I didn’t even know how long he had been there while I watched Oscar thrash around my grip.
“Bro… Come on. Just let him go with a warning. He’s not a threat.” Khaos stood right next to me, shoulder to shoulder, inspecting how long Oscar had to live if I didn’t loosen my grip. “Right, Oscar?”
I don’t know how he managed to shake his head with his hands clawing at my hand, but he did. The worst of mankind was resilient.
“Much more fun alive.” Khaos patted my back when he spun around to leave, and I heard him say, “Well, someone called Mom and Dad.”
Looking over my shoulder, I loosened my grip only for a moment, to see Vic and Bowen drawing the curtain before even saying a word.
“This isn’t some fucking group activity,” I barked. Oscar found some fight buried deep down when he fisted my shirt and took a swing. The distraction gave Oscar enough time to accelerate his fist forward and clip my lip. The fresh sting and metallic taste of pennies pulsed into my mouth.
Vic demanded answers, “What do you think you’re doing, besides embarrassing our families?”
Yanking Oscar up by his shirt, I turned my focus on Vic, standing toe to toe with him and his ego, which was somehow bigger than Oscar’s. Vic didn’t scare me. Nothing did.
Fisting his shirt, I couldn’t let him go, not with his sloppy fists.
“I’m fucked up. I’m aware, but what the fuck are you if you sit there with Abigail’s tits blown up on display?”
He didn’t back down. “I’m Clave. I don’t care about some secretary’s tits. You’re getting too close. How much have you told her, Grimm?”
My fists were so tight I felt them stuffed into the position I was okay with them being stuck in if it meant fighting my way through life.
Spitting in Vic’s face, I left my fists by my side until the tension came to a head.
Vic’s eyes fluttered closed as his fingers wiped down his face, trying to scrape the germs off that I just socked him in the face with.
It was worth it.
That’s the thing: When people are afraid of you, they’re unwilling to put you in your place. I wasn’t afraid of Vic, and he wasn’t afraid of me.
Holding Oscar in place, I swung my fist against the side of his face so hard I heard a crack under my knuckles before his body hit the table trying to break his fall again.
Unstable from the impact and already choking on his fear, I looked Vic in the eyes, challenging him to say shit to me.
I didn’t give a damn about myself, but when it came to Abigail, she was a different story. She was all I cared about, even if I was still unwilling to admit whatever that meant.
The air was left wordless, and I challenged any rebuttals when I helped Oscar up to only knock him down again. I couldn’t even tell you what my knuckles connected with when I hit him over and over as he coughed up blood. His mouth fell open, and I saw the red coating his teeth.
Somehow it wasn’t enough. My monster wasn’t satisfied.
Him dead wasn’t the goal. This was a strong message, a warning, unheeded that the next time I was in a room with him would go differently.
Leaving Oscar coughing up his pride and dignity, I leaned down fisting his hair, “I’m not having this conversation again. Stay away from Abigail.”
Standing up, I had all three of my brothers staring back at me, waiting for an explanation. I didn’t need them to actually ask for me to read that all over their face.
“Don’t fucking start. I don’t say shit about any of the shit you do.”
Khaos hissed a pensive look with his shoulders creeped up into a silent combative expression. “He’s Clave by extension, bro.”
“I’m just playing my part, right? Death.” Turning my back on them, Vic waited until he had the last word, the upper hand, the pussy way out when he shouted in my direction. “She’s not Clave, remember that.”
GRIMM
My hands on my steering wheel were covered in fresh abrasions and Oscar’s blood. I could feel my knuckles already sting with cuts and bruises blooming across the bones.
In the grand scheme of things, I was making Abigail proud, making a list, and crossing shit out like a professional. She loved her damn lists with her colored pens and coffee doodles in the corners.
The only other thing on my list was to talk to Abigail and make sure she too knew that she was being claimed by me. If everyone else knew, she should too.
The entire drive I blasted music with guys moving through melodies and screaming like a bad marriage, good and bad times, stuck together. I was chasing away the adrenaline with anything I could. I needed to burn it off before I saw Abigail.
She didn’t deserve tainted versions of me because of Oscar.
She did deserve the guilt of her playing a role in his now broken face for not coming to me sooner.
She deserved a lot of things… too bad the only things I could give her weren’t the ones she wanted from me.
I had only ever been to her apartment or even this side of Venice a dismal amount of times, but I had all her information burned into my head since the minute I signed the papers making her my secretary. I needed it filed away in case I was the one who had to put an end to her contract with the Clave.
Venice was chaotic, messy, colorful… all the things Abigail wasn’t on the outside. It was hard to picture her living amongst all this life.
The one level, condos, bright yellow with white shutters and window plants, like it wasn’t Venice but a piece of wine country I just stepped into. I remembered the number of her apartment wasn’t insane or even two digits from last time: 8—an even number for an even keel kind of girl.
Knocking on the door feeling déjà vu engulf me, still on display outside, I winced at my knuckles colliding with the hardwood. I kept my head down, trying to hide in plain sight from any onlookers, like the people passing by and the people inside their apartments.
“Abigail, I know you’re in there. Your car is outside,” I added, with a quick wrap of my busted knuckles once more.
The door swung open to Abigail wearing barely anything and dipping an Oreo in a full glass of milk that was too discolored to be actual milk. Probably oat or almond. As much as she didn’t think she fit into LA’s lifestyle, Abigail was the epitome of the LA lifestyle: the body, the tan, the self-care bullshit, and the health nut routines. I grew up in LA and was less LA than Abigail.
“What are you doing here? What happened to your lip? Are you okay?”
Just when I thought you were ordinary… I expected her to know exactly what happened in my absence and ask me how bad it was.
She sounded shocked when only hours ago I stormed out of the office after I learned about what her ex had done, and now I was showing up battered, only slightly bruised.
“No, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be chained to a certain desk in a certain building near my office?”
Two can play that game.
With an extreme show of emotion, I watched her eyelashes flutter and her Oreo disappear between her lips.
Fuckkk. Focus.
“I took a sick day. I’m sick. You’d know you were actually in the office for a few days.” She faked clearing her throat like a professional trying to fake being sick when she showe
d up to work with every inch of her polished mask in place, hiding it all but her eyes from everyone. Windows to the soul—in this case, it was a peep hole straight to her heart.
“Sure. Sick. Justice home?”
Pushing past her, I walked into her apartment. The boho accents must have been the Jus touches to the taupe, white, and slate—all neutral, all outlining a kind of truth that went unblemished while the bad sides of truth lived under the rug.
“No… She’s out protesting or something. Why?”
After finding her room, she followed me into there, and I started looking for how Oscar was getting in, how he was drugging her, or any kind of evidence.
“Excuse me, what are you doing in my room?” Setting her glass of milk down, I watched another Oreo fall apart on her lips, and her mouth seductively captured the fall out.
“Evidence. He said he was drugging the girls in the photos.”
Her eyebrows flew up, and her hand went over her mouth while she chewed her mushy Oreo. “He said that? Why would he admit it?”
Inspecting the open water bottle on her nightstand, the clear plastic looked fogged up.
“Yes, Abigail, he did. You were his ticket into the Clave. You don’t get in the Clave by solving world peace.”
Lifting the water bottle to my nose, I smelled the sour scent coating the rim: roofies. That’s how the piece of shit was doing it.
She was digging into me, claws and all, watching me, seemingly unconcerned as to why I was examining her damn water bottle and more concerned with my hands all banged up. Taking my hand in hers, she brushed her thumb over my sore knuckles. “What happened to you?”
“Oscar happened to me. Piece of shit was using you for his little project to get in good with the Clave, and then blew up pictures of you on a big screen in front of me.”
“What did you do?”
She tried to stay neutral, but I could hear it in her voice. She was on my side of things. She hated him just as much as I did.
“He’s handled. He isn’t going to bother you anymore, Abigail.”
She stiffened, letting my hand drop down, with her hand still holding mine. “Is he dead?”
I expected more push back or disgust when it came to the truth of me being death. I killed people, and she knew it. Her question wasn’t that far out of reach with zero hint of sarcasm.
Capping her water bottle, I tossed it in the trash next to the nightstand. I then twisted to face her even more when my hands cupped her face. “I would kill anyone who hurts you, with or without your permission. I knew you wouldn’t want him dead.”
With me still cupping her face, she asked me, “Where did you go? You vanished, then texted me to get you a mask for some girl.” Her words were full of hate, yet she softened in my hands.
“I had to take care of some shit. It’s fixed now. I don’t control Clave shit, Abigail. I don’t get to decide who I go with or what I can even skip. It is what it is.”
“What’s fixed?” I felt her fingertips sneak between the band on my pants and my hot flesh, only the tips, not moving any further.
“He got out early for good behavior. Did you know that? He was walking around, living a normal fucking life after what he did to you. That required fixing.”
Her hands tucked in further, letting me know she was there, like my dick didn’t already pick up the sexual tension between us enough to stiffen in my pants.
My hands dropped from her face to sliding around the back of her and grabbing her ass to push her into me. Our chests touched, and our hands teased. I spoke again making my intentions clear: “No one hurts you and gets away with it.”
Leaning into me, her head tilted up, her lips found mine, and the cut on my bottom lip stung against her full lips. The sting I could handle. Oscar blowing up her tits on a projector during a brunch? That sting crossed a line.
“What if you hurt me? Then what, Grimm?” She pushed me back on to her bed, catching me off guard.
“If you kill me before all this bullshit, I’ll write you a check for a million.” Crawling onto the bed on the side of me, I watched her hand cup me through my sweats, smiling behind her puppy dog eyes.
“Is that all my heart’s worth?”
I licked my lips, feeling my abs tighten as her hand found my length and she teased her hand around me with fabric obstructing really feeling her the way I wanted.
Skin to skin.
Heart to heart.
If I had my way, I would only ever feel her the way I wanted to: raw.
“It’s worth my life. Not the money, babe.”
Her hand slipped past the band, and with her fingers wrapping around me, she repositioned herself on her knees next to me. My hand smoothed up the back of her thigh and grabbed her ass, waiting for her mouth.
Instead, her lips nipped at mine, until I knew the fragile cut was ripped open again. I tasted the metallic blood on my lips when our mouths finally connected. If I could taste my own blood, I knew she could, and if she could, she didn’t give away any hints of disgust when she shoved her tongue into my mouth further.
I was sinking into a black pit, waiting for more of her to send me over the edge. Her hand worked my length between us, and I grabbed her ass, pushing her further into me, begging her to sit on me the way I wanted. My hand snaked up to her throat, and my fingertips pressed into her skin as her lips sucked the blood off my tongue.
“Abigail…” I groaned, hoping she would hear the desperation in my voice.
I felt her swallow against my hand, and her voice practically melted over my anticipation: “No, this time, you get to enjoy it…” Loosening my grip, her lips kissed down my body, and her hands moved to work the band of my pants and boxer briefs down far enough to give her unfettered access to me. Her tongue ran down the length of me, over each bar sitting in my skin. “I wanna taste all of you…”
The piercings, the blood… I was a full mouth of metal.
“My blood, my dick… what’s next, babe? My soul?”
“I only eat hearts. Yours is so sweet, and it evaporated like cotton candy on my tongue.”
Heart eater.
Her mouth closed around me, turned up into a smirk at her own words, and her lips pushed down on me sending the calming sensation over my body. I was floating and nailed down all at the same time. With her, I didn’t have to choose one or the other.
My hand was on the back of her head, determining the pace made my body anxious to overdose on her.
No pain needed.
It still came as a shock to myself having Abigail touch the parts of me shrouded in mystery that required an ounce of blood, a single tear, constraints, and safe words to see past. Abigail didn’t just see past it. She dragged my ass out and demanded different things.
The most shocking part wasn’t not needing pain to get off with her, but the fact that I met those demands.
I would be kidding myself if I said I didn’t have it bad for Abigail. Those feelings were alive and well, just as much as the tumor upstairs.
Both were fighting for space in my head. I didn’t think with my heart; that shit wasn’t necessary for any part of living as a Clave member.
She had me disregarding everything just to make sure she was okay, protected, and safe from threats.
She was the sole reason I dragged myself into that fucking building.
She was the ultimate Xanax, the ultimate cure for my loneliness.
None of that mattered. Abigail hadn’t met the monster, not actually. She only took glimpses here and there. It was like looking at an appalling photograph. You see it and quickly look away, because if you stare too hard, the discomfort may be contagious. Abigail needed to look directly in the monster’s eyes and tell me she loved that part of me too before I admitted to feeling anything.
Those feelings would live and die with me if she couldn’t love every part of me.
GRIMM
The texts had become more frequent, like they knew I had reservations about my role here and
was driving home how much they didn’t care.
They were going to force me to suck it up, even though nothing had changed except for my lack of fucking dedication to my job lately.
Abigail was still my assistant. I knew whatever parts of me shivered when I used that word hated she wasn’t mine the way I wanted her to be.
I was testing our boundaries that we abolished when she voted for transparency to feed her need to know everything.
The office was fucking boring, as per usual. I had no reason to avoid the place anymore. Chicago happened, sex with Abigail kept happening, and the threat of Oscar has taken care of. All the buffers between us were not doing much to keep us apart now.
Especially now, with Abigail standing in front of me in a pink fucking ski mask, I wanted to chuckle, but that wasn’t the majority of feelings rumbling inside me.
She looked beautiful wrapped in all this danger.
Most girls wouldn’t be caught dead in a ski mask, but Abigail gave me no push back when she braided her hair to one side, and her lashes gave her a feminine touch to something typically considered hard.
My car was parked near the exit of a parking structure down by the Staples Center, waiting for the next disposable victim.
Chadwell Thorne
1111 S Figueroa St
The Clave was growing more balls with every new address. This was the first address not in the comfort of someone’s home.
Public.
Daring.
I didn’t care enough to have hard limits. If they sent how they wanted them executed, I would probably comply with that too.
Abigail was comfortable in the seat next to me when I tugged her braid playfully and gave me a reason to keep staring, when she asked me, “Why don’t you like to go by Jason?”
Abigail was cursed with horrible timing when it came to asking me personal questions.
Leaving her in the car, I perched on the hood of my car, waiting out the fucking Lakers game that the next target was enjoying without any clue he was about to make it his last.
Death is always a surprise.
I’m always a surprise.
Abigail followed suit, stopping in front of me, close enough for our chests to touch with every inhale and exhale, and she asked me one of the most personal questions she could.
