Masked Indulgence

by Michelle Love

  He had wasted all of Sue-Linn’s money, of course, in Vegas—and on strippers and hookers. All that money for sticking a knife into a pretty girl’s heart.

  Brokedown shook the image of Sue-Linn’s dead staring eyes away and nodded at the car. “What’s wrong with that one?”

  Bettie was watching him. “No engine. But you knew that, Shane, didn’t you? You knew the heart had been ripped from the car.”

  He whirled around. “What is this? What do you want from me? You obviously know what I do, so stop fucking around with me.”

  She merely smiled, and fury exploded inside him. He grabbed her by the throat and dragged her across the shack and rammed her against the wall. “What the fuck is all this, Bettie?”

  “Who is Bettie?” There was another change in her voice, a deeper register, though his hand was squeezing her throat, and she sounded amused. Brokedown growled.

  “Don’t fuck with me … what’s the hell is going on here?”

  “It’s Judgement Day, Shane.”

  His hand fell away from her throat as if not under his control. Bettie’s eyes burned and Brokedown felt his throat constrict in terror. He backed off in a hurry.

  “Fuck this. I’m outta here.”

  “Leave—if you can,” she said simply.

  Fuck, she was infuriating … he would go outside, find something to use as a weapon, then come back and kill her, end this the way he always ended everything. He turned away from her and stalked to the door, yanking it open—and stepped out into a blizzard.

  He couldn’t see an inch beyond his face such was the white out. A blizzard in Utah? Hell, it was December, but what the actual fuck? He felt her hand—icy on the back of his neck, and he was falling, his mind stripped bare. Darkness came quickly.

  He woke in the driver’s seat of the last of the cars. A burgundy Hudson Hornet. A deep color like congealing blood. Outside, the blizzard had simply stopped, and no snow lay on top of the glistening white salt—he felt disorientated and disconnected from the real world

  “Which one does this car remind you of, Shane?”

  He started in shock. Bettie sat in the back seat, her long legs resting on the back of the passenger seat. He looked at her in the rearview mirror and for a second saw something other than that exquisite face of hers as if the mirror was a photograph and some sort of double exposure had occurred. The face of a beast flashed before his eyes and he gagged with terror. He blinked, and when he looked again, it was just Bettie, her enigmatic smile in place, her beautiful face serene. He met her eyes—only they burned with a fury which took his breath away. He swallowed hard.

  “No idea what you mean.”

  “Come on now, yes, you do. Which of your dead girls is this car?”

  The last one. Millie-Rae Lambert, the daughter of his friend. She was eighteen and stunning, the local homecoming queen. She was good, with it, smart and bright, the full package. He’d killed her in her prom dress, stabbing a knife into her viciously until she bled out in his arms. Why had he killed her? She was such a sweet, sweet girl, but her father, his friend, owed him twenty bucks. That was what he told himself but, nah, screw that—he had wanted to kill her. Twenty bucks was worth the feeling of that gorgeous girl dying in his arms. He liked the look of utter confusion in her eyes. She’d asked him, after the first stab, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  The way the knife sank into her soft belly was thrilling to him, dark burgundy blood on a white dress. He’d left her body on her date’s car for everyone to see, for every prom goer to witness.

  At her funeral, he’d comforted his friend—already a widower, and now his only child taken from him—and Brokedown had reveled in the pain he had caused. The date, the boyfriend, had been eliminated from the murder inquiry and Brokedown watched his quiet devastation on his young face. He’d seen the woman he loved slaughtered.

  Brokedown gazed into the rearview mirror at the beautiful woman watching him. “Why are you asking when you already know?”

  “Naughty or nice, Shane?”

  “Stop saying that! You obviously know all about me, so I’m asking—what is all of this?”

  A blink and they were back in the shack, sitting at the table, facing each other. Brokedown’s arms were resting on the table, but he found he could not lift them.

  Bettie smiled at him. “You don’t see, do you, Shane? Look around. Let go of your own world view and really see.”

  Brokedown closed his eyes. “Just let me get out of here.”

  “Oh, you’re never leaving this place, Shane. Just accept that.”

  He opened his eyes slowly and looked at her. Her beauty was unearthly and terrible now and when she smiled, he could see the sharp, fang-like teeth, and her eyes burned not silver but a deep, hell-fire red.

  “What are you?” His voice was little more than a whisper.

  Bettie reached up and slowly and carefully unrolled her hair to reveal the two horns on her head, ridged and sharp. Her face changed to that of a fearsome goat-like thing and she stood to tear off the red dress, her body transforming into that of the most revolting creature he’d ever seen, with a huge phallus, erect and burning bright red as if boiling hot to the touch. Brokedown whimpered as the creature yanked him onto the table and spread-eagled him across it, stepping behind him.

  “I told you to look, Shane.”

  The creature forced his head to the side so he could see the huge Christmas tree. “See?”

  The glittery baubles he had glanced at earlier were not made of glass and plastic but were human organs, glistening with fresh blood, deep red. They swung gently, dripping gore.

  “From all the people you’ve murdered,” the creature growled, then forced his head back down. “I should have come for you when you were a child, Shane. I could have saved so many. Your mother used to warn you about me, remember?”

  Oh, God. Now he did remember the tales his mother used to tell every November and December, the one that used to scare him witless. The creature of his nightmares.

  The Krampus. The monster who came for the naughty children.

  Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice …

  Terror gripped him as his bowels and bladder released, and the room filled the stench. The Krampus, now grown to an impossible size, picked him up and dragged him outside. The junkyard was gone, the cars—no, in their place, stood the corpses of his victims, not just the four he’d recalled this day but all of them. Hattie from Reno; Shirley from Lincoln; Andrea from Charleston; and more, so, many more. They stared back at him with burning hatred, vengeance almost a halo around them. The little dog who greeted him earlier barked at him again, and Brokedown could have sworn the dog was laughing at him. He closed his eyes for a long moment, reconciling himself to the fact he was going to die here, today.

  “Shaney?”

  His eyes flew open, and he stared as through the crowd of corpses pushed his little sister, still just a toddler.

  “Winnie?”

  She came to stand in front of him. “Why did you kill me, Shaney?”

  No. No. “It wasn’t me, Winnie, I swear.”

  “It was, Shaney. Don’t you remember? You told Mommy a bad man took me when all the while I was playing hide and go seek with you. You told me to go hide, Shaney, and I did. I hid down the well, Shaney, but you never came to find me. Then you came to get some water, and the bucket hit me on the head, didn’t it? I fell in the water and it got into my mouth and nose, and I couldn’t breathe no more.”

  Brokedown had his head in his hands. “No, no, no.”

  “You killed me.” She opened her mouth wider and a fountain of dirty well water poured out, splashing him, soaking him

  Brokedown started to sob. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know you were down there.”

  “But you didn’t tell Momma and the police that we were playing a game. They would have searched everywhere, Shaney. Even down the well. I could have lived, would have lived.”

  “No. no, no …” Only the f
act that the creature held him up stopped him from falling at her feet and begging her forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, Winnie, I’m so, so sorry.”

  His little sister smiled sweetly at him and touched his face. “It’s okay, Shaney. You’re going to get what you deserve now anyway.”

  Her words sent ice through his veins. The Krampus picked him up and dragged him through the throng of corpses. They parted to let it through and now all Brokedown could see was the empty expanse of the salt flats in front of him. Even the far-off hills had vanished into a haze. The creature threw him down to the sand and Brokedown felt a small hope that he might be released. The creature laughed as if it could read his mind.

  “Feel the salt beneath your skin,” it growled, “feel how cool it is. Try to remember that feeling because, Brokedown, you will never feel it on your skin again. You will burn, Shane, Brokedown Bodie Johnson, burn … ”

  The creature forced him onto his stomach and then Brokedown was naked, spread-eagled, and burning harnesses chained him down by the wrists and ankles to the salt.

  He closed his eyes and heard them begin to sing, low at first, and then when he felt the creature’s burning hot penis start to enter his ass, he screamed out in agony, and the singing got loud and more gleeful. It was the last thing Brokedown heard before the pain burned through him, and he was sent spiraling down into the fiery grip of the hell he had chosen for himself. He could hear bells, discordant and loud; smell his own guts being cooked.

  He’s making a list, he’s checking it twice, gonna find out who’s naughty or nice …

  The End.

  Santa’s Little Helper Book 8

  When Bronte Fuller reluctantly attends a “Single at Christmas” speed-dating night, she meets the charming and handsome Nik and they soon become involved in a hot and steamy romance. When her new beau whisks her away to Scandinavia for Christmas, Bronte feels like she is living in a dream. But then strange events occur and Bronte has to work out whether her new lover is everything he says he is …

  Melbourne, Australia, 2011

  Bronte Fuller drew in a deep breath and pushed open the door of the bar. She still had no idea why she was going through with this except her best friend Pilar had bet her fifty bucks she wouldn’t do it and there was no way she was letting Pilar win.

  So here she was, in the small bar in Melbourne, the week before Christmas. It was disgustingly hot outside even in the evening and so Bronte was glad of the cold rush of the air-conditioning inside Harry’s Bar. She looked around to see if there were any obvious “speed-daters” waiting, but no. Damn. Which meant she’d have to ask the barman—which she did, blushing furiously. The barman grinned at her, eyeing her curvy body appreciatively. “Through there, doll,” he pointed at a door in the back. “And if you don’t have any luck, you know where to find me.”

  She considered his offer; he was a good-looking dude, long surfer’s blond hair, big arms, an easy smile. For a quick bounce, yeah, he would do nicely, but a good quick fuck she could get anytime from Dale, her always on-call fuck buddy.

  As she went into the other room, she asked herself again, why was she doing this? She neither had the time nor the energy for a relationship. She rubbed her eyes and belatedly remembered her eye makeup. Shit, now she’d look like a damn panda.

  “You look like a damn panda,” the woman in front of her said. She was wearing a badly fitting fuchsia suit and had Meryl written hastily on a name tag. She sighed at Bronte. “The bathrooms are over there; go fix your makeup. The boys will be here soon.”

  Ugh. Boys. She loathed it when fully grown men—and woman—were referred to as “boys and girls” and she already hated Meryl on sight. As she fixed her make-up, she said the name over and over, putting on a dumb voice every time. Murrrelll. Meeehhhrylll.

  A toilet flushed and a tall gorgeous black woman slinked out of the stalk. She grinned at Bronte. “I see you met our fearless leader.”

  Bronte gaped at her. “You don’t mean to say someone like you needs to come to these things.”

  The woman grinned. “Well, a woman like you has. I’m Dakota.”

  Bronte smiled at her. “Bronte. My first time here.”

  Dakota tucked her hand under Bronte’s arm. “Apart from Muuurrrlll, it’s actually not so bad. We all have a nice what-the-hell outlook and a healthy dose of cynicism.”

  Going back into the “dating” room wasn’t nearly so scary thanks to Dakota. Despite her first impression, Meryl was efficient and sorted them swiftly into groups and explained how it worked. “Five minutes each table then move on. After everyone’s talked to everyone then we break into one large group and go from there.”

  Bronte, nervous at first, soon found herself relaxing. Dakota had been right about the relaxed atmosphere and soon she was enjoying talking to some funny, cute, and downright hilarious guys, most of whom she’d love as friends but she wasn’t attracted to sexually. Ah, well, she thought, at least I haven’t wasted an evening. The door to the room was pushed open and Bronte felt a wave of icy air go up her back. What the hell? It was summer and 104 degrees—where the hell … she stopped when she saw the newcomer.

  He was tall and rangy but about as far from the surfer dude type she usually went for as he could be. His finely sculptured features were that of a demi-god, his dark close-cropped curls neatly trimmed, his green eyes amused and intense. Damn, Bronte thought, feeling the desire flood through her, making her heart pound, her stomach warm, and her clit swell and become almost unbearable sensitive. She wiggled slightly in her chair to ease the tension in her body but only succeeded in making herself more aroused. She glanced back at the guy—and found him staring at her. She swallowed and he grinned at her.

  Meryl was flapping around the newcomer. “You’re too late for the one-on-ones,” she said, huffing “but I can …”

  “It’s okay,” he said, not taking his eyes from Bronte, “I found the one I was looking for.” He grabbed Bronte’s hand and pulled her up. Bronte could barely catch her breath as she was whisked out of the door but she caught sight of Dakota’s laughing face, and her thumbs-up signal.

  In moments, she was seated alongside him in his Mercedes and he was pulling into traffic. Bronte let out a breath. “Well, hello?”

  He laughed. “Hey there. I’m Nik.”

  “Bronte. What was that?”

  He grinned over at her and her insides liquefied—God, he was divine. “I’m really sorry, Bronte. I’ve never done that, but just at that moment I knew I had to have you. I think, given the looks on the other men’s faces, that there would have been a fight over you and I didn’t want to waste time. Come have a drink with me at my apartment. Then, I promise, if you’re not interested, I will drive you home.”

  Every warning she’d ever been told by just about anyone rang in her ears. Do not go to a stranger’s apartment. Do not. Do. Not. “Okay,” she said and then cursed herself silently. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Nik smiled. “Good—and don’t worry, I’m not a murderer.”

  She laughed, still a little uncomfortable, but as they drove through the sultry night, she couldn’t help her gut instinct telling her it was okay. She looked over at him, studying him. He was the quintessential, archetypal Roman god. She sighed unconsciously, wondering what his cock was like, whether it was a magnificent as the rest of him—shocked by her own thoughts, she pushed the image of him naked away.

  Nik looked over at her and she was sure he knew what she was thinking. His mouth hitched up in a smile and he just nodded. The journey passed like a dream and soon she was riding in the elevator with him, in one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in the city. She counted the floors—soon it was clear they were going to the penthouse. Nik did not say a thing in the elevator, just stood with her, looking down at her, his hand caressing her cheek. Bronte wasn’t sure she was awake; his touch was feather light, sensual. She could smell his cologne coming off his skin and it was driving her crazy. As they arrived at his penthouse, he took h
er hand, winding his fingers between hers and leading her into his living room. She wanted to look around at the gorgeous, luxurious home but she couldn’t take her eyes from him. He tipped her face up with his finger and pressed his lips lightly to hers.

  “Would you like a drink?” he said softly, but she shook her head, looking up at him through her lashes.

  God, no. All she wanted was him, his body on hers, his arms—long and thickly muscled—around her. Nik smiled down at her, his eyes fixed on hers in a way that made her limbs feel like jelly. His fingertips brushed her stomach through her thin dress and she gave an involuntary moan and swayed. That was all he needed. He swept her into his arms and carried her into his bedroom, laying her down on the navy-blue comforter.

  He braced himself on his hands either side of her head, and grinned down at her. Bronte felt drunk, breathless. Nik smiled. “Hello, pretty girl.”

  Unable to speak, Bronte mouthed “Hi” back at him and he chuckled. With one finger, he pulled at the tie on her wrap dress and opened it to reveal her curvy, honey-skinned body. “Wow,” he mouthed back at her and she smiled, absurdly pleased and yet eager, desperate for him to hurry, hurry, hurry …

  But Nik knew exactly what he was doing. Slowly, he kissed her on the mouth, his tongue probing hers, her throat, ran his tongue down the valley between her breasts. He popped the clasp of her front-opening bra and took each nipple into his mouth in turn, sucking on them, teasing them with his tongue until Bronte was panting and moaning. His lips were on her belly then, his tongue circling and dipping into her navel before drifting lower. She felt his fingers tugging at her panties before drawing them down her thighs.

  Oh, my God, what am I doing? she thought, then almost yelped as he grazed her clit with his teeth, the unbearable sensitivity making her groan loudly as he sucked on it and teased it with his tongue. He slid a forefinger inside of her, seeking the glory spot, sending Bronte almost crazy.