Haha, like my pun?
These two girls are my life. My best friends. My accomplices. We’ve been through a lot together, and we’ll do anything for each other. I don’t think I could get through this life without either one of them. They’re more than just my friends. They’re my family.
“Earth to Gray!” Andi calls out, waving her hand in front of my face. “Who’s it gonna be tonight?” She waggles her eyebrows and waits impatiently for my response.
“First of all, stick your hand in my face like that again and I’ll lop it off with one of your torture devices then stick it in the chest of that guy,” I say, pointing to the other side of the bar.
“Oh, don’t be so touchy.” Andi laughs and follows the direction of my finger. “Well lube me up and ride me like a Slip-N-Slide. He’s fucking gorgeous.”
I glare back at Andi with a pondering look, amused by her straight-faced one-liners, and wave my finger to call over the waitress. “Another Moscow Mule, please.” I hand her the cup, and when she walks away, I lean into the center of the table. “I’ve been scoping this guy out for a week. He has a record...domestic violence.”
“Did your homework this week?” Jaz asks between sips of water.
I shrug. “Don’t I always?”
I was trolling the Internet when I found Caleb. The dumbass posts every detail about his life on social media. And after digging around a bit into his past, I concluded that he was the perfect candidate for my table. He made it easy when he posted on Facebook that he was going to the grocery store, so of course I needed to go to the same store on the same day to confirm my suspicions. I was right, as usual.
I made sure to be at the end of the ice cream aisle just as Caleb was making the turn in my direction, and when he did, he ran his cart right into mine.
His eyes widened and his lips spread into a devilish grin. “Well, excuse me, pretty lady. I’m so sorry.”
I smiled politely and batted my eyes. “It’s okay. No worries.”
I skirted around Caleb and his cart, and because Mr. Foster is quite ballsy, he grabbed my elbow. “Whaddya say I take you out for a drink to make up for my clumsiness?”
“Oh, I’m flattered, but I can’t.” I flashed him a coy grin then proceeded to leave the aisle.
He followed me down every single aisle after that like he was a starving, lost puppy. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Why can’t I take you out? C’mon, pretty thing, don’t do me like that.” And each and every time, I politely declined.
Persistent li’l bugger that he was, he followed me out to my car where he tried to pin me against the door. “Please,” he begged. “I could show you a real good time.”
I wrinkle my nose at the mere thought of how his breath crossed my face. I still remember how sour and rank it was. You’d think that being a good-looking guy like he is, his breath would be minty fresh, but nope. It definitely correlated with his churlish behavior.
Anyway, after the tiny little hairs on my arms stood on end, I knew he was special. So, I flashed him the cheesiest fake smile and said, “How about this, you give me your number and when I have a free weekend, I’ll give you a ring. You can take me out for a drink. And if you’re real nice, I’ll even let you buy me dessert.” I close the deal with a wink.
Hook, line, and sinker, baby.
“How did you know he was going to be here?” Andi asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. She’s ready for the pounce. She’s sitting on the edge of her seat, her fingers tapping wildly on the table and her leg anxiously bouncing in place.
I wait for the waitress to slip my drink in front of me, take a quick sip, then answer. “Facebook. It’s amazing how much information people will put online. Fucking idiots.” I have a keen sense when it comes to men like Caleb Foster. I call it my seventh sense. I’m sure it’s something similar to what any good law enforcement officer might have, picking out the bad guys. It’s a talent really. I’m more aware of my surroundings, whereas most people are too fucking stupid to pay attention to what’s going on around them. More and more, people spend their every waking moments with their noses glued to their cell phones and shit. Fortunately for me, these people who post personal crap on the Internet are easy targets. I spend most nights skimming through Facebook or Craigslist. I find a lot of desperate and freaky men who post ads on Craigslist. If they send my red flag sailing through the sky, I start digging around on the World Wide Web.
Most people don’t realize that a small electronic that’s sitting on their lap or on their desk holds the key to their souls. Anything and everything can be found with just a simple click of a key. Exposing all of your darkest secrets for people like me to find and use to our advantage. And in my case, I find the bad guys.
“Caleb Foster,” I begin, “your typical jockstrap who likes to beat girls if they don’t give him what he wants. He’s very vocal, posting on Facebook what he wants, who he wants, and where he wants it. At first, it seemed as if he was trying to get laughs out of his posts, which he does get from a lot of other dumbass men, but there was one comment that stood out by an ex-girlfriend, Angie Beneky. It was a simple but very potent response. “No means no, asshole.” So, of course I did a little research on Miss Beneky and found that she was used as an ol’ punching bag. She filed assault and battery charges on our friend here, which sent him to the slammer for rape and domestic violence, but then got out early for good behavior. I could tell he was, for lack of a better word...forceful when he pinned me against my car. I politely told him I wasn’t interested in his offer, the fucker. But oddly, the stranger whom I just met placed his palms on my driver’s side window so both his arms were on either side of my body. That’s when I asked him to write down his name and phone number. He must’ve mistaken my smirk for a flirty smile, because he obliged happily and walked off thinking I was going to be calling him that night. I went home and looked him up and whaddya know? He’s our kinda guy.”
“Do I get to go play now?” Andi asks. She doesn’t give a flying fuck about this guy’s backstory. All she cares about is sinking her fangs into his flesh, and who am I to stop her?
“Go get—”
Andi’s out of her seat before I can say him, bouncing her way over to the empty barstool to the right of Mr. Foster. I stay ducked behind Jaz, not wanting our new friend to notice me, although I contemplated walking straight up to the bastard, getting in his face and saying, “Remember me twat-knocker?” But, we’ve done this plenty of times now to know who does what. And, I wouldn’t think twice about raining on Andi’s li’l parade. So, I let Andi work her magic while I stay tucked against Jaz and watch for Andi’s cue.
It’s not long before Andi’s black hair is swaying and her head is falling back as she laughs. The fucker has his palm resting on Andi’s knee, and she does nothing to shoo it away. Instead, she coaxes his hand further until it disappears between her thighs.
I chuckle. “Damn she’s good. She might’ve just hit a new record.” Glancing down at my watch, I time Andi and, as I expected, she’s twirling a small section of her black hair around her index finger. “Let’s get outta here.” I down my drink, toss some money down on the table, and follow Jaz out of the bar and into my car.
* * *
Jaz and I get to the house with fifteen minutes to spare. I make my rounds through Andi’s room and my own, making sure that everything is in order and ready to go. While Andi keeps her room a bit more haphazard, I like mine to be, hmm, tidy. Let’s put it this way, Andi likes to listen to manic music while in her room—if that’s any indication for how she likes to run things. Add some Nine Inch Nails along with a tongue tearer, and that’s our girl.
Now me, I like order. I like a routine. Why do you think I haven’t gotten caught yet? It’s because I’m meticulous and organized. So, while Andi likes dark ambient music, and Jaz likes R&B bump and grind music, I work much better when it’s calm and soothing. So, classical piano is my go-to. We’re all so different, but you couldn’t find three more compat
ible people if you tried.
There’s the sound of a car door slamming followed by Andi’s playful giggle. Jaz and I take our places within our rooms as the doorknob jiggles and the lock clanks. Because Jaz went first last time...yes, we take turns, or at least Andi and Jaz do...Andi will go first today. And if Mr. Foster doesn’t trigger Andi’s inner demon, Andi will ruffle his feathers a bit before Jaz takes over, or at least attempts to take over. Don’t hold your breath; I never do. I’ll then come in and finish the job after Caleb is high on infatuation. And when the poor fool thinks he’s gonna get a night of two smokin’ hot women taking a joyride on his cock, I’ll come in and crush his little dream by sticking my scalpel between his ribs then stuff him like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey.
Now, I can’t really do what I do at my house in the suburbs. That is why I own a three-bedroom house made out of shipping containers. And when I say house, it truly is a house. It’s fully furnished and functional with a kitchen and bathrooms, and to anyone walking through, it looks like a modern, industrial-style home. Minus my room.
We each needed our own sanctuaries and even though we utilize each of our rooms individually, we do sometimes stick to one room, depending on how the evening is progressing. If our boy toy spouts off a trigger word too early, then the night ends up mostly in the room it started in. However, because I have to have my tools in the exact places on their trays, and because my room is set up for, well...blood, both Andi’s table and Jaz’s bed are transportable and can easily be moved into my room. My room is the largest and has been kept raw. In other words, I left the metal walls of the storage container exposed. I had a drain put in in the center of the floor that flows into pipes that run underneath the house. Because I use linens to keep my messes at a minimum, there sometimes is overspray, and with this room being left in its industrial state, it makes it perfect to hose down. I suppose it works to my advantage, because I hate clutter. I have no knick-knacks of any kind, and my room simply consists of the bare necessities, which allows me to do my job efficiently. Even the trays that hold my implements only carry what is absolutely necessary. I believe the less you have, the less likely it is to make a mistake.
Andi’s door slams from the other side of my wall and there’s muffled noises from Andi coaxing Caleb into position, I’m guessing, then the soft clanking of straps. Among the many interesting antiques Andi has, an execution table is by far her favorite, and those straps that are rustling behind my wall are attached to said table.
The men that bear witness to this spectacular piece of furniture are quite intrigued by it at first. They have no reservations about stripping butt-ass naked and being securely fastened to something that was once used for lethal injection. For them, it’s a major turn-on, especially when Andi wondrously persuades them. She gives them some big ol’ song and dance about how it’s more of a turn-on for both parties when they can’t touch her. Add on Andi rubbing up against their naked bodies, and they’re ready to blow their wads like a fucking geyser.
While I’m waiting patiently in my room, I shift my linen-covered tray slightly to the right, matching the corners up so they’re perfectly straight. I lightly touch each item, counting and straightening as I go, then top my ritual off with a swipe of my hand along the sheets that’s covering my table. I purposely purchased a metal surgical table, not for comfort but for how easy it cleans. Believe me, the fucktards that get to spend the night on my table aren’t here for comfort...they’re here for pain. And I’m more than happy to administer cruel, tedious pain.
I close my eyes and my body sways as Scala & Kolancy Brothers’ rendition of “Creep” blares from the inside of Andi’s room. The melancholy, haunting version is one of the only songs that I like off Andi’s playlist. I find it centers me...calms me. And I know that when Andi has it playing, it means she’s seducing our boy toy, getting him excited and utterly aroused.
Right now, she probably has him fastened tightly to the table with the leather straps and is straddling him, rubbing her perky assets up and down his chest. She’s probably grinding her hips over his erect penis, licking and sucking his nipples. The tease that she is, is probably sliding down his torso, stopping at the engorged head of his cock. She won’t wrap her mouth around it; she won’t even give it the tiniest caress with her tongue.
What she will do, though, is hover over it and lightly blow across the tip, drawing out the first bead of cum. She’ll have Caleb begging for her pussy before long, but then “Creep” is abruptly stopped in the middle of the song and replaced with a loud white noise.
Ah fuck, the idiot said it—he said a trigger word.
Evanescence’s “Going Under” blares through the walls. I can’t say that I’m surprised. It typically happens this way when Andi has her turn first. She works these assholes up to the point they can’t help but tell her how fucking sexy she is. Until they’re pleading, “C’mon, baby, let me fuck that sweet pussy of yours.” It never fails.
It’s playtime.
Chapter 5
Andi
Rubbing up on this asshole is so much better than my day job of flipping cards and waving my hand over a card table. Granted, I meet some pretty damn interesting people dealing poker at the local casino, but nothing compares to this high. The anticipation of taking these dumbasses to jizz-blowing heights is almost more than I can handle. It makes the vixen in me giddy with excitement...that is until this motherfucker calls me baby. “C’mon, baby, do me real good. That’s it,” he says. My blood pulses through my veins in a rapid boil.
Why did he have to say it? We were having so much fun. Fucker!
I can’t control what happens after I hear that God-awful word; I no longer am a part of my physical body. And there’s no self-control. It’s as if there’s a demon that lies dormant deep down in my soul, only brought to the surface with those two words—baby and sexy. I guess for his sake he’s lucky he only said one. Say them both, and I’ll be the proud owner of a new set of baby blues.
I push myself off the table with a mirror-shattering screech and stomp around my small room. “Why? Why did you have to go there?” I shout. My hands find my hair, and I pull at the long black strands by the roots. My scalp is tingling and with each tug brings a delicious burn that sets my whole trembling body ablaze. “Goddammit!”
I stop circling the room, stopping at the metal cabinet that rests on the back wall. Dropping my hands from my hair, my fists beat down hard on the cabinet, sending an echoing smack through the room. I’m not myself when those words trigger a sinister chord in my brain. I walk over to my music dock and swipe the screen until I find Evanescence’s “Going Under.” I close my eyes and breathe in a few deep breaths, letting the bass of the song synchronize with my heartbeat. I slip a pair of latex gloves on and let my hands fall upon my favorite tools, and when I spin around, holding the tongue tearer up for my playdate to see, his expression turns from playful to confused.
“What is that? An old pair of scissors? What are ya gonna do, baby, cut me loose so I can fuck your brains out?” he asks.
Fuck! He said it again.
My smirk is evident as I take my time walking back to the table, taking slow and calculated steps. When my hip touches the table, I lean down so my lips are almost grazing my victim’s. “Oh, Mr. Foster, it’s a very fascinating tool. You see this here,” I whisper, eyeing the device in my hand, “this will cut through anything...paper, clothes, flesh.” I bring the tool between our mouths and slowly drag the tip of my tongue along the steel blades, then continue the trail up the man’s chin, over his quivering lips, and stop at the tip of his nose.
His eyes narrow at first, but when he sees that my other hand is holding a mouth opener, they grow wide and worried.
I love seeing them terrified. It gets me excited.
“What? Are you scared?” I take the corner of the blanket that’s resting at Caleb’s feet and draw it up his body, tucking it under his neck. Have to keep my table clean. This might get a bit bloody.
“N-Na-No,” he stutters. “C’mon, baby, you...you look so damn sexy. Why don’t you loosen these straps? I wanna touch you,” he manages to sputter.
Cringe.
I drop the tearer on top of his semi-erect stiffy, making him groan in pain, then grab his cheeks with my free hand, digging my fingers into his skin and squeezing until his mouth opens. I forcefully shove the mouth opener in, prying his jaw wide open. Grabbing the tongue tearer from between his legs, I mount him...straddling his lap, then lean forward until my forehead is resting on his. “We were having so much fun, Mr. Foster. You just had to ruin the moment by saying those filthy words. You know what happens when I hear those words?”
Tears are seeping from the corners of his eyes, rolling down the sides of his face as he frantically shakes his head against the head straps. He can’t talk with the opener in his mouth, so all he can do is moan and choke on his spit. To taunt him a little more, I trail the blade of the tearer along his cheek and run my fingers through his hair, taking a fistful of the dark brown curls. I tug at his hair and pull his head back so his neck is exposed, gliding the blade over his Adam’s apple. He thinks I’m going to slit his throat. He’s screaming and thrashing...which won’t help his cause. I have him securely fastened with the table’s leather straps, cocooned in a blanket and with me on top of him—there’s nowhere for him to go. But he can scream all he wants. That actually helps me because as he’s screaming, his tongue goes taut, and when he’s anticipating his head being damn near cut off, I swiftly jam the tongue tearer in his mouth and clamp down on the mass of muscle, cutting it in two. His tongue splits easily, like knife through smooth butter, but that doesn’t satisfy me. As his body jolts against the restraints, his screams explode through the room. My head falls back on a guttural laugh, enjoying the release of his blood across my chest. When I look down, his eyes are bulging out of their sockets with pain, his face is red and wet from crying. “Well, we can’t have you walking around looking like a lizard now can we?” I say sweetly, my eyes beaming with elation. “We need to finish the job, Mr. Foster.”
What Lies Beneath The Flowerbed Page 3
