Twice.
“I assure you, it is.”
His eyes are pleading with me as he attempts weak, muffled moans, which only ignites the flame in my gut, filling my need to cause pain and torture. This is my element, where I feel normal and relaxed. True, most people would watch a little TV, read a book, maybe even go for a walk. But not me. My release of stress is this right here.
I slip my hand that’s holding the scalpel between us and place the point of the blade against his skin. Brian’s eyes tremble in their sockets and a single tear rolls down his cheek when the blade pierces his skin. Do you know how many layers there are in the human body, from the outside going in? Well, I don’t. I should really look that up. All I know is there’s a lot. Skin, muscles, ligaments, bones. They’re all just a bunch of barriers, hiding all the good stuff. I’m telling you, this process is quite tasking for me...just imagine what it’s like for the fool on my table.
I’m about to slide the scalpel down Brian’s side when my hand jerks, leaving a small puncture wound in his flesh.
What. The. Fuck?
My whole body freezes when the loud banging at the front door continues. My head snaps up and I glance over my shoulder, keeping still and staying silent.
Who the hell could that be?
I let the scalpel slip from my hands, tear off my gloves and run from the room, leaving Brian strapped to the table. Looking down at my clothes, I think fast and grab the robe from the bathroom, making sure to roll up my pant legs, hiding them underneath, then kick off my shoes. The last thing I need to do is appear at the door in an outfit that looks like scrubs but feels like paper. That would be weird and might raise some questions.
I’m standing at the door, letting my hand hover over the knob, and nearly jump out of my skin when there’s another knock that echoes through the compound. Someone is on the other side of this door who could potentially make my house of metal crumble to dust. I inhale a deep breath and hold it as I slowly open the door.
Chapter 31
Gray
I’m not sure who I was expecting—the police brigade, I suppose. So when I open the door to Drew pacing the walkway, I’m not sure if I should be relieved or freaking the fuck out. His green eyes are sparkling under the moonlight and his face beams with a smile when he sees me. “Gray!” he chimes. “How are you?”
My tone is bland with caution. “Fine. What are you doing here?”
He runs his fingers through his hair then nervously stuffs his hand in his pocket. “I was hoping Andi was here. Have you seen her? She hasn’t returned my calls.”
Wow, this guy’s pussy-whipped all right.
“She’s not here,” I say flatly. I try to camouflage my shortness with sincerity, though I’m not so sure that I’m successful. “I think she’s working tonight, which means she wouldn’t be able to use her phone unless she’s on a break or done for the night.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that would make sense.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. Too long, really, before I’m finally the first one to speak. “Anything else?” All I can think about is Brian strapped to the table, waiting for me to come back. Anticipating the death that’s been promised to him. Hmm, a new twist to my little game. I bet his pea brain is spinning so fast, reeling and scared. A small pause will only intensify his worry.
Drew grins and shakes his head. “No, nothing else. If you happen to talk to her first—”
“Yeah, I’ll let her know,” I cut him off. “See ya around.” I don’t wait for his goodbye. I shut the door on him and lock it, spinning around and falling back against the door. I take a moment to gather myself before pushing off the door, dropping the robe on the floor as I sprint to my room, skidding to a halt when I break the threshold.
Mother. Fucker.
Where’d he go? I’m staring at an empty bed, the straps dangling from the sides. I run over to the bed and take the straps in my hands.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
My eyes close and my head falls. A part of me wants to be bawling my eyes out right now. Instead, those tears turn to anger when I realize that I dropped the scalpel on the bed, right next to Brian’s hand. He must’ve regained his strength and managed to cut the straps, freeing himself. Damn, I wasn’t gone that long, was I? And where did he go?
Fucking shitballs, he has the scalpel.
Note to self—get thicker, sturdier straps. And don’t be so goddamn stupid.
I stand still, remaining quiet, listening for any signs as to which direction Brian went. There’s no place to hide in my room. No windows. No closets. It’s the only room that’s been stripped down to the bones, which means he’s somewhere else in the house. Next room is Andi’s, so before I very quietly tiptoe my way into her room, I open a drawer and pull out a dagger knife—thin and extremely sharp. Other than not knowing when and if Brian will attack me from behind, using my own tool to kill me, I have a better advantage than he does. I know every inch of this house like the back of my hand. Hell, I created it from scratch. So, yeah, I’m pretty confident that I can pull him out from the dark cracks that he thinks he’s hiding in.
Andi’s room is clear and so is the bathroom, but as I’m about to reach for Jaz’s bedroom door, there’s a scraping sound from behind it. Perhaps my little friend kicked something. Either way, I found him, and now all I have to do is charge into the room. That’s a lot easier said than done.
I slow my breathing, gulping in deep, even breaths, and when the pounding stops echoing in my ears, I push through the door, only to be lifted from my feet. My back hits the wall behind me, making me grunt on impact. My left hand finds Brian’s hair, which is at my waist because apparently he decided to come at me like a bull. I yank back his head by the fistful of his greasy hair and in a knee-jerk reaction, swing my right elbow into his nose. It causes him to release me and fall to his knees. And just as I’m about to stab him with the dagger, his arm comes up to block at the same time he tries to jab the scalpel forward into my side. Thank God for quick reflexes because I’m able to use my hand as a shield, but in doing so, I hit the scalpel with the palm of my hand, knocking it from his grasp and slicing open my hand.
Fuck. This guy isn’t as much of a pussy as I thought.
I kick my foot out, sending the scalpel sliding along the floor, down the hallway towards my room, leaving Brian without a weapon. That doesn’t stop him from attacking me, though. His hands lash out, grabbing my scrubs. You know how I said they’re like paper? Well, that’s because that’s what they are. They are the same material as disposable underwear you’d find at a spray tan place. So needless to say, they’re pretty flimsy. As he grabs my scrubs, I tear away from his claws...tearing the shirt half off my chest.
This would actually be funny if this asshole wasn’t trying to kill me. I push him off and bring my knee up square into his chin, swinging a back hand at his throat with my dagger. But the knee to the chin makes him teeter backward, so I miss. He takes in a strained, gagging breath then he’s on his feet in one swift jump.
D-A-M-N. He’s like a goddamn ninja.
I inch my way back toward my living room, holding the dagger in front of me as I go, but he’s fucking quick. He does one of those roundhouse karate kick things, sending the dagger flying out of my hand and skimming across the floor. Where it stops, I have no clue. What I do know is that now the only weapons we both have are our bodies. And even though Brian isn’t a big guy, he’s still taller than me by a few inches, and obviously he’s done some martial arts. Probably because he got picked on for being a cock-sucking dweeb in school. The only way he got his assed kicked by those football players is because it was three against one, and they must’ve snuck up on him from behind, because I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have put up a fight had he known he was about to get a beat down.
I shift behind a piece of furniture, creating a barrier between us, hunching down in a ready to fight stance, not that I have the slightest idea on how to fight. This is why I do what I do. Th
ere’s an element of surprise when I stab them with my syringe, which doesn’t allow my victims enough time to react. And then I always have my girls with me for added backup, and once these guys are on my table, they aren’t going anywhere but the flowerbed. Needless to say, I think I’m royally fucked right now.
Brian lunges at me, flying over the end table, knocking the lamp over, while I try to break away to the side. I flinch when the lamp shatters, sending shards of porcelain scattering across the floor, making me hesitate just long enough for him to grab a chunk of my hair, pulling me backward until I’m wrapped in his other arm.
Here’s a lesson to be learned. Don’t turn your back on your enemy. Like a wild animal, the worst thing you can do is show your back. It leaves you wide open to be attacked, as I just demonstrated, and now I’m the one in a compromising position. Luckily for me, I have been in these types of situations before, at a much younger age at that, and I’ve learned a thing or two. See, in these types of situations, there’s no time to think...to plot out the string of events. The longer Brian has a hold of me, the more likely it is that he is able to fully override my ability to fight back. And I can’t let that happen. Each second that passes is another second that my adrenaline dilutes in my veins, making me weaker and more vulnerable. When I was a kid, and my mother’s boyfriends or pimp would sneak up behind me, trying to steal my innocence, I always did the same move to get away.
Like all my other attackers who tried to take me from behind, Brian fails to restrain my hands. He has his arm pressing tightly against my chest, with his other hand still yanking on my hair. And although the strain of the strands being pulled from their roots brings burning tears to my eyes, I still have use of my hands. Which is perfectly level with—you guessed it—his teeny weenie.
I don’t punch my hand back, rather take a firm grab of his dick in my palm and squeeze as I twist and pull on his most sensitive part. I’m released immediately, which lets me spin around with my arm cocked back, and as I turn to face Brian, I let my fist rocket forward, punching him in the nose. There’s a loud crack and I’m sprayed in the face with blood from his broken nose, but it worked. He stumbles backward, giving me a clear shot, an extra painful bonus to his groin, when I kick my heel of my foot between his legs. Brian falls to his knees with an agonizing groan, allowing me to break away.
Since I’m not sure where the dagger landed, I bolt out of the living room and run down the hall toward my room to snatch up the scalpel, but before I can stand, my head is rammed into the wall making me crumple to the floor. Brian lands on my back and throws a punch to the back of my head, leaving me spinning from the added blow to my skull.
It’s a cheap shot, but I suppose I left myself wide open, again, turning my back to him. It’s funny how certain memories trigger the brain. Whether it’s a song, food, or a particular sound, it can heighten the senses enough to snap you out of whatever funk you’re in. So when I hear the sound of Brian’s zipper being unfastened, I’m flooded with terrified, livid angst.
Oh, hell no!
But there’s nowhere for me to go. He’s on my back, pressing his cock into my ass as he begins shredding the clothes off my body. I struggle, fighting against him, but he overpowers me and pins me down.
“Did you really think that you could out play me?” His voice tickles my ear. He chuckles then drags his tongue up the side of my face. “You underestimated me, bitch. They always do.”
Goddamn, if I could will myself to vomit on cue, I would...right into his mouth.
My eyes are shut tight and I’m holding my breath, willing myself not to feel his saliva against my skin or the probing of his solid length at the center of my legs. I will not be the victim here. I swore the day I killed my mother’s boyfriend was the last day I would ever allow someone to take advantage of me...to abuse me in any way, shape, or form. So, this here will not happen. He’s going to have to kill me, because I won’t stop fighting him.
Now, I’m screaming my head off, not that anyone will hear me, but I’m trying to do what I can to cause any distraction possible. And as much as I squirm, he’s got me flattened on the ground pretty good, but he doesn’t know that I’m holding the scalpel beneath me. If I can just shimmy my arm out from underneath my stomach, I’ll wait for him to lean down into me again and stab him. But as my luck was to have it, he takes a firm grasp of one of my shoulders and my leg, and flops me onto my back. There’s nowhere for me to hide the scalpel now except clenching it tightly in between both my hands against my chest. It’s covered, but if this idiot has half a brain, he’ll know I’m holding it. But he’s too involved with trying to pry my legs apart, which I manage to keep crossed at the ankles, to notice.
This is why men like Brian Harvarti must die. Do you disagree? When he’s not successful, the fucker sucker-punches me in the gut in every attempt to get me to spread my legs. I grunt and choke on a sharp breath that gets lodged in my throat, and in a quick response, I jab my right fist out, driving the scalpel under his collarbone.
Fiddlesticks.
I was hoping to nail him in the side of the throat. Oh well, I got him nonetheless. I jerk my hand back, bringing the scalpel with it, causing a lovely stream of blood soaking into Brian’s shirt, coating it crimson red. “Bitch!” he hollers, slapping me across the face, which allows him to grab the scalpel from my hand and toss it into my room.
Motherfucker.
My cheek is on fire and I scream—not from pain, though it is painful, but from pure hatred and my own irritation for his stupidity. He could easily have killed me with the scalpel, but instead, he throws it away. He’s his own breed of a sadist, wanting to cause me pain so he can watch before he rapes me. He’s the cat, and I’m his toy mouse that he wants to torment before pouncing. And now I’m just pissed off. This is my show. I’m the sadist in this house, and he’s not welcome here.
I begin flailing my hands, connecting with his face a few times. I leave a pretty red hand print on his cheek from my sliced palm and nail him in the temple, but none of the blows hold enough power to rock him even the slightest. My wails are proving to be more deafening in my own head than diverting Brian’s attention. In fact, I think he’s enjoying making me squeal. I don’t let it stop me. I’m screaming so loud it sounds like splintering wood inside my ears, but it’s fueling my body with the strength I need to keep fighting.
Brian clips me a couple times, smacking me in the face. I even get an elbow across the forehead, but I manage to block a lot of his blows. I flop my body like a fish out of water and swing my fists, punching and slapping Brian in the face and chest. And I repeatedly strike the scalpel wound in his collar bone until he catches my wrists in mid-air. I’m brought to silence, stunned. Why? I don’t know. I guess I thought that my efforts would eventually prevail, but it’s not looking like the stars are on my side today. No matter how much I fight, he’s got me, and I have nowhere else to go.
Weird, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And for a moment, I swear I hear the sound of pounding footsteps running down the hall. Is this what is feels like to mentally prepare yourself for death? Do you start imagining things that aren’t there...like help? I mean, let’s be real, I’m not deserving of seeing anything related to God himself, so why on earth am I envisioning someone standing over Brian, stabbing him in the back?
Oh shit.
It takes me a second to realize that the reason my eyes are blurry is because Brian’s blood has been spritzing me in the face like a damn squirt bottle. I swipe at my eyes, trying to clear my vision, and when my eyes come into focus, I see Drew as clear as fucking day, holding one of my kitchen butcher knives in his hand. The blade of the knife is dripping with Brian’s blood and when I redirect my eyes to Brian’s face, a flush of warmth washes over me. There it is, the look I so desperately crave. His life being drained from his face.
Brian is wheezing and blood is dripping from his mouth onto my stomach in a long, stringy drool. The wheeze slows to a hitched hiccup before his
body droops and collapses to the side of me. I scramble back to free myself from his dead body, then crawl as fast as I can down the hall, past Drew and away from my room, only stopping when I reach the living room. I curl up into a ball and hug my knees to my chest, something that I used to do when I was child after my mother’s men had their way with me.
I’m in limbo at the moment. On one hand, I’m numb, in shock of all that has just happened, but on the other, my eyes burn with...OMG, is that fucking emotion, again? I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to fight back the tears. I will not allow myself to cry. I will not give into the flood of feelings that are washing over me.
Do. Not. Cry. Dammit.
There’s a loud crash from the knife hitting the floor, then a trembling hand rests on my shoulder, followed by Drew’s voice in my ear. “Gray? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
I shrink away from his touch, rolling away from him, perching myself up on my knees. We stare at each other for what seems like forever until the moonlight casts a shadow across Drew’s face. I look over and see that my front door is hanging by a hinge and the doorframe is a mess of shattered wood. “You came back,” I say. My voice sounds as if I’ve been choked, raspy and strained, but it’s only because I’m exhausted from screaming. I wanted nothing more than for Drew to leave, but I have never been more relieved to see him kneeling across from me. Covered in blood. “You...”
Drew glances down at his shirt then back up at me with worried eyes. “Yeah.”
He’s never done anything like that before, and he’s not sure what do with it. It’s written all over his face. He’s terrified, which is the proper response to taking someone’s life. Amazing, isn’t it? That’s what I should feel every time I kill someone. But I don’t. Instead, I long to feel that rush, crave it, need it.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
“I’m not sure. I think so.” Which isn’t a lie. I really don’t know. My head’s pounding, my stomach hurts, my hand is killing me, and I’m feeling a bit woozy, but in retrospect, I’m alive.
What Lies Beneath The Flowerbed Page 25
