by Never, M.
Ghostface Killer
Copyright © M. NEVER 2017
All rights reserved
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from author M. Never.
Cover Design By:
Marisa Shor, Cover Me, Darling
Cover Photo By:
Wander Aguiar
Editing By:
Candice Royer
Proofreading By:
Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing Services
Elaine York
Interior Design and Formatting By:
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
Table of Contents
Ghostface Killer
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by M. Never
Some women fear the fire, some women simply become it.
~ R.H. Sin
Stevie ~Age 14
PAYDAY.
I catch sight of a well-dressed man exiting a limo right outside the world-famous Cipriani’s. The sidewalks of New York are packed with holiday shoppers providing me the perfect cover—another faceless person on the street. A no one, to no one.
Keeping up with the foot traffic, I align my steps in the direction of the man in the long black coat and dress hat. The December cold has most people bundled up, leaving little opportunity, but a passenger emerging out of a warm car is the perfect target.
With unnecessary urgency, I slam right into the man’s chest before he has a chance to button up his coat. He’s a foot taller than my five—foot- two frame and double the width. In the split-second I have, I lift his wallet right out of his inside pocket and gain an extra score with his pocket watch, too. Word to the wise, keep your valuables in separate pockets if you don’t want to be cleaned out all at once.
“‘Scuse me,” I mutter, faking polite, and the man unexpectedly grabs me. My heart lurches in my chest as he squeezes both my arms, locking me against him. I can barely breathe as he peers down at me with the brightest but most intimidating green eyes I have ever seen. My instincts kick in as I stand there like a statue. I’m so fucked if I get caught. One more strike and it’s juvie till I’m eighteen. Fuck that.
As a defense tactic, I innocently bat my big brown eyes. “I’m so sorry,” I speak swiftly, like I’m caught off guard. “I think I slipped on some ice or something.”
The man looks down at me with a dead facial expression, and my eyes grow wider on their own. “It really was an accident.” I actually believe my own desperate words. This guy is fucking scary. His grip tightens for a fraction of a second, causing my pulse to flutter before he lets go. There’s no response on his end, not even a grunt. Our linked gaze lingers for a moment more, trapping me like a wounded animal before a pedestrian bumps my shoulder and kick-starts my feet. With a hammering heart, I let the moving crowd swallow me up, thankful for the swift separation.
I keep up with the herd a few blocks more before I cross 42nd, turn down a side street, and then duck into a dark alleyway. If New York City is good for one thing, it’s hiding spots. Behind a large, smelly dumpster, I rip the black bob wig off my head and turn my reversible, fake, black fur jacket inside out. In a flash, I’m a blonde with long platinum waves sporting a loud, obnoxious, leopard print coat. I pull out the pocket watch and examine the smooth silver metal etched with the initials BV before opening the wallet and checking out the contents. A bunch of credit cards—useless—but a shit load of cash. I count eight hundred dollars. Yes! I really did get paid. My stomach rumbles louder than it has in days, knowing it will soon be stuffed full of cheeseburgers and French fries. I’ll be able to eat for a month with this much money.
I stash the cash in my ratty purse along with the watch. I can hock it tomorrow.
Not able to think about anything but a greasy burger and the biggest milkshake I can find, I all but run to the nearest diner. Tonight, I’m splurging; no crappy fast food to celebrate this score.
The strong, delicious smell of a hot grill has my mouth watering and my hunger burning a hole through my stomach. I can’t remember the last time I ate a real meal. An honest-to-goodness real meal on a plate and everything.
The red lettering and interior lights of the diner against the dark nights backdrop mesmerizes me. Letting my guard down is my biggest mistake. I always watch my back. Always. On the streets you have to. I learned that early on when people thought they could take advantage of me because of my age or the way I look. I can’t be bought or intimidated or beaten. But I can be blinded by starvation.
Which I am at the moment. Blind with hunger. Blind to my surroundings. Blind to the fact someone has me on their radar. I never get close to the front door of the diner. I only see it disappear out of my sight as someone clamps their hand over my mouth and drags me into a shadowy alleyway. What did I say about loving New York and it’s hiding spots? I take it back.
I kick and flail as I’m dragged deeper into the darkness. No one can hear my muffled screams or see my fighting body.
“You have some fight.” A man pins me up against the brick wall as I continue to thrash. Screaming behind his palm, I attempt to knee him, but he blocks my strike.
“Now, now, that’s not very nice behavior for a young lady.” He kicks my legs apart and presses his whole body against mine, crushing my small frame between him and the wall. I scream louder, and he laughs.
“No one can hear you, little fox, so stop fighting,” he whispers terrifyingly. “You stole from the wrong man.”
With only a sliver of light from the full moon shining down through the small cracks of the tall buildings, I can just make out the outline of his face and the glint of a cold green eye.
Holy shit. He found me. The man I pickpocketed. I breathe erratically through my nose as he continues to cover my mouth.
“That’s right. Be scared my sly little fox.” He runs one finger across my forehead and down my temple. “You take something from me, it’s only fair I take something from you.”
Fuck, fuck. I continue to struggle. His calm tone and threatening words are the scariest thing I have ever encountered. Scarier than the predators and pimps and thieves who slither the streets late at night. Scarier than the abusive, neglectful foster homes I was forced to live in. Scarier than the starvation that follows me everywhere.
He rubs his pelvis between my legs, and I whimper. Warm tears pooling in my trembling eyes. I will fight him to the death. I will never surrender. No matter how big or how powerful he is. I won’t make it easy. I won’t just roll over and let him have me.
He grinds himself against me again, and in a fit of fear, I bite his palm.
“Sonof
afuckingbitch!” He shakes his hand and laughs as I scream. “You’ve got some serious fire, huh?” He grabs my throat and squeezes, silencing me.
Trapped in his choke hold, I can only stand there and quiver as he rakes his soulless eyes over every inch of me. Over every crease of my tense, terrified face.
“You’re very . . . innocent looking,” he states, strangely. I don’t understand his tone. “But sly for someone so young.” It’s like he’s examining me. “Where’s my fucking watch?” He clamps his hand tighter around my windpipe. I choke as I try to tell him it’s in my bag. Please just take it! Take it and leave me alone. I silently plead.
“Scream again and I will snap your neck,” he warns as he lets up on his death grip. Air slowly returns to my lungs, and I gasp desperately. “Give it to me.”
I dig though the bag, frantically feeling for the chain or smooth metal. Once I find it, I yank it out and hold it up, all while he holds me hostage with his hand and his harrowing stare.
“Thank you.” He snatches it away and places it right back where it was, the inside pocket of his coat. “Now”—he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks until I cry out—” what should I do with you?”
“How ‘bout let me go!” I scratch at his hand.
“So you can target some other poor sucker?”
“You calling yourself a sucker?” I smart off.
“Do I look like a sucker right now?” He pulls my blonde locks harder, and my scalp burns.
“No!” I yelp.
“That’s right, sly little fox. I never have been, or ever will be, a sucker. And I think you need to be taught a lesson by a non-sucker.” He pushes me forward so my stomach lands on his thigh, knocking the wind out of me. My coat falls over my head from the sharp angle, then a kiss of cold air pinches my bare ass. He pulled my pants down!
I feel the impact of the first slap, and I jolt from the surprise and the sting. He’s spanking me!
“Bad little girls get punished.” He chuckles darkly as he hit me again and again. He thinks it’s fucking funny!
“Get off me!” I struggle as the needling December air and his hot slaps merge into one annoying sensation across my naked ass.
“Stop!” I screech, and I swear he hit me harder just because he can. When he’s finished, he rips his leg from underneath me, and I fall flat on my face. I’m winded, in pain, and totally ashamed. I don’t want to get up. I just want to cry in the dirt like the street rat I am. But I don’t. I refuse. So, I push myself off the ground without his permission or order. He doesn’t say a word, he just watches as I stand and pull up my thin black leggings. I keep my head held high even though I feel like a helpless child. I haven’t been a child in a very long time. Three years, to be exact. Ever since I decided being homeless was safer than having a home.
“The spirit in you,” the tall, well-dressed man with the paddle for a palm says, almost in wonder. Weirdo.
He fixes himself, brushing off his arms and adjusting his coat.
“Are we fucking done?” I spit. The tears are threatening, and the last thing I want is for this asshole to see me cry.
“Almost.” He snatches my wrist and pulls the thin gold ring around my index finger off.
“Hey!” I lunge at him to get it back. “That’s mine, you fucker!”
“The mouth on you!” He backhands me while I’m still in motion, and I fly back against the brick wall like a tennis ball being volleyed. I smack my head and cradle my face. Those tears I didn’t want him to see? There’s no stopping them now. They run down my face like pouring rain.
“You steal from me, I steal from you.” I spy him putting the ring inside his jacket pocket. Anger spikes in my chest.
“An eye for an eye, huh?” I snivel, hiding my inflamed cheek.
“Exactly, little fox.”
That ring is the only valuable thing I own. Not because it’s gold, but because it was my mother’s. It’s the only thing I have from either of my parents. For the most part I’m an orphan, but when my biological mother overdosed when I was ten, a social worker showed up at the foster home I was living in and delivered a box with her things. Most of it was junk, except for the gold ring, which I put on my finger and never took off. I don’t even really know if it belonged to her, or if it was just a hot item she was going to hock. It didn’t matter to me either way. It was in her possession at the time, so in my eyes it was hers. It was my only link to her. And now that shithead has it.
“Are you done punishing me?” I ask with my jaw clenched. My ego is black and blue, and I’m sure my cheek and ass will be, too.
“I am. Yes. The state of New York, probably not.” He takes my arm, and I immediately try to yank myself out of his grasp. “Good effort, foxy, but I’m bigger and stronger and smarter.” He drags me out of the alleyway the same way he dragged me in. With me kicking and screaming. “You have a lot to learn. Officer!” He yells to a man leaning against a parked car across the street. “I’ve got a live one. Pickpocket. I want to press charges.”
“What?” I cry outraged. “You spanked me in the alley. Wasn’t that punishment enough?”
“Don’t listen to her.” The man hands me over to the officer, who promptly handcuffs me. “She’s deranged. I’m sure she’ll say just about anything to get out of being arrested.”
“This one?” The officer in street clothes looks down at me in disdain. “I wouldn’t doubt it. Little punks are all the same.”
“The only punks around here are the two of you!” I kick off the side of the cop car trying to break free.
“You did find a live one.” The cop laughs as he strong arms me into the back of the unmarked cruiser. I protest with profanities the whole time until he slams the door in my face. Fuck! I kick the back of the driver’s seat. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! This is a fucking mess. All I can hear is the echo of the judge’s threat the last time I stood in front of him. “Miss James, the next time you end up in this courtroom, I am reprimanding you to the juvenile detention center until your eighteenth birthday. Do I make myself clear? Clean up your act.”
I’ve been arrested twice in the last year for petty theft. Both times I got off with a stern warning and probation. Child Services placed me in a new foster home, and a week later I was back on the streets. My last arrest was three months ago. My face and rap sheet will be fresh in the judge’s mind. I’m completely screwed.
The officer and the man spend several minutes talking outside the car. Every now and then a cloud of smoke from their breaths billows by the window. What could they possibly be talking about? He’s pressin’ fucking charges. Drive me to the station so we can get this over with.
The cop whistles, long and high pitched as he slides into the beat-up driver’s seat. “You’re lookin’ at some jail time, little lady.”
Little lady? What is this, 1890 Texas? “That watch was worth over ten K. That’s grand larceny in the third degree. And I’m guessin’ this isn’t your first offense. Looks like the odds are not in your favor.” Was that supposed to be some bad Hunger Games joke?
“Thank you for the unwanted analysis of my situation,” I bite bitterly.
Grand larceny in the third degree. That sounds so bad.
The cop turns on the cruiser and throws it into drive. It doesn’t look like he’s from around here with his flannel shirt and wiry auburn mustache. He certainly doesn’t sound like he’s from New York.
“Just lettin’ you know what you’re looking at.” I catch him eyeing me in the rearview mirror. The way that guys do when I know they like what they see. Like they want to lick me from head to toe. It used to make me uncomfortable. It still sort of does, but I’ve learned to hide the thorny feeling it gives me. I turn my head and look out the window as the buildings pass by in a blur.
The handcuffs are too tight around my wrists, my butt is sore, and my cheek is throbbing. This has to be the worst night of my entire life.
“What’s runnin’ through that head of yours, darlin?” the cop asks.
“Maybe.”
What’s running through my head? Let’s see. I want to tell you that man isn’t the only victim in all this. That he hit me and stole from me, too. But who is going to believe a homeless thief like me? Who’s going to care? I’m the criminal. It will be his word against mine. I know that much, and money always wins an argument.
I just keep staring out the window. Desolate tears cloud my vision.
“I hate seeing someone as pretty as you in such distress.”
“Uncuff me and let me go, and all my distress will be gone.”
He stops at a red light and gazes at me through the rearview mirror. “Now you know I can’t do that.” The light turns green, and he steps on the gas. A little heavier than I expect as I’m thrust back against the seat.
A few silent moments pass before he surprisingly continues, “I can’t do that without somethin’ in exchange.” His muddy brown eyes now flickering with something dark and corrupt. I stare at him coolly. I know exactly what he wants. It’s what most men want from me. It’s not like I would be compromising my virtues. That ship sailed when I was eleven and I traded my virginity for a warm bed and a cold bologna sandwich. I don’t make a habit of whoring myself out. That’s why I steal. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and right now, I’m fucking desperate. Spreading my legs for this douchebag for a few sickening minutes sounds way better than suffering for years in juvie.
“Are you saying if I give you what you want, you’ll give me what I want?”
The cop licks his lips like a salivating animal. “You bet.”
“Fine,” I agree on the spot. I’d agree to almost anything if it means getting me out of these handcuffs.
The crooked cop makes a hard right, and my anxiety spikes. God knows where he’s going to take me. I try to breathe steadily. I try to talk myself off the ledge. I’ll just close my eyes and think of something else while he does it. Pretend I’m somewhere else. The mind is more powerful than the body. The mind is more powerful than the body.
