The Complete Contract Series: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, & Part Four

by Steele, Suzanne

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  Laura

  I’m standing in the mirror looking at Laura for the last time—today she will die. The scissors I am gripping in a fisted manner give testimony to that fact. No longer will I be the woman who is afraid to go outside. Now I will be the woman others take note of and fear, the woman who will be an equalizer of sorts. That is exactly why I am doing this.

  I have allowed myself in the past to be victimized. I was filled with so much fear I could no longer cross the threshold of my own home.

  It is with a mixture of joy and apprehension that I am killing not only the victim, but the word and the mind-set from my very being.

  Water trickles down my breasts and I once again shimmy my towel filled hands through my wet hair, tossing the towel to the side on the tiled bathroom floor.

  I don’t even bother to run a comb through it before I begin picking up chunks with one hand and cutting it in long layers with the other. Though my virgin hair is still untouched by chemicals, it will now give off more of a golden color when I am finished with it due to styling products. By the time that I am finished, I will no longer emanate innocence—I will exude sex appeal.

  If I know anything, I know men think with their cocks. If I am going to get close enough to look them in the eye and kill them, then I am going to have to utilize my feminine wiles. I will be a femme fatale of sorts. I will be a force to be reckoned with.

  Satisfied with the cutting of my hair, I grab a light mousse and scrunch through it. I will let it remain until I apply make-up and then blow it out with a blow-dryer.

  I reach down grabbing the fishing tackle box that I use to house my various products. Though I have anything necessary to obtain any look that I desire, this look will mandate a smokey eye and a black kohl liner.

  My fingers press down running the liner under both eyes and already I am beginning to note a transformation. I can see the femme fatal looking back at me as if she is challenging me to continue on, un-thwarted. I finish off my eyes and line my already plump lips with a pale pink liner and then I add a nude gloss—I can’t believe the difference. I grab the blow dryer and began to scrunch long layered chunks of hair which serves to give it a full, long layered, and very sexy look.

  I look up to view Miller standing in the hallway staring—as if in deep thought. He stalks in my direction wearing only draw-string pants and a scowl.

  I eye him in the mirror and I can already feel my heart beginning to race. The trepidation is warranted by the fact that I simply can’t read the man.

  In one fluid move he grabs one of my arms twisting it behind my back, never breaking eye contact in the mirror. His voice comes out in a deep feral growl.

  “What are you going to do when a man you are trying to seduce in order to set him up for the kill, slams your ass into a brick wall or pins you against graffiti laden concrete in a back alley? Don’t think for one moment you are going to work hand in hand with me and not be trained correctly. You’re going to see a side of me you may hate at times. You have one life to live and you won’t be losing it on my watch.”

  His other hand fists my hair, jerking my head back so that my ear is right by his mouth. “You’ve been pampered up to this point, but now… it’s time for you to become a trained killer. The first lesson you learn: you better be able to follow my orders.”

  I shake my head yes, knowing that now is not the time for talking.

  “Get your fucking hands on that sink and no matter what I do to you, you better not move them.”

  I place my hands on the sink and grip it to keep them from sliding on the damp surface. I find myself wishing I had dried the counter off. One of his hands still holds fast to the fistful of hair and he is pulling at the drawstring on his pants with the other causing them to drop. He kicks them off, never breaking contact with my eyes he still holds hostage in the mirror.

  He pinches at my inner thigh and I spread my legs. Only when he drops to his knees does he let go of my hair.

  “So wet. Such a dirty little girl.”

  His fingers spread the lips of my opening and he torments me by slowly running his tongue up and down my slit—stopping intermittently to threaten me with his words.

  “I can make you feel so fucking good, all you have to do is take your hands off of that sink.”

  “No! I know what you’re doing, Miller.”

  One of his thick fingers slides into me with ease due to the juices that are now flowing freely. He pulls at my clit with his lips and my legs are now shaking, giving testimony of how desperately I want to remove my hands to get some satisfaction from the pleasure that has now become torment.

  “Miller, please baby, let me come.”

  His tongue flicks as one finger is now replaced with two. I can feel myself pushing into the onslaught and my cries of “please,” have now become cries of “pleeeeze, I’ll do anything.”

  “Take those hands off the sink.”

  “No! Fuck no—anything but that.”

  Over and over he torments me bringing me right to the edge of orgasm and then stopping when I won’t relinquish my hold on the sink. I know what he is doing and I am not about to give up the chance to work with him for a mere orgasm.

  He stands and resumes jerking at a handful of my hair causing me to cry out due to frustration and his unpredictability. This is a new Miller I am seeing and though he has always been here, I have yet to experience him. It is causing a different kind of fear to course through my being—an exotic agitation that promises a surge of adrenaline to a woman who is quickly becoming a junkie of sorts.

  His thick cock is forced into me as if it is a weapon he has chosen to use to try and dissuade me from my decision to not move my hands. An angry fucking ensues as threats are hissed into my ear and I know he is repaying me for not giving in to the pleasure that has been right here within my grasp.

  “I’ll fucking use you and degrade you like you are my toy.”

  “I don’t give a fuck—I’m not moving my hands.”

  His hands move to my hips and he forces his fingertips so roughly into my soft flesh that I know there will be bruises tomorrow.

  “You are hard headed, I’ll give you that.”

  He pulls his cock from me, frustrated that I won’t give in to the mandate of releasing the slippery surface. I hold onto it as if my life depends on it—and, in a sense, it does. His full lips lock onto my swollen clit again and once again, he taunts me with the torment of having no release.

  His lips move long enough for threats to be hurled in my direction.

  “Oh, you must have a fucking death wish—you really want to work with me badly, don’t you girl? That little pussy of yours is so swollen and you still won’t let go.”

  He flicks his tongue over my agonized clit and though my legs tremble giving me away, my hands remain knuckle white locked onto a surface that holds much more meaning than just me holding onto it. Miller has commanded that I do something—that is the issue here: the mandate.

  He once again rises and literally slams his cock up and into me. It is his form of punishment for not being able to manipulate my hands from the cold marble of the bathroom sink.

  In a move that totally catches me unaware, he slows down the grinding of his hips and begins to pet the hair that only a moment ago he had pulled in fury.

  “Such a good girl,” he coos as his finger strums lightly over my clit while his cock slowly moves in and out of me with perfect timing.

  “You’re going to make me come.”

  “Oh yes, I am, ba
by girl.”

  As if on cue, my body explodes—shaking as one continual orgasm runs into another. I listen as he tells me how good I was for not giving in—but I still hold onto that fucking marble topped sink…

  Miller

  Etta James croons ‘Stormy Weather’ as I am forewarning my persistent woman what lies ahead of her.

  You’ll be dead—ceased to exist. Your name, social security number, birthday, friends, family, all that is gone and all that remains is me. All you will have is me. Even your name: Laura—it will all be gone.

  She chuckles and says, “Call me Stormy—Stormy Dawn Weathers.”

  “Not a bad idea there, kiddo. I’ll have all of your new paperwork done up under that alias. In fact, I’m taking you with me to have it done. Your training starts tomorrow so you had better get a good night’s sleep. You have to learn how to fight.”

  “I already know how to fight. My parents had me enrolled in mixed martial arts the whole time I was growing up. They thought it would help with the panic attacks and fear. I also know how to shoot a gun, thanks to my ex-husband.”

  “You can’t learn your way out of agoraphobia, Stormy.”

  “I can will my way out of it. I didn’t have what I consider to be a severe case of it—more of an ‘I don’t want to deal with people’ case.’”

  “Good, because tomorrow we go to have your fake documents done and then we head to the gym to see just how good of a fighter you are.”

  I watch to see how she reacts and I am surprised. Even though she seems a tad bit unnerved, there is no panic, only resolution. If she is as hard headed as she was about not removing her hands from that counter, she might just do okay.

  I can feel my cock beginning to harden once again as I pull her warm, nude body into mine. It never ceases to amaze me how much my body responds to her.

  I have two rules that I never broke in the past: never fuck a woman more than once and never kill one. I have broken one of them—I can’t help but wonder if I will break the other. I have no doubt that I can under the right circumstances; after all, I have come dangerously close to killing the one that I hold in my arms…

  Chapter Two

  Stormy

  I wake up the next morning rested and ready to take on my new life. I make my way to the bathroom to get started. One quick look in the mirror tells me I desperately need a shower. Even though I have bed head, I still look sexy—a much different look from that of the innocence I have emanated in the past. I can’t ever remember a time of being so consumed with my appearance but this is a matter of life and death—not just mine, but my lover’s. Looking sexy is a weapon, not a commodity.

  Getting ready is easy with the new look because I have also begun using the tanning bed that occupies a guest bedroom in my condo.

  I decide on a pair of jeans with heels and a white button up shirt—it has always been a go to when I don’t want to put much thought into what I’m wearing. Though it looks professional, the five inch red heels gave it the sexy look that is needed for the day’s events.

  I know we will be going to a tattoo parlor to get the documents I need and though Miller doesn’t know it yet, I am getting a tattoo. I once heard a legend about a bird that remained in flight—always flying—never able to land. I want that bird on my hip. I want it as a reminder of the legend, the legend of always being in between flight and landing. It fits me. I feel as if I am always in the middle—airborne—yet unable to land. It will definitely fit my life now because I will forever be on the run, forever looking for the next vindication or cause.

  “Damn, girl, you look hot.”

  Miller’s voice and cock grinding up against the back of my poured on designer jeans pulls me from my thoughts.

  “What are you thinking about, girl?”

  “The tattoo I’m going to get.”

  “What, a tramp stamp?”

  “No, I’m not a tramp. A bird in flight—well actually a bird unable to land—he’s always between landing and flight. It’s a Latin American fable.”

  “Well, it will definitely fit your lifestyle now, Stormy.”

  He turns making his way into the shower—hard cock and all. I can’t help but smile at the use of my new name; it sounds good on the lips of the man I have become so attached to in such a short amount of time. I know instinctively that we will become bound in yet another way—blood.

  Once you commit a crime with someone, there ensues an ‘honor among thieves’ mentality. We now share a common goal to rid society of the blight that inevitably exists—those who manage to beat the system, those who prey on the weak with no thought of the financial and emotional damage they are doing. I know I will have no problem with pulling the trigger on someone who hurts women or children. In fact… I look forward to it. Thoughts of abducted women used as sex slaves against their will and children abducted and used for pedophiles sick twisted desires, make me actually look forward to the new employment that I have taken up.

  I grab my purse and take one more look in the mirror before I follow my lover and my boss out the door. There is no fear or anxiety, only a newfound wonder at what lies ahead in my future.

  Much of my agoraphobia has been the choice of being a hermit—choice, more so than fear. I am the type that once I make up my mind to do something, or even to quit doing something, I never look back. That is a case now. Of course the fact that my ex-husband is dead alleviates a lot of the fear and anxiety that has previously plagued me. There is no longer an enemy who feeds off of making me feel guilty. My ghosts are gone and it is a new day. I walk out the door as if I have never been a prisoner of the walls that I am exiting.

  Chapter Three

  I am not surprised when we pull up and the street is littered with Harleys.

  “Are you ready for this, girl? Once you grace those doors you’re at the point of no return.”

  “I’m already there, baby; I’m already there.”

  “Okay girl, let’s do it.”

  Every head in the place looks up when the bell over the door rings giving testimony to our presence.

  “Well look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Good to see you, Tiny.”

  I resist the urge to laugh at the clichéd biker who is anything but tiny, standing at least 6’5 and weighing in at 300 pounds or more—none of which is fat. He chuckles as he observes the fact that I have to strain my neck to look up at him.

  “Well hey there little lady, I’d much rather look at you than him any day of the week. Come on back here guys.”

  We follow him and he pulls a curtain back to reveal an area that has been turned into a make shift office/lounge area, complete with a couch to nap on and a chair with a back-drop that resembles a driver’s license photo area.

  “Just sit right there in that chair against the wall and let me get your new driver’s license pic. We’ve already got that old man of yours taken care of—took care of him years ago.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder who Miller had been before he died and took on the persona of Miller. It isn’t hard to smile for the camera, I am looking forward to a new identity.

  “’Stormy Dawn Weathers’ that is one hell of a name that you came up with, girl.”

  “It just came to me.”

  “Well it fits you from what I can see. You look like you could be as unpredictable as the weather.”

  “That’s what he says,” I laugh as I look in Miller’s direction.

  “You can get a tat while you wait for me to get these done.”

  Miller chuckled, “Ms. Unpredictable informed me this morning that was what she wanted to do. She wants a bird in flight on that sexy hip of hers. You reading minds now or something?”

  “If I find out that I can, I’m sure as fuck going to make some money on the gift. You know me, I’m all about making bank.”

  “That I don’t doubt,” Miller laughed. “You boys been doing alright?”

  “We’ve had a couple of run-ins, but you know how we do—we just c
lean up, take out the trash, and reaffirm that we’re the top dogs here in this neck of the woods.”

  Though he is laughing, I know what he is saying is true. This particular MC club is the most dangerous in the Louisville, Kentucky area and probably one of the most ruthless in the country—even their women are feared. I have heard rumors of customers at the strip clubs getting up and leaving out of fear when the women wear their colors into work. The boss will even go so far as to ask them not to wear them. Of course the boss is never heeded. The women and men in the MC clubs will die for their colors.

  “You got something on underneath those clothes that you feel comfortable with wearing while you get tatted?”

  “Yes Sir, I wore boy shorts.”

  “Yes Sir, I kind of like the sound of that—does she call you Sir, Miller?”

  Miller winks at me as he answers, “Under the right circumstances she does.”

  “I heard that, well let’s get you set up. I want you to go over and look in that area over on the wall where the birds are and tell me what you want. Keep those jeans on for now though, or Miller is going have a fight on his hands. My boys can never get their fill of two things: Harleys and hot women.”

  The term ‘my boys’ causes me to check out his patches more extensively and sure enough he is the President of this chapter. Miller’s connections are always heavy hitters—heavy hitters that the general population will never be able to have access to.