Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  “She loved when I unzipped her pants and pushed them over her hips and cupped her ass.” And I unzipped her pants and pushed them over her narrow hips and cupped her ass so I could press her to me and then I kissed her long and hard, parting her lips and exploring her as my hands reached under her shirt and found her breasts and she moaned into my mouth because I never did this to her.

  She always did it to me.

  “And then I bent to my knees and pressed a kiss to her hip bone and across her belly to her other hip while my hands came back to her ass because it was all kinds of perfect and I wanted to touch it and I could smell her desire and it was like heaven.” I bent in front of her and intended to do all of those things to her because I had always wanted to press my lips to her belly and her hips and her ass but then, right then at that moment, all I really wanted was my tongue in her pussy.

  But I resisted and gathered myself, exerted control, exhibited restraint because even though I wanted to do those things to her body and make her feel as good as I’d made that girl feel last night, even though I wanted her to run her fingers through my hair and cry out my name and swear up and down that no one touched her like I did, even though I wanted to repeat every single touch, moan, fuck, lick, suck, whisper of last night, I also wanted a wholly different experience that was unique to her and only her. I wanted to own her like I had never, ever, ever owned anyone else. And then I wanted to move on and away from her forever.

  So instead of kissing her pussy through her panties and licking the damp of her desire through the lace, instead of running my finger across her swollen lips and circling her clit while she whispered my name, I ran my hand up her thigh and met her gaze while my other hand untied her boots. And Death watched me in quiet wonder and heated lust and she didn’t move, she just let me act. When I gestured for her to step out of her pants, she did, and when I glanced at her nipples pressing against her tank, she pulled it over her head and tossed it on the floor and my breath hitched and she blushed.

  I sat back on my heels for a moment and drank her in, from her perfect feet to her slender calves to her toned thighs until my gaze came to rest on her pussy.

  I licked my lips and raised my eyes to meet hers, which were wild and dark and deadly and she wanted me and whatever I was doing to her, she wanted it, all of it. But I wanted to study her for a moment longer because this was rare, me wresting control, and I wanted to revel in it, so I did and rather than run my tongue up and down her pussy which was all I was thinking about and all she was thinking about, I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.

  She shuddered at that simplest of touches and leaned against the counter for support as our eyes met and understood everything.

  My lips moved up her thigh, hot wet points of softness that made her cry and beg and plead, “Juma.”

  “Mistress.”

  “Please.”

  “I will.”

  But I did not.

  Yet.

  I removed her panties and cupped her ass my mouth so close to her lips and she smelled so good desire and heat pooled right there and I wanted to remember her fragrance for the rest of my days I wanted it burned into my soul. I glanced up and she was watching me and it was so fucking sexy. I blew on her pussy and she hissed and a drop of desire trickled down her thigh and I caught it with my tongue and she never stopped watching me and I never stopped watching her.

  I kept thinking she would slip back into herself and push me away and shout, “Who the fuck do you think you are, touching me like that!” but she didn’t. Instead she pushed her hips forward ever so slightly, never taking her eyes off mine until her lips were almost on mine and her scent was enveloping me and driving me wild even though I pretended otherwise. She wanted me to kiss her there, needed me to kiss her there, was begging for me to kiss her there, but I didn’t and so she pushed closer until her lips touched my mouth and she cried out from the sensation. Her pussy was so wet my lips drowned in her desire and I cupped her ass and she felt so good and I finally kissed her.

  Soft, feather light, again and again and again.

  She tossed back her head and braced herself against the counter as my lips moved up and down her pussy and then my tongue slipped inside her and she tasted so good. I gripped her harder and pulled her closer as my tongue searched and found her clit, so hard and throbbing, and she started fucking my face and I moved with her and we moved together to a rhythm I created with my mouth on her pussy. Eating her, devouring her, and when it seemed she could take no more and she was going to explode in delicious ecstasy all over my mouth, I was merciless in my affections. Slipping my fingers inside her, I fucked her while I sucked her clit and she came, wave after wave, her body shaking and heaving. She screamed and my mouth owned her. Her desire was all over me and her pussy was so swollen and beautiful and I kissed it again softly because she tasted like heaven and because I needed her to know that in that moment she was mine, only mine.

  I stood and waited for her to settle, sucking her nipples as she moaned then pulling my mouth away and watching as her pulse slowed and she finally opened her eyes to meet my stare. Which was rather smug and somewhat self-assured because that was precisely how one felt upon vanquishing one’s obsession, owning it and moving on, finally free of the hold it maintained over every single aspect of one’s life.

  But Death was at my apartment, in my kitchen, pressed against my counter, letting me fuck her with my tongue for a reason that had nothing to do with the conquering of my obsession and everything to do with me and her eyes filled with tears and she touched my cheek. “Oh, Juma.”

  She was so sad and for a second I believed it was because she would miss controlling me, captivating me, owning me. But that lasted only a second or two or three. And suddenly I knew, without her needing to say it, the meaning of her sadness, her tears.

  “You’ve been discovered and assigned.” As she started to speak I started to shake. “The Keepers are coming.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  DUTCH

  I sat in the back of Ralph’s, thankful for the darkness and solitude. I always got like this after killing a Poocha, bringing about their final death. No matter how big an asshole they might have been, no matter the damage and destruction they might have caused me, I still needed a moment alone to gather myself and come to terms with the fact that I did what I did and because I was so good at it another soul was taken forever.

  “Dutch,” the bartender called back to me, holding up a bottle, “want the whole thing?”

  I glanced up, then back at my glass, and finally nodded. He said something to the lone customer at the bar and then headed my way. I watched him from the corner of my eye, forever wary of motherfuckers, especially new ones like this cat. He was tall, with wiry, corded arms covered in tattoos. Strong. Not the type you want to piss off, because he was probably a seventh-degree black belt in jiujitsu or some shit like that and would fucking break your neck before you even knew what happened.

  “Here you go, man.” He slid the bottle my way. I reached for it and our fingers grazed and I knew right then it was purposeful. I glanced up and he held my gaze and goddamn, he was good looking, and if I was going to fuck a guy it would be this one, but I wasn’t going to fuck a guy.

  Now, or ever.

  I took the bottle, poured some in my glass, and leaned back in the booth. I wasn’t freaked out by his subtle offer, it just wasn’t going to happen between us. I smiled, nodded, and lit a smoke. He didn’t bother telling me smoking was against the law; we both knew that was hardly the point.

  “If you need anything—” He let that word hang in the air for a few seconds. “—let me know.”

  “Thanks.” And he left me to my thoughts.

  “What was that?” Avery slid into the booth and glanced back at the bar.

  “What did it look like?” I asked.

  Avery grabbed a glass and poured himself some Scout. “God, this shit is good.” Then he smirked. “Looked like he want
ed some of that famous Mathew dick shoved up his ass.”

  “Or down his throat,” I added.

  Avery laughed and turned back to study the bartender a minute longer. “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him off your hands. He can shove his dick up my ass any time he wants.”

  And there you had Avery Lu. Gay, Chinese, member of The Gate—and if a fuck like me had a best friend, it was that clown. Medium height, medium build, fucking movie-star looks, and forever dressed in bespoke suits, he made the art of killing seem dignified and regal. Blessed with the gift of gab, he could convince anyone The Gate was honorable. And he did just that on a daily basis.

  I had known Avery since my first day as a Keeper, when it fell upon his shoulders to give us newbies an introduction to our new lives, the importance of our mission, the horrors we would endure, and how each of us needed to devise a coping mechanism and fast. I remember privately scoffing at his dire warnings and urgent advice, and him catching my eye and smirking because he knew that eventually I would understand.

  Avery had kept tabs on me ever since, watching every move I made, warning me when shit was about to get real, helping me avoid punishment, handing down my assignments. I don’t know why he did it, but he did—he became the keeper of a Keeper and in the process one of the only people I could trust with my life.

  “He’s all yours, my friend.” I put out my smoke, lit another, poured myself a drink, and stewed.

  “Let me guess,” Avery pondered, “another Poocha dispensed to the ether forever by the formidable and unstoppable Dutch Mathew?”

  I ignored him and he shot me a knowing look before returning his attention to the bar.

  “Just go talk to him,” I groused, hoping to shift the conversation away from me and toward anything else, “he’s game.”

  “Fuck you, asshole,” Avery shot back as he turned to me with a wicked grin, flashing his gold tooth, a tooth only he could rock with such flair and style, one which on anyone one else would look cheap and trashy. “Like I would ever fuck anyone who had their eyes on you, Mathew. I’ve got standards, you pussy-eating bastard.”

  “I don’t eat pussy.”

  “Ha!” Avery smacked the table in pure joy. “Because you’re a goddamned fool.”

  “I’ve got standards,” I deadpanned.

  “God bless the women who cross your path.”

  “They’re all fucking idiots,” I replied, “they don’t deserve a second of God’s attention.”

  “Even Frist?”

  My eyes shot up and I hurled an evil glance Avery’s way. “Do not talk about Frist. Ever.”

  I swirled my drink and felt his eyes on me, studying me, analyzing every detail of my carriage, knowing me sometimes better than I knew myself.

  “Fair enough. Not another word about the pink-haired mad scientist, except to say that you don’t love her. Trust me. I know you don’t, so stop worrying about the meaning of your presence in her life. All it means is that sometimes she likes a little dick, especially when that dick is attached to that face.” Avery snatched one of my smokes, which he would never actually smoke, and pointed at me. “Let’s talk instead about the dead Poocha so you can go screw a bunch of women in under two hours and I can get on with my evening.”

  “I don’t need a Chink therapist.”

  “Who the fuck you calling a therapist, you stupid Paki?”

  Against my better judgment, I smiled, and Avery laughed because he laughed every time I called him a Chink and he called me a Paki, but also because he knew he had me, had pinned me perfectly. It had been this way forever, which was why I tried to find the darkest shitholes to hang my hat in after a major kill, hoping he would stay away. I didn’t want to discuss them and I sure as hell didn’t want to discuss them with Avery, the one person who knew too much about what made a fucker like me tick. I didn’t want a goddamned pep talk. I just wanted to stew and feel like shit for a little while, then gather myself, accept the monster within, kind of revel in it, and move on to the next assignment.

  I did it all the time. Tonight was nothing new.

  “There’s zero to talk about, Avery.”

  He kicked me under the table, the plain toes of his gazillion-dollar Saint Laurent boots cutting into my leg, drawing my immediate attention. Avery never resorted to pain when dealing with me—he knew I already had enough of it in my life.

  “I’m not here to talk to you about that fuckwad Arjun. I know he was a wily bastard and you did what you did as fast as possible, faster than any other asshole Keeper would have. Everyone knows that, Dutch, which is part of the problem. You have a goddamned target on your back and you just keep doing everything in your power to make it worse for yourself. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  He’d asked me a question, but his eyes suggested I should shut up and let him finish.

  “I know what happened the other night with Rani and James,” he said, and then waited. Several seconds passed before I finally spoke.

  “Fuck Rani and James,” I spat.

  “Apparently that’s precisely what they and the rest of The Gate did to you with every tool available.” Avery shook his head in disgust. “Did you see the state of that room the next day, Dutch? You will not survive another round like that. Trust me.”

  I shifted in my seat and downed another shot of Scout, the pain of the other night still lingering in my lower back, aching every time I walked or simply bent over to tie my laces. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Dutch, you haven’t been fine since you joined The Gate, and that’s cool, I get it. In fact, I think it’s what I love about you. This whole walking dichotomy you’ve got working—ultimate psycho killer versus tormented tender soul. It’s hot. It’s why all those women fall at your feet, because they pick up on that shit, even if they don’t really know, even if they’re ignorant of the details—the chase, the torture, the death—they know. They sense it because that shit rolls off you in waves.

  “But man, you gotta gather that and do something with it because they’re watching you. Those motherfuckers you work for, the same assholes I work with, they’ve got you on their radar and are just waiting for one wrong move, and you nearly gave it to them with Arjun.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t, so leave it alone,” I cut him off, not wanting to hear another word of his concern, feeling irritated and out of sorts with his words. I pounded my glass on the table to catch the bartender’s attention, pointed at my empty bottle, and waited. It was a twofold strategy: more Scout to dull my senses and more bartender to divert Avery’s attention. I knew neither would work, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try.

  As the bartender neared the booth, Avery rose and cut him off, snatched the bottle from his hands, and whispered something low and undoubtedly dirty, sending him back behind the bar and far away from us. Avery returned, poured more bourbon, and grinned like the fucking Cheshire Cat.

  “Spill it,” he hissed. “Now.”

  I glared at him in all his dark-eyed perfection, always envying the face I loved to tease, with his prominent cheekbones, full lips, and slightly browned skin. I fucking hated that face in all of its beauty, the way it beguiled and seduced

  men and women

  living and dead.

  Me.

  Fucking Avery, goddamned bastard. I knew I could distract him with some cracks about the bartender he was going to fuck when he was done with me, because I knew they were going to fuck, I could see it in their eyes, but I was grouchy and pissed off and didn’t feel like making dick jokes because suddenly none of it seemed that amusing.

  Instead I decided to take a leap of faith and speak.

  Honestly.

  I started to open my mouth and tell him about Arjun, the depths to which I’d had to sink with that depraved Poocha’s wicked soul, the understanding I’d finally reached with myself—and secretly Arjun—that it was pointless to treat him like other Poochas, since the usual didn’t apply to his ass. How instead, I simply needed
to kill him and skip all the other shit, the horrendous deaths, the unfathomable pain, the grotesqueries. It was all show and Arjun wasn’t impressed. He didn’t give a fuck, because he already knew what he was doing and nothing I said or did would change his mind—he was coming back to this life as many times as possible and he was bringing back as many Deaders as possible with him.

  I started to tell Avery how I’d realized this around death four, tested my theory with death five, and then asked him outright prior to death six.

  “What is it with you motherfuckers? Do you get off on the torture?” I’d asked as I sliced my knife down Arjun’s arms while he bucked and screamed and heaved as my bindings held him in place. His lower body was already a bloody, shredded mess. I had moved upward, and now I wanted to chat.

  “Fuck you, Dutch!” he’d spat, his blood splattering my leather jacket.

  I’d grabbed his hair and yanked his head back until his throat was fully exposed, his pulse beating furiously as his eyes wildly searched the room. I sliced open his cheeks and repeated my question, “Why do you keep coming back, Arjun?”

  “Because I can, you dumb fuck.” He laughed maniacally, a satisfied sneer curving his lips. I quickly carved out his mouth and then, before he could say another word, slit his throat and watched him bleed to death, listening to him laugh at me the entire time.

  Arjun was coming back for death nine, there had been nothing I could do to stop him, so why waste my time or energy? And it was then that I’d needed a moment, mostly because I’d needed some time to come to terms with my life and the mockery that a Poocha like Arjun made of it. Because sure, there were Poochas who quaked at the reality of another death at my hands and fled for the hills, never to be seen or heard from again, who simply disappeared. But there were also the Arjuns of my career and they fucked with my head like no other, they laid bare my soul and made me ponder my very existence, my worth. And it was after dealing with those types that I’d needed a moment to think and so I’d escaped and disappeared and instead of killing Arjun right then and there like The Gate wanted me to, I’d hesitated and stalled and contemplated and by the time I came back around to handle my business, James and Rani were on the scene and my ass was going to be tortured for my perceived misdeeds.