Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2)

by Durnin, S. P.

  “Watching her clock your sorry ass was one of the highlights of my existence,” he growled. The anger was building behind his eyes and Jake tried to keep his emotions in check. Karen would be crippled emotionally after something like that, so the faster he could get her into the Hummer and away from the Purifiers the better. Two hours couldn't pass quick enough.

  Nichole went on. “She fought me at first, but I didn't mind. That made it so much more enjoyable. She cussed like a sailor too. For a little while. But after that? Pretty much all that came out of her mouth were moans. And the occasional scream.”

  “Shut up,” he said quietly.

  She sat up again and moved a hand down against him. It didn't remain still for long, either. “I wish you could've seen how wide those big, blue eyes of hers went the first time. It was adorable.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You remember how—what's the word—dexterous, my fingers can be? And how good I am with my tongue?” Nichole bent and ran said oral appendage around, then firmly inside, O'Connor's navel.

  Jake's revulsion had long since transformed into something resembling surface-of-the-sun intensity hatred, but that managed to crank the burner fueling it up a couple of notches. That was a picture he did not need to carry around in his head for the rest of his life. The blonde's nipples poked sharply against the fabric of her white tee, now a little wet from his blood. She moved her hand to grind herself along him slowly through their pants again, and she closed her eyes to relive the moment. “She fought like a little wildcat for a little while, too. Trying to roll and throwing knees and trying to get a leg around to kick me away. It really made a difference not having to worry about her hands. It let me keep my own free for other things.”

  “Shut up goddammit!!” Jake yelled, wishing he could close his ears as the perverse woman he'd once had the great misfortune to date kept talking.

  Nichole was still lost in the memory, moving against him and smiling as she watched the replay behind her eyelids. “And the look on her face? Wow. Talk about conflicted.”

  The writer went still.

  “Oh believe me, I was surprised too at first, but by the time we were through? I had her begging me for more.”

  “How could you?” he demanded, feeling more worthless than ever before. He'd failed. Poole hadn't let his men have Karen, damn him. He'd kept that promise. But he'd committed a crime just as heinous. The evil bastard had given Karen Parker to the thing straddling Jake now.

  Running her hands along her thighs, the blonde took a shuddering breath, bent down, and gave him a look filled with blatant sexual desire. “Aw, I've upset you, haven't I? What say I let you have your way with me to make up for it? The cuffs will have to stay on, but hey...”

  Jake lay there speechless for a moment, and then proceeded to laugh right in her face.

  “Do you really think I'd so much as piss in your ear if that Debbie Does the Fucked-Up Zombie Apocalypse, pea-brain of yours were on fire?” He demanded, still laughing. “You are one sick, stupid, nut-guzzling, clam-box. You're a dingle-berry hanging off the ass hairs of humanity. I wouldn't touch you with the dick off one of the zombies outside.”

  Nichole jerked away as if he'd slapped her and ceased the grinding movement of her hips. Her eyes were full of disbelief, which quickly transformed into twisted rage. Something occurred to her then. Jake saw the idea pass through her peanut-sized brain, and a smile slowly blossomed across her pretty face which could only be described as frightening.

  “You think? How about I just cut you out of those clothes and we'll see? I think I'd like to refresh myself with your technique, shall we say?” She gushed sweetly. “That way, when Milo captures your friends? I'll be able to give it to Laurel the same way you would yourself.”

  Fear shot though Jake as he realized Poole had been full of it.

  “Where's Karen?”

  “Oh, she's here. And don't worry; none of the men would dare to touch her. The same will go for that redheaded whore you shacked up with. You think what I did to Karen is bad? Wait until you see what I do to her.” Nichole was almost drooling at the thought. “I'm going to hit that so hard, you'll think it's my career. Then? After I get sick of humiliating her—and believe me that will take a long, long time—I'll have Milo tie her up naked to the hood of your Hummer. Then I'll drive her outside, and I'll let those fucking things eat your hot, little piece of ass.”

  Jake's fear turned into reason-obliterating terror.

  She reached down and gripped him roughly. “And that bitch, Kat? She's going right into the harem rotation. But first. I'm definitely going to take a ride on 'Big Jake' again. Let's face it, you're a guy. A hot chick plays with your package, and it's going to stiffen right up. Whether you want it to or not. Well, I want it.”

  Nichole slid off him and walked towards the door to retrieve the knife she'd tossed there earlier. Bending to pick it, she noticed the blade had picked up a nick on the edge. She frowned, thinking about how much tedious work it would take to sharpen it once more, then brightened when she realized Milo or one of the other men would do it. If given the proper motivation. No need for her to waste time when there were perfectly able servants around. It never ceased to amaze her what a guy would do for a blow-job.

  “Now, let's see about getting you out of those clothes,” she said, testing the blade with one finger as she turned. “I think I'll leave your boots on. It's hard to find a good pair of shoes without having to fight a hundred of those things to get into a DSW. Besides, I've always thought it was kind of a turn-on, whe—”

  She was cut short by the sight of Jake standing there, hands no longer cuffed behind his back. When she'd turned to retrieve the knife, he'd used the trick a certain dark-haired, ninja-girl had shown him and had easily passed his legs through the hollow of his cuffed arms.

  Kat was of the mind that flexibility and speed would always win out over brute strength, and he tended to agree with her. Jake had seen much smaller members of the Special Air Service run rings around the larger “bruiser” sized paratroopers during self-defense drills in his time overseas. When he and Laurel's roommate had begun their training sessions months ago, they'd spent a great deal of time stretching. He'd actually believed, up until that point anyway, that he was pretty limber. Kat however, displayed an almost superhuman level of flexibility. Stretching seemed completely unnecessary for the lovely woman, but she still did it, twice a day. Sometime more. Kat had told him she kept herself that way, so to be ready for any type of nocturnal gymnastics that happened to ensue.

  When he'd wondered aloud who she would possibly be doing them with, she answered with, You don't think we're going to be here in Foster's cache forever, do you?

  Jake hadn't been sure how he felt about her answer at the time.

  While the ex-stripper was still standing there open-mouthed, he hit her hand with both of his cuffed fists and knocked the blade out of her grip and across the room. Nichole saw rage clearly in his eyes as Jake looked at her, and she shied away. She backed against the office door as his lips curled back over his teeth and the pulse in his neck was pounded visibly, which caused the blonde's eyes to widen. She gave a cry of fear, then turned and fumbled for the doorknob. She managed to get it unlocked but not open before he was on her. O'Connor tossed her back towards the center of the room and jumped after her, his expression feral. Nichole landed on the mattress and bounced off onto the floor on the opposite side, still screaming her head off. He hopped over the corner, moving fast, his eyes wild and full of vengeance. Nichole dove across the bed to get away, and she almost made it to the other side before his hand closed around her ankle.

  Jerking her back towards him again, Jake avoided her other kicking foot and moved astride her, trapping her thighs between his own. She struggled frantically, attempting to pull herself away, so he manhandled the blonde onto her back and took her jaw firmly in one hand.

  “Where. Is. Karen. Nichole?” he demanded, as he shook her angrily with every sylla
ble. “Where is she??”

  Nichole winced under to pressure of his grip, but when she looked at him, there wasn't any sorrow (and precious little sanity) in her gaze.

  “Piss off, you bastard! You're going to rot here! We'll catch up to your little group of losers. Remember how we found you at the cache in New Holland? That's because I had the foresight to copy your route! I'm not just going to give your red-haired slut the screwing of her goddamn life; I'll make her my fucking slave! I'm gonna feed that mouthy hag Gertrude to the zombies outside! Don't think I forgot about Kat either! My face hurt for a week after that slap she gave me at Foster's! I'm gonna cuff her ass to this bed, line up every guy in Poole's little band of merry marauders, and let them gang-bang her Chink ass till she—”

  Jake's hands clamped around her throat, cutting off her airway along with the rest of her sentence. Nichole's eyes got even bigger as she realized she'd pushed too far and grabbed his wrists to pull them away. She couldn't.

  “You're not going to touch her,” he growled, eyes wild. At that moment, he couldn't have said if it was the woman's plan to have her sick way with Laurel, or the threat of Poole's men mob-raping Kat that sent him over the edge. The only thing he knew was he couldn't let this madwoman near anyone else he cared for, and he was willing to damn himself to prevent her from achieving either scenario.

  The ex-stripper's face began to redden as Jake clamped down on her throat and she started to panic. Try as she might, Nichole couldn't budge his hands. She kept fighting to draw a breath as he realized what he was doing. He began to let her go and his back-brain screamed at him.

  You let this crazy bitch live and you might as well tie steaks about both of the girl's necks and throw 'em in a shark tank! It bellowed through the vaults of his mind. Do you have any idea what these bastards will do to them?!? The phrase, prison-ho, will take on a whole new meaning!!

  Jake kept squeezing.

  Nichole's eyes and mouth were painfully wide, as she tried to get air into her lungs. Her struggles became weaker and more desperate, as her body cried out for oxygen that just wasn't coming. She clawed at his arms and tried to pull his hands away from her throat, but her strength was fading along with her supply of O2.

  Time slowed down, and Jake flashed back to the night they'd met at The Blarney Stone Pub.

  He and Allen had arrived an hour earlier, after roving the Brewery District during the St. Patrick's Day pub crawl. Jake wore his family kilt (the Clan Cian tartan), sporran, combat boots with a sgian dubh in the top of his right sock, and one of his CBGB tees. Allen, on the other hand, was sporting lime-green Chuck Taylor's, a pair of cargo shorts, an oversized, floppy, green, Dr. Seuss hat with a light-up, emerald bow-tie, and a shirt posing the question Want to hold my shillelagh?

  They'd just gulped down a pair of Irish car-bombs and were working on their pints of Guinness, when Valerie bounced in. She had been Allen's flavor of the month at that point. Val worked at Silk Stockings as a stripper (sorry... exotic dancer). They'd met when she'd brought her Lexus into Ryker's Auto Body for an oil change. Needless to say, Allen had turned on his charm (after he'd pulled Val's car back outside) she'd been helpless against his powers, and the car wasn't the only thing that got its dip-stick checked that day. She'd also brought her very-bestest, super-hot, girlfriend along, who'd given her a lift because she'd lost her car keys. For the eighth time and who was available and would be perfect for Jake.

  Two minutes later, Nichole had turned quite a few heads when she strutted in. The little black dress, Volatile knee-high combat boots, shock of long blonde hair, the body displaying all the right curves, and a I dare you to try expression, drew a chorus of wolf-whistles as she bee-lined for the boys sitting with her friend. She'd been funny and engaging and seemed generally interesting as they'd all enjoyed the evening, quaffing drinks until Cinderella’s pumpkin time. Jake had been in a funk for a few months prior to their introduction, so he wasn't at his best when she turned on the heat. She even managed to coax him out onto the small dance floor for a couple of songs, despite his rhythmic ineptitude. Yellowcard's “Back Home” wasn't that difficult to dance to, so he hadn't embarrassed himself too badly. Besides, she'd more than made up for his lack of ability with moves perfected by eleven months of parting lonely suckers from their hard-earned cash.

  Valerie and his slim friend had stayed for the after party, when Nichole asked him to take her home. O'Connor had settled his bar bill and flagged down a cab, asking where she needed him to drop her off. She'd laughed, stepping to him with a smile and said, You can take me to Cup-o-Beans Coffee House. In the morning.

  That had pretty much settled that.

  The cab ride to his apartment had been interesting. The trip up in the elevator even more so. By the time they reached his door, she'd been undoing his belt, as he pulled her against him, a hand gripping one of her well-rounded, you-could-bounce-a-quarter-off-that, firm buttocks. Kicking the door closed, he'd pushed the LBD (little black dress) up around her hips, stripped off the BLPs (black lace panties) and jammed her against the wall of his entryway. Nichole had opened a condom she'd pulled from her purse swiftly, and had it rolled over him in about a second once she finally tore his belt away, which should've clued him in right there. While the things don't take forever to get on, no one should be able to do it one handed.

  Jake had ignored the warning signs though, as their tonsils busily engaged in a Stanley Cup-worthy game of hockey. She'd twined her arms over his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him against her insistently. He in turn, slid both hands under her flank to support her weight, thrust into her firmly drawing a ragged cry from her lips, and proceeded to give Nichole her first (of four) orgasms of the night.

  Then he flashed back to the look on her face when she'd described what she'd done to Karen. He remembered her look of anticipation over what she had planned for Laurel and her indigo-haired friend. The expression she'd worn that night in his apartment, when Jake had refused to have threesomes (even with other women). The night they'd had their truly monumental break-up. In the lot at Foster's safe-house, when they'd exiled her along with Barron to probable death in zombie-filled streets. The mad glint the blonde had shown him, just minutes prior, as she relished the thought of subjugating his friend, and his lover, to the worst experience short of death—or living death—that a woman could go through.

  That was the real Nichole.

  O'Connor shut his eyes. He had no desire to watch as he choked her. The thought of doing so sickened him. He was about to commit hot-blooded murder. Despite all his morals, despite all the things he'd been taught and believed and fought for over the course of his life. He was going to do it willingly to protect Laurel. To keep the Purifiers from ever laying eyes—or hands—on Kat. He'd blacken his soul a thousand times over to ensure those things didn't happen. Taking a deep breath, he turned his face away from the gasping woman and squeezed his fingers tighter around her throat.

  Nichole still fought, but was swiftly losing the battle. She tried again to pull his hands away from her neck, but to no avail. Jake's fingers were clamped firmly under her jaw, cutting off her windpipe. Starving her brain of oxygen. Killing her.

  She couldn't believe the same wishy-washy journalist she'd hit with a glassful of wine at Brio was the one doing it. She tried to twist away, attempting to loosen his grip for a second. If she could just get a little air. She was having no success in drawing even a single, short breath though. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and began to have trouble keeping track of her thoughts. She realized that was a bad thing but couldn't decide what to do about it. And was the room actually getting darker?

  The blonde woman's struggles lessened as Jake maintained his strangling grip. Being throttled was not pleasant or exciting, and Nichole was learning that first hand. Her vision continued to darken and her hands grasped ineffectively against his wrists as she started to lose sensation in her limbs. She was making small, pathetic noises as Jake move
d his knees up her torso and under her arms, preparing to finish her. From that angle, he could support all of his weight with his legs, while making sure the blonde never got the chance to abuse anyone else the way she had Karen.

  Nichole was dying now. She'd become almost completely unresponsive, except for her mouth still moving fish-like, while her lungs fought to take a breath. Jake squeezed harder as her eyes rolled back, until only the whites showed and her jaw dropped open, displaying her darkening tongue. She convulsed weakly and he knew he'd have to maintain his grip to insure she was finished, even after her muscles eventually stopped their awful spasms. He steeled himself to end it and tried to make his hands meet around her spine while she shook, teetering on the edge of death.

  That was when the pair of guards, reacting to the quiet—as opposed to the normal screams of either passion or violation—burst into the room. They began clubbing him with the butts of their rifles, forcing O'Connor to lose his hold on the blonde's limp form as they knocked him from the mattress and beat him into submission. Between blows, he saw Nichole begin to come back to herself and silently cursed. While the Purifiers did a job on him, she rolled to her knees off the bed, coughing harshly and rubbed at her throat. One of the guards kicked him in the chest, sending Jake flying back to where his head made contact with the unyielding wall. Then somebody dropped a building on him and everything went black.

  His next moment of consciousness was a far cry from the quiet darkness he'd briefly enjoyed. Someone was holding him up, and someone else was slapping his face harshly, trying to bring him around again.

  Oh, good. Somebody came along and dug me out from under the building, Jake thought.

  He heard a female voice arguing with a deeper one and tried to open his eyes so he could see what all the yelling was about. His eyes told him to get bent. They were happy just the way they were, thank you very much. He tried to force them open. They retaliated by sending shooting pain through his head, which caused him to dry heave. His body clenched as his stomach flip-flopped, sending a cornucopia of pain up through his nerve receptors from the damage the guards had inflicted. He thought about vomiting, but reconsidered the idea. He couldn't imagine how badly that would hurt.