Chaos And Ruin: Violent Things Part 7

"Well, yeah, Mil. Somewhere safe. Somewhere good, right?"

"Can Wanda and Brandy come?"

I have to bite my lip as I stare down at the wispy golden curls on the top of her tiny head. "I don't know, Mil. Maybe. I think Wanda likes living here, though. We can always come visit her and Brandy, can't we?" Of course Wanda doesn't like living in this s.h.i.tty building with it's s.h.i.tty pipes and drafty windows, but you end up telling lies like this to keep the peace. And to comfort, too. Besides, Millie is still going to come here after school while I'm still stuck at Mac's, so that part is true at least.

"So do you think I should stay?" I ask. I shouldn't really be giving her the choice, but she panics less if she thinks she's in control of what's happening and when. I mean, how f.u.c.ked up is it that a little girl her age needs to feel like she's in control, because the world is too scary, and dangerous and frightening. It f.u.c.king stinks.

"No. No, you can go," she says quietly. She's silent for a moment and then her head snaps up, a broad smile spreading across her face. She holds her hands to her mouth, like she's afraid of even speaking the idea that has just occurred to her. "Um, if you get more money," she says carefully. "That means I can have a new princess bed."

This is stated like it's a foregone conclusion. Brandy, Wanda's daughter, got a fancy bed for Christmas-a mini four poster thing with pink frilly see-through material that you can pull across to make a sort of den. Millie's never mentioned wanting one before, not once. She never asks for anything. But now, I can see from the look in her eyes that this is something she wants very badly. I feel like a piece of s.h.i.t. A bed like that wouldn't cost a huge amount of money, but it's more than we have. More than I'm likely to bring home tonight from my very first fight.

"How about we see what happens, huh, kiddo?"

Millie nods, her head rising and falling in exaggerated movements. "Okay." She's all too happy to run next door with Roo underneath her arm, then, at the prospect of 'seeing what happens' with her getting a new princess bed. I'm all but forgotten. Wanda squeezes me tightly to her ma.s.sive chest when she opens the door to us. I've nearly suffocated in that woman's cleavage more times than I can count.

"You be careful tonight, you hear me?" she scolds.

"As careful as I can be." I hold out the tiny backpack with the pink ponies firing rainbows out of their a.s.ses on the front of it-at least that's what it looks like-and Wanda takes it from me without a word. She knows what's inside: a clean pair of PJs, Millie's favorite blanket, and her expensive as f.u.c.k medication. Wanda knows the drill. She knows what she needs to give Mil if she has a seizure. The woman has never once complained about having to clean up after my sister if she has a fit. Not once.

She gives me another warm hug and then shoos me on my way, knowing exactly where I'm going, hating it, and yet still not telling me not to go. She knows this is the only way I'm going to change things for us.

It takes twenty minutes to drive across the city to La Maison French Markets. Of course, there are no markets taking place right now. The vendors have cleared out their tables and equipment, knowing that Sat.u.r.day nights are fight nights. I park my s.h.i.tty truck three streets away as I was instructed by Ben, and then I make my way over to the west entrance of the underground markets. There are already plenty of people slipping down the concrete staircase, doing their best to look inconspicuous and not pulling it off. There's hardly any point in trying to hide what goes on down here, really. The cops are already fully aware of what goes on, paid off to keep quiet and not cause a fuss or disrupt the evening's entertainment.

The stairwell smells like p.i.s.s and stale sweat. Down one level, the large s.p.a.ce is filled with bodies, all pushing and shoving against one another. The rush of voices bounces off the low ceiling, making the roaring rumble of shouted conversation and raucous laughter even louder. For a very brief moment, I consider turning around and getting the f.u.c.k out of here. It's all too much, and I have absolutely no business being here.

But then I remember Millie and that hopeful look in her eye when I kissed her goodnight, and my resolve solidifies. I'm not leaving. I'm staying, and I'm going to win my f.u.c.king match.

I find Ben at the side of the ring-an easy thing to do considering his red hair-handing over hundred dollar bills to a morbidly obese guy in a sweat stained Cuban hat. My friend grins, slapping me on the shoulder when I arrive at his side. "There he is! Thought you'd p.u.s.s.ied out, motherf.u.c.ker. You're almost late. Hey, this is Carlos. You need to pay your cover to him, okay?"

The fat guy in the hat arches an eyebrow at me, his facial expression unchanging as he holds out his hand. I go to shake it, but he speaks before I can make contact. "That'll be five hundred, friend." He doesn't want to meet me. He wants my cash. And too f.u.c.king much of it.

"Five hundred?" I glance over at Ben, ready to pop him in the shoulder for lying to me. Ben's already holding up his hands, that look that he gets already forming on his face.

"Whoa, whoa, slow your roll, C. Mason's an initiate. It's one hundred for initiates, right?"

Carlos squints, running his tongue over his teeth. "Two fifty for initiates. Buy in went up."

"When?"

"Just now," Carlos says, frowning up at the both of us from under drawn brows. He doesn't look like the kind of guy who particularly enjoys being questioned.

"That's bulls.h.i.t," Ben argues.

"Maybe. He don't like it, he don't have to fight, though. Them's the breaks."

Ben sighs, shrugs, then casts me a questioning glance. You got two fifty? I shake my head. I was breaking a sweat over the potential of stumping up a hundred and losing it all. More than double that? I just don't have it. Ben nods, puts his hand into his pocket, and pays Carlos before I can stop him.

"What the f.u.c.k, man? No!" I hiss. "If I lose, I can't pay you back."

Carlos tuts as he puts the money into his back pocket and writes something down into a small, ratty book.

"S'okay, man. Just don't f.u.c.king lose," Ben advises, like it's the most obvius thing ever. "No pressure."

"Name?" Carlos clips out. "Hey, a.s.shole. What. Is. Your. Name?"

"Mason Reeves."

That goes into his book. "Lose the shirt," he says. I take off my hoody and my shirt and stand there bare-chested as Carlos takes a fat red marker pen and scrawls something onto my left shoulder blade. "And you, dips.h.i.t." He prods his pen in Ben's direction.

Ben loses his t-shirt and Carlos draws a fat eighty-eight onto his shoulder, and then vanishes into the swell of the crowd, presumably to find more people to verbally abuse and draw on.

Ben whoops, slapping the top of my arm. "Turn around, man. Let me see what ranking he gave you. Oh s.h.i.t!" he laughs. "Twelve? d.a.m.n!"

"Twelve? What the f.u.c.k does twelve mean?"

"Twelve percent chance of winning." Apparently this is the funniest s.h.i.t ever, according to my so called best friend. Undoubtedly he only thinks it's so funny because Carlos gave him an eighty eight percent chance of winning, which means a s.h.i.t ton more money from the house if he does. "Don't worry, man," he says, pulling me through the sea of bodies. "They always rank new guys low. He hasn't seen you fight yet. C'mon."

On the other side of the packed out market place, a ring has been set up and the first match of the night is already underway. The two guys in the ring are lean and quick, jabbing and striking at each other faster than lightning, barely grazing each other before darting out of reach. The crowd get bored of that pretty quickly. They want brutality. They want blood. They want the sound of bone cracking on bone. These violent things make the blood run hot in their veins.

Four minutes after we arrive, the two guys have been booed out of the ring, neither one of them having landed a proper punch, and two new fighters are climbing into the cage. Their fight is adrenalin fuelled from the moment the bell rings. One broken nose. A couple of potential broken ribs. One K.O. Two minutes and the whole thing is over. The people squeezing in around the cage are screaming at the tops of their lungs. I need a fight like that. I need something violent and b.l.o.o.d.y that will have them remembering my name until next weekend, where I'll have to prove myself all over again.

There are three more fights before I'm called up. At least two hundred people go silent as I shove my way past them and up through the opening into the cage. My heart is f.u.c.king hammering in my chest. This is such a bad f.u.c.king idea.

It gets worse when Carlos, motherf.u.c.ker that he is, calls out the name of the guy I'm going to be fighting: Hail Mary Harris. Ben. f.u.c.king Ben. It dawns on me all of a sudden-he's the other eighty eight percent to my twelve. How did I not immediate realize as soon as I found out my ranking. I mean, the maths were staring us right there in the face. Ben vaults up into the cage, shaking his head, his eyebrows drawn tight together.

"f.u.c.k, Carlos. What the h.e.l.l? It's his first night. I shouldn't be fighting initiates. And he shouldn't be fighting intermediaries, either. What gives?"

"We're short on fights tonight. Just the way it is, friend. You don't wanna fight, you can always concede." Carlos grins. He doesn't give a s.h.i.t about the fact that he's making friends fight, and on top of that one friend who ma.s.sively outranks the other.

Ben's still scowling when he faces me. The crowd can tell something's not right; they start chanting, pounding their feet against the floor, rattling the wire of the cage. "Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!"

"You wanna back out, man?" Ben asks me.

"h.e.l.l no." The fighter who backs out sacrifices the money he paid in order to fight in the first place. I couldn't afford to lose the hundred I'd originally planned on spending, let alone the extra one fifty I now owe Ben. He nods.

"Okay. Well, I guess we're fighting then." He scratching his jaw, suddenly grinning like a mad man. "And I win either way, since I bought you in. Ironic, huh?"

"Yeah. Awesome." He looks way too pleased with himself right now.

"Are you ladies done gossiping or can we get this show on the road?" Carlos snipes.

Ben lifts his right fist, already gloved, and holds it out to me. "I'll go easy on you, I swear."

"Don't do me any favors, a.s.shole." I touch my glove to his, the bell rings and that's it. No more time to talk. No more time to think. No more time to worry about what will happen if I lose this fight. My friend is circling me, a dark, predatory look in his eyes, and my head is not in the game. It gets there pretty quickly.

Ben comes for me, slamming his fist home straight between my guard, the same way Zeth did repeatedly the first time I fought him. My ears are ringing, my vision blurred when I step forward, trying to shake off the buzzing in my head. Ben's grinning, shrugging his shoulders, the light over out heads swinging crazily, casting evil shadows all over his face. I can see in his eyes that he thinks this is going to be ridiculously easy. And maybe it is. But I've never fought or even spared with Ben before, and Zeth did manage to give me a few invaluable pointers that cost me a number of nasty bruises. He doesn't know what I've got up my sleeve.

I let him land a hit on me again, this time to my side where Zee nearly broke some of my ribs. I wince, sucking oxygen into my lungs as best I can through the pain. Jesus f.u.c.king Christ.

I counter, landing a mean upper cut to Ben's jaw. The smile has vanished from his face when he cracks his neck, loosening out his shoulders.

"Ahhh, like that is it?" he says, laughing. Ben's a boxer. Has been for as long as I've known him. I'm willing to bet he hasn't spent nearly enough time practicing any other martial arts forms since he started fighting down here, knocking people out left, right and center.

We parry back and forth for thirty seconds, each landing blows where we can. I keep my f.u.c.king guard up, and I don't break eye contact with the guy. The crowd are baying for blood by the time I decide to test my theory. Ben comes in to land a left hook, but I'm ready for him. I duck, strike up, and then I slam into him, taking him down.

He makes a deep, surprised uffff sound as the air leaves his lungs. While he's trying to recover, I'm already moving, already planning my next move. Spinning him over, I twist his arm around into a lock and pull upward, looking for that sweetspot between what will mean absolute agony for him or a broken bone. I find that point when his body goes tense beneath me, rigid as a board.

"Motherf.u.c.ker," he laughs. "Where the h.e.l.l did that come from?"

Now's not the time to be c.o.c.ky. I concentrate on what I'm doing, locking him down, making it impossible for him to move without extreme pain firing through his whole body. Maybe I'm concentrating too hard.

I'm ready for him when he tries to jerk me off him, using his hips to push backward. When he realizes I'm not going to let him off that easy, he rips his body around, growling against the discomfort of his arm nearly popping out of joint.

The next three seconds happen quickly. I'm on top of Ben in mount position, legs either side of him one second, and the next I'm on my back and Ben's hammering his fists into my face.

They call it ground and pound for a reason. I have to get out of this position. Right. f.u.c.king. Now. Ben's too busy pummeling my face to guard any other area of his body. As his fists rain down, I somehow have the common sense to react. To move. To jab him as hard as I can. I am for his ribs, and pure determination takes over. I know I'm spraying blood everywhere from my mouth and my nose every time I gasp for breath, and I know Ben's doing his fair share of bleeding onto the canvas too, but neither one of us stop.

Eventually, Ben's winded enough that he pauses-just enough of an opening for me to get out from under him. It goes on like this for another three minutes, one of us bettering the other, the other taking a beating, and then the roles reversing over and over again. I'm so exhausted I can barely lift my arm anymore when the final bell rings.

The crowd starts hollering and screaming at the injustice of the fight being called to an end. Ben and I lay on our backs, chests heaving, blood all over our skin, in our hair, in our eyes, blood everywhere, and all I can focus on is the light swinging over my head, burning into my retinas, and the insanity of my heartbeat.

Carlos stands us up, clearly unhappy that Ben didn't just wipe the f.u.c.king floor with me. He holds Ben's arm in the air and the crowd cheers like crazy. Surprisingly, when he holds my arm in the air, the reaction is the same. A draw.

Well f.u.c.k me.

An hour pa.s.ses where more people fight and me and Ben slump against the back wall, trying to get our s.h.i.t together. Eventually Carlos comes and pays up the money he owes us, half each. Nine hundred dollars for me and nine hundred for Ben.

"Not bad for two black eyes and a mild concussion, huh?" Ben laughs. "f.u.c.k, you punch like a heavy weight."

"Sorry, man," I sigh. Am I really sorry, though? h.e.l.l no. I hand over the one fifty he spotted me, feeling kind of amazing as I pocket what's left over. Seven hundred and fifty bucks. I wouldn't earn that working for Mac every day for two weeks. A couple of black eyes and a mild concussion were worth it all right.

Chapter Twelve.

Zeth A pineapple sits on the kitchen counter. A pineapple. It's just not something you see everyday. It wasn't there when I went to bed last night, that's for sure. I'm all for eating fruit-you don't get a body like mine by shoving Twinkies down your throat twenty-four-seven-but this thing looks like it requires preparation. It's f.u.c.king spiky. I stand in the kitchen, staring at it for a while, contemplating how to proceed, and then I figure, f.u.c.k it, I'll wing it and go on a mission to find a knife.

Sloane got sent home from work yesterday, and is still asleep upstairs in our bed. Our bed. I never thought I'd be thinking those words. It gives me insane pleasure to run a playback of what took place in that bed yesterday in minute detail as I carve up the fruit for my girl's breakfast. There was a lot of spanking involved. And a tiny clamp that I hooked up to Sloane's c.l.i.t, firing electrical charges into her sweet p.u.s.s.y that had her clawing at my skin and screaming out my name. I f.u.c.king love when she does that.

The memory of our heated s.e.x is almost enough to put Agent Lowell and her d.a.m.n skivvies out of my head. Michael's on the case. He's going to figure out what the h.e.l.l she's doing back here, and then the two of us are going to figure out how we make her disappear again. As if he knows I'm thinking of his last owner, Ernie lifts his head from his paws where he's been sleeping by the back door and growls. Funny little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I don't want to think about Lowell at all today, so I take a deep breath and exhale the stone cold b.i.t.c.h right out of my head. Ernie sighs like he's doing the same.

It's one of those rare cold but extremely sunny mornings in Seattle. Like a d.a.m.n finger of fate pointing straight down from Heaven, a pillar of light is shining straight through the gla.s.s doors at the front of the house, landing directly on the drawer where I stowed a small, velvet-covered box not so long ago. A gift for Sloane. A gift I'm not ready to give her yet. Seems as though every time I walk past that G.o.dd.a.m.n drawer, I can feel the box inside humming like a freaking signalling beacon. I really need to move it. Take it down to the gym or something. Leave it in my locker there. She'd never find it amongst all my sweat-soaked workout clothes, hand wraps and boxing gloves. But then, no. That just seems f.u.c.king wrong.

I carry the sliced pineapple upstairs on a plate, along with the eggs I've made and some fresh orange juice. Very f.u.c.king domesticated. I would never have done this for anyone else. The stars would have collided and the universe collapsed in on itself before I bowed and sc.r.a.ped to any other woman. I don't see taking care of my girl as bowing and sc.r.a.ping now, though. I see it as making sure she's fed. Making sure she's content. Making sure she's safe. Making sure she's fit and healthy enough for me to f.u.c.k her the way I like, and for her to demand more.

She's still asleep when I enter the bedroom. Her dark hair is spilled across her pillow in loose waves around her head, her almost-black eyelashes like charcoal smudges against her pale cheeks. She looks like she's been drawn or something. Created out of thin air. I find myself thinking that a lot-that someone has crafted her, this mythical creature who's turned my life upside down-because how else can she be real? It makes no sense. The universe just isn't this kind to anyone, especially guys like me.

Placing the food down on the bedside table, I move up the bed, pulling the covers back from her body as I climb. She's naked underneath-so f.u.c.king perfect. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s lay heavy, crushed between her arms as she lies on her side. I can already feel my c.o.c.k stirring in my shorts. Nothing new there. Poor Sloane's eggs are going to be cold by the time she gets around to eating them. I haven't even made any food for myself. I knew she was all I was going to want to eat. Placing my hand on her hip, I gently turn her body so that she's on her back. Unlike my c.o.c.k, her perfect nipples aren't erect yet, but I have plans on changing that. Slowly, carefully, I lower my mouth to her skin and I lick across her collarbone, moving down until I trace my tongue across the swell of her t.i.ts. So. f.u.c.king. Amazing.

Sloane groans, body writhing a little as she surfaces into consciousness. Waking her up this way is the best G.o.dd.a.m.n part of my day. I know she's aware of what I'm doing when I feel her legs press together underneath me. She's been so good recently whenever we f.u.c.k, doing as I tell her when I tell her to without hesitation or question, that now I feel like being bad for her. She's earned it. I bite down on the now hard, tight bud of her nipple, sending a jolt of pain through her, waking her up properly. She reacts quickly, sucking in a sharp breath, her body tightening underneath me.

"Morning, angry girl. Dreaming about me?" I whisper.

Her fingers wind into my hair, which is longer than it's ever been. Not hipster long. Just long enough that she can get a good f.u.c.king handful of it and pull when she wants to. She moans, which is a good sign. There aren't many women you could wake up after a twelve-hour hospital shift with a bite to the nipple and have them appreciate it. This is why we're f.u.c.king perfect together.

"You planning on backing that up?" she mumbles, her voice still a little hoa.r.s.e.

"What? This?" I bite her again, this time on the other nipple. Her eyelids fly open wide, her back arching off the bed. "Stay still, angry girl. Don't you dare f.u.c.king move unless I tell you to. If you're good, I'll make you come. Would you like that? Would that make you feel better?"

"Yes," she says breathlessly. "I think it would."

I hold myself over her, lowering myself a little more so that I can speak directly into her ear. "Okay. Spread your legs for me, Sloane," I growl. She shivers in that way she does. The way that lets me know she likes the sound of my voice, rough and right up close in her ear like that. She likes feeling my breath on her skin. Like the good f.u.c.king girl she is, she widens her legs for me, and I change positions, moving so I'm inside her legs now. My d.i.c.k is so hard I'm pretty sure you could break rocks with it. I catch sight of her p.u.s.s.y and my b.a.l.l.s begin to ache like they haven't been emptied in months, instead of yesterday morning.

f.u.c.k.

"You're so f.u.c.king perfect," I groan. "G.o.d. Your p.u.s.s.y is beautiful. So pink. So sweet." I can smell her, that peculiar yet addicting scent that drives me absolutely crazy. I just want to bury my face between her legs and go to town. Not yet, though. "You want me to make you wet, angry girl?" I ask.

Sloane looks up at me with those big brown eyes of hers and nods. "I'm already wet," she whispers. She used to sound ashamed of the fact when she admitted that to me, but not anymore. She knows how much it turns me on to see her dripping wet and ready for me. As if to prove the point, she rocks her hips upward, giving me a better view.

"You're breaking the rules," I inform her. "I didn't say you could move." Palming her right breast, I squeeze hard, tightrope walking that boundary between enjoyable pain and real discomfort. I'm going easy on her, though. She's still not feeling one hundred percent, after all. Sloane's hips press back down into the mattress in an instant, her eyes closing as she breathes through what I'm doing to her. "That's better. Yeah. Good girl..." I let my other hand trail down the side of her body, my fingers slowly working toward the apex of her thighs. I don't go straight for her c.l.i.t, though. I run my fingers up the insides of the legs, over her hips, up her stomach, b.r.e.a.s.t.s, neck, over her high cheekbones and over her lips.

"Suck," I tell her.

She obeys, opening her mouth, allowing me to slide my fingers inside. Her mouth is hot and wet, and has my c.o.c.k throbbing so hard. She's so good at blowing me now. She had no clue what she was doing the very first time back in that darkened hotel room, but her inexperience and her tight mouth had almost been enough to make me come on the spot. Now that she knows what she's doing with that tongue of hers, she has the power to rob me of all f.u.c.king common sense.

She grazes her teeth against my knuckles and I can imagine all too well what that would feel like if it were my c.o.c.k in her mouth. I can't help but hiss as she sucks harder. "You're being so good," I whisper into her hair. I let go of her breast and prop myself up on one elbow so I can slide my fingers from her mouth and place them between her legs, wetting her with her own saliva.

"f.u.c.k, Zeth." Her head kicks back, rocking to one side as I work my fingertips in small, tight, purposeful circles over her c.l.i.t. She's staring at me, beautiful, so turned on I can see it in her eyes, when I lift my fingers to my own mouth and slide them inside. She tastes so f.u.c.king good. Guys say that about girls all the time, but I really f.u.c.king mean it. The taste of her p.u.s.s.y on my tongue is enough to send the blood roaring through my veins like combustion fuel in a high-powered engine. I feel like I could do zero to a hundred in less than a second.

"f.u.c.k, Sloane. You're incredible. Lift your knees for me. Now." She bridges her legs, feet pressed flat against the bed, and holds them there. I know she wants to let her knees fall to the sides, opening herself up for me, but she's good. She waits.

That clamp from yesterday enters my head, stowed safely back in the black duffel I keep in the bottom of the wardrobe, but I reject that idea. I do want to make her moan. I do want to make her twitch. But I want my head between her legs, too, and I can't lick her with that thing in the way.

My eyes catch on the plate I brought up here with me and I know what I'm going to do. Reaching over, I pick up a piece of the pineapple and throw it into my mouth. Tastes so sweet it twinges at the sides of my tongue. "Mmm, yeah, baby. You're gonna like this, and so am I," I say. Sloane fights back a surprised smile as I take another piece of the pineapple and I head down between her legs.

I'm not in the mood to be careful. f.u.c.k that. Shoving her knees apart myself, I get down there and take hold of her ankles, throwing her legs over my shoulders. "Are you ready, angry girl?"

She bites her lip, her head rolling back. I know she wants to arch her back off the bed again, lift her hips up to meet my mouth, but she knows there'll be consequences if she does. I'll tease the f.u.c.k out of her for hours and I won't let her come, and that's not something she enjoys. Me, on the other hand... torturing her like that gives me a particular thrill that no amount of breakfast making and domesticated life will be able to tamp down.

I bite carefully down on the piece of cold pineapple and press it into her p.u.s.s.y with my mouth. She gasps, hands tightening as I work it up and down, slowly tracing it from the entrance to her p.u.s.s.y all the way up to her c.l.i.t. I want to pump my fingers inside her. I want to make her f.u.c.king scream. I can be patient when the situation calls for it, though. Instead I tease her with the piece of fruit, enjoying the flavor of it mixed in with the slick juices of her tight, amazing p.u.s.s.y.

I can't help myself. I have to touch myself. Reaching down, I slide my hand inside my boxers and I take hold of my c.o.c.k, squeezing the tip. Feels f.u.c.king amazing, but I know sinking myself b.a.l.l.s deep into the woman in this bed is going to be a million times better. I'm already planning where I'm going to come. Over her t.i.ts. In her mouth. Her stomach. Her back. I want to mark her all over with my come, rub it into her skin. Into her p.u.s.s.y. Claim her as mine.

I swallow the pineapple, and then I set to working my tongue over Sloane's c.l.i.t. The fruit was fun, but I don't need it anymore. I just need her p.u.s.s.y in my mouth and her come on my tongue. And I'm gonna make it f.u.c.king happen right now. Carefully, I push my index finger inside her, teasing myself as much as her with how slowly I do it. She's trembling violently by the time I'm knuckle deep. She's so tight. I'll never get over how incredible her body is. How tightly she squeezes my c.o.c.k when I'm inside her.