{Punching the call-end button and striking through the last name on the contact list of at-risk females. Potential targets for the sick fucker who tortured Caith and tossed her battered and broken body in a dumpster like so much unwanted garbage. The circle drawn around Laehsandra's name standing out like a big fucking red flag. Tory's friend Laea was uncontactable, and it got my damn hackles up. Fuck I'd even caught a glimpse of the SOB manhandling Caith out of Zerosum..right before Tory rearranged my nasal bones...but so far, no joy on a positive ID on the piece of shit male, and confinement to the Penthouse on King's orders was really not helping the sitch. One hand fisting my hair, jotting down Laehsandra's name and address on a post-it before pushing up from the four toys, leathers creaking a protest as long limbs unfold from my overly long held position. Closing the distance to the bar to pour a double of Goose, shotting it back, savoring the burn on a sharp exhale, strains of Godzilla drifting over from the flatscreen where Hollywood's impossibly perfect flip flopped feet are visible from behind the couch, propped on the coffee table.
Rhage and Zsadist drew the short straws on enforcing Wrath's house arrest orders on Tory and me. Unlike Hollywood, Z was all about the bizz. Come sundown, the Brother installed himself out on the balcony and made like a goddamned statue. Seemingly impervious to the elements, hail, wind or rain, Z hadn't once set foot inside. The male had nasty history at the hands of that Mistress bitch and given the Penthouse's reputation for sexual perversion...no big fucking surprise the brother was giving the place a wide berth, true. And fuck but that thought gnawed in my gut like a dirty, guilty secret. The irony was, Z had been in my shoes...fuck...for years the whole of the Brotherhood, his twin included, had Zsadist pegged as a killer of females...a scarred, soulless, ruined male. Was that how the Brotherhood saw me now? Was that the true reason Z was keeping his distance lurking outside in the shadows, unable to look a Brother in the eye?Fuck.. Hollywood and his humongous beast of an appetite, in contrast, made themselves right at fucking home...but the young adored him, like they identified with the big fool kid in the Brother, so the tootsie wrappers and the total absence of a brain-mouth filter were mostly tolerated...mostly...SOB was sailing close to the fucking wind with the serial killer shits and giggles though, true.
Setting the glass down on the bar, the post-it with Laehsandra's deets clutched in my gloved hand, pacing over to where Hollywood's head is now stuck in the refrigerator, feet illuminated by the light spilling from the interior, a mop of blonde hair making an appearance around the door << damn it, V, tell me I'm not going to find carved up body parts in here..>> {his face pulls into that ridiculously handsome grin, electric blue eyes bright with humour, big arms laden down with Chinese take out, pizza, ice-cream and whatever else is leftover since the last foraging expedition all of... what, an hour ago? diamond eyes narrowing to level Rhage with a cold glare} Hasn't affected your appetite, Hollywood..{the warrior's gums keep flapping, even while he's chowing down on a mouthful of day old pizza, the slice of mighty meaty waved in my face} <<I still say it's that ugly goatee monstrosity on your face, my brother...makes you look sinister.. all serial killers have goatees...guilt by facial fuzz, my man>> {nodding seriously, the food stash dumped on the kitchen table to land a punch into my shoulder that draws a low growl from my throat} Not. Funny. Hollywood... And that's a myth..and it's mustaches, not goatees, true <<Come on, V.. Dahmer, Gacy.. come to think of it, you know, you're really rocking the Charles Manson look there, with those crazy-ass eyes and the facial hair going on>> Shut the fuck up Hollywood... only you could try to turn this shitpile into a damn party <<Lighten up gloved genius>> {a big hand landing on my shoulder like an anvil} <<could be worse... I could actually believe you'd killed those females>> {one dark slash of a brow shooting up} So you believe Tory and I are innocent? {again with the big shit-eating Hollywood-white grin} <<I know you didn't pull off that sick shit, my brother>> {my brows draw together at what remains unsaid... Rhage knew I wasn't a murderer...but the jury was still out on Tory?} << but I'm still convinced you've been doing my GTO V >> Fuck.. {growling frustration, gloved hand raking through my hair} I need a favor Hollywood {the Brother's teal eyes narrow suspiciously} <<I've told you before, V, I'm not spit-polishing your ball-gags..>> {ignoring the dig and pressing the yellow post-it into Rhage's big palm} I need you to check up on this female, make sure she's okay, true {the brother's eyes light up with interest} Laehsandra, huh? Sure, I'll make sure she's okay, V. A blindingly handsome stallion like me, bet I wouldn't even have to gag her and tie her down to get her to do me {blonde brows waggling, a smug look plastered on the brother's face, exasperation on mine} Just go to her place, true. Make sure she's safe and tell her what she needs to do to stay that way, feel me? {as Rhage's face turns serious and he pockets the post-it, I know the Brother will come through} <<I got your back V... I'm on it>>
Fuck...*the mobile swings crazily as my head makes contact with a skeleton cat and the young laugh at the kaleidoscope of strangely cute dead animals adorning the rotating entertainment* Yeah, it's funny when your mahmen gets nailed in the head? Now sleep, I know Beastie Boy has been letting you at those tootsie pops of his...you're on a sugar hype and mama's already edgy without you climbing the walls...*only rambling mushed up syllables and innocent laughter answering my stern command, bright eyes torn from my face to watch the swirling colours of the mobile...and my fingers are tight crossed that they sleep...because I am wired. And tense and twitchy, barricaded in by the silent gargoyle out on the balcony and the giant presence of a self professed female addict who ate my leftovers and beat me to the pastries. I had got better, believe me, before V, my blades would have been drawn at every male movement, Beastie Boy wouldnt have been allowed in the Penthouse and would have been garroted for eating the last of my steak...now, the blonde one still lived and no blood had been spilled...discounting when Rhage stubbed his toe on the corner of the crib. Serves him right for the damn flip flops.
Easier just to stay in the nursery, listening to the conversations through the walls, watching Z through glass panels. His problems, his past, were not unlike my own, and the volatile temper is something I can relate to...but he makes no move to come in, just guards...whether protecting us from the world of accusations or protecting the world from us, I know not..the rumbling of my stomach is what drags me from the nursery forces me out to forage..in my own fucking home...but the growling conversation in the black marble settings of the kitchen, draw me up short, going all ninja-stealth, flat to the wall movie spy in a heartbeat, Beastie Boys quips a grating on my nerves, a twitch in my palms, daggers caressed, soothing, because voices dropped low in discussion and were obviously not meant for others, V's cutting off Rhage's teasing, Laea's name dropped in a growl...and my feet set to pacing, away from the kitchen, stomach knotted not with hunger but a coiling dread, padding to where V had his not so kinky more technological toys set up, where his nights have been spent glued to the damn chair, cell glued to his ear like Rhage had played a practical joke and pritt-sticked the thing there...calling...infinite calling..hell I'd seen the book...shame I couldnt burn his computers too...damn females...but all were safe, missing him, I'd heard trilled in sultry tones once or twice, but not dying from it...alive...now if only I could find that damn piece of...ah...hello...triumph short lived...that red ring in the mass of black lined through names, like my stomach has dropped out and my gorge is rising...but, hope says, but maybe she isnt answering him out of respect for you?
Hope is an evil thing, it raises expectations..and my fingers obey it dialling her home, the ring going on and on, before switching me to her seductive purred greeting of her VM. Shit fuck...her cell, ringing out, again the same message, and she always answers, or that message changes when she's...occupied...insidious, dread rises like bile, burning up my throat...because if she ends up the same way as Caith, the King's orders will mean jack shit, they'll be a fool's words and no amount of house arrest, no number of Brothers, no restraints, could keep me from taking to the streets to find the motherfucker. The logical, slightly less bloodthirsty part of my brain pokes an idea forward on the tip of a dagger...to find her BEFORE Caith's fate can befall her, to get to Laea before the fucker does, and if I'm too late..well I'll be out and armed and I'll do the job the King should set the brothers to doing, should have let V and I do...Brow knitting, tongue riding razor lengths...now...how to get out?*
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