With what happened to her, she has every reason to be. She’s one of the girls that we rescued in Atlantic City; the chapter Boomer is taking over. The so-called Ruthless Kings that didn’t deserve the name bought and sold women. Doc’s ol’ lady, Joanna, she was a part of it too, along with Boomer’s ol’ lady, Scarlett.
Hell, I would think having Joanna here would help Mary, but she’s bound and determined to lose herself in the pit of the hell created by the Atlantic City members. She did her best to join the cut sluts on their mission to suck and fuck every member in the clubhouse, but no matter how hard she tried, none of us would touch her.
We might be bastards in some way, shape, and form, but we don’t use women who are only looking to feel something other than fear. When a woman wants to be a cut slut, she does it because she wants to; she wants to be used in every hole, in every way. And if that’s their choice, more power to ‘em. All of us know Mary isn’t like that. She’s a good girl. When we found her, she had on pearls and a fucking cardigan.
And now she’s dressed for a rock and roll concert.
Don’t get me wrong; some of those leather pants she wears has me watching her walk away longer than I should. Her new look fits her behavior. I’d be sad to see it go, especially since getting to know her. I don’t know much about her past; she doesn’t talk about it, but pearls and cardigans? They don’t match the hellraiser simmering beneath her skin.
Does it mean I want to touch her flames?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
Does mean I’m going to?
No.
She annoys me too damn much, and I know she can’t stand me either. She got me coal for Christmas. Coal! As if I’ve been naughty this year! Please. I’m a fucking angel wrapped in a damn bow, and my halo shines brighter than the damn horns she has on her head, I can say that much. She got mad at me for getting her a fake leg because she still walks with a limp after getting impaled by a piece of wood. I thought it was funny.
And she hates me for it.
But it’s the kiss I hate her for.
Maizey pointed out at Christmas that Mary and I were under a mistletoe when we were arguing, and I just got fucking tired of always fighting with her, so I pulled her in by her hair and kissed her to shut her up.
I didn’t think I’d actually like it.
And goddamn it, I hate her for giving me the best damn kiss I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. That chaos, strife, and pain I live for, that’s constantly roaring inside of me, came to an abrupt halt as our mouths became one. Time slowed. Sounds ceased. And when our tongues slid together, we forgot we were enemies, and we gave in to one another.
Her lips were velvet, and her breaths were sweet like candy. I was getting lost in those flames I should always stay away from.
Until she hit me in the gut with that peg-leg I bought her. Then, she stomped off in a hissy fit, leaving me fucking harder than nails and confused.
Confused because all I wanted to do was run after her, slam her against the wall, and own her mouth again.
It’s been two weeks, and every single night I’m waking up from a wet dream, cock in hand, and cum coating my stomach. I have never had that happen, even when I was sixteen and getting erections because the fucking breeze blew.
Mary has inserted her havoc in my veins, mixing herself in with the other three mistresses constantly whirling around inside me.
I’m wound up tight, and I’m ready to sling a few of my ninja stars, maybe draw some blood. But now that things are quiet at the club, I’ll just go get another tattoo to help take the edge off. The more I have to be around that damn woman, the tighter she winds me, and the more I want to remind her that when we kiss, the last thing we do is hate each other.
We want each other. I know she feels it too.
“You want to take a picture? It lasts longer,” Badge grumbles with a slight curl of his lip as he pulls out a chair at the table. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he sips the plain black coffee from his mug. Badge is a prickly guy, and on a good day, he might not bite your damn head off.
“Let me grab my camera. There’s nothing I want more than your ugly mug framed next to my nightstand. I’ll kiss it every night before I go to bed.”
“You’re so fucking weird, Knives.”
It’s true. I never joke about anything. Why bother, when the truth can make people that much more uncomfortable?
That’s the only rule I have always made sure applies to me, until recently.
The truth is a wicked bitch, and everywhere I turn, she’s roaring her ugly head at me. For instance, I’m starting to wonder if I actually like Mary, and that truth makes me uncomfortable. I’m going to ignore it.
Nothing good can come out of her and I being together. Two people that don’t like each other. That’s like a hurricane and a tornado finding their way into each other’s paths, ready to destroy.
But the whisper of truth is still there, telling me I want Mary more with every second that passes. I want to kiss her again to see if what I feel is the same or if it was a fluke, but there is no way she’s going to let me near her again.
And she shouldn’t.
I’ve done too many bad things, and even though she pretends to want the cruel side of temptation the MC offers, she isn’t ready for it or me.
Like Tongue, I’m a bit fucked in the head, but not in a crazy sense like Tongue is. I’m not going to be bringing home a fucking swamp kitty and calling it ‘Happy.’
I’m crazy in the sense that I don’t feel grief for what I do. I cut, I draw blood, I inflict pain, and I never want the pain to stop.
I want to keep cutting, keep them pleading for help. I want to hear the victims begging me to stop. I love making them bleed so much they pass out, so I wait until they wake up, maybe give them a transfusion, and I do it all over again.
And I’ll keep going until there is almost nothing left.
Give them hope that they will be able to live, and when I see their smile, their thankful, relieved smile with blissful tears raining down their cheeks, that’s when I’ll sling my ninja star across the room and lodge it directly in their foreheads.
And even after all of that, I’ll still feel nothing.
Yet I think of Mary and I feel everything.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Knives. Stop looking at me.” Badge slides the chair back and stomps away toward his office, where all the fancy gadgets are.
I wasn’t looking at him. I zoned out.
See what she’s doing to me? I need to get with Tongue. He and I like to sharpen our blades together, or sometimes he helps me make a new ninja star. I have one I haven’t used since it’s been made, and it’s the one made of the knives I found the night Mason died. I should use it.
And I almost did on the cop who pulled the trigger first. I waited and waited, and then he became Chief of Police, but then he died of a fucking heart attack, and now the man that replaced him is my friend.
Well, ish.
We do each other favors, like when Sarah’s SUV got blown up, and we wanted to make sure a report wasn’t filed? I called him. Paid him. And we are in the clear.
It’s good to have the law on your side, which is why I’ll never understand why Reaper gave Badge the ultimatum.
The other cops involved in Mason’s murder moved away right after, and I haven’t been able to find them since. But I will.