Page 60 of Raven

I was an angry guy when I got out of juvie. I fucked with anger, too, drilling my hate for the world and myself into every girl who was eager. Coincidentally, the ones around at that time were full of anger and hate, too, offering themselves like some fucked-up martyrs. They liked it rough. It worked well for a while.

Then came Bella. She tried to “cure” me. I felt bad for her, and through that pity discovered the surprising pleasure in watching her orgasm, when she forgot her mission of “making me feel better about myself” through sex and was lost in the delirium of coming around my fingers, cock, tongue, hairbrush handle, dildo or anything that came handy. That—watching a girl so needy for me, only me—was a revelation. Until her, a G-spot was a ghost. Lesson learned, and there was more to come. Turned out, pleasing a girl wasn’t only a skill but a great tool. To her heart. Her friends. Her connections.

That was how I got Angelica, the daughter of the town’s mayor. A pretty little thing. Fierce, careless, sex crazed. She was as hungry for my dick as a Pacman. By then, I already drove a beamer, had graduated to the darknet, and was a go-to guy for Archer Crone and a dozen other of Deene’s high-rollers. My bedroom skills made the mayor’s daughter insatiable. I did everything by the book, too. Wined and dined her. But mostly, I listened. Oh, do women like being listened to.

Maddy unlocked something else. I feel there’s a part of her my tongue and cock can’t get to. And so I have to learn what she is, how to get to her in other ways. Again, as is my habit lately, I close my eyes and think about our little tryst at her place.

A distant noise echoes through the night, and then it’s gone.

My eyes snap open, and I push off the rock. Without turning on the flashlight, I walk down the rocky path, onto the beach, and scan the Ayana resort.

Nothing out of the ordinary on the beach. The distant sound of party music. A happy cheering from the Bacaro restaurant patio on the cliff.

But the snappy sound cutting through the night up ahead draws my attention again—men’s edgy voices. Someone is out there, and they are fighting.

I could leave this alone, but—you guessed it—I like knowing what’s going on here on my island, so I start walking in that direction.

23

RAVEN

There is a murky light about two hundred feet away across the beach, shadows blocking it now and then.

Slowly, I make my way there, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, cutting into it and revealing an amusing situation.

Local brawls don’t really interest me. But I stumble upon plenty of secrets in this way. Many came in handy.

The men ahead haven’t noticed me yet. It looks like a fight, but I know better when I see the guards’ uniforms.

Two are standing. One is straddling another guy who is flat on his back on the sand, grunting and snarling, while the one on top sends a punch to his face, incapacitating him. He rips the guy’s shirt in the center and makes some strange movement over his chest.

“You say another insult,” he hisses, “you so much as look in her direction, and I cut the word on your forehead. Understood?”

Well, well, if it isn’t the praying guy from the other day. And it looks like he is cutting the other guard.

Adrenalin spikes in me—that’s a sight to behold. Guards have their own lives here on Ayana besides work. They are not allowed to leave the island during their annual contracts unless it’s an emergency or they break the rules. Outside work, they are regular people, relaxing, going to Port Mrei to bars, getting women, partying, hanging out at Ayana restaurants.

Apparently, occasionally cutting each other. After the places they served in, this might be a way to take the edge off.

“You scumbag,” the guy on the ground hisses, and I recognize the voice—Skiba. My Skiba.

Amused, I cross my arms at my chest. Whatever Skiba did, I’ll find out.

I take slower steps closer, and the two guards whip around when the sand under my feet crunches.

“Fuck,” one of them blurts out.

The other makes a move toward me, but his friend grabs him and pulls him back.

The guy straddling Skiba freezes, too.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Sir.” One of them nods, recognizing me. Most of them know me, or have heard about me at least.

The praying guy slowly gets off Skiba, the solar lantern casting a soft glow on his face.

Skiba grunts, sits up, and spits on the ground. Crouching like a drunk, he gets to his feet. Skiba has been with me for a long time, and I should be protecting my guys, but then, if he did something that deserved this assault, it’s on him, and I have no business interfering.

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