Page 6 of Meating Dalton

My stomach sours at the thought, and I push Deaton away, jumping to my feet. He laughs and I realize the gothic fucker is amusing himself at my expense. Even white teeth gleam and kohl lined brown eyes sparkle with mirth. Narrowing my eyes on him, I decide to play.

It’s not like I have much else to do. More than two dead bodies this week might draw attention. Besides, the cacao flower he pointed out truly has beautiful skin. Flipping him the middle finger, I stalk down the length of the bar to the woman he pointed out.

When I’m less than a foot away, my tongue twists over what to say. Usually, I flash a dimpled smile and meat stumbles over themselves to please me. Easy fucking prey. I clear my throat while leaning a little closer to let my arm brush her shoulder. She jerks wary brown eyes up to my face. My lips twitch when they widen slightly, no doubt tracking the tattoos lining my entire throat.

Wide, full lips part slightly and my eyes follow them as if spellbound.

“Hello,” I whisper, then lean closer in case she can’t hear me. Her body shifts minutely away, but I don’t miss the spark of interest in her brown pools.

“You’re pretty,” I tell her and my face heats at the simple compliment. But my brain struggles to come up with something more original.

“Thank you,” she breathes, racing her eyes over my face, neck and the tattoos decorating my arms. A black short-sleeve shirt allows her to see how much ink mars my skin. A pulse beats rapidly in her neck and I get the impression she likes what she sees.

“You’re very pretty,” I amend, unable to take my eyes off her alluring features. A husky laugh spills from her lips and my cock jerks in my pants. Warily, I take a step back. My cock has never done that in reaction to meat.

“Look,” she says, her silky voice cascading over me. “You’re hot, I’ll give you that. But you barely look old enough to buy me a drink. So, tell whoever put you up to this that I said you’re hot and gave you my number.”

Ice trails down my spine at the pity layering her words. As far as rejections go, it’s a polite one. And it pisses me the fuck off. Resisting a snarl, I step forward, invading her personal space. She gasps and without tearing my eyes from her, I rap my knuckles on the wooden bar top.

Prey enters my peripheral vision. I hold up two fingers, enjoying the display of her pupils expanding.

“I’ll take two of what she’s having,” I bark out, only darting my eyes away from my flower for a moment to make sure the bartender mixes the drinks. A curt nod and quick hands fly to a glass and a clear bottle of liquor.

Training my eyes back on the wide-eyed doe in front of me, I flash my famous dimpled smile.

“I lied,” I tell her, feeling the truth of the statement settle in the marrow of my bones. “You’re not pretty,” I sneer, silently relishing her lips dropping open in shock. They’d look damn good wrapped around a cock, but I’m not ready to stick my dick in meat just yet, not even bewitching ones.

“You’re fucking radiant.” A glass thuds to my right, but I ignore it in favor of spearing the temptress with my words. “Your skin would make the Goddess of night jealous. Your eyes sparkle like the brightest stars and your fucking smile rivals the sun.”

I lean down until my nose brushes hers. She doesn’t pull away, breath fanning my face. “You’re a goddamn Goddess. And I’m old enough to do more than just buy you a drink.” Pulling away, I reach around her for the two glasses, looking at the fruity cocktails with a hint of distaste. Deaton put me up to this so he’ll just have to suck it up.

“I hope to see you around, oh, benevolent one,” I tease the flower watching me with an interesting mixture of emotions. Maybe I stunned her. I definitely shocked my own damn self. Surprised that I meant every word. Who the fuck knew meat could be so mesmerizing?

I turn away, marching back to my cousin with my prize and a weird, full feeling low in my belly. It feels like something is stirring, waking up. It’s not entirely unpleasant but damned inconvenient. I have two parents to slaughter.

Fucking meat is not on the agenda.

* * *

Two Months Later…

The tip of a knife presses against my tongue as I watch my prey struggle in their restraints with mounting boredom. Poor, dumb Todd, blonde hair plastered to his forehead, sweat dotting his brow. Tilting my head, I debate which vital organ to take first. Things get bloody when I get bored.

“Alright, Todd,” I say, standing and stretching my arms overhead, knife clutched in one hand. “It’s time to die. Any last requests?” My feet carry me to the slab he’s strapped to. “Even those on death row get a last meal. Though I don’t think we have the same dietary predilections.” My lips curl into a sinister grin. I love this part.

“P-p-please don’t do this.” Tears sparkle in brown eyes. I want to pluck them. They’d go good in a clam chowder soup. Blinking, I try to remember what I asked. Oh, last requests. Smiling indulgently, I pat his head with my free hand.

“I wish I could say there’s another way. But, alas, we all die in the end. Unfortunately for you, today is your day.” I strike swiftly, a clean line across the throat, blood spilling down, soaking his collar. He gurgles, body jerking, fighting to keep him alive as his life’s blood flows freely.

“It’s so sad. He was such a good guy. Would anyone like to say anything?” I look around the empty room, imagining myself standing at an altar, a church filled with mourners. Sadly, no one steps forward to speak Todd’s praise to God’s ears. End scene.

“Well, that didn’t completely cure my boredom, but I guess I have food for the week. What do you say, Todd? Fillet à la Todd? That does sound good. I’m so glad you agree,” I croon down at the dying man, holding both parts of the conversation.

Placing the knife down, I pull my wrinkled list out of my pocket, scratching Todd Peterson off. Poor clerk didn’t have any details about my birth parents. It was his end. He should’ve lied, pointing me in someone else’s direction.

The next name on the list is Natalia Bell. My scribbled note, fading from extended time balled up in my pocket, says she’s a social worker. I drew a little arrow connecting her name to Sarah Bell, sister. Hmm. Abduct the sister to draw the social worker out or just go for gold? Or both? I like sisters. They don’t always taste the same.

Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Natalia Bell, you are it. Let’s grab a bite to eat together.

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