Page 56 of Psycho Boys

Fortunately, I locate a vein right away, and the rush from the dope courses through me before I can even pull the needle out. Once everything is stashed away and a cigarette is lit, Cali re-emerges from the hall, her outfit making my jaw drop to the shaggy carpet beneath my feet.

She’s clad in a silky red top that barely covers her, ending just below her firm, braless tits, exposing her toned, glistening stomach. The tight white skirt that mirrors my shirt hugs her curves, barely long enough to cover her ass. To top it off, she sports a fresh pair of white Jordans paired with red knee-high socks. She looks incredibly sexy, and I’m fighting the overwhelming urge to bend her over the fucking couch.

But there’s no time for distractions. I’m hell-bent on getting this shit done.

"Ready?" she asks, winking at me, her dark lashes fluttering as she laughs.

"You fucking know it," I reply, rising to my feet, the drugs coursing through me making me sway slightly. "You’re going to be cold, babe, because we’re taking my bike."

She shakes her head, playfully tugging up her tiny skirt to reveal an even tighter pair of booty shorts. "I’m prepared. Always am."

I lick my lips and grasp her hand, tugging her toward the door. "We’ll be back," I call over my shoulder, fully aware that none of them are likely to hear a word I’ve said.

The air is fresh and a bit cold as we ride through the city on my bike, leaning into each curve on the road, Cali's arms tightly wrapped around my waist, right where they belong. All I can think about is the rest of our lives when all of this shit is over. I mean, will it stay how it has been? Will we all stay together or go our separate ways? Are we all just together because we share the same trauma caused by the same people? Or do we all truly love each other so deeply that we just can't live without one another? Shit begins to make me more nervous than killing my father.

I can't lose Cali, not after all the time I missed without her. Not after all the shit we've been through, especially all the shit we've been through just trying to get each other back. I guess I'm a little anxious about what's going to happen when we take the last life on her list, and I'm not really looking forward to finding out.

After torturing myself with my thoughts the entire ride, I pull over and park my bike against the curb a couple blocks down from the fancy gentleman's club my father is known to spend his nights at. My plan to kill him was never to just go to his house and find him there. No, I wanted his death to be in public, so everyone could watch his ass get everything he fucking deserves.

Climbing off my bike, Cali and I walk hand in hand down the sidewalk, the cool night air embracing us like a suit of armor and easing the tightness in my chest. a

Without speaking, she takes our masks out of her backpack and hands me mine with a smile.

"What's the plan?" she asks as she covers her face, those bright red x's providing a sense of comfort against the anxiety trying to cripple me.

"We're just going to walk the fuck in there and drag his ass outside, probably to the back lot away from the main road, and I'll take care of him while you be my lookout for cops. I don't give a fuck about anyone watching, but I ain't trying to go to jail over this mother fucker." I put my mask on once we're a street away from the club, and then put both sets of brass knuckles on my hands, ready for this fight more than I've ever been ready for anything.

The heavy oak doors of the club loom before us, a testament to the wealth and power my father so carelessly flaunts. The bass thumps through the pavement, a visceral vibration that mirrors the frantic beat of my heart. Cali squeezes my hand, silent reassurance in the face of the impending violence. We step inside, the sudden shift from the cool night air to the stifling heat of the club a jarring transition. The air is thick with the smell of expensive perfume, sweat, and desperation.

The music is deafening, a chaotic blend of sounds that makes it difficult to focus. But I see him. My father. He's sitting in a plush booth in the back, surrounded by his perverted friends, while a bunch of whores grind on their laps, laughing at some obvious bad joke. His face, usually etched with a cruel indifference, is softened by the alcohol and the company. For a moment, a flicker of something like pity crosses my mind But it's quickly extinguished by the burning rage that has fueled me for years.

Cali nods subtly, her eyes fixed on the entrance. We move through the throng of bodies, a silent current pushing us towards our target. The closer we get, the more palpable the tension becomes. I can feel the eyes on us, the whispers, the sudden silences as people notice our determined stride and themenacing red gleam in our eyes. We reach the booth, and I pull out my gun, the cold steel a comforting weight in my hand.

My father looks up, his eyes widening in recognition. The laughter dies on his lips, replaced by a look of pure terror.

"Get the fuck up," I demand, and he does so without hesitation, afraid of the gun I have no intention of using.

He tries to speak, to protest, but the words are lost in the commotion of the club. I raise the gun, aiming for his chest; the image of his blood staining my white shirt is a vivid, almost satisfying thought. But before I can pull the trigger, a hand grabs my arm, yanking me back. I turn to see a burly bouncer, his face contorted in a snarl, his fist already cocked.

The fight is brutal, a chaotic ballet of fists and bodies. The brass knuckles dig into flesh; the sounds of cracking bones and grunts of pain fill the air. Cali fights alongside me, a whirlwind of fury; her kicks are precise and deadly. We're outnumbered, but we fight with a ferocity born of years of pent-up rage and trauma. The bouncers fall one by one, their bodies crumpling to the floor.

I grab my father as Cali leads us out the back door, and I drag him across the cold pavement, ruining his expensive suit. Once we're far enough away from prying eyes, I tuck my gun away and stand face to face with the man that created me, the same man who ruined my fucking life.

"What, are you here to kill me, Dominic?" he asks, a chuckle in his voice that pisses me off.

I don't answer him. In fact, I don't speak at all. I ball my fists, the brass digging into my flesh, but I couldn't give a shit. I raise my arm and swing, the bras knuckles connecting with his cheek and splitting it open with the first hit. He stumbles backward, blood soaking his jacket, a look of fear etched on his face.

Taking one look at Cali, she nods, giving me the okay that the coast is clear, and that's all I fucking need. I begin swinginglike I'm out of control, using both fists to inflict the most damage possible. My father puts up a fight; well, he tries to, but his vile hands are no match for the bloody brass adorning mine.

Blood splatters across my white shirt, a gruesome yet strangely satisfying testament to my actions. The satisfying crunch of bone beneath my knuckles is almost melodic, a counterpoint to the ragged gasps escaping my father's lips. He collapses to his knees, a broken, whimpering mess. I stand over him, my breath ragged, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a chilling emptiness, and I can't explain it for the life of me... but Ash's words reply in my mind, and it begins to make sense.

"Only kill him if you're ready to deal with the emotional roller-coaster," I whisper under my mask, hesitating.

Cali approaches, her face pale but resolute. She kneels beside me, her hand resting on my arm. "It's over," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the pounding of my own blood in my ears.

I look down at my father, his life ebbing away. The rage that fueled me is gone, leaving behind a hollow ache. The satisfaction is fleeting, overshadowed by a profound sense of loss. This wasn't the catharsis I expected. It's just…over. Saying nothing, not even a word to him about how much he fucking broke me, I stand up and slide the brass off my fingers, putting them in my pocket. As a final fuck you, I take out my gun anyway, cock it, and put a bullet clean between his eyes, making sure the mother fucker is indeed dead.

Cali doesn't even flinch. But then again, I didn't either.

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