Page 40 of Entombed In Sin

Like Knox, my pet has triggers due to the trauma in her past. But unlike our Pretty Boy, who lashes out in a fit of rage, too much or reallyanytype of attention causes my pet to shrink into herself. As if she’s coiling tightly to protect herself. I’m going to snuff that reaction out of her one day.

Thatcher pulls to the side of the street in one of the rougher neighborhoods we’ve driven through. A single guy four stoops ahead of us sits with a cigarette in his mouth and pays us no attention. At least, he’s pretending not to.

“Just get out and walk down a few streets looking as edible as possible,” I tell her.

That shouldn’t be too hard for her. Beatrix’s timidness—punctuated by how she walks with her head down, hands wringing together, and quick strides—will be a beacon for the perverted and deranged. As will her lack of clothes.

“Edible?” She lets out a nervous giggle. “How do I do that?”

Thatcher answers before I can, “By just being yourself.”

I expect her to ask more questions, or to hesitate. This really isn’t a great part of town. Just thinking about leaving her, if only temporarily, makes me feel… uneasy. She’stooeasy of a target.It won’t even be much of a game. Then again, who cares about the game? Tonight is all about how much blood we can spill.

“Ok.” Beatrix nods once before reaching for the door handle. She shivers hard at the cold wind that hits her when she opens the door. “You’ll be close?”

“Of course,” Thatcher promises.

Beatrix smiles at him, then hops out. She shivers hard once before she looks back at us and says, “Alright, I’ll see you in a bit.”

With that, she shuts the door and starts to walk. It’s not in a straight line, but hey—her drunken stumbles work just as well. I chuckle as my brother hits the gas and takes off, leaving Beatrix to walk these sketchy streets on her own.

“She’s going to make this too easy,” Thatcher says.

“Good, we can’t go too far anyway,” I growl. “Knox might get himself into trouble before we catch up to her if we let it go on too long.”

Thatcher nods as he takes another turn, then another. “I’ll drop you off two blocks away. Then I’ll get out and circle around?—”

Something hard hits the windshield. Both Thatcher and I flinch as the egg shatters against the glass and the yoke slides down, obscuring Thatcher’s view of the road. He snarls.

“Fucking kids…” he growls and flips on the windshield wipers.

Rather than removing the yoke, the wipers only smear it, making visibility worse. Even with windshield wiper fluid, the egg doesn’t come off.

“Great,” Thatcher grumbles as he’s forced to pull to the side of the road. He doesn’t cut the engine, but he throws the car into park and climbs out. I reach down and grab my black ball cap. After it’s settled, covering my face, my bangs helping to obscure my face more, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out mygloves, prepared to go clean up the mess. Just as I yank them on, I hear someone snap, “On your knees motherfucker, or we’ll blow your head off.”

At the sound of someone threatening my brother, I don’t hesitate. I throw open my door and step out of the truck. As I straighten, I find myself looking down the barrel of a gun. The man holding it can’t be older than eighteen, though I could be wrong since most of his face is covered in tattoos. More ink runs down his neck and disappears beneath the collar of his thick jacket. He flashes me a grin, a gold tooth glinting in the streetlights.

“Same goes for you, homie,” the kid warns. “On your knees.”

I glare at him, feeling no fear of death, only annoyance it might happen at the hands of a child. And with a gun, no less. Psh. A coward’s weapon.

I could disarm him. The only thing that holds me back from moving is that he’s not alone. There are seven other guys surrounding the car, dressed in baggy clothes, oversized jackets, and covered with ink with their own guns drawn, pointed at me or Thatcher.

On the other side of the car, Thatcher slowly sinks to his knees. My teeth gnash together as anger and annoyance ripple through me. This isn’t how I saw the night going. They should be quaking in terror because of us. But Thatcher and I have brought knives to a gunfight, and we’re outnumbered. Fighting, we stand no chance. Yet on our knees, it isn't any better. Unable to figure a way out of this without both of us ending up dead, I’m forced to kneel.

As my knees hit the cold cement, I can’t help but feel a surge of panic and rage. Both are rare and uncomfortable emotions, inspired by the thought of Beatrix. We dropped her off, and she’s wandering these streets, expecting us to be watching out for her.If we don’t get out of this mess and go find her, she could be in serious fucking trouble soon.

“Got any money?” the guy in front of me asks. “Empty your pockets.”

I glare up into his eyes. The brown orbs blaze with a smug satisfaction. Slowly, I trail my gaze over his face, memorizing each tattoo and the structure of it. If I don’t kill him tonight, and he doesn’t kill me, we’ll meet again. I’ll make sure of that.

“Quit it,” another member snarls.

“Ah, c’mon! Might as well make something from this,” the kid in front of me complains loudly.

“Shut up,” the guy holding a gun to my brother’s temple snaps. He turns and looks at the other guys around us. “Everyone just fucking wait for the signal.”

A signal? What the hell is this about? Is this some game set up by their boss? I don’t know much about gang activity, but this feels… odd. From what little I do know, I expect to be robbed, beaten, and probably killed. But no one moves.

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