Page 115 of Slay Ride

“Bennett, stop trying to play footsie with me,” Kindra says as she kicks him under the table.

I glare at him, knowing it was my foot he was searching for.

“Oh, all the flight plans have been settled,” Ezra says. He’s clearly trying to take some of the heat away from his brother, despite having told Bennett he would do no such thing. “The only catch was that two of us needed to sit in coach for the flight to New York, so I put Cat and Bennett there.”

Kindra nearly chokes on a puff pastry. “Absolutely not.” Crumbs fly from her mouth, and she grabs her wineglass to drown whatever remains in her throat. “I’ll sit with Cat in coach, and you can sit with your brother. I’m not subjecting her to his torment for an entire flight.”

“It’s okay,” I say, grateful that Ezra has done what little he can for us. The rest is up to me. “We had a truce for the hunt, and we learned how to tolerate each other, didn’t we, Bennett?”

He smiles sweetly at Kindra. A little too sweetly. If he doesn’t pull it back a bit, she’ll see straight through him. “I can keep my rude comments to myself if she can do the same. Right,kitten?”

That taunting snark is back in the word, but it still travels straight to my pussy. I grip the sides of my armless chair. “Yep, I can keep my mouth shut.”

But not my fucking legs. If she asks me to promise that, I won’t be able to.

Kindra places the back of her hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? Maybe we should have a doctor check you out before flying.”

“Hey, I’m serious,” I say. “We get along fine when we want to.”

“Why would you want to?”

Before I’m forced to answer that question, the doors on the other side of the room fly open, and Chef Maurice enters. A silver trolley with a large cloche on top glides ahead of him. As he pulls the cart to a stop, he lifts the lid and reveals . . .

A massive turkey.

Not just any massive turkey, butthemassive turkey. I can tell because one of the legs has been affixed in place with a bit of butcher’s twine.

I look at Bennett, but he’s already looking at me, likely thinking the same thing. The turkey that he fucked, the turkeythat has been inside my asshole, is about to be served to the entire group.

“I got dibs on that turkey leg right there,” Bennett shouts as he stuffs his napkin into his dress shirt and points to the Frankensteined appendage.

“Suddenly, I am not very hungry,” Grim grumbles from another table.

Rosie just shrugs and readies her plate.

With growing horror, I watch as Chef walks around the room, cutting off bits of turkey and laying the white meat on the outstretched plates. His servers shuffle behind him, dropping fluffy dollops of potatoes and skewers of grilled veggies beside the meat. People begin digging in, and I can only watch as I remember the things we’ve done to that carcass.

Chef reaches our table, and I tell myself that Bennett technically fucked the cantaloupe, not the turkey, as meat falls onto Kindra’s plate. It’s okay if I take this one to my grave, right?

Right?

And now it’s too late, because she’s chewing and swallowing.

Bennett feels no remorse at all, as is evidenced by the way he brings the turkey leg to his nose and sniffs it. “I dunno, Cat. It kind of smells like ass. What do you think?”

He holds the leg toward me, and I don’t know whether to laugh or scream, so I just lean forward and sniff. “Maybe a little rubbery.”

With a chuckle, he pulls the meat toward his mouth and takes a bite. His eyes roll back in his head, and he smacks his lips.

A slight moan creeps up my throat, but I snatch up my wineglass and swallow that sucker before it ever sees the light of day. Still, the way he looks at me as he devours that turkey leg . . .

“Cat? Earth to fucking Cat?” Kindra nudges me out of my daydream. “What do you think of the turkey?”

“Oh, I haven’t tried it yet.”

“It’s veryfilling,” Bennett says. “Just open up and stuff yourself.”

Kindra grimaces at him. “Don’t be vulgar.”

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