Page 47 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

Dean presses his lips together and looks away, pausing as his attention drifts to something further away. I follow his gaze and find Rylie and Avalon making their way through the crowd—people parting almost warily as Avalon stomps forward without a care and her little friend following at a much slower and even pace.

“I think it’s best to talk about this at the house,” Dean replies. “Maybe then, Rylie can explain.”

Rylie?I focus on the girl in question and as if she senses my attention, her head lifts and her eyes meet mine.

Guilt. It’s clear as day. Her chest swells on a breath and she bites down into her lower lip, her eyes skittering away from mine to Abel.

“Fuck.” I grit my teeth and start forward, digging my keys out of my bag. “I’ll meet you at the fucking house, then,” I snap back, calling over my shoulder. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

21

MICKI

The placeI’ve chosen to end Andrew Bennington’s life is a quiet little house. A hut compared to what he’s used to. To the average person, though, it’s easily a very comfortable middle-class home. It’s small but quaint. A two bedroom with a wraparound porch set on the outskirts of Eastpoint. A little country home with ranch-like appeal, and just like the surrounding areas, it’s empty. Completely cleared out of people and furniture. Far enough away that no one will hear his screams.

When we arrive, one of the men under my employ leaves to retrieve the items I’ve requested while the other two get Andrew into the house and set him up in the basement. I sit on the outside steps and smoke a cigarette that I pilfered from their van before it was taken again, letting the soft gray puffs from the burning end drift into the night.

I feel dirty. Unclean. I close my eyes.

Because I am.

It’s not something I can entirely blame on Andrew. He’s a symptom of the cancer that is my life. A side effect of the disease that’s overtaken me.

Time flows inconsequentially as I finish the cigarette, stubbing it out against the edge of the wooden steps, and stare up into the night. Eventually, the van returns and the driver from before arrives, carrying a small black bag. His ski mask remains in place—at my request. I don’t want to know who these men are. Not their names. Not their faces. But I also don’t care if they know me—it won’t matter in a few short weeks.

“Here.” He tosses the bag into my lap and I arch a brow at the logo on the side.

“You could’ve just gone to Walmart,” I say as I get to my feet and carry the bag inside.

He follows. “You strike me as the type to appreciate name brand clothes.”

I pause in the living room and look back. “I don’t.”

Blue eyes pierce through my flesh from the holes cut out in his mask. He doesn’t seem like he’s judging me, but considering what he’s doing here, I have no doubt he’s analyzing me. Curious as to why a girl who looks like me is doing something like this.

Appearances can be deceiving. I know that all too well.

I disappear into the bathroom and pull off the clothes I wore to the game. I stuff them inside the bag as I pull on a black skirt and a dark sleeveless blouse. Lifting my hair out of the collar, I turn towards the mirror and pause.

The driver chose well. The fit is immaculate. The clothes are smooth against my skin, almost making me forget what I plan to do in them. Doesn’t matter how nice they feel, I suppose. The skirt is for Andrew. A last farewell to the man who made my life a living hell for so long.

Once I’m done, I shove the rest of my old clothes back into the bag and leave the bathroom. The driver stands outside the door leading down to the basement. I shove the bag into his hands on my way down.

“Burn these,” I say. He doesn’t reply, but he does take the bag, and I descend the staircase into the basement, ready to get this over with.

Andrew Bennington is tied to a chair, completely stripped of his clothes as he struggles against his bindings and the rope knot stuffed in his mouth. I smirk as one of the two other men still in ski masks finishes tying off the last of the knots on the Hishi Karada ties. I arch a brow as the man pauses, his eye skimming over Andrew’s frame in a practiced fashion.

“You’ve done this before,” I comment.

He doesn’t look my way as he responds and when he does, he doesn’t acknowledge my comment. “I made it tighter than it would usually be,” he says. “And added a neck and face tie.”

I can see that. The normal Hishi Karada is merely a pattern of rope ties covering the chest from the neck to the crotch, and it’s something I have some familiarity with. Something Andrew does too. For him, though, the expertise he has in something like shibari is surface level, and it was never used to do anything other than restrict and hurt. So, that’s what I’m letting him feel.

Andrew’s eyes are wide and angry, his brows lowered. The drugs have worn off and he’s conscious and ready to fight. I take a step forward and then circle his back, running a finger along one of the ropes that runs across his shoulder blades. I can’t squeeze beneath it. That means it’s just tight enough.

“Good work,” I say. “Do you have the other things I asked for?”

He nods and then turns, heading across the room to retrieve a small bag from the bare wood counter that runs the length of the back of the basement. He tosses it towards me and I deftly catch it as I circle towards the front of Andrew once more. I smile down at him as I reach inside and withdraw a metal dog collar—the kind with dual prongs that will tighten and squeeze against the throat once pulled up by a leash.

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