Page 24 of Psycho Killers

"Get on your hands and knees," I order her, waiting impatiently as she slowly rises to position, pulling my knife out of my pocket.

I kneel down behind her, lining up my dick with her ass, and fist her hair and give it a rough tug as I pound into her without warning. She screams, but I smile, feeling an odd sense of calmness washing over me. Her fingers frantically claw at the ground, the dirt getting her nowhere. But I take great pleasure from a fighter, and this bitch is putting up one hell of a fight.

But she won't win. I will, and it'll end with her not only losing, but losing her life.

Euphoria consumes my head as I rhythmically fuck her, giving her deep, calculated strokes, feeling her body shaking frantically beneath me. Gripping my knife, I feel my orgasm coming, my insides turning to fucking white hot rage and an insatiable hunger for need.

"Thanks for everything, Jo," I whisper in her ear as I pull her hair back, my lips ghosting along the shell of it.

She trembles as I put the sharp edge of my knife to her throat, still fucking her ass while her palms and knees dig into sticks, stones, and dirt.

I know I can't come inside her, so just as I feel myself about to fucking explode, I pull out of her ass and bust on her back, slitting her throat at the same time. I continue to shower her until my balls are empty and not one ounce of anger still lingers.

I stare down at her dead body, covered in blood, half fucking naked, my thoughts drifting back to Calista—they're always drifting back to her. Drenching her in the rest of the lighter fluid in my pocket, I light a match and toss it onto her body. And then I light another and another, until the box is empty and a roaring fire burns like hell in front of me.

I cleanup the best I can, making sure to bring everything I use with me back to her car a few hours later once her body actually started to burn away all potential evidence of my DNA on her. I know I'm covered in her blood and that there are places I missed, but I'm going home from here so I won't have to answer to anyone.

As I drive her car back to my side of the city, I can't get Calista off my mind. Am I supposed to tell her what I did? Why I did it? Is she going to consider it cheating and possibly leave me for the others? I'm driving myself fucking crazy, but a half-smoked blunt in the ashtray helps calm my nerves the rest of the way home as I smoke it to nothing but Ash.

I pull her car into the parking garage, leaving it on the top level, but not before methodically searching for some kind of GPS that could give its location away and possibly hem me up. I just need to wait till the morning so I can talk to Five about taking it to the chop shop.

I walk from the garage to our apartment building, noticing only Cali's light on from the street as I look up at her window; the rest of the apartment pitch black.

I'm already freaking the fuck out on how I'm going to tell her what I did. It ain't like she doesn't know I have skeletons in my closet—she does too; we all do. But now, after tonight, my skeletons are so much fucking worse. It all makes me wonder this: is she going to be able to handle them, or is this what ends up pushing her away?

THIRTEEN

MORALS

SLOW DOWN: THE ACADEMY IS...

FIVE

The click of the doorknob jolts me upright on the couch. Half-asleep, I grab my gun, instinctively bringing it to a ready position. Luckily for Ash, I don't shoot him as he slips silently into the apartment. Even in the dim light, I see the terror and shame etched on his face—a clear sign that something terrible has happened.

"Whoa, easy, Five," he whispers, his hands raised in mock surrender.

I lower the weapon, engaging the safety, and place it on the couch. Rubbing my eyes, I'm fucking stunned by his arrival, especially since none of us knew he'd been released from the hospital.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask, my throat dry. I walk to the kitchen for a drink, returning with a gallon of milk, which I gulp down directly from the container. "When the fuck were you discharged?"

"Earlier. I had things to do," he mumbles, avoiding my gaze. "But I need your help."

He gestures towards the balcony as I return the milk to the refrigerator. He retrieves something from the silverware drawer—a stash of pills—and swallows a handful without checking to see what they are before heading out onto the balcony.

Fuck, he's already back on the drugs.

A sigh escapes my lips. I know, with sickening certainty, that he fucked up badly and is now consumed by regret. The thought of another suicide attempt sends a wave of dread through me, my mind racing with the countless possibilities.

I roll a joint and throw on a hoodie, joining him outside. The cool night air envelops us like a blanket, protecting us from the darkness that was about to kick us in the ass. He leans against the railing, smoking a cigarette, his gaze fixed on the city lights below. I stand beside him, resting my elbows on the railing, choosing to look up at the starlit sky.

"How bad is it?" I finally ask, breaking the heavy silence.

His demeanor and tone speak volumes; even without him looking at me, I can tell his pain is far worse than any before.

"Shit. Pretty fucking bad," Ash admits, taking a long drag of his cigarette, delaying the inevitable.

"What did you fucking do, Ash? And what the hell do you need my help with?" I growl, hurt by his return to drugs.

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