Page 7 of Choke

“Good,” she squeaks, the word barely audible.

Callum spits on her face and smiles. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself, slut, because I plan on making you my free-use cum bucket.” With a groan, he stiffens as he comes, abandoning his hold on her neck to wrap his arm around her middle. “What am I going to do with you?”

Guilt racks my body as she whispers, “Let me go.”

8

CALLUM

Idrop the phone as Atlas walks into the room. “Who were you talking to?

“No one.”

“Cut the crap, Callum. You look like you saw a damn ghost. That tells me whoever you were talking to is someone you want to keep from me.”

I hate lying to Atlas. Every truth I omit to tell him is a heavy punch lodging in my body, but I don’t want him to hate me. Atlas doesn’t need a reason to see a bigger monster than I already am. But I’ll no longer be a piece of trash who mindlessly hurts others. I’ll be a soldier breaking rank to do the right thing.

“The less you know, the better.”

“Fuck off. I’m not a child, Callum.”

“I’m getting her out of here, and…” I don’t know how to say the next part. How can I tell the man I love that I’m busy hatching a plan to kill his father?

“And what, Callum?”

“They’re going to kill Meyer. It’s the only way all three of us can be free. Turns out that Mona is connected.Reallyconnected. Her sister works for Alaric Cinder.”

Atlas sits on the bed, stunned into silence. I am not sure if he cares about his father dying. That man should have lost the privilege to breathe years ago. The only concern I have is the void Mona will leave in our lives. In such a short time, she’s changed our decrepit world into something better. “What will happen to Mona?”

“She’ll go home. She isn’t like us. She has a family. A big one full of people who love her.”

“You think you’ll be able to let her go?”

Will I be able to let her go?

“No, but we have to give her a shot. A chance for something decent. We owe her that.”

PART TWO

TWO YEARS LATER

9

CALLUM

If I were to pick one word to describe me, it would be dysfunctional. At least I’m self-aware. Most people with proclivities similar to mine would proclaim themselves as misunderstood. Which is laughable when one contemplates the moronic notion of that word. What does it even mean to be misunderstood? It allows gray to bleed into situations that should be black. Fictional stories would likely depict me as morally ambiguous and complex. But in reality, I’m simply a bad guy.

Good people don’t have a garage and a large plot of land they keep handy for killing.

Placing my phone on the dock, I hit play, filling the space with C & C Music Factory’s iconic nineties bopGonna Make You Sweat.

“I love this song. It’s severely underrated,” I yell over the music. “The beat allows me to work more creatively. Do you like music,”—I glare at the driver’s license on the table—“Seamus?”

I hum along to the song as I sharpen the Miyabi knife before holding it to the overhead light. “There’s nothing like Japanese and German steel. No one makes knives or cars like those twocountries, and there’s a reason for that.” I swiftly bring down the eight-inch blade on Seamus’ pinky finger, disconnecting it from his hand.

Sweat beads on Seamus’ brow as his muffled screams drown out my music.

“Manners, Seamus,” I mumble as I examine his stout finger. “That’s how you got into this situation, by not having good manners.” I wave the finger, oozing blood, in Seamus’s face. “You think the loss of a finger taught you a lesson?”

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