Page 43 of Unmasking Mayhem
"And what if not walking away means losing everything that you've built—we've built?”
"Then we'll build something else—together," I declare resolutely, forcing her to meet my gaze, sneaking in a breath of hope along with my despair as I glide my thumb over her bottom lip.
“Carter.” Her tone shifts, a rare softness layered beneath the urgency, and I can see the flicker of doubt dancing at the corners of her smile. “What if we can't?”
"Why not? Look at all we have right now—what we just did." I gently caress her cheek, leaning closer. "It’s a spark, and sparks ignite fires. I want it to burn bright—we can make it burn bright."
The silence stretches as her gaze travels back to the shadows moving in the corners of the dark room, those haunting shades bringing back memories neither of us are ready to confront. The sadness in her eyes tells me that reality isn’t that simple, and my heart aches knowing a shift is coming whether we want it to or not. A knot forms in my throat, a choking acknowledgment that her fears aren’t unfounded. Whitney’s grip tightens on my chin, her fingers trembling against my skin.
“What if he comes for you again? I can’t stand the thought of you being a target.”
“Carter… You're the target,” she says, exhaling heavily, her voice steadying with determination. King is planning something.”
“Whitney…” I murmur, my heart racing, teetering on the thin line of fear and desire. "What do you mean?”
“He knows about you and Red, and he isn't fucking happy, Carter.”
fourteen
sinner
Hawk (“Crow”)
Unholy: Futuristic, Dropout Kings
With the end of summer just around the corner, it's fucking cold as shit all around me right now. And I'm not talking about the weather; I'm talking about the atmosphere in and around Masked Mayhem. It feels like we're all walking on eggshells, waiting for all hell to break loose. But it isn't only the devious shit going down at MM; it's the fucking psycho that's still stalking Whitney that adds to the coldness betweeneveryone. It's like some sort of balance shifted, and somehow it needs to shift back.
Since the job we did the other night at the police captain's house, we've been laying low and staying careful and cautious, moving money and other items of evidence we stole from the safe. King and D both kind of put almost all of us on 'vacation,' so to speak, only keeping a select few to keep things running like the races and the fights we hold; everyone else was given time off until we're told otherwise. But the club, of course, is open normal hours with all the girls we usually have, so I'm there constantly watching Whitney dance, just fueling my obsession even more.
She doesn't know it, but I'm sitting at the end of her bed just watching her sleep, a thin t-shirt bunched up above her hip, revealing the silky curve of her ass while she sleeps positioned on her side. Now that she knows who I am, I don't have to wear the mask, but I still do sometimes, just not tonight.
The copious amount of alcohol I drank tonight continues to course through my body, keeping me warm and relaxed, although the voices in my head are slowly becoming noisier. Knowing I have a needle in my pocket and a bag of dope, I quickly mix up a shot using the thick orange cap that covers the top of the plunger. I find a spot in my hand that can be seen in the moonlight, and as soon as the drug makes its way into my veins, the voices are silent once more.
Focusing on Whitney's tattoos that trail up and down her leg, I follow each design like a different map, and I don't stop roaming my eyes over them until I get to the last one on the back of her neck that I can only see parts of, but I know what it says already.
I smile, remembering the day she got it; we were about fifteen and were at a party in some basement of a bar in Compton. Drunk and high, of course, the three of us—me, Raze, and Whitney—decided to get our names tattooed on ourselves.Whitney got hers on the back of her neck, our three names forming a heart in deep, dark black ink. Mine I got on my inner wrist, and Raze got his over his heart, which surprised me a lot; it still does, especially for someone who claims he has no heart.
When I snap out of the memory, I'm much closer to her than I was, obviously moving while trapped in the haze in my mind. She rolls on her back, lightly murmuring, and I gently roll on top of her, hovering my body mere inches above hers. I dip my head and lightly pepper kisses all over her cheeks before moving to her throat, ghosting my lips over her collarbone, watching an involuntary shiver take over her body. She moans in her sleep, so I keep going, gently rocking my hips against hers, seeing her legs part willingly, as if to invite me to slip between them.
Pushing up her shirt, I put her perky little breasts on display for me, noticing how hard her nipples are and the new bars she has them pierced with. My mouth waters, and I just want to lick one, but I don't just yet. I slide down her body and lightly push her panties to the side, my nose pressing against her pretty pierced clit, her scent driving me fucking wild. I know once my tongue touches her, she's going to wake up, and I can't wait anymore. Easily spreading her lips, I sensually glide my tongue up and down and then around her hole, watching her arousal drip out in the moonlight, her pretty pussy glistening right before my eyes.
I can’t help but smirk at the sight, a flicker of pride coursing through me for having known her long enough to recognize that she’s always had a fierce streak. Whitney’s body calls to me, and the warmth of the moment blurs the line between my need for her and the chaotic reality outside these walls. Her eyes flutter, still lost in a dream, a soft sigh escaping her lips as I lean closer, allowing my breath to mingle with the sweet scent of her pussy before I ease my tongue inside her, wet warmth enveloping it. There's a vulnerability radiating off her, one that shouldn'tentice me as much as it does, but it pulls me in, wrapping around my senses. Out there, the world is dark and tumultuous, yet here, in this moment, everything else fades away.
As I fuck her softly with my tongue and trail my fingers down her sides, mapping every curve and contour that I’ve memorized over the years, I can’t ignore the gnawing anxiety building in my gut. I shouldn’t be doing this, not when there's a chance the psycho could come crashing through that door at any moment. But each gasp from Whitney makes the chaos outside feel distant, and I teeter between caution and recklessness.
After licking her pussy until her legs begin to tremble, I bring my lips back to hers, tasting lingering alcohol and the sweetness of her arousal, our breaths mingling in the quiet room. It’s exhilarating. This sense of secrecy, of being dangerous, wraps around us like a soothing cloak. But even drowned in lust, I know the reality that waits just outside our blissful oblivion. As I take another look at her body, mostly covered in an array of tattoos and scars, I notice bruises, about a week old, all over her precious body that I'd never seen before. Is this why she's been distant and quiet? But who would they be from? A million questions flood my thoughts; I get swept up in the chaos of it all.
I can feel tears filling my eyes, and it makes me feel so fucking pathetic. What grown man has feelings and emotions and actually cries about shit? I wasn't raised with a father; it was the streets that taught me how to be a man, even if it wasn't the right way. Crying is a sign of weakness, and a man should never appear to be weak. Just someone else I'm letting down; it doesn't make the voices any nicer or quieter. They fucking taunt me, letting me know I'll never be the man that Whitney needs.
But as she stirs slightly beneath me, there's a flicker of resolve igniting within. I can't change the past or erase the mistakes that haunt me, but I can protect her from whatever darkness is lurking out there. I can be her shield, even if it means fumblingthrough all my own mess. I push the sorrow and confusion aside. She deserves more than to be caught in this crossfire. As her body relaxes, almost automatically adjusting to my presence like it’s the most natural thing in the world, I can’t stop thinking that our bond runs deeper than any inked names or shared secrets.
I hover over her still, glancing around the dimly lit room, gauging the shadows and analyzing every creak of the floor as if they were warning signs. The walls feel less like protection and more like a prison, and it's suffocating. The only real solace comes from the moon peeking through the curtains, casting fragile light across her sleeping figure.
Determined to rid Whitney of any remnants of fear my world could instigate, I stand up and make my way toward the window. I can’t let her see the clawing anxiety that’s been building inside me; she needs to feel safe. I pull the curtains tighter, painting the room in darkness that mirrors my mood, a sanctuary against the chaos outside.
I climb back on her, and she still doesn't wake up. On her nightstand is a small keepsake box I gave her a long time ago. My heart swells with the memories, and I can’t help but lean over carefully to retrieve it. Inside, it holds letters we wrote to each other in our youth, when we were separated during placement, about what we dreamed to become and who we wanted to be. I remember the promise I made, to always be there for her, to always look out for her. I fumble open the box, letting it spill its secrets across the soft surface of her body.
As I sift through the faded paper, I discover a small memory—a tiny photograph of us captured during a night out, arms slung around each other and laughter captured like a freeze-frame in time. The sight sends a rush of warmth through me. I wonder if she remembers that night, how free and untouchable we felt. We danced on the edge of wrong and right, where our dark romance bloomed in the silence.
