Page 123 of Riot's Thorn
After hearing them ask what I’m doing for the tenth time, I slap a strip of duct tape over their mouths. I can’t enjoy the slight resistance of the skin before the blade slices through like butter with all that noise. Each part of the body feels different. The layer of fat on the stomach is easy to slice if you hold the skin taut, while thighs require a little more force. I pay attention to the feel of each cut, getting lost in the process.
I’m about two seconds from slicing through their vocal cords when I take in my work and decide it’ll do. There’s enough exposed flesh to do the trick.
I grab the bucket in the corner, hearing the most unusual sound. It’s unlike anything I’ve heard before, like the sound of a thousand people typing on keyboards, only quieter. The clicks are fast and so many, the best word to describe it is that it sounds like an infestation. And in a way, it is.
Popping the lid off the five-gallon bucket, I dump the beetles on top of both Rolands and quickly put the top on the box, since these guys can fly. The beetles only eat decomposing flesh, but without food or water, these two won’t last long.
I really like the thought of them spending days in the dark, strapped down, bugs crawling all over them, laying eggs on and in them, and not getting a break from that unique clicking sound. It sounds like a shitty way to go out. Exactly what they deserve.
The two men’s screams are muffled from the tape, but the abject horror is still clear. Five years ago, I watched a documentary on dermestid beetles and how anthropologists use them to clean decaying flesh off bones, and ever since, I’ve wanted to do this.
I check the live feed on my phone, making sure the camera is up and running. I needed a way to see when the beetles were done, because if I opened the lid and released thousands of bugs into Rigger’s precious brothel, he’d lose his shit. Once only bones are left, we’ll take the box over to Levi and have him incinerate them for us.
With everything as it should be, I flip off the light and leave the two pedophile assholes to their torture. It’s actually genius, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t have to change my clothes. There’s not a drop of blood on me.
I wonder how Parker feels about keeping beetles as pets. They could really come in handy.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
PARKER
Iblast my music on my kick-ass sound system in my kick-ass new car as I drive to the clubhouse. Riot has been semi-secretive about why he’s kept me away, but he doesn’t realize how much he reveals when he asks me things like, “loveseat and a sofa or a sectional?” Or, “What firmness do you like in a mattress?” So I think it’s safe to say he’s at least refurnishing his place, and I get to see what he’s done today.
Riot is standing in front of the clubhouse when I pull into the parking lot, and I bite my lip, feeling a little tingle between my legs. Will it always be this way? Will I always have a visceral reaction to just the sight of him?
His brown hair, streaked with blond from the sun, is finger-combed to the side, doing this perfect swoop thing that he doesn’t even try to do. He just has good hair. This morning, he looked like Grizzly Adams, since he hadn’t shaved once while we stayed at the cabin, but he must’ve shaved since then, because his facial hair is only a little more than a shadow now. I think he looks sexy both ways.
He’s in his usual worn black jeans, black tee, boots, and his cut, showing off the tattoos running up and down his arms. There’s a new one on his inner left wrist, a beautiful micro-realistic rose and stem with a single thorn. Like his other tattoos, it’s black and gray, save for the thorn that’s a vibrant green. Unfortunately for me, I think the ridiculous nickname he gave me is going to stick.
I’m grinning as I park until I notice his hands are tucked in his jeans pockets, a serious expression on his face. Okay, yes, his expression is always serious, but I’ve learned to decipher the slight differences. For instance, when he’s happy, the muscles around his mouth are relaxed and he’s not clenching his jaw, unlike right now, when the guy could crack a molar with how tense he is.
A million worries flash through my mind. Are the rats okay? Is there someone else who wants to kill me? I wish that weren’t a real concern, but let’s be honest, it’s happened entirely too many times in the last few months. Or maybe he’s just nervous to show me the new furniture he put in?
Sliding out of the front seat, I’m barely all the way out before he grips me by the back of the neck and pulls me in for a kiss. The ease with which he shows affection now never ceases to surprise me. I still remember how shocked he was the first time I held his hand. Now look at him.
He pulls away and kisses the tip of my nose. “Come on, Little Thorn. I’ve got shit to show you.”
My small hand slips into his big one, and he gives it a squeeze, which starts a stirring in my core. It’s been way too long since we’ve been intimate. Even after I was on the mend and wanting more than a cuddle, he refused, saying I needed more time to heal. I think he was the one who needed the time because I constantly caught him staring at my injuries with a murderous expression. If he could bring Roland back to life and kill him all over again, he would.
Not that I can say for sure Roland is deceased. All I know is what Riot told me, which is, “he’ll never hurt you again, LittleThorn.” This was after I saw the news reporting that both Roland and his dad had gone missing. I assume Senior met the same fate as Junior, but I don’t care enough to ask. Riot said he’s not going to be a problem, and I trust him with every fiber of my being.
We round the corner of the clubhouse and walk the path through the trees to his cabin. The second it comes into view, my feet stop moving. I gasp, my hand covering my mouth as I take in what looks like a whole new house. I guess he didn’t just buy some new furniture.
“Lucas,” I say, curling into his side, which isn’t comfortable because he’s still ramrod straight, all tense. It’s not until I tell him how beautiful it is that hesemi-relaxes. “Those windows will bring in so much light, and I love the black trim with the green. Did you choose that?”
“I wanted it to reflect both of us,” he says, his voice monotonous. I have a feeling that until I see everything he’s done, he won’t relax. So, as much as I want to look closely at every detail, it’ll have to wait because it stresses me out when he’s like this.
“Show me the rest.” I tug him onto the new porch I’m not afraid of putting a hole into and take note of the two comfy-looking chairs. “Oh my god, I can just see us having our morning coffee out here. Of course, we’ll have to get an outdoor enclosure for the rats so they can hang out with us.”
“Just wait,” he says cryptically.
He opens the front door, and again, I gasp. The layout isn’t much different, but the small changes he made will make a big difference. There is so much to look at, from the new flooring to the new paint and furniture, but the thing I go to first is the enclosure for Ben and Amy.
“Holy moly. They’ll get lost in there.”
“Rats actually have a really good sense of direction. They have neurons that only fire when they’re facing a certaindirection. So, if they’re facing north, the north neuron is activated.”
“That’s good to know.” As if knowing we’re talking about them, they pop their heads inside from a tiny dog door. “Where does that go?”
