Page 34 of Run Little Killer
"Sorry," Lennon says softly as I drag the red headed guy– Micheal McFarlane from Henderson, West Virginia, according to his drivers license– from the bathroom and across the concrete floor of the garage.
The metal grates of the floor drain clang as I drop his legs, wiping my hands off on my jeans. "Don't you ever apologize for someone else's actions,” I grumble. “Especially some piece of shit that put his hands on you."
Her lips tug up at the corners– the same lips that were just wrapped around my cock, kissing the base as I unloaded down her throat– and a mischievous smirk spreads across her face. "Thanks, but I was talking about your jeans."
I glance down at the slightly darker patch of denim on the inside of my thigh where her sweet cunt came on me repeatedly. “Oh, that,” I chuckle, shaking my head. "Never apologize for coming on me, darlin’."
"Noted," she replies, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth.
She's making light of things, and while I know we wereable to diffuse the moment and break her out of her panic attack, it's clear she's still a little shaken.
And she definitely doesn't need to be around for this next part.
I watch as she fills a styrofoam cup with coffee and takes a sip. Just like the night we found her, she's covered in blood. I can't just send her away to the cafe across the street without drawing unnecessary attention.
"Why don't you head into the office," I suggest, tipping my head towards the door on the back wall as I grab an empty oil drum.
"Pass," she says, placing her cup on the workbench.
"This isn't going to be pretty, darlin'," I warn, rolling the drum across the concrete.
Her fingers curl around the metal edge of the workbench as she hoists herself up to sit. "Story of my life," she snorts.
"Lennon–" I start, the sharp clang of the metal drum interrupting me as I drop it near the body.
"I'm not leaving," she snaps. "I need this, Rhett."
Her eyes pin me in place as she brings the cup to her lips and takes another sip. A moment of silence stretches between us, and I fold like I was just dealt the shittiest hand in a round of hold ‘em.
Who am I to tell her how to process her shit?
Carding my fingers through my hair, I flash her a smile. "Suit yourself. Just head into the office if it becomes too much."
"Unlikely," she quips, pulling one leg up and tucking it beneath her.
I raise a brow in her direction and she matches me, lifting her own in challenge.
This girl's something else.
A high-pitched wail cuts through the air before I can respond, Nix stepping out from behind a silver Toyota wearing a mechanic's jumpsuit and holding an angle grinder. He looks towards Lennon, a feral grin spreading across his face.
"If I had it my way, he'd still be breathing while I did this, but the old man beat me to the kill." He turns his attention to the corpse on the ground. "Dr. Hawthorne is ready for surgery," he says, jerking his head so the plastic shield drops down to cover his face. He revs the trigger of the grinder like the showboating bastard he is as he walks towards the body.
Crouching down, Nix brings the spinning disc to the dead guy’s left hand, wet chewing sounds filling the air as blood and flesh spray out. He then repeats the motion on the other, the motor of the grinder winding down as he sets it on the concrete.
"You know, I don't think I said it yet," he murmurs, plucking up the hands from the floor and looking over at me. "But, you go Glen Coco," he mocks, clapping the severed hands together. Wet, sloppy slaps sound, blood dripping as he shifts his gaze to Lennon and winks.
She pauses, coffee cup just inches from her lips, and laughs.God what a sound.I don't think she's laughed yet–trulylaughed. Rather than a cold and forced defense mechanism, this is warm and smooth like a shot of top shelf whiskey.
"Did you just quoteMean Girls?" she asks, gaping at him in astonishment.
"Sure fucking did. It's hilarious," he deadpans, dropping the severed hands to the floor with a wet splat.
Nix comes off as a miscreant most of the time. A menace to society– and a pain in my ass more often than not– but Iknow he is capable of caring. The night he got patched in, he drank his weight in cheap liquor to celebrate. After the last club cunt crawled out of our room, I learned that an obliterated Nix was the most open version. He talked about his mom and his fucked up time in foster care, how joining the Deviant Devils made him feel like he actually belonged somewhere for once. Kid’s a shithead, but life made him that way– one disappointment after another until his only option was to hide behind a hardened exterior.
Lennon takes a sip of her coffee, lowering the cup back down as she shakes her head.
The angle grinder whirrs back to life as Nix sinks to a knee beside the body. Pressing the disc into a thigh, it rips through the denim. Blood spews out and splatters across his face shield, the grinder whining as the disc starts to chew through the bone. It sounds like a goddamn fork in a garbage disposal before the last bit of bone is cracked. Sparks fly out as the disc makes contact with the metal grate beneath, Nix letting off the power button as he pulls the grinder back.
