Page 34 of Property of Necro
“Sooo… Clarisa, you ready to tell me why you sold your four-year-old son to your coke dealer?” I arch my brow, pause for effect, and let her vileness perfume the air before I speak again. “How long did he have him before he died?” I taunt, already knowing the answer.
Walking over to my bag, I dig to the bottom for themanila folder. Using it as a prop, I flip it open and read the detailed police reports out loud.
Clarisa here gifted her dealer her son when she couldn’t pay a debt. He had the boy for four days before he died. They found his body in a dumpster behind a fast-food joint. You can guess what the man did to him. I’ll spare you the gory details. I have enough of a soul to know not everyone can stomach that level of depravity.
Clarisa was tried, and for whatever reason, the judge went lenient on her. No doubt it’s because she’s pretty with full lips and big tits. I bet the judge got off on her crocodile tears, the idiot. All she served was six months in a mental health facility. That was three years ago.
Sure, on paper, she’s been clean since. She attends church on Sundays and married a God-fearing man. I wonder if Jackie-boy knows his dear wife's sordid past.
Too bad for him, it doesn’t matter now.
No amount of Hail Marys will save her from her fate.
“I hope you’re ready to apologize to your son,” I growl, slap the file closed, toss it on the floor, and turn to the table. I pick up the scalpel and run the sharp edge over my thumb. A fine line of blood bubbles to the surface, and I suck the wound into my mouth. Humming around the metallic taste, I face the woman who’ll meet the vile pieces of shit who made me this way. They have a lot in common. Only I wasn’t lucky like Connor. I didn’t die.
“I hope you like to scream.” I chuckle darkly and draw the blade across her c-section scar—enough to slap her into reality but not enough to kill her just yet.
A delicious line of blood rises to the surface and drips down the sides of her hips.
Right on cue… she screams and screams behind the tape, trying desperately to break free.
That’s it, little bitch, keep trying to get away.
It’s early, and we’re just getting started.
Now, get lost. I’ve got shit to do.
Chapter
Thirteen
Pressinginto the soft blob of flour-coated dough, I pull it over on itself and press in with the heel of my palm as I roll it forward. “Is this how to do it?” I ask Mama as I turn the ball a quarter and repeat the steps, falling into the peaceful rhythm he showed me last week.
“Yes. Looks great. Keep goin’,” he encourages as low rock music pumps through a small Bluetooth speaker beside the sink.
Once I knead one loaf, I slide it across the floured island and work on the next in line.
It’s been sixteen days since I arrived at the Kings of Anarchy church.
Fourteen of those have been much the same.
Like clockwork, I wake up to Necro opening my casket. He fucks me over the lid, then watches me shower before giving me a fresh t-shirt to wear. I have breakfast at the kitchen island by myself. When everyone’s finished eating at the main table, Rot helps clean up before he delivers Necro’s breakfast to him in his office, while I help Mamawith lunch and dinner meal prep. He’s taught me a lot about cooking—from how to use measuring cups to measuring spoons. Did you know three teaspoons equal a tablespoon? You’re smart, I’m sure you did, but I didn’t. I never had anyone to teach me.
Today is bread day. There’s one of those a week.
The ovens are busy baking, and it smells divine.
Mama’s busy churning homemade butter using a stand mixer and adding fresh honey from his hive to sweeten it.
“I can’t believe you have bees,” I comment as I keep my hands busy. I’ve never met anyone who’s raised bees, kept bees, helped bees? Whatever the term is.
Scraping down the sides of his bowl, Mama flashes me a grin full of crooked teeth and chuckles warmly. “They’re not mine. They’re Doug’s.”
Oh yeah. Whoops. I forgot.
Doug’s a club brother. The quiet one, with the only regular name, who lives in a shack he built in the woods behind the church. He’s the club’s beekeeper and gardener. There are fourteen members in total and two prospects. Worm, the guy who lost two fingers, is one of those prospects.
Flashing Mama a closed-mouth smile, I continue kneading until all the loaves are complete. When lunchtime nears, Necro returns his empty breakfast plate, and I follow him back to his office. Yes. The same one with dead people on the walls and a human hand. I tell myself they’re not real. It doesn’t work, but I’m trying. In the corner, away from the preserved body parts, he’s fashioned me a reading nook of sorts with an old leather chair you’dexpect to see a mobster smoking a cigar in. Each day, he adds something new to my little nook.
