Page 77 of Property of Necro
We’re not so different—he and I.
He’s big.
I’m big.
He’s bald.
I’m bald.
Then again, I don’t have any tattoos. Who needs those when I’ve got scars? Lots and lots of scars. Also, I’m not arapist, racist prick who sells women to the highest bidder. That’s all him.
This collection of criminals I plan to snuff out came from Kade. A biker in the Sacred Sinners, Texas Chapter. He and his old lady Rosie take down sex trafficking rings and the like. She usually lets him have his fun with their finds, but when they collect too many, they send the scraps our way to make disappear.
We’re good at that.
Out of the goodness of their hearts, they also send a woman or two to slake Coffin’s hunger.
Kade’s also one of my many Red Room subscribers. So he gets to see his benevolence firsthand.
I hope he likes what I have planned next.
Why ishe just sitting there?
Is Necro really going to let this man touch me?
What’s his play?
I’m going to kill Coffin and Rot for putting me through this.
Assholes.
Such fuckingassholes.
The skinhead with a short, coke-can-sized cock licks his lips obscenely as he advances on me. If he thinks he can stick that thing anywhere near me, he has another thing coming. I’ll rip it off. I’ve never done it before, but it can be the first dick I’ll add to my trophy room that Coffin was going on about. Not that I want one of those, a severed cock or a trophy room, but a single prick in a jar. Just one. Sure. That might work. Maybe Coffin would let me put it in his trophy room—my single win.
Ugh.
I gotta get my act together and do something.
Necro’s as useless as a mannequin. Oh. I can feel his eyes on me, but he hasn’t moved an inch. Unfortunately, thick-thighed, could-eat-me-for-breakfast Nazi dude has.
He slips closer, and there’s precum glistening on the head of his cock. I sure hope Necro’s followers are paying a lot of money to watch because I don’t like this one bit. I also expect some of that money to end up in my bank account. Consider it me cashing in on pain and suffering. I think I deserve it.
“Come on, honey. Spread those legs. I can see the carpet matches the drapes.”
Ew.
Who says that?
Swallowing the sudden throw-up in my throat, I tug my t-shirt down so he doesn’t get any view of any of my private parts as I glare at him. “Fuck you.” I spit at his feet.
The man laughs.
It’s brash and echoes in the small room, ringing in my ears.
He strokes himself harder, like me fighting him is a turn-on.
Gross.
