Page 3 of Worse Than Wicked

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“I’ll talk to Royal,” Baron promises.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, and I stomp off to the pretty, tiled bathroom with the skylight and the fancy soaps that Mabel likes. I thought once we got Mabel, everything would be fixed, that it would all be good again, but it’s not. I’m not even sure when it stopped being good. I thought it was when she left, but maybe it wasn’t her at all.

Sometimes I wonder if I even know her at all. Or Baron.

Or myself.

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The problem of her being gone is gone, but there are new problems now. Like how I’m never quite sure if she slipped away while I was watching her just because it was easier, or because she knew Baron would be pissed at me, and she wanted that. Maybe she even wanted him to kill me. I don’t think he would. But maybe someday I’ll fuck up enough that he realizes he doesn’t need me.

Thattheydon’t need me.

Before I drop my jeans, I remove my wallet, then slide a hand in the front pocket. I finger the smooth little bead, debating whether to take another one before bed. It will keep me up all night, but then, I never sleep well anyway. Too many monsters lurk there.

I already took one today, watched porn on my phone between batches, jerked off until my dick was sore. I have one here, though, and I’m already itching for it, so I swallow it dry, letting that bitter chemical burn spread from the back of my throat, seeping over my tongue as I shower.

I jerk off again, using plenty of cream rinse so I don’t chafe. I picture Mabel, tied to the bed when Baron hunted herdown, about what we did to her. I think about Harper, tied to the tree, what we did to her. I think about Mabel tied to the bed another time, what we all did to her, my brothers and me, one after another, one-two-three-four, the train we ran, and how we left her there, and Dad found her.

When I’m done, I get out of the shower and towel off. I hear Baron and Mabel talking in the other room. They’re probably talking about me. That’s if they even remember I’m here, if they care. They could be plotting, though I’m not sure what. It’s a dumb thought anyway. I’ve been spending too much time in Wonderland—both the place where it’s made and the place it takes me—and it’s making me paranoid.

They’re not plotting. They’re not trying to get rid of me. I’m part of the family, equally important to both of them, just like they always say. Besides, the killings here have stopped since we all moved in together, so I know they’re not luring some man to his death. If one of them was the Black Widow Killer, they’ve stopped now. That has to mean something. If I’m not contributing to our relationship, at least I’m contributing to society. I’m saving lives by being here, making sure they don’t take any more.

Hell, I’m practically a superhero.

The thought knocks me back to that night in the woods, and I stumble against the counter, catching it so I don’t fall. I’m too high to feel any pain, but I don’t want to draw their attention. When I leave the bathroom, they’ve fallen silent, but that’s not unusual. Baron and Mabel don’t make much small talk. They’d rather talk to exchange information. I’m the one Mabel talks to about the little things. Baron thinks they don’t matter, but they do.

In the bedroom, I fall facedown onto the bed, then roll over and stare at the ceiling. I want a cigarette, but I told them I quit. They don’t know what I do after they drop me off in themorning and go off together. That I get the first batch started, and then I go out back and sit on one of the cinderblocks grown over with grass, and light the day’s first cigarette, and think about him.

About what I would say if I saw him again, how I’d make fun of his failure to launch—not only did he have to repeat his senior year, but now he’s kicking around the same town, with no job, no plans, probably still going to high school parties like some creep.

I could text him, taunt him, but I never do.

If I did, he might make fun of me too, point out all my failures, all the things I already know and think about way too fucking often.

I pick up my phone and scroll for a minute, checking to see if Harper or Royal have posted. They haven’t. No one in my family is big on social media, but I was hoping maybe there would be an update. I’m too much of a pussy to text and ask. She’ll probably tell me to fuck off, that I don’t deserve to know about Olive after I bashed her head in. And she’s right.

Baron’s not the only reason we’re not going home for Christmas.

I hear Mabel murmuring in the kitchen. I toss my phone aside, consider telling her to come suck me off, but I don’t have it in me to sweet talk her, so I just jerk it for a few minutes. Even that’s too much effort though. The Alice is coursing through me, and I’m horny as hell, but I’m already wrung out.