Page 22 of Broken Queen
Once she brought my glass, I sipped the foamy top, glaring past the bar over to Spiky. My mind craved throwing him in the back of my truck right now, and that thought reminded me of the first person I had killed.
Back then, the fucker thought I was cheating, and he was right, but it’s a game of poker, not a life or death sentence. Outside the gambling hall, the rain poured down, and he waved a gun in my face, threatening me. But once he pulled back that hammer, I stabbed him in the neck, again and again, thrills and madness rushing me forward, until he collapsed.
Then, that sense of pure joy left me. I wiped the rain off of my face, my hands trembling, looking down at that rain-soaked body. The owner wanted us to keep our drama outside, and like good gamblers we had moved behind the building, but now there was a dead body lying on the gravel. Gabby was working at this bar, The Raw—one of her three jobs—thank god, the owner didn’t give a shit, so long as she found someone to cover her shift.
Gabby ran over, soaked like a dog, worse than the corpse, her jaw hanging open. The rain pattered on the gravel, and the scent of wet rocks and coppery blood wafted between us. I had gotten into a fair amount of fights; you don’t grow up in Oakmont without breaking your knuckles. She was used to finding me in hospitals and holding cells, but never like this.
I had never killed someone before. I didn’t know what to do.
What do I do, Gabby? I asked her, panic leaking through my voice. Shit, shit, shit. My face was wet. I kept rubbing my eyes. The fucking rain.
But instead of scolding me, Gabby’s eyes stayed wide, taking it in. Then she nodded.
Calm down, Gabby had said. We’ll take care of this. Help me get him in the trunk.
But each murder makes you feel a little less. And I can tell you that self-defense is a straight up gateway drug to pure murder. Eventually, I was numb. I didn’t feel anything besides a little thrill when Zira aimed that gun at me.
But as I sat in that ‘classy’ bar, I did feel something while looking at that spiky-hair son of a bitch milking his whisky sour like he was a fine ass gentleman, his chin held up high. Spiky white hair, like he was ripped from a nineties music video. I knew I should have stopped staring at him, or I’d get antsy. Things always got a little bloody when I got antsy.
But I couldn’t stop. I wondered what it’d be like to see Spiky on his knees, his hands cut clean from his body. His mutilated corpse lying in the back of my truck.
Sometimes I wished my sister would have told me to stop, but she never did. Maybe she thought it was her burden to help me. In the end, she had to be my mother, my father, and my sister.
Spiky went over to the bar to pay for his tab, and our eyes met briefly.
“How’s it going?” he asked politely. I lifted my nose, and as soon as I did, he turned away. The coward. I didn’t let my eyes leave him, studying those deep ridges around his nose. I hadn’t remembered his sniffer being that round at the Masquerade, but it must have been covered up by his mask. I bet he could smell the grime under my fingernails already.
Spiky signed his name, and a loud ticking noise ate at my brain, my skin burning the farther away he got from me. This man and I had nothing to do with each other. He didn’t mean shit to me.
But I had morals, at least sometimes. The other member in Zira’s guillotine game had only looked at her; he hadn’t touched her. Spiky had broken the rules by touching my queen. Sometimes, I could appreciate someone who played by their own rules. I did it myself.
But I didn’t tolerate shit when it came to Zira.
I tucked a twenty under my glass, then exited, getting in my truck right on time to see Spiky drive off in his sports car. He went back to Opulent Gates, driving to another section of the private community, one I hadn’t seen yet.
Like the others, his house was massive, this one styled like a farmhouse, but the elegant type, and maybe it was my luck, but he didn’t have any guards like the Bloom Estate had. It made things exciting when there were more obstacles, but I crossed my fingers that Spiky had enough fight in him to entertain me for a while.
He entered his house. Didn’t even lock the door behind him. Arrogant bastard. I parked in the driveway, knowing that private security car might come around and see me again, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t arrogant like Spiky, but I was an adrenaline junkie. As I twisted the doorknob, Spiky hummed to himself in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine this time, thumbing through his pantry like he was getting ready to cook himself a feast. A medieval sword, sharp edges with rust at the handle, hung above his fireplace, like he was some sort of artifact collector. Pretentious prick.
Energy thrummed through me, bringing me back to my third kill, a man who had raped my sister. Gabby was the only good thing left in Oakmont, and I wasn’t about to let some bastard get away with ruining her. The dumb ass always smoked pot on his porch, his manufactured home stained to shit like ours, but I stomped on the car’s acceleration pedal, not giving a fuck if I died when the car smashed into him. Maybe I should have thought ahead. I should have considered how this was going to affect Gabby. But I didn’t have a single thought in my mind besides killing him.
And right then, standing in that pristine farmhouse with a sword above the fireplace, all I could think about was watching Spiky die.
I grabbed Spiky from behind, smashing his head into the countertop. He wailed, and I slung the cable ties around his wrists, shoving him against the wall. He cried like a cow watching her calf get roped off in a pen.
“Please don’t do this!” he shouted.
How was it that a man that could dangle a woman’s life at his fingertips during a game, was such a wimp when it came to his own life? I didn’t care about dying. Zira pointed the gun at me and my dick surged with blood, ready for that bullet.
Just like that rapist who had hurt my sister, Spiky was going to pay for what he had done to Zira. I contemplated my options. Cutting off his hands would be fair. His hands had touched her, after all. An eye of an eye. All of that shit.
But that wasn’t enough. Cutting off his dick was the only way it made sense.
I grabbed that sword from the wall, and Spiky hobbled on his knees, desperate for a way out. I slung him around until he was facing me, and I sliced down his front. He wriggled like a fish, his howls seeping into my skin. His clothes tore away with the blade, his skin splattered with coarse hairs. Little pockets of blood sprouted like weeds, but I needed more. And I needed him to quit moving. Agitation and frenzy buzzed through me.
“Would you hold still?” I grunted.
I didn’t let my eyes leave his flaccid dick as I held the sword. He fell forward, but I kicked him around until he laid on his back, then threw the sword low and angled, finally slicing off his cock. Blood oozed, his urethra a target in the middle of that masterpiece, the flesh spilling out like pink scrambled eggs, muscle that used to hold his dick up all white and red streaked like ketchup on a Sunday ham. Like that painted, fleshy pavement all over again. If only my family could see me now.
