Page 12 of Total Carnage
With a deep breath, I signed my name at the bottom. It felt final, like closing a chapter. I folded the letter carefully, sliding it into an envelope. I yanked open the desk drawer, the wood groaning in protest. The letter disappeared inside, nestledamong fake IDs and wads of cash. As I slammed it shut, I felt a weight lift off my chest. "There," I said to the empty room. "It's done."
I slumped back in my chair, the silence pressing in around me. The confession I'd carried for years sat locked away in that drawer, but I could still feel its presence, a shadow lurking at the edges of my mind.
My eyes drifted to the window, drawn to the vast expanse of night beyond. The darkness stretched as far as I could see, broken only by the occasional flicker of distant headlights. It's a void that mirrored the emptiness in my chest, the uncertainty of what came next. "Fuck," I said, running a hand through my hair. "What now, Vin? You were always the one with the plan."
As if he were whispering in my ear, I went to my bed and crawled beneath the covers, pushing my panties down, my palm brushing against the smooth patch of trimmed hair.
“Fingers,” Vin whispered and I spread my pussy lips, wet and warm.
“Yes, baby,” the words barely a whimper from my lips.
“My fingers on your clit, Rave. Dancing that all-familiar dance. You know the one, baby. Squeeze, hun. Squeeze my fingers.”
“I need you, Vin. I fucking need you.” Tears raced from the corners of my eyes to my ears. My body trembled as I imaged his hands. His inked arms and chest. I squeezed. I squeezed so fucking hard, trapping my fingers, his fingers. “I miss you, Vin,” I cried and came, the man of my dreams no more.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, tears overwhelming. The night may stretched on, dark and unknowable, but I didn’t let the tears distinguish the fire lighting my way. Vin showed me how to keep the fire. It was up to me to keep it burning.
Vin
Igunned the Harley's throttle, plowing through the thick, humid air of the Louisiana swamp. The deep green of the moss-draped cypress trees closed in on either side as if the very bayou itself was trying to keep its secrets hidden. I didn't care. I was on a mission, and nothing, not even the eerie, otherworldly feel of these backwoods, would stop me.
My mind wandered back to the night I'd hooked up with Raven Stansfield at the club. I could still taste her, like whiskey and fire, on my tongue. Christ, she'd been wild, matching me moan for moan, drink for drink. I'd brought her to a private room, and there, away from prying eyes, we let loose.
The memory of her body, arched beneath me, her dark eyes glazed with lust, sent a shiver down my spine. I'd gone down on her first, my tongue lapping at her wet heat, savoring her cries of pleasure. She'd been so damn tight, so fucking responsive. The taste of her as she came was something I’d never forgotten, oneof the things that always sent me back for more. I took pride in that—pleasing a woman, sending her over the edge, making sure she got hers.
Then she'd taken her turn, crawling on her knees, her high heels digging into my thighs as she took my hard cock in her mouth. I grunted, my grip tightening on the handlebars as I forced myself back to the present. The last thing I needed was to lay my bike down, thinking about the way Raven had milked my dick with her talented mouth.
Then it returned, my dick hard against the leather seat. Not all of me was dead. Our frenzied coupling had continued, moving from the table to the floor, then up against the wall in a fevered dance of lust and need. In the end, I'd taken her hard, pounding into her tight ass, my final moan muffled by her skilled hand over my mouth.
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts as I spotted the ramshackle shack Jameson had described. Mama Céleste's place. A shiver of unease crept up my spine, but I quickly shoved it down. I owed MCs and Raven everything, and if that meant facing down whatever dark magic the old woman possessed, so be it.
I cut the engine and dismounted, my boots sinking into the squishy earth as I approached the cabin. The shack loomed before me, a weathered sentinel in the heart of the bayou. Candlelight flickered through grimy windows, casting eerie shadows across the moss-draped porch.
I felt an unease as I approached, boots squelching in the damp earth. This was it—my shot at answers, at finding Raven. The thought of her twisted my gut with equal parts longing and dread. "Alright, Mama Céleste," I whispered, "let's see what kind of hoodoo bullshit you're peddling."
Before I could knock, the door creaked open. A tall figure emerged, radiating an aura of ancient power that made the hairson my neck stand up. Mama Céleste fixed me with amber eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness.
"Vincent Reed," she intoned, her voice low and melodious. "The dead man who walks."
I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to take a step back. "That's me. Heard you might have some answers about my... situation."
She studied me silently, her gaze seeming to pierce right through to my soul. After what felt like an eternity, she gave a slight nod. I was afraid of no man, but Mama Celeste was not a man.
"Enter," Mama Céleste said, "but know this—the truths you seek may not bring the comfort you desire."
I steeled myself, squaring my shoulders. "Lady, comfort ain't exactly been my strong suit lately. I'll take whatever you've got." As I crossed the threshold, I couldn't shake the feeling I was walking into something far bigger—and darker—than I'd bargained for. I stepped into the shack, and the air hit me like a wall—thick, heavy, and loaded with scents that made my head swim. Herbs, incense, and something musty I couldn't place. Fuck me, it was like walking into the world's most pungent headshop.
"Jesus," I said, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior. "You ever heard of ventilation, Mama C?"
She didn't answer, just glided past me, her braids clicking softly. The candlelight threw dancing shadows across the cluttered space. Everywhere I looked, there was some creepy shit—bones, feathers, bottles filled with God-knows-what. A shrunken head grinned at me from a shelf, and I couldn't shake the feeling its eyes were following me.
"Nice decor," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Real cozy."
Mama Céleste turned, fixing me with that unnerving stare. "The spirits do not care for your comfort, Vincent Reed."
"Yeah, well," I shrugged, "the feeling's mutual."
She moved to a small table in the center of the room, her movements fluid and deliberate. As she began arranging objects—herbs, candles, some kind of powder—I felt a chill run across my forearms. I was a big motherfucker and this one had turned me into a child.
