Page 62 of Depraved (American Street Kings 1)

“Who?”

“I don’t know, man. Slither doesn’t include prospects when it comes to patch overs. That’s why we ended up here.”

I pushed the tip of the blade deeper into his crotch, and the man flinched as he tried to scoot up. “Who is the patch over with?” I pushed for an answer.

“I don’t know! All I know is it’s with clubs from the Bronx and Queens. Slither tried to get clubs from Manhattan, but it didn’t work.”

Dutch stepped forward. “Because Manhattan has already been patched to the Kings.”

The prospect nodded, and his head lolled down the front, fatigue starting to set in.

“You know what this means, right?” Ink crossed his arms. “If Slither manages to patch both Bronx and Queens clubs, we’ll be close to outnumbered.”

I rubbed my beard between my fingers. “Not quite. We got Manhattan, Brooklyn. And we can call in New Jersey if we have to.”

Dutch leaned over me, placing his hand on the chair’s armrest while eyeballing the prospect. “Is there anything else we should know?”

“I swear to God, I know nothing else. Slither just told us to keep an eye on you guys, see if we can spot the girl.” His breathing became more rapid and irregular, pupils dilated. He was going into shock. It might be hypovolemic from the bleeding, or neurogenic from the severe pain and stress. Did I care? No.

Removing the blade from his groin, I straightened, looking down at the poor bastard. “You sure Slither is the kind of leader you want to follow, man?”

With bloodshot eyes, ghostly pale face, the young prospect looked up at me. “Slither gave me a home when I didn’t have one. Pythons is all I know.”

I nodded. It was clear this young man’s loyalty had been misplaced. That was Slither’s thing, taking kids off the street, giving them shelter and money. He bought their loyalty. A man like Slither didn’t know the first thing about earning it. Unfortunately, this poor son of a bitch would learn the hard way that men like Slither weren’t worth selling your soul to.

With my knife still in hand, I slowly moved in behind him, staring at the back of his head. The blade of my knife was pressed against the pad of my thumb. I glanced at Manic, and he nodded, eyes wild with bloodlust.

I looked at Ink, and he too gave me a nod, arms still crossed in front of his chest.

Then I turned to face Dutch, my enforcer. My guide. My adviser. And my best friend. This was hard for him, and I could only image how at odds he had to be right at that moment. How conflicted he had to have felt. But just like the rest of us, Dutch knew it had to be done.

He nodded, and my blade sliced across the unsuspecting prospect’s throat. It was quick. Deep. And instant.

His head fell to the front, and blood gushed down his chest. There was no other way. He was too loyal to Slither for us to have let him go. Knowing the Pythons planned patch overs put us at an advantage to make sure we got the numbers together. If we let the prospect go, he would have told Slither we knew, and we’d lose the advantage. We couldn’t let that happen.

It was unfortunate that we had to spill young blood, and I knew Dutch would struggle with it the most. But in our world…it was live and let die.

There was nothing left to say after I killed the poor bastard, so I left even though the blood in my veins was still simmering. After pumping my own fucking cock, then torturing and killing some poor asshole who made dumb decisions, I still felt like I needed more. It was like the demons in me weren’t sated, and they were thrashing against my chest, threatening to break my ribs apart in order to get out.

Deep inside, I knew no amount of alcohol, blood, or death would satisfy the monsters. Only her. Just her.

I tried to wait. I tried to control it. Tried to give it time…until she was ready.

But the time had come. The time was now…whether she was ready or not.

20

Alyx

It hadto have been a dream. It wasn’t real; I could feel it in my gut. This was one of those dreams where you knew you were dreaming while in the dream.

Granite was standing outside my house, his motorcycle parked behind him. And he was staring up at me, smiling, waving his arms, asking me to come down. It was daytime, the sun at its highest. That alone convinced me this wasn’t real. Granite only came out at night when the moon was high.

Two men were standing behind him, but I couldn’t see their faces. But Granite’s face, it was light, glowing, his eyes filled with excitement. That was my second clue to knowing this wasn’t real. Granite’s face was hardly ever anything but cold, hard stone.

I was leaning against the window frame, and I could feel my heart race, a thousand butterflies fluttering in my belly. It might not have been real, but I was feeling all the feels. My skin tingled, my body surging with energy, and I wanted to run to him. I wanted to go to him and let him wrap his arms around me. It wasn’t something I could fight, and here, in this dream, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to fight these feelings for him, not like when he held me captive in a room, tied to chair. Here I was free to want him, to desire him, to be obsessed with him.

Excited and eager to get to him, I stormed out of my room, running down the stairs. My mom was waiting for me by the door, and I prepared myself for an argument. As I approached her, mentally ready to fight for what I wanted—the man waiting for me outside—I stopped when I noticed her lips were sewn shut with white thread. Her blue eyes were wild, panicked, and she made the most horrifying noises trying to open her mouth. Scared and bewildered, I backtracked one step at a time, the sight of her mutilated mouth making me sick to my stomach. There were so many nights, so many fights during which I’d wish she could just shut up. Times when the sound of her voice sent shudders through my body, her words breaking my heart over and over and over again. There were times she’d make me cry, and I would think that mommies weren’t supposed to make their children cry. They were supposed to comfort them when they cried, something my mom did the exact opposite of.

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