Page 58 of Along for the Ride

Gentry turns my face toward his and kisses me. With a low and loving voice, he says, “You got the revenge you deserve. Now you’re one of us.”

ChapterTwenty-Four

Gentry

Istare at Leana in the rearview mirror as we travel to our next hit, but I force my eyes back to the road so we don’t end up in a ditch. Darkness blankets the earth, and an overcast sky silences the stars. A heaviness hangs in the air. I am so incredibly proud of her for facing her abuser and silencing him, but I’m still struggling with what’s happening between the three of us.

My eyes rise to her once more.

How did years of bitterness sweeten up enough to let us share someone? Not just someone,my someone.My wanderer. How did knowing she was being fucked by him send an undeniable ache through me?

My brother and I used to be so connected, so close that it felt like we were twins instead of years apart. We shared so many things, like the hunger we felt before a kill and the satisfied elation after a job was finished. When he hurt, I hurt. When he was angry or happy, I felt those emotions as well. But the moment I saw him with my wife, our connection severed. Tore apart in an instant. Broke in ways I always thought were irreparable. Then she changed that. When he was inside Leana, I felt all of it. The desire and excitement. The need for her. And it made me need her too. She was the glue that reconnected the loose ends.

I don’t know if Karson and I are capable of love, but our need to protect her comes pretty close. After the way she stepped into her role earlier, she’s more than earned her place by our side. Hell, beginning to mend the years of hurt between us was probably enough, but it helps to know she’s got a touch of darkness inside her. Darkness that was there before we put more inside her, that is.

I pull into an alcove of trees and peer at the colonial home on the dead-end road. It looks so plain. So inexpensive. Our typical hits live in mansions, complete with wads of cash to pilfer after we’ve finished a job. I don’t expect to leave with much money from this one, and I don’t like that. This feels like a waste of fucking time. Regardless, it’s a job, so I tuck my pistol down the back of my pants and climb out of the SUV. I go to the back door and open it.

“Stay,” I command, though I know she won’t listen. That’s her thing—being a beautiful problem. Her eyes flash up at me, and I rub my finger along her lower lip before leaning down and capturing her mouth.

“Haven’t I proved I can handle myself?” she asks.

She’s not wrong, but I’m not sure she can handle just how depraved we become. Back at her house, she fed on her rage and pain. She might struggle more when she’s faced with taking the life of someone who hasn’t wronged her, and I don’t need a voice of reason in my ear when I’m trying to work.

“Come on, G,” Karson says.

“Stay,” I tell her once more.

She sits back with a scoff, and I shut the door.

We walk through the trees, then along the side of the house until we reach the back door. Karson uses a gloved hand to check windows as we pass, but they’re all locked. When we reach the door, it’s locked as well. Karson pulls a lock-picking kit from his pocket and gets to work. He’s always been a wizard with locks. He learned the trade when we were kids. Instead of collecting action figures or baseball cards—which we never had the money for anyway—he learned how to disengage every lock known to man.

His tongue peeks from between his lips as he faces a challenge with this one. He tries a few techniques and tools before he’s greeted by a satisfying click, then he opens the door with a sinister smirk.

As we creep through the house, I draw my knife and ready my grip on the handle. We know nothing about this man other than his name and the reason for the hit—poor Allan owes a lot of money to a lot of people—which is unusual. We normally get more info than this, but George said he didn’t have time for specifics. He was probably pissed that I missed his call and figured he could annoy me by withholding info. It worked. I’m definitely annoyed. Karson and I like to know about our hits so we can tailor their death to their personality. Kind of like a personalized service. We should really charge more.

After searching the house, we find the man on his stomach, sprawled across his bed with one knee toward his chest. He’s fast asleep, snoring away. I stay in the doorway, but Karson moves closer, leans down, and clears his throat in the man’s ear. He wants to see the fear on his face when he emerges from his dreamy slumber and comes face to face with a nightmare.

The man slowly rolls over, his eyes widening as he takes in the confusing scene above him. He leaps from the bed and runs right into me as soon as he crosses the threshold. A single punch is all it takes to put him right back to sleep.

We grab a dining room chair and set it in the middle of the living room. Once we’ve hauled his body into the seat of honor, we duct tape his hands behind his back, threading the tape through the wooden slats. I go for his ankles next, wrapping the tape around each chair leg and connecting it to his skin. His head flops forward, his mouth gaped, blood dripping from his nose.

Karson goes to the kitchen and begins rifling through the drawers. There are tons of murder weapons right out in the open, but that’s not what he’s looking for. This is another Karson specialty. He finds random shit around the target’s house and uses it to torture them. Bags, nail guns, walking sticks—you name it, he’s used it on a hit.

He plucks a roll of plastic wrap from a drawer and holds it up with a grin. Happy to have found what he needs, he comes behind the man and tries to hold up his head while securing the plastic around his face. Unfortunately, the wrap sticks to itself and doesn’t create the effect he’s going for. He’s an artist, after all, and he needs his masterpiece to mimic his vision.

“Little help?” he asks, shaking the man by the hair. “I can’t hold his head and line this up.”

I roll my eyes and walk over, replacing his hand with mine. Karson winds the plastic around the man’s face, keeping the sheet flat to create the perfect viewing window. It sucks into the man’s mouth with every attempted breath. I have to admit...it’s beautiful. Unlike a bag, which would have given him a few good breaths before the oxygen started to disappear, the wrap just instantly traps his face and obstructs all air.

The man’s eyes widen as his brain kicks him awake. Within a haze of palpable panic, he jerks against the restraints, his chest heaving with every gasp. Fucking delicious. It will be over too soon like this, though. He needs more time to really feel the fear, to let it soak into his bones and leave it etched on his face, even after death.

I grab a fork from a drawer and use it to poke a pinhole into the plastic over his mouth. The air makes a whistling sound as he breathes. “Do you have any cash?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

Karson steps in front of the man and assesses his handiwork. “He’s a gambling addict. If he had cash, it’s probably gone by now.”

“Even losers win sometimes,” I say. “Keep him alive while I go look for a safe.”

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