Page 6 of Along for the Ride

Karson slides off the smooth metal railing, letting his boots hit the concrete with a dramatic thud. He puts out the cigarette in the palm of his hand and pockets it. His dark eyes match mine as he shoulders me when he walks by.

“I can denounce responsibility for you at any time, you know,” I remind him.

He scoffs at me and slips a pair of black leather gloves over his hands so we can hunt for our payday. Our official job is to kill our target, but the unofficial job is to take any cash or valuables we can find before their bratty little relatives get their grimy hands on it. Skim off some of the generational wealth for ourselves since we sure as fuck never had any.

Karson and I were poor as shit growing up, but it made us better killers. It was either take what you want or do without, and we got sick of doing without real quick. We’re also a match made in mental health hell. I’m the psychopath with the antisocial personality, and Karson is more the sociopath. Or do I have it reversed? It’s been two decades since we received our official diagnoses, so I don’t remember. Either way, we’re both exponentially fucked in the head.

We search drawers, cabinets, and safes, taking as much as we can and stuffing it into a duffel bag. While we’re mostly searching for untraceable cash, we’ll nab the occasional jewelry box to toss over the side of a bridge in the next town over because we’re assholes like that. Selling shit on the street or in a pawnshop isn’t an option. That’s how idiots get caught, and I refuse to go back to prison. I’m fairly certain my brother shares the sentiment.

Karson comes out of the bedroom with a fat wad of bills fanned between his hands. “This dude’s got enough to make it rain,” he says as he flicks the bills in my face like I’m his personal dancer. As they spin in the air and fall to the ground, I swear to god he’ll be the next dead man if he doesn’t quit it.

“Are you being serious right now?” I snarl as I rip the money from his hands and throw it in my bag.

“As serious as murder.”

I hate him.

He turns and walks beside the wall, his hand dragging along the cold marble until he stops in front of a row of pictures. “Look at his little grandkids,” Karson coos. He smirks and flicks his fingers toward the frame, sending it to the floor in a puddle of broken glass and bent metal. He continues his path of destruction, knocking every frame off one by one and humming a cheery tune. When he reaches an intricate, very expensive-looking vase, he stops and goes silent. He picks it up, rubbing a finger along the blue paisley pattern before unzipping his jeans and tugging his limp dick from his boxers. As he strokes himself until he’s hard, he tosses a devilish smile my way.

I should turn away, but he’s a goddamn car crash and my eyes are glued to the scene. “Jesus, must you?” I ask.

Karson leans back on the balls of his feet, his hand working faster until he comes in the vase with a satisfied groan.

“Is this how you’ve been operating since I’ve been gone? It’s a wonder you haven’t been caught. They’ll get your DNA off that, dumbass.”

He goes to put it down.

“Ah, ah, you gotta bring your jizz jug with us.”

Karson’s lips pull into a frown as he shoves the vase beneath his arm, and I’m struck by how similar we look. Aside from the eight-year age gap and the height and build difference, we could almost be twins. I’m taller and better muscled, but we have the same jet-black hair, dark eyes, and thick facial hair.

His fingers drum against the side of the vase, and a smirk crosses his face. “This is the second most valuable thing I’ve ever come in.” A playful spark lights his eyes, and I know where he’s going with this.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“First thing was your wife.”

Yup. There’s about to be a second homicide in this swanky mansion. I try really hard to forget about the fact that he fucked my wife. My ex-wife.

My now very dead ex-wife.

I fight the urge to knock that vase out of his arms and let his felonious jizz spread over the Persian rug beneath his boots, but doing that would mean I’d have to worry about his stupid ass folding on me. And it’s a valid concern. Karson will do whatever it takes to remain a free man.

I stuff the bills into my pockets and scan the room to be sure we haven’t left anything behind. Karson has already left the building, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find him beating his dick into the vase again. Murder is his aphrodisiac, after all. For me it’s a means to an end. I want something, they have it, so I take it. I won’t lie and pretend I don’t enjoy it, but it’s more like a schedule one drug than a dose of Viagra for me. I get a high from it, and that’s the only way I’ll get high because I don’t fuck with real drugs.

Not after what I’ve seen them do to a person.

We never knew our mother because she died when we were young, so we grew up with our father as our...I don’t know what to call him. He wasn’t a parent or a guardian. I was forced into that role for both Karson and our father. When he was too strung out to provide food, I’d work odd jobs around the neighborhood to make sure we had something to eat. I needed a better solution, though, so my first kill was my father’s dealer. I figured if I cut off the head of the snake, that would be the end of it. My dad could get off drugs and start taking care of us. But there were more snakes waiting to strike, and my dad never got clean.

That kill taught me something, though. When I looted his limp corpse and came home with more money than I could make doing honest work for a week, I learned how easy it was to take a life.

And I learned that I liked it.

ChapterThree

Leana

The hand around my throat tightens until a black haze creeps across my eyes. The bitter scents of bile and alcohol wash over me, and I fight back the urge to gag. I grip Mickey’s wrists and stare at the ring he placed on my finger when he proposed to me. What a bunch of fucking lies. And I was stupid enough to believe him.

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