The kid's eyes went cartoon wide and his body trembled beneath his dirty clothes. "No... I don't got a problem with the queers."
Fidiot was missing the point, but whatever. "Do we have a deal?" Lash said, pressing the point of his knife in. As the penetration was achieved, blood welled up in a bubble and stayed put for a split second, like it was trying to decide whether to flow down the shiny metal or the smooth column of skin.
It picked the blade, meandering forth in a ruby red stream.
"Please... don't kill me."
"What's your answer."
"Yeah. I'll do it."
Lash pressed in harder, watching the blood run. He was momentarily captivated by the reality that if he took the weapon and pushed it farther through the flesh, this human would cease to exist, like a breath of air disappearing into a chilly night.
He enjoyed feeling like a god.
As whimpering breached the kid's chapped lips, Lash relented, easing back. With a quick lick, he cleaned off the blade and flicked the weapon shut. "You're going to like where you end up. I promise you."
He gave the guy a chance to recover and knew it wasn't going to take long for the kid to get his groove back. Asswipes like this one had egos like balloons. Pressure, particularly the kind that came with a knife at the throat, caused them to collapse in on themselves. But the instant the stress was relieved, they rebounded, puffing back up into place.
The kid snapped his crappy leather jacket down. "I like where I is just fine."
Bingo. "Then why are you looking at my car like you want it in your garage?"
"I got a better ride than this."
"Oh. Really." Lash eyeballed the bitch from head to foot. "You come here every night on a BMX. Your jeans are torn and not because they're designer. How many jackets you got in your closet? Oh, wait, you keep your shit in a cardboard box under the bridge." Lash rolled his eyes as all kinds of surprise bubbled up from the passenger seat. "You think we didn't check you out? You think we're that stupid?"
Lash jabbed a finger toward the Xtreme Park, where skateboarders were making like metronomes on the ramps, up and down, up and down. "You are the shit in this playground over here. Fine. Congratulations. But we want you to go farther. You join with us, you've got muscle behind you... money, product, protection. You hit it with us, you're going to be something more than a two-bit punk swinging your c**k around a concrete lot. We've got your future."
The kid's calculating stare shifted toward his little slice of territory in Caldwell and then floated over to the horizon where the skyscrapers loomed. The ambition was there, and that was why he'd been chosen. What this little bastard needed was a way up and a way out.
The fact that he'd have to sell his soul to do it was going to dawn on him only when it was too late, but that was the way of the Society. From what Lash had been told by the lessers he now commanded, there was never a full-disclosure thing before they got inducted--and this was understandable. Like any of them would have believed that evil was waiting on the other side of the door they were knocking on? Like any one of them would have volunteered for what they were getting into?
Surprise, motherfucker. This ain't no Disney World, and once you get on the ride, you are never, ever getting off.
Lash was totally fine with deception, however.
"I'm ready for bigger shit," the kid murmured.
"Good. Now get the f**k out of my car. My associate will pick you up tomorrow night at seven."
"Cool."
With business concluded, Lash was impatient to move the little bastard along. The kid smelled like a sewer and was screaming for more than a shower--he needed to be hosed down like a dirty stretch of sidewalk.
As soon as the door was shut, Lash backed out of the parking lot and hooked up with the road that ran parallel to the Hudson River. He headed for home, his hands gripping the steering wheel for another reason than the urge to kill.
The urge to f**k was just as strong a motivator for him.
The street he lived on in Old Caldwell had Victorian-era brownstones running down it and sidewalks planted with trees and property values no lower than a million dollars. The neighbors picked up after their dogs, never made any noise, and put their trash out only in the back alleys, and only on the right days. As he drove past his town house and cut around the block to the garage, he was tickled f**king pink to think all these tight-ass WASPs had a neighbor like him: He might have looked and dressed like them, but his blood ran black and he was as soulless as a wax statue.
As he hit the garage door opener, he smiled and his fangs, a gift from his mother's side, elongated as he got ready for his Hello, Lucy-I'm-home shit.
Never got old. Coming back to Xhex never got old.
After he'd parked the AMG, he got out and had to stretch his body. She put him through the wringer, she abso did, and he loved how she left him stiff... and not just in the cock.
Nothing like a good opponent to cheer his shit up.
Cutting through the back garden and entering the house through the kitchen, he smelled grilled sirloin and fresh bread.
He wasn't into food at the moment, though. Thanks to that convo at the park, that little shit skater was going to be his first induction, the first offering he brought to his father, the Omega. And didn't that make him jones for some sex.
"Y'all ready to eat?" Mr. D asked from the stove as he flipped the piece of meat over. The little Texan had proved useful not only as an initial tour guide through the Lessening Society, but also as a killer and a halfway decent cook.
"Nah, I'm going up now." He tossed his keys and his cell phone on the granite countertop. "Leave the food in the fridge and lock the door behind you."
"Yessuh."
"We're on for tomorrow night. You pick the target up at seven. You know where to take him."
"Yessuh."
That two-syllable word was the SOB's favorite response--which was another reason he remained upright and the second in command.
Lash passed through the butler's pantry and the dining room and hung a right to the carved staircase. When he'd first seen the place, it had been emptied out, with nothing but the remnants of graceful living left behind: silk wallpaper, damask drapes, and one wing chair. Now, the brownstone was filling up with antiques and statuary and proper rugs. It was going to take longer than he'd thought to get it where it needed to be, but you couldn't pull a household of shit out of your ass overnight.
Mounting the stairs, his feet were light and his body humming as he unbuttoned his coat and then his jacket.
As he closed in on Xhex, he was well aware that what had started out for him as payback had turned into an addiction: What was waiting for him on the other side of his bedroom door was much more than he'd bargained for.
It had been so simple at first: He'd taken her because she'd taken from him. When she'd been up at the colony in that cave, she'd pointed her gun and pulled the trigger and pumped a shitload of lead into his bitch's chest. Not acceptable. She'd robbed him of his favorite toy and he was exactly that flavor of dickhead where an eye for an eye was his theme song.
When he'd brought her here and locked her into his room, his goal had been to take pieces out of her, to trim off bits from her mind and her emotions and her body, putting her through shit that was going to bend her until she snapped.
And then, like any broken thing, he was going to throw her away.
At least, that had been the plan. It was becoming amply clear, however, that her edges didn't dull.
Oh, no. She was titanium, this one. Her reserves of strength were proving inexhaustible and he had the bruises to prove it.
As he came up to the door, he paused to take all his clothing off. Generally speaking, if he liked the threads he had on, they needed to hit the floor before he went inside, because he got trashed pretty quick the moment he got near her.
Unplugging his button-down from his slacks, he released his cuff links, left them on the hall table and took his silk shirt off.
He had marks on him. From her fists. Her nails. Her fangs.
The tip of his c**k tingled as he looked at his various wounds and bruises. He healed quickly, thanks to his father's blood running thick in his veins, but sometimes the damage she did lasted and that thrilled him to the core.
When you were the son of evil, there was little you couldn't do, own, or kill, and yet her mortal self was an elusive trophy he could touch, but not put on his shelf.
This made her rare. This made her precious.