Page 3 of Bleed (Two Wheeled Psychos #4)

They don’t give two shits about me, so the feeling’s mutual.

I’m just the rebel biker in the otherwise affluent community.

Little do any of them know that I make way more money than probably all of them combined.

I just choose to live simply. I like things plain, clean, and easy, unless of course it’s sex or death, those I like messy and wet.

The elevator dings its arrival, and I step in, noticing the red blood on my tattooed right hand and arm has dried.

It’s become a dark brown mess on my skin and the cuff of my rolled up white shirt sleeve.

I stare at it as the car silently moves up towards the floor where my abode is, with fascination and a stirring in my already snug jeans.

Such a pretty little stain.

I’m tired but the evidence needs to be removed from me, and I need to relive my evening alone, so as I exit the elevator on my floor and step into my apartment, I immediately strip off my clothes and stuff them into a paper bag. I’ll burn them in the fireplace after my shower.

Setting the brown bag down on the kitchen island, I walk around it, grab a bottle of water from my large stainless-steel fridge, and down it while I make my way to the bedroom down the hall and to the left.

My shoes are silent on the cream-colored carpet, and I can’t see the mess that I am in the darkness until I flip up the switch on the off-white wall.

Soft light illuminates my simplistic bedroom, and the black and white bedding stretched neatly over my queen-sized bed.

Black curtains block out the outside view, keeping it nice and private as I strut around bare ass naked, covered only by the now flaking blood on my skin.

Clicking on the bedside lamp, I turn off the overhead light and head into the large, ensuite, all white bathroom.

The steam from the showerhead fills the room quickly, billowing above the glass doors and fogging up the square mirror of the medicine cabinet above the vanity. I can barely see my reflection in the haze and must wipe it away with my hand to see my tired, yet satisfied face.

Staring back at me is the notoriously feared reaper. The five foot ten, muscled man with a smooth, bald head and mottled hazel eyes. My face and neatly trimmed auburn beard have blood splattered on them, and with my fingernail I pick at the largest spot just under my right eye.

“Another one bites the dust.” I say to myself, walking away from the sink and stepping into the shower stall as I feel my cock rising at the images of tonight’s events filling my mind.

The head wasn’t anything to reminisce about, that was boring and plain, with no enthusiasm, but the way she spit at me before I plunged my blade into her, God, now that was beautiful.

The hot water pelts down on me like little daggers as I latch the magnetic door closed and bow under the spray.

I love the way it feels on my scalp, and I rub my hands vigorously over it, massaging it, letting the blood wash from my hand over my face and body.

The water running off me is bright red, then fades to pink before it washes down the drain at my feet, leaving the shower floor white and unmarred.

I can taste it as it pours past my face, dripping off the tip of my nose, and small drops land on my lips. It’s metallic and delicious, and it makes my dick even harder, until it’s thumping in need.

“Motherfucker, that’s so good.” I groan, wrapping my hand around my cock and stroking it slowly, closing my eyes, leaning back on the cool tile wall.

I watch behind my closed eyelids how her pupils blew out and her body curled in on itself as I drove into her hard enough to chip bone with my knife.

I inhale the warm air around me, still smelling the copper and iron of her blood that is no longer on my skin.

It fuels me to rub my cock harder and faster, feeling the veins on it roll under my fingers and palm.

“Oh, yes.” I moan loudly, going quicker.

I can feel it all the way down in my toes as I rub myself hard, my hand moving rapidly over myself, my fingers squeezing around my dick like a tight little cunt.

The feel of my engorged cock is almost as good as the way her lips felt against my other hand, just a short time ago. I can still appreciate the sensation of her hot breath on my palm, all moist and erratic, and as I envision the final, gasped breath leaving her body, I stroke even faster.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I grunt, squeezing the base of my cock hard to stop the climax from coming too soon.

I want to enjoy this, to savor it, to make it last as I go over the scene in my mind over and over again, until there’s nothing in my head except her death and the utter mess I made with my favorite blade.

The money I’ve earned is insignificant compared to the pleasure I get with the kill, but it is an added bonus that makes me smile as I jerk myself hard and fast again at the images of what I’ve done. Am I fucked up? Yep. Do I care? Nope.

“Mmmm, fuck yes.” I pant, wrapping my fingers around my shaft tighter, squeezing as I rub, making the head of my dick all shiny and a deep purple from the pressure.

I can feel the climax roll through my body like a disturbance across the ocean’s surface, getting larger until the white cap forms. When the first wave erupts from the head of my cock, splattering on the tile wall across from me, my eyes roll back and my toes curl into the tub in ecstasy.

It’s a release that I need, expelling all the pent-up aggression, lust, and stress mixed with the fucking joy of my work and the kill.

The mess rolls down the shower, dripping off the handle for the faucet and lands in globs that swirl in the water then wash away, just like the blood and the evidence of my crimes.

It’s a cathartic end to the night, a completion of the last mission and a new beginning. I’ll start tomorrow, fresh and clean from my murderous ways, ready to start the next project they have for me. It could be anything, and I love the suspense.

~~~

The autumn breeze that goes up my nose as I ride Luna to work with my visor open, racing towards the rising sun, refreshes me and wakes me more than any cup of coffee or energy drink can. There’s just something magical about the open road, the breeze, the freedom, all of it.

I love my “day job” for the family at Valentino’s.

The modern, fusion restaurant not only gives me the liberty to create delicious and new things, but it’s the best way to hone my knife skills.

Fileting meats and seafoods, chopping vegetables, and slicing fruits all help me keep my hands trained with the already deeply ingrained muscle memory of how to handle a razor-sharp blade.

Normally the sous chef and prep cooks would do the labor of cutting the foods for their head chef, but they all know to leave me for it. It’s why I come in so freaking early every day, so I can take my time and enjoy the peace and quiet as I practice my trade.

I’m lost in thoughts of my favorite chef’s knife and the perfect balance it has in my tattooed hand as I weave in and out of the light traffic.

I can see it and even sense it in my grasp, as if the throttle in my right fist were it.

It’s a very comforting feeling, making me close my eyes for a second to just feel and enjoy my two loves.

The highways are almost empty, allowing me to open up the bike and get a nice zippy ride in, but when I take the exit and pull on the city streets, my commute is slowed, and I actually need to pay attention to the cagers all around me.

I would hate a stupid accident to bring the attention of the cops to my existence.

So far, I’ve remained a shadow, something that hides in the light, and only appears when the conditions are just right for me to show myself.

The occasional horn beeps, and a group of kids wave to me from the sidewalk, cranking their hands, begging me to rev the bike as I sit at a stop light, quietly tapping on the tank to the music in my helmet.

It’s fun to do it for them, and to see their smiles light up at the loud roar, just the way mine did when I was at that age and dreaming of having my own motorcycle.

The day Luna came into my life was the day I was a complete man.

I used the proceeds from my first kill to buy her.

I remember her sitting in the showroom, her red and white paint gleaming under the bright lights, her shiny tires calling to me, her seat begging me to sit on her.

I had walked over to her, and the world around me fell away, like how it does when you see the woman of your dreams. The other customers disappeared, and the voice of the salesman was just a hollow echo under the roaring in my ears of her speaking to me.

Her seat was so smooth under my bare fingers as I traced them over her, caressing her, whispering sweet nothings to her about how I was going to take her home with me.

It really was love at first sight, and we’ve been together ever since.

She’s been my dream, my therapy, my reprieve, and the way I scream out my angers and frustrations when nothing else will calm me. She’s my girl, my Luna, my love.

Shaking my head I clear the images from behind my eyelids and crank backwards on the throttle, making her bellow out her song for the group of kids, then I pick up my feet and take off through the green light, vanishing from their view and getting closer to the sun and to the new day.