Page 17

E arlier today I had to meet with a client regarding the webpage I have been designing for her. She has a dog bakery downtown and is quickly becoming one of the pickiest clients I’ve worked with.

She refuses to schedule online meetings and insists at least once a week that I meet her at the bakery. It’s exhausting hearing her lists of everything she wants to change each time we talk and honestly, how complicated does she want this thing to be?

Newsflash, Karen, it’s a bakery for dogs; not a high-end online fashion conglomerate! Whatever happened to keeping websites simple and easy to navigate?

I grip the steering wheel tightly, letting the music inside the car pulse through my veins and drown out the noise of the outside world. Each note feels like a lifeline, tethering me to some semblance of sanity in the chaos of my mind.

“Body bag” by REI AMI blares relentlessly in my car as I make my way home from the soul-crushing day with “Karen, the bitchy baker”.

Music has become my anchor, the only thing that can pierce through the thick fog of numbness that surrounds me.

Without it, I’m just a hollow shell, drifting aimlessly through existence.

But no matter how high I crank up the volume, I can’t escape the overwhelming sense of misery that weighs me down. Each traffic light I pass feels like a cruel reminder of the endless monotony of my days, trapped in a never-ending cycle of work, sleep, and emptiness since they took me.

I haven’t felt…alive since that night.

As I cling to the comforting embrace of each note that blares through the speakers as I shuffle through my playlist, I can’t shake the gnawing hunger for something more, something real.

The faceless men who stole the vibrance from my soul.

As I pull into the driveway of the place I call home, I kill the ignition and the music fades into silence, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.

The crushing weight of loneliness settles over me like a heavy blanket, suffocating any flicker of hope that dares to ignite within me but the fiery inferno of the need to find them grows with every beat of my heart.

I long to feel alive again, to break free from the grip of depression that holds me prisoner.

I step out of the car and into the brisk late-afternoon air.

I know that as much as I crave the warmth of life I used to have, a part of me wonders if I’ll ever truly live it again if I fail to find my masked strangers.

“Fuck this!” I say to myself as I take one look at my bright red front door, the color reminding me of the men who took all the vibrance from my life and I get back inside my car.

They don’t get to control my emotions. Fuck them!

They don’t get to have their names carved into my body for another fucking second!

They don’t own me. I’m taking my life back.

I turn the key, the engine roars to life again, along with the deafening music and I pull out into the street.

I make it to the corner where they left me passed out, bloody and bruised in my car a few weeks ago and my heart feels like it is being crushed by their hands.

The death of my sanity rests on their shoulders, and I will make sure they regret everything.

I pull up to the nearest tattoo studio and a surge of determination courses through me. It’s time to take back control, to rewrite the narrative of my life.

I step through the door, the smell of green soap and antiseptic hitting me immediately, mingling with the pulsating beat of the music.

The dark-haired man behind the front desk looks up as I enter. He is wearing a black cap with the Behemoth logo embroidered on the front.

He scans my frame from shoes to hair and a flicker of what looks like recognition passes through his jade-colored eyes that nearly causes my lungs to cease mid-breath.

Fuck, this guy is handsome and so tall. He must be at least six feet.

“Hey there, what can I do for you?” he asks, his voice faltering, so slightly, I may have never noticed the change if I wasn’t in this manic, over-sensitive state of mind.

Do I know him? He seems familiar. Have we met before?

I can’t help but feel a pang of familiarity, as if I’ve heard his voice before, but I can’t quite place it amidst the cacophony of sounds filling the studio.

“I need a cover-up, I, um… have scars that I don’t want to remember,” I reply, my voice steady despite the sudden unease raging within me.

I drown out the voice inside my head telling me that something is off and continue with my head held high.

“I want to cover them with something symbolic that will help me leave the past where it belongs.”

“No problem, why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll see if I have an opening for you before closing,” I say, keeping my tone steady despite my rapidly racing heart.

Alex hesitates for a moment, her eyes darting around the waiting area of the studio. The room is adorned with black leather chairs, perfectly complementing the ornate gothic accents that decorate the walls.

She finally chooses a chair near the large floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun is setting, casting a warm glow on everything it touches.

She sinks into the chair the way we sank our teeth into her soft skin a few weeks ago, her body looks just as delicious as I remember.

As she settles her sexy little ass into my favorite seat, I hurry to the back door. Fintan is likely smoking outside in the small courtyard.

Finally reaching the door, I all but kick it open to find him engrossed in something on his phone.

His white hair falls across his brow as he takes a long drag of his joint.

Blowing out the cloud of smoke before he glances at me.

His piercing golden gaze locks with mine.

A flicker of annoyance flashes across his face before he clears his throat.

“What?”

“Guess who just walked in asking for a cover-up. Bet she wants to cover some scars she recently acquired. She didn’t recognize me,” I say, my voice low and laced with a strange mixture of excited anxiety.

Fintan stubs out his joint on the concrete and straightens up, his expression turning serious. “Alex? You’re sure she didn’t recognize you? You’re positive?” His voice is tinged with disbelief.

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. “Yeah, can you believe it?”

It’s strange. I sort of missed her after we dressed her in some old clothes and left her in her car that day.

What are the odds?

Does she remember what we did?

No, Fintan assured me that the drugs he gave her would fuck with her memory.

Images of that night flash through my mind—the way Alex’s blood and cum tasted on my tongue, the sound of her gasps and moans. The memory fuels a familiar hunger deep within me, a hunger that she can satiate since I can’t have what I truly crave.

A cruel smile tugs at the corners of Fintan’s lips, and he runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Well, well, well… Looks like our little secret is safe—for now. Let’s not waste this opportunity, brother.

We have unfinished business with her, don’t we?

She couldn’t stay away after the tex-t-s… ” he stumbles over that last word.

“Texts? What fucking texts?” I growl, grabbing him by the collar of his T-shirt as I pull him closer. A sudden, blinding rage creeps into my bones, setting my body ablaze as I wait for him to explain his words.

“Calm down,” Fintan mutters, forcing my grip to loosen. “I may have sent a couple of messages and maybe a short clip of the content we made for Hush—a warning, really.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” I yell. His hand darts toward my face, connecting with my jaw as he punches me before gripping my throat and pulling my forehead against his, so I meet his gaze.

“Shut the fuck up!” he whisper-yells, “she’ll fucking hear you.”

I try to push him away, but his grip only tightens. I can feel the heat radiating from his hand around my throat, his angry breath fanning my face. I am barely able to swallow as I struggle for air.

“Fuck you, Fintan! What right do you have to put our lives at risk like that?” I spit, trying to wrench myself from his grip, but his fingers tighten even more.

“This is nothing but a game to you, huh? Is everyone around you just pawns to be sacrificed for your amusement? You could have just left her alone after we left her in that parking lot!” I hiss.

The anger and resentment in my voice seem to bewilder him, almost as if I’ve broken through a carefully constructed wall.

Slowly, his grip loosens, and he takes a step back, his eyes narrowing as he attempts to regain control of the situation.

“Oh please! Don’t fucking tell me that you don’t think about that night…

The three of us. Together. You fucking loved it!

You are just too much of a pussy to do anything about it,” he growls.

I step closer, our faces merely inches apart, and I spit out, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it has to stop. You can’t keep putting us in harm’s way like this, and you can’t keep fucking with her like a… like a plaything. What if she goes to the cops, Fin?”

There’s a palpable tension in the air. He swallows hard, his gaze shifting from mine, finally looking down at the hard concrete beneath us.

“Here. See for yourself. She’s too scared to run her pretty little mouth,” he says as he hands me the phone we use for work. “Before you scream some more like a jealous housewife, the number is untraceable.”

After reading the texts, I stare into his eyes, trying to discern the thoughts behind those piercing golden orbs. “Why did you do it?” I ask, my voice barely audible, trying to contain the tsunami of emotions threatening to break free.

Anger? Sadness? Excitement? Relief?

What the fuck am I supposed to feel right now? The confusing part is, I’m not as pissed off by the threatening messages he sent to her but I’m livid that she never responded to any of them.

Does she care? Is she too afraid? Does Fin feel the same way?

We haven’t spoken about anything besides the money since that night.

“I didn’t want to let her go,” he admits. His words shock me as I try to make sense of them.

He takes a deep breath, and I can see a momentary hesitation in his eyes. He must be debating whether or not to reveal his meaning.

“Why not?” I ask, confused and stunned by his admission. “I’ve been trying to get you to open up and relax for months before she came along. Would you have kissed me at all if she wasn’t there?” he asks.

I remain silent as I stare at him, my muscles tensing as I stand, unable to form a coherent thought to voice a reply.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, ripping the cap from my head as he closes the distance between us. He grabs a fistful of my dark hair at the nape of my neck and pulls me closer until our lips collide.

The intensity of our kiss and his desperate need is overwhelming. I can feel the raw emotion pouring from him, and I respond in kind, allowing my silent confession to bleed onto his tongue. My cock strains against the fabric of my jeans as I delight in the feeling of his lips against mine.

I want him. I want them both. I have never been one to voice my feelings aloud and I probably never will. Actions speak louder than words after all. I have been fixated on the way he behaved that night, and fuck knows why it bothers me not knowing if he only kissed me because of her or the cameras.

Does he even want to? Has he ever?

He pulls away, shock masking his intentions as he whispers, “I can’t do this, Fin,” His words, intense and pained as he appears to fight with the emotions that have been plaguing him for so long.

I nod, unable to form words. There is something undeniably primal and raw about the emotions coursing through me. I have been with many people. Countless times I have joked around, playfully touching or kissing Kieran but this is different.

Is it because I care about him? The fact that he isn’t just another body with holes for me to fill.

He clears his throat, drowning the sudden uncomfortable silence between us. “How do we play this? She’s waiting inside…” he trails off as he notices the bulge in my pants. He turns his gaze as if ashamed to witness my arousal.

“We have to be careful. We’ll have a fucking mess on our hands if she recognizes us and starts screaming bloody murder in the studio,” he says while I let my wild emotions fall through the cracks of my defenses before I build them back into place.

Smirking, my eyes glint with mischief as I feel the vulnerability seep from my body, quickly replaced by my signature, sinister and playful wit. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got a plan. We’ll play the professional artists just doing our job until the moment is right.”

“She knows our names, Fintan, and our voices. How the fuck do you think this is going to pan out if we can’t talk to her?”

“Just fucking go inside and follow my lead,” I hiss as I push past him, grabbing the phone that’s still clutched in his hand and making my way inside.