The Contract Read online

  Miller chuckled, “Ms. Unpredictable informed me this morning that was what she wanted to do. She wants a bird in flight on that sexy hip of hers. You reading minds now or something?”

  “If I find out that I can, I’m sure as fuck going to make some money on the gift. You know me, I’m all about making bank.”

  “That I don’t doubt,” Miller laughed. “You boys been doing alright?”

  “We’ve had a couple of run-ins, but you know how we do—we just clean up, take out the trash, and reaffirm that we’re the top dogs here in this neck of the woods.”

  Though he is laughing, I know what he is saying is true. This particular MC club is the most dangerous in the Louisville, Kentucky area and probably one of the most ruthless in the country—even their women are feared. I have heard rumors of customers at the strip clubs getting up and leaving out of fear when the women wear their colors into work. The boss will even go so far as to ask them not to wear them. Of course the boss is never heeded. The women and men in the MC clubs will die for their colors.

  “You got something on underneath those clothes that you feel comfortable with wearing while you get tatted?”

  “Yes Sir, I wore boy shorts.”

  “Yes Sir, I kind of like the sound of that—does she call you Sir, Miller?”

  Miller winks at me as he answers, “Under the right circumstances she does.”

  “I heard that, well let’s get you set up. I want you to go over and look in that area over on the wall where the birds are and tell me what you want. Keep those jeans on for now though, or Miller is going have a fight on his hands. My boys can never get their fill of two things: Harleys and hot women.”

  The term ‘my boys’ causes me to check out his patches more extensively and sure enough he is the President of this chapter. Miller’s connections are always heavy hitters—heavy hitters that the general population will never be able to have access to.

  I get up and make my way over to check out the drawings and it doesn’t take long for me to find exactly what I am looking for. A multi-colored quetzal, but with the long feathered tail of an African sugarbird, fits perfectly. His colors are vividly striking hues of blue, green, reds, and yellows. His tail feathers wind so that they will fall into play and appear to move with each indentation and movement of my hip. He is perfect.

  I make my way back over to Tiny and give him the picture and he directs the only female artist in the place to go and get the transfer adhesive to get started.

  “You know I only let my woman work on my best customers, Miller, but for you, anything. She’s one of my best artists. She can out-tat any of these boys in here. I’ve got people who come in here and request her personally.” The pride in Tiny’s voice is evident.

  I can’t help but wonder if Miller asked him to use a female to do the artwork. I already know the answer—he doesn’t want a male doing the tattoo.

  The female quickly makes her way back over and directs me to remove my jeans after she takes me to a private room with a curtain around it. As if reading my mind, she chuckles and speaks, “I’ve never seen Miller with a woman. It’s evident why he keeps an eye on you though.”

  I look at her as if I don’t understand what she means.

  “It’s evident that he has got it bad for you. Don’t ever cross that crazy mother fucker; he’ll kill somebody. Tiny is my ole man—he’s the president of the club and he only uses Miller when he needs the best of the best. We have much respect for him around here.”

  I can’t help but feel a surge of pride. I don’t know why Miller made his way into my life the way that he did. I am just glad he did.

  Four hours later I stretch in order to work out the kinks from my body. I am in a hurry to escape the pain brought on by the onslaught of a relentlessly vibrating needle. In disbelief I watch Miller as he rises. The vague beginning of a yellowing hue in his eyes forewarns me of impending judgment. He bends down close to my ear and whispers in a hoarse growl, “Where the fuck do you think that you’re going?”

  I look at him—puzzled, unsure, have I done something to anger him?

  “Roll over and lift your hair. You’re getting branded.”

  When I look at him with a question in my eyes and my mouth opens to speak, or better yet to protest, his finger is placed over my lip and once again I hear the hoarse rebuke.

  “You have been warned about disobeying me. It’s a new day, Stormy Dawn. I refuse to work with anyone who can’t follow instructions. The grip he has taken on my throat from when he first made his way over is tightening as he speaks, “Don’t ever think that I would be careless enough to work with someone who can’t or won’t follow my instructions.”

  I only shake my head and roll onto my stomach, lifting my hair to give Raven access to the spot that Miller had already mandated as the place of residence for his name. It is evident that he had spoken with Tiny while his wife worked on me, and it is clear that she is going to obey her man who has already relayed the message to her without my knowledge. A feeling of being conspired against courses through me and it threatens me with giving in to the rebellion in me that has reared its ugly head.

  Miller’s eyes, which only held hues of yellow when this conversation began, have now turned completely yellow. He is testing me and this is about submission as much as it is about branding me. I am beginning to see a pattern here—a pattern of Miller exercising dominance over me. A thrill rushes through my system as a warm moisture begins to pool at my core. I want to resist for the sake of resisting. If I am going to be a sub, I am going to be an Alpha sub. Our eyes are locked as his hand tightens more aggressively around my throat and Tiny and Raven watch with interest. Though I have rolled over and lifted my hair in obedience, my glaring at him is clearly letting him know I’m no push-over. He still maintains his lock on my throat and I know it is due to my stare of rebellion.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  The tension melts and Raven resumes working as Miller and Tiny continue conversing as if nothing has happened. Something has happened though—Miller has made his point. Once again I am seeing a side of Miller I haven’t seen before. The question is: why does it turn me on?

  I have always known that there is an element of danger to Miller, but to intermingle it with sex is just plain hot. The dominance he exudes isn’t something that he does—it is who he is. I can only guess he has been holding that part of himself back for fear of scaring me. Now he is scaring me for fear of losing me. He is purposely turning up the heat to see if I will back out of working with him.

  There isn’t a chance in hell that is going to happen because now I not only care about him, I need him. This is unfamiliar territory to me. I have no clue how to navigate the shark infested waters I have knowingly and willingly placed myself in. I don’t come from the streets—I have never been in the streets and now I will be dealing with the streets and all of the horrid issues that come with them. Yes…I need Miller.

  I have some anxiety—anxiety about not knowing what Miller will do from one moment to the next. It is an adrenaline filled angst type of anxiety that brings to mind a quote by Oscar Wilde, ‘Everything is about sex, but sex is about power.’ The way this man exercises power over me is invigorating to say the least. That, in and of itself, is another addiction and need that will take hold of me—has taken hold of me. I like it and I want more. Yes, this is going to be a very interesting journey. As the world of kink terms it—I am evolving…

  Black Rose

  I make my way through the room fingering some of the items I purchased this afternoon for a woman I love who has no idea I even exist.

  I spend a lot of time setting up her apartment and these items will join the others already there. I want to be certain my captive will feel right at home. I go to extreme measures to ensure that I purchase everything that will be to her liking. I am a very detailed man and I enjoy the hunt of a kill as much as I enjoy the kill itself. This
one is different though; she is my salvation.

  I must say I am different than my brothers in arms. Though we have all gone the path of being killers, we all possess different reasoning for doing so.

  Miller likes to think of himself as ‘a knight in shining armor.’ Diego demands respect and won’t hesitate to kill in order to get it, and keep it. Me…well, I like to think of myself as an equalizer of sorts—you know…taking out the trash.

  I know I have some issues. Being a serial killer has its own set of problems—but it’s in me and I learned long ago that there is no redemption for me. I have an innate desire to kill.

  To put it simply—I’m a born predator. If you’re weak in any sense of the word, I will smell it on you and use it against you. I have a primal need to hunt, take down my prey, and consume it. I’m as much of a hunter as a feared predator in the wild is.

  My GQ looks and trust fund baby bank accounts ensure I always have anything I want—yet the craving which can’t be bought or sold to obtain, the craving to kill, is lodged deeply within my soul. Plain and simple, I am a serial killer. I am completely comfortable with it and I am making my way to take out the trash now.

  I exit the bedroom and casually stroll through the massive hallway of my mansion. I grab a black rose from the crystal vase that adorns the antique oblong table which sits on the expensive marble flooring. I walk down the spiral staircase and make my way through the mansion’s foyer, into the formal dining area, through the chef’s commercial kitchen and to the door that will bring me to the basement that now houses my next victim.

  The staff is gone for the day and I will have more than enough time to torture my prey before the final kill.

  I pull the key from the small hook next to the door and unlock the deadbolt, placing the key in my tailored pants pocket. I reach up and flip the switch to my right and make my way down the steps.

  I approach the man I have secured to the large wooden column with zip ties and hold up the black rose as I eye him. I want him to suffer psychologically as well as physically, so I purposely prolong the inevitable by detailing his fate with my words.

  “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to leave this black rose with your lifeless body and a note which will decree to the world I am not a mindless serial killer.

  I have purpose—and my purpose is to rid this city of the dregs of society. The people like your worthless whores who spread disease, pimps like you who prey on society and the working class, drug addicts who steal everything that is not nailed down. You know exactly what I am speaking of: users—who prey on those of us who work, users—who prey on those of us who are productive members of society.

  Your days of having your whores pick up men to lure them to hotel rooms so you can rob them for drug money are over. I bet you didn’t know the last victim who fell prey to the two of you was in the hospital for close to six weeks. He lost his job, his wife, his children, and ultimately, his life after he took it by jumping from the roof of a down town building—all so you could get your next fix.”

  I am truly enjoying his terrified screams. Even from behind the ball gag I can hear him begging for mercy. I pick up the razor sharp knife and begin toying with it…just to prolong his anguish… I look into his eyes and smirk.

  “I’m going to slit your lying, thieving throat—are you ready?”

  I’m being facetious—but what the fuck?

  “There is no redemption…only justice…”

  Chapter Four

  Miller

  “Put your seatbelt on Stormy Dawn Weathers.” I accent her name just to sink it deeper into her pretty little psyche that she is no longer the innocent wall flower I first encountered. I clutch her chin turning her face in my direction and forcing her to look me in the eye. “Do you know that I killed your husband?”

  “He isn’t…wasn’t…my husband, and yes, I suspected it.”

  “I bet you didn’t suspect I was hired to kill you though, did you?” That got her attention and being that I am going for shock value, it works for me.

  “He said you were a baby killer.” I watch as a tear streams down one of her cheeks. It is the one trigger, the one weakness she is going to have to get past—the death of her daughter. She can’t afford to be plagued with guilt, because I can’t afford to lose her. Enemies like mine are trained to find weakness and use it against you. Weakness means people die—distraction due to guilt can get her killed and she isn’t dying on my watch. Guilt isn’t a luxury that she will be allowed to have anymore. I could kill that bastard again when I think about what he did to her concerning the death of their child.

  “Baby girl, you have to get past that. I know you’ll never get over the loss of your child—and I get that—you have to get past the guilt though. Kids die of S.I.D.S. every day and every parent goes through the same guilt you’re experiencing. She fell asleep and didn’t wake up. It isn’t your fault.”

  I watch as she bites her lower lip, shaking her head yes. Then I take her in my arms and hold her. If I could take the pain on myself I would, just to see her free of it. I stroke her hair as I speak more to myself than her, “I’d like to have a son with you some day.”

  I raise her head up and place my hands on her shoulders. “Get it together girl, because I’m getting ready to take you to the gym and kick your ass.”

  “Like hell you are.” Her beautiful jaw locks in determination as she speaks.

  “There’s my girl.” I watch her through my peripheral vision as she lowers the mirror, looking into it and wiping the tears away. She has sense enough to wear water-proof make-up I notice. She is going to get through this. We are going to get through this; I will see to it that we do. In a sense she needs a hero and I am just the man for the job.

  I have been saving her from the day her worthless ex-husband tried to hire me to kill her. I will be saving her until the day that I die—and I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.

  I watch her as she exits the dressing room wearing the workout gear she brought with her in a duffel bag. I am not the only one who is watching her. Every head in the place turns and she is clueless to it as she wraps her hands for the fight that is getting ready to ensue.

  She is beautiful—and she is mine. She still wears the bandages from her trip to the tattoo parlor. They will be necessary for the next week but if she thinks that I am going to show her any mercy she’s wrong. I am going to train her ass to be on top of her game—mercy and coddling her won’t accomplish that.

  We both stand at opposite ends of the ring barefoot and dressed for MMA fighting. We eye each other intently, sizing up our opponent.

  “You come out touching fists with me and then make it back to your side of the ring. Then… its game on girl… Don’t dare mistake me for being kind in this ring. When it comes to fighting, kindness is a form of weakness—you’d better watch your ass, because I’m getting ready to kick it.”

  I almost have to laugh when her face takes on a snarl and she growls: “Game-on.”

  She meets me in the middle of the ring, touches my fists, then quickly backs away. I note that she never turned her back toward me. She should be glad that she didn’t because I had planned on slamming her ass into the cage if and when she did. I have to say I am impressed with her foresight. We circle looking for an opening and I see it and come at her with a round-house kick and she ducks avoiding it.

  “Impressive.”

  “Shut-up and fight, Miller!”

  “Well if talking distracts you then all the more reason that I should be running my mouth.”

  I swing at her and she barely misses getting coldcocked. Her ducking the kick saves her from hitting the mat face first but it still connects with her jaw enough for her to have to shake it off. “Tell me when you’re ready to cry Uncle—or in your case, Master.”

  “Only in the bedroom baby, never in the ring.”

  “Touche, little lady.”

  “Well you can forget about me being a lady in the ring,” she taunts
, as she solidifies it with a roundhouse kick that connects with my thigh, sending me back and causing me to have to regain my balance. I have underestimated her fighting abilities. It is evident she has taken her childhood training seriously. A big part of me is relieved. At this rate, she can kick an average man’s ass—but I’m not an average man. It gives me not only a sense of pride and confidence in her, but also in her abilities.

  The only reason her husband had gotten away with kidnapping her when he did was due to the fact he had drugged her. He caught her off guard. She never would have expected that from him. Even if she can fight due to training, she still needs to be trained not to ever be caught off guard.

  She isn’t street smart and that poses a big fucking problem in my world. The men and women I deal with are sharp business people, with street smarts, money, and connections. They chew people up and spit them out for sport. They enjoy the game and they have the resources to play—ruthlessly taking down opponents for the fun of it—and the money of course. It’s a sport to them. There are three things that motivate the people in my world: the things they covet with their eyes, the things they crave in their flesh, and pride.

  Her fist whizzes past my head, lightly connecting with my chin and then it is over. I bum-rush her and send her to the mat, wrapping my legs around her squirming body and holding her in a full blown head lock with my arm.

  “Say it,” I demand, squeezing the air right out of her with the pressure I’m applying with my legs around her midsection. A crowd has gathered now and the thought that they might think that I am being too rough on a woman crosses my mind. Fuck that, she is going to say it, or I am going to force it from her.

  I bend down growling in her ear where no one can hear what I am saying. “Say it— Say Master.”

  “Fuck you!”

  I squeeze my scissored legs tighter around her mid-section and I guess that my hard headed little vixen realizes that there is no escaping it and she wheezes “Master.”