The Complete Contract Series (13 page)

Miller

Etta James croons ‘Stormy Weather’ as I am forewarning my persistent woman what lies ahead of her.

You’ll be dead—ceased to exist. Your name, social security number, birthday, friends, family, all that is gone and all that remains is me. All you will have is me. Even your name: Laura—it will all be gone.

She chuckles and says, “Call me Stormy—Stormy Dawn Weathers.”

“Not a bad idea there, kiddo. I’ll have all of your new paperwork done up under that alias. In fact, I’m taking you with me to have it done. Your training starts tomorrow so you had better get a good night’s sleep. You have to learn how to fight.”

“I already know how to fight. My parents had me enrolled in mixed martial arts the whole time I was growing up. They thought it would help with the panic attacks and fear. I also know how to shoot a gun, thanks to my ex-husband.”

“You can’t learn your way out of agoraphobia, Stormy.”

“I can
will
my way out of it. I didn’t have what I consider to be a severe case of it—more of an ‘I don’t want to deal with people’ case.’”

“Good, because tomorrow we go to have your fake documents done and then we head to the gym to see just how good of a fighter you are.”

I watch to see how she reacts and I am surprised. Even though she seems a tad bit unnerved, there is no panic, only resolution. If she is as hard headed as she was about not removing her hands from that counter, she might just do okay.

I can feel my cock beginning to harden once again as I pull her warm, nude body into mine. It never ceases to amaze me how much my body responds to her.

I have two rules that I never broke in the past: never fuck a woman more than once and never kill one. I have broken one of them—I can’t help but wonder if I will break the other. I have no doubt that I can under the right circumstances; after all, I have come dangerously close to killing the one that I hold in my arms…

Stormy

I wake up the next morning rested and ready to take on my new life. I make my way to the bathroom to get started. One quick look in the mirror tells me I desperately need a shower. Even though I have bed head, I still look sexy—a much different look from that of the innocence I have emanated in the past. I can’t ever remember a time of being so consumed with my appearance but this is a matter of life and death—not just mine, but my lover’s. Looking sexy is a weapon, not a commodity.

Getting ready is easy with the new look because I have also begun using the tanning bed that occupies a guest bedroom in my condo.

I decide on a pair of jeans with heels and a white button up shirt—it has always been a go to when I don’t want to put much thought into what I’m wearing. Though it looks professional, the five inch red heels gave it the sexy look that is needed for the day’s events.

I know we will be going to a tattoo parlor to get the documents I need and though Miller doesn’t know it yet, I am getting a tattoo. I once heard a legend about a bird that remained in flight—always flying—never able to land. I want that bird on my hip. I want it as a reminder of the legend, the legend of always being in between flight and landing. It fits me. I feel as if I am always in the middle—airborne—yet unable to land. It will definitely fit my life now because I will forever be on the run, forever looking for the next vindication or cause.

“Damn, girl, you look hot.”

Miller’s voice and cock grinding up against the back of my poured on designer jeans pulls me from my thoughts.

“What are you thinking about, girl?”

“The tattoo I’m going to get.”

“What, a tramp stamp?”

“No, I’m not a tramp. A bird in flight—well actually a bird unable to land—he’s always between landing and flight. It’s a Latin American fable.”

“Well, it will definitely fit your lifestyle now, Stormy.”

He turns making his way into the shower—hard cock and all. I can’t help but smile at the use of my new name; it sounds good on the lips of the man I have become so attached to in such a short amount of time. I know instinctively that we will become bound in yet another way—blood.

Once you commit a crime with someone, there ensues an ‘honor among thieves’ mentality. We now share a common goal to rid society of the blight that inevitably exists—those who manage to beat the system, those who prey on the weak with no thought of the financial and emotional damage they are doing. I know I will have no problem with pulling the trigger on someone who hurts women or children. In fact… I look forward to it. Thoughts of abducted women used as sex slaves against their will and children abducted and used for pedophiles sick twisted desires, make me actually look forward to the new employment that I have taken up.

I grab my purse and take one more look in the mirror before I follow my lover and my boss out the door. There is no fear or anxiety, only a newfound wonder at what lies ahead in my future.

Much of my agoraphobia has been the choice of being a hermit—choice, more so than fear. I am the type that once I make up my mind to do something, or even to quit doing something, I never look back. That is a case now. Of course the fact that my ex-husband is dead alleviates a lot of the fear and anxiety that has previously plagued me. There is no longer an enemy who feeds off of making me feel guilty. My ghosts are gone and it is a new day. I walk out the door as if I have never been a prisoner of the walls that I am exiting.

I am not surprised when we pull up and the street is littered with Harleys.

“Are you ready for this, girl? Once you grace those doors you’re at the point of no return.”

“I’m already there, baby; I’m already there.”

“Okay girl, let’s do it.”

Every head in the place looks up when the bell over the door rings giving testimony to our presence.

“Well look what the cat dragged in.”

“Good to see you, Tiny.”

I resist the urge to laugh at the clichéd biker who is anything but tiny, standing at least 6’5 and weighing in at 300 pounds or more—none of which is fat. He chuckles as he observes the fact that I have to strain my neck to look up at him.

“Well hey there little lady, I’d much rather look at you than him any day of the week. Come on back here guys.”

We follow him and he pulls a curtain back to reveal an area that has been turned into a make shift office/lounge area, complete with a couch to nap on and a chair with a back-drop that resembles a driver’s license photo area.

“Just sit right there in that chair against the wall and let me get your new driver’s license pic. We’ve already got that old man of yours taken care of—took care of him years ago.”

I couldn’t help but wonder who Miller had been before he died and took on the persona of Miller. It isn’t hard to smile for the camera, I am looking forward to a new identity.

“’Stormy Dawn Weathers’ that is one hell of a name that you came up with, girl.”

“It just came to me.”

“Well it fits you from what I can see. You look like you could be as unpredictable as the weather.”

“That’s what he says,” I laugh as I look in Miller’s direction.

“You can get a tat while you wait for me to get these done.”

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.