Aero
I sat in my car, trailing my bottom lip with my thumb. Fisting her hair in my hand in that basement, I’d bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. Splitting my flesh was the least of my worries. Being near her in a conscious state is driving me more mad than I ever thought imaginable. There’s nothing I crave more than to break this girl. To show her how broken the world around her really is. To destroy that light within her that bleeds out through those innocent eyes, allowing her to see me in the darkness. Tonight. Tonight, I’ll show her that destructive truth.
I see it every time I’m near her now. She’s receptive to my masculinity. Wanting to be claimed the way a woman of her purity can only dream. I can feel it crawling beneath that porcelain skin. She wants to free herself from the chains of these rules that were meant to suppress her true desires.
I’ll show her how to scream. I’ll be the voice she never knew she needed.
But first, another job.
A visit with an old friend to gain some knowledge. The dirt swept beneath the rug of the men in power was piling up, and exposure was becoming more appealing than the simplicities of the job they paid me to do.
Walking into the nightclub, I feel the familiar thump of the bass rocking through my chest, the steady flashing of red lights melting bodies into one another in a bleeding mess of intoxication. Making my way towards the private rooms near the back, I greet two large men standing tall with their arms crossed over their chests, one with a beard, one without.
“Here for Nox,” I tell the man in front of me.
His eyes narrow and his arms cross tighter, but he does nothing to move or respond.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say, looking over at the other guard standing like a statue.
I pull the guns from the back of my pants, holding one to the man’s temple and holding the other out toward the other idiot.
“H-how’d he get that in here?” the other guard asks, choking on his words, backing with his arms raised.
“Apparently it doesn’t take brains or a set of balls to work the fucking door, eh?” I say, shaking my head. “HERE FOR NOX!” I repeat, tapping the barrel of the gun on the man’s head.
The man fumbles behind him, pressing the call button.
I smirk at both men, enjoying the fear they are emitting, almost wondering why this is so easy, before the door behind them opens and I see the man I’m here to see.
Nox’s grin stretches across his face immediately before he cocks a brow, eyeing the guns I have pointed at his men. “I shouldn’t be surprised, really.”
He turns, nodding his shaved, tatted-up head along for me to follow him. I give the boys at the door a quick wink before tucking away my guns and following Nox.
“Yeah, I know,” he begins, walking his lengthy form down the dimly lit hall as he talks. “They aren’t the smartest of the crew, but they pack the most punch. It scares most people away.” He turns back to look at me, before stopping in front of a black door with a red window. “Not that you’re most people, clearly.”
Nox knows me better than anyone else. He knows the depths of my insanity. Serving time together will have you making friends you never thought you would, keeping company with all the wrong people. The people that find your creative criminal and shine it into something more intriguing and more talented than ever before. Prison is an education, one I gained many skills from.
He owns and operates a strip club and bar that washes money for the underground drug Lords. Not only does he dabble in his own supply, both women and drugs, but he also gets paid off by politicians, representatives of the church, and outstanding citizens of our sweet and green community to keep his mouth shut about what happens behind his closed doors. He’s got no ties to anyone. No one but me.
I don’t blame the man for taking a buck where he can. He’s not the one forcing anyone to come in and get a quick suck and fuck, and what happens here is entirely consensual. The dirty girls drooling for cash and the pristine men drooling for dirty girls. The housewives don’t spread themselves open the way these prominent members of society truly desire. No, these men pretend in the light of day and unleash in the dark of the night.
“You here for Anika again?” he asks with a side-eyed grin, putting his key card up to the door. “It’s been a while.”
The door beeps, opening for us.
“Played out,” I scoff. “But this is business, shithead. I need some information from one of your girls.”
“I knew someone as fucked up as you would get sick of her fast. These squares can’t get enough.” He nods to the door where the club is behind us with a chuckle.
“Brandi. Send her out,” I demand.
He holds his hand out, leading the way. I walk into the dark room, where a single red light is shining from the ceiling, focused on a circular stage and a pole that faces toward a plush red couch.
“Take a seat,” he says casually, motioning to the couch. “I’ll let her know you’re ready.”
He turns to walk out of the room but stalls, looking back.
“Always a pleasure, Aero.” He nods with a mischievous smirk, dismissing himself.
I settle back on the couch, legs spread wide, arms resting along the back of it, ready to get this done and over with so I can focus on my latest project. Obliterating Briony in the most primal way. I hear the door click open and a shadow makes its way into the light.
In walks a scantily dressed woman with a long black wig tied back into pigtails, her outfit literally making me roll my eyes. A schoolgirl? A fucking schoolgirl? Could this man be any more obvious?
“Hey, baby,” she says, sauntering towards me on her platform heels. “I heard you wanted me for a private dance?”
She sits her ass on my lap, her tiny little checkered skirt riding up, exposing all of her already. Smelling like cheap alcohol and tanning oil, she leans her back against my chest. Looking back at me, she trails her fingers along her neck, down towards her chest. It’s then I notice the shining crucifix dangling from a chain between her breasts. Fucking hilarious.
She’s got the information I need as she sits here, playing the part of the slutty catholic schoolgirl. The irony.
I grip the necklace in my hand, ripping it off her neck. She gasps, clutching her skin where a dark red mark is already forming. Her eyes widen, but she tries playing it off. She crouches down onto her knees while the hard rock music continues booming through the room, turning to sit between my legs. Her hands slowly slide up my thighs, edging closer and closer to my cock.
“What can I do for you, baby? What is it you’d like, Bones?”
Bones. My nickname has clearly spread around the club for the infamous skull mask I wear anytime I make an appearance.
“Tell me about your last visitor, Brandi,” I say, glaring down at her on her knees.
She gulps, and I know immediately by the stiffness in her neck she was told to lie for him. Told to keep her little mouth shut if she wanted to keep making the good money.
I lean forward, grabbing my Glock from behind me and lazily scratching my temple with it, tossing the dark, unruly hair across my forehead.
“I’d ask you again, but I really hate repeating myself.”
Her mouth drops open as a whimper leaves her chest. She falls back, sitting on her heels.
“Tell me, Brandi,” I say, turning the barrel of the gun towards her and placing it softly on her forehead. Her chest heaves beneath her white, barely there button-up shirt that’s tied up into a knot beneath her breasts. “Is it true that if you breathe through your nose you can deep throat practically anything?”
I run the edge of the gun down her nose as her eyes stay focused on mine. I make it to her lips, and as tears fall from her eyes, her deep scowl attempts to burn through me.
“She has it coming,” she spits out at me. “She’s bound to fuck up my money.”
The mention of Briony has my nostrils flaring. I knew this bitch knew more than she was letting on. Being the whore of a man of power has its advantages. Whispers of business always infiltrate these places and women like her love to keep their secrets.
I grip the hair at the top of her head, startling her.
“Open,” I demand.
Her quivering lips part as she mouths the end of my gun. I feel her teeth hit the edge as she mumbles something around it before choking.
“Through the nose, remember? Just like you’ve practiced.”
She tries to say something, protest it, her eyes narrowing on me. A wordless threat.
“Sorry, can’t hear you, sweetheart,” I say sweetly, leaning forward and petting the side of her head. “Your lies and stories won’t keep this bullet from hitting the back of that head.”
More tears flood her face, her fake eyelashes a fluttering mess.
“Ready to talk?” I ask, and she nods quickly. “Good girl.”
I pull the gun from her mouth, keeping my grip on the hair atop her head as she coughs.
“What do they make you do?”
“Who?”
“Your highest paying clients? How do you perform for them?”
Her eyes dart around the room, begging for help as if someone were watching.
“Cameras are off, darling.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s not—“
“I don’t fucking care what protocol is for your safety at the moment. You realize that, right?”
She sniffs, glaring at me.
“How do you perform?”
“This outfit. With a short wig.”
Interesting.
“And how do they like it?”
“It depends—“
“Just fucking tell me!” I growl, pulling the top of her hair back, forcing her to look at me.
She squints her eyes. “From behind. Anal mostly. He calls me Brady. Always Brady.”
Jesus. Could they be more obvious?
“Who’s he?”
Looking down, she contemplates answering.
“Caldwell.” She looks back up at me and there’s no guilt whatsoever.
The fucking bishop.
“What time does he visit you?”
She sighs. “Always 3:30.”
“And who’s paying you to protect him?” I demand, with venom lacing my tone.
She licks her lips, swallowing before looking up at me again, still debating in her head if she should deceive the man paying her, or take the bullet to the skull. The fact she’s even considering dying for that piece of shit has me wanting to blow her brains across that tiny stage myself.
“C-Cal,” she stutters, her body trembling. “Callum Westwood.”
I stare at her for a minute. I suspected this information, just needed it confirmed to build my case against the prick to destroy him from the inside out.
“Do you fuck him, too?”
Her eyes narrow further, attempting to penetrate me with her gaze. She doesn’t want to answer but finally nods.
“Bravo Brandi,” I say with a grin, loosening my grip on her hair and sliding it down the side of her face before slapping her cheek twice. “Bravo.”
I lean back into the couch again, grabbing for the black ski mask in my leather coat. I pull it out, tossing it in her face. She grabs it, looking confused as she peers down at it, then back up at me.
“Now cover your face.”
I spread my legs, adjusting my hips as I rest my neck against the back of the couch.
Sliding the mask over her wig, she puts it on, glaring up at me through the eyeholes as she adjusts it.
“Cover that weak, money-hungry, morally depraved face, and get me off,” I demand.
Seemingly back in her element, she leans up on her knees, unbuckling my belt, quick to open my jeans. Her fingers find my cock as she grips the base and angles me to her mouth.
“Nah, baby,” I say, using a hand to stop her. “I don’t want your dirty mouth on me. Only hands.”
I lean my head back against the couch, imagining that porcelain skin, those red, trembling lips, the natural curves of her supple breasts. I pretend the woman touching me is the innocent beauty about to fall to her desires. A groan leaves my lips as I envision the dark-haired doll I’ve become obsessed with twisting her soft hands around my hardening cock.
Briony does something to me no one else has. She’s maintained an innocence in a world of corruption, somehow shadowing the truths I’m bound to expose her to. Briony Strait is about to break for me. I will break her. Dirtying her to anyone else. But the sins I’ll have her caving to will be her reawakening. Her baptism in human nature and the animalistic desires that drive us. A lesson in what it means to be alive from the one she’ll soon be calling God.
“Ah fuck, doll,” I murmur to myself with my eyes closed tightly, thinking of my girl as I find my release with my wholesome father’s closet whore.
