Chaos And Ruin: Violent Things Part 9

"Nope. It's just...Lagavulin. My cousin and I drink this." He's not lying, either. Not many people can scull whiskey the way he does, his throat muscles s.h.i.+fting as he takes one, two, three, four mouthfuls of the stuff. I'm the one who's in pain right now, but this guy's gonna be feeling comfortably numb pretty soon. He hands the bottle back, eyes full of steel, his gut probably full of fire now, and I already know I'm gonna hire him. He's a ball breaker. I can tell by the way he's not bowing and sc.r.a.ping to me. I like that. I like that a lot.

"So you got a cousin, huh?" I ask.

"I do. Just one."

"Any other family I should know about? Anyone in Seattle in particular?"

"No. No one. Parents are both dead. I have an uncle in Alabama. You should know, he's a governor."

"A United States Governor?" I raise my brows, scanning Michael's face to see what this means for me. Could be nothing, but could also be really f.u.c.king bad news if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's close with his nephew. Michael nods.

"I haven't seen him in four years. Not since my mother died."

"Why not since then?

"What do you mean?"

"Well," I say, leaning against the wall. Gonna be getting blood everywhere but I'll have to deal with it in the morning. "If you haven't seen your uncle for four years since your mother died, that means you had a bust-up with him at the funeral. Or he didn't go to the funeral. Or it could just mean that he lives in Alabama and you live in Was.h.i.+ngton State, and neither one of you can be f.u.c.ked making the journey. Which is it?"

Michael smiles a small, rueful smile. "He'd say option C. I'd be more inclined to select option B."

"So he didn't go to your mother's funeral?"

"Yeah. He didn't go to his sister's funeral. Didn't approve of her marrying a black guy, or so I hear."

I open up the dresser drawer, lifting out the sharp, curved blade that I keep there. The metal edge has been well honed until it's wickedly sharp. Lethal. I hold it up, watching closely to gauge his reaction as I pa.s.s it back and forth in my hands. Again, I don't get a reaction. I like that the guy is stone-cold, but a part of me is disappointed. I can't think of a single occasion when I've been covered in blood, holding a knife in an enclosed s.p.a.ce and the other guy hasn't blanched.

"You think you can do me a favor, Michael?"

He starts slipping off his suit jacket, his mouth pulling up at one side. "Where is it?" he asks. He already knows what I need from him, and I like that about him even more than the stone cold thing.

I tap the blade of the knife against my stomach, flas.h.i.+ng him my teeth. "Somewhere round abouts in here." You can't see the entry wound for all the blood, but I can sure as h.e.l.l feel it. That's the thing about stomach wounds: they're seriously f.u.c.king messy. So much blood. They hurt like a motherf.u.c.ker but they take days to f.u.c.king kill you. Or they can. This one might kill me sooner. Who knows?

Michael takes the knife from me, and also the bottle of whiskey. "I'm gonna need more light if I'm gonna do this. That cool?"

I give him a nod and he flicks the light switch on behind him, illuminating the horror show that I've made of the room. b.l.o.o.d.y hand prints everywhere. The sheets are f.u.c.king ruined. Michael gives me a dubious look-almost half amused. "This isn't all yours, is it?" he asks, waving a hand in my general direction, at the blood all over my face, drying and cracking on my neck, making my hair stiff.

"No. Not all mine. Some of it belonged to an Albanian called Ermir."

"You need me to take care of Ermir after I've taken care of you?" He jerks his head toward the bed-get on. He's taking the initiative, ticking more boxes. I only wanted to meet the guy, to get a vibe off him, but right now I'm beginning to wonder how I ever lived without him. Not that I'd ever say that out loud, of course. This must be how single working mothers feel when they find the perfect nanny.

"I've already dealt with that issue, but thanks for the offer." I lie flat on the bed, throwing my hands up underneath my head, getting ready. This is gonna suck. I've had s.h.i.+t dug out of me before but the stomach is new. Been stabbed there a couple of times. The good thing about a knife is that there's nothing left behind when it's pulled out. A bullet...a bullet is a whole different ballgame.

Michael smiles grimly at me and then upends the bottle of whiskey over my torso, clearing back the blood, searching for the entry wound. He finds it pretty quick and then bends down to inspect it. He frowns, staring at the hole. I grind my teeth together, allowing the sting of the alcohol to stab through me.

"Was it a straight shot?" he asks.

I shake my head. "He was on the ground, I was standing. Gun was pointing up."

Michael thinks about that some. "Hmm. Okay." He pours whiskey all over his hands and the knife. I expect him to slide the tip of the knife in first, to go rummaging around with the sharpened steel in search of that nasty little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he doesn't. He uses his finger.

It's intensely f.u.c.king interesting how pain affects the body. I never make a lot of fuss when I'm suffering. For the most part I can let in the pain, absorb it, study it, accept it and ride it out, but finger probing around inside my body is nearly my G.o.dd.a.m.n breaking point. I'll pa.s.s out before I complain, but I make a mental note: get the motherf.u.c.ker back for this one day.

Michael's brow creases with concentration as he jabs and prods inside me. I turn my head to the side, breathing deeply, getting ready to throw up. I feel him pause. "I think I got it."

"Then get it the f.u.c.k out of me, by all means," I grit out.

"You're the boss."

The next few minutes are excruciating. When Michael finally digs in my gut with the blade and pulls out the metal, it's only maybe sixty percent of the bullet. He has to go back in, searching for the rest of it. He finds two more pieces, placing each fragment into the palm of my hand. "I can't feel any internal damage, but I'm not exactly a doctor," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "You should get yourself one of those."

I let out a hard laugh, reaching for the whiskey again. I need to pour some down my f.u.c.king throat instead of all over my bed sheets. "No, thanks. I've managed this far. I'll think I'll be fine for the foreseeable."

"You realize that will get infected, right? You will need to see someone."

I drink from the bottle, my head spinning, my body humming with adrenalin. Ripping a one hundred percent Egyptian cotton case off one of the pillows over my head, I hold the material to my stomach, staunching the wound. "We'll see."

I know my body. I know how it works. This isn't the wound that will kill me. I'll know it when it happens. I might be sore as f.u.c.k for a few weeks and I might be grumpy as h.e.l.l about it, but other than that this injury will end up scarring nice and good and leaving me with another story to tell the girls.

I glance up at Michael, who's standing with his hands on his hips with his head c.o.c.ked to one side. "So, this is a pretty common occurrence. There'll be a lot of blood involved. The hours are long. Mostly nights. I'll ask you to do s.h.i.+t and I'll expect you to do it without asking questions. Nearly everything will be illegal. You'll probably get killed at some point. What do you say?" How could he possibly say no?

Michael nods, turning slightly to angle his body toward the laughter and c.h.i.n.k of gla.s.sware out in the apartment. He seems to think about it for a second. And then he says, "Sure. Why not?" And that's it. It's a done deal. Michael now works for me. "You got bandages?" he asks.

I tell him where to find them in the bathroom cabinet across the hall. He's gone for a moment and then he's back with the whole first aid kit. He tells me he's going to sew me up and I tell him I don't need st.i.tches. He doesn't listen and does it anyway, which could be a problem in future, but I figure I'll have time to mold him into the perfect employee as we go along. After that I'm bandaged up and slapped on the shoulder, and I realize that no one's done that to me in...ever. It's a brotherly thing. A sign of camaraderie that I've never been shown before. I'd probably murder any of Charlie's other boys for even trying. I don't try and kill Michael, though. I give him a hard nod-thank you-and jerk my head toward the party going on in my living room.

"You wanna stick around. I'm guessing you know what this is all about."

He nods, laughing softly. "I had my suspicions. Which were confirmed when I risked the hallway just now."

"It bother you?"

"Group s.e.x? Voyeurism?"

"Any of it. Any possible s.e.xual deviation you can imagine. You'll see them all here." Better to be honest right off the bat, I suppose. Once a month, this place is not for the faint of heart.

"I got my own things where that's concerned," he admits. "Not much fazes me these days."

"No, I didn't think it would." I tense my abs and slowly stand, rising carefully, waiting to see if my intestines are about to tumble out of my body. Aside from hurting like a b.i.t.c.h, everything appears to be staying put, though.

"You didn't think about calling this off?" Michael asks.

I laugh, enjoying the slightly manic edge I'm feeling as I make my way over to the walk-in closet and stoop, collecting a black duffel from the ground. "Now why would I do that? I'm good to go, brother. And there are women out there I got business with."

He has curiosity written all over his face. It's the first time I've been able to read what he's thinking properly. He eyes the bag. "Should I even bother asking what you got in there?"

"Take a look." I hold it out to him. He takes it from me, unzips it, and his eyebrows. .h.i.t his hairline.

"I see." I consider laughing, but the whiskey's making me feel sharp. I retrieve the bag and kick it under the bed. Michael slides his jacket on, cracking his neck. "You got a woman out there? Someone in particular?" he asks.

I place both of my hands on his shoulders, looking him square in the eye. "The day I bring a woman back here and tell you she's mine to keep, Michael, is the day I've lost my mind. Put me the f.u.c.k down immediately."

SLOTH.

By ELLA JAMES.

I thought it might be fun to share an excerpt from one of my favorite authors! If you haven't already discovered the amazing Ella James, then that are you waiting for? Sloth is out right now and it's incredible!! Check out the excerpt below and let me know what you think!

Best, Sloth: A Sinful Secrets Novel By Ella James Releasing Monday, June 22, 2015 Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23716176-sloth Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=sloth+ella+james For updates on Sloth, Ella's Facebook page is www.facebook.com/ellajamesauthorpage Book Blurb: Dear A.

I am writing to express my grat.i.tude for your gift. There are no sufficient words, but please accept my sincerest thank you.

Yours, R.

She writes me back.

I didn't expect that.

She tells me she's a lover of chicken pizza and video games, a hot sorority girl with the nickname Sloth. She wants to know something about me in return. She says I owe her.

This is how she saves my life. She doesn't even know it. We've never even seen each other. But I need a reason. Just one reason to continue. She becomes mine.

The anonymity is good. She doesn't need to know me, but I need her kindness. We both live our lives: a letter here, a post card there. For three years, I escape my demons. And then one day I'm pulled back in.

I've resigned myself to what I know is coming. Until the girl I'm spanking gives her safe word: Sloth.

And then the lie I'm living starts to unravel.

Sloth is an erotic romance. It's a dark mystery, so if you're sad, read another book. This one is real, and hard. Not that kind of hard. (That kind of hard, too). Consider yourself warned.

P.S. The book ends on a beach. That's all I'm saying. As for an HEA, you'll have to read and see.

P.S.S. Sloth is long-about 500 pages. It was supposed to be short and quick. Instead it's a behemoth that consumed its author for six months. As such, the price is going from $2.99 to $4.99 shortly after release.

Excerpt: I read once that everyone has a finite supply of willpower, and tonight I've used up all of mine. Not going after Cleo and giving her the whipping she earned. Not calling one of the girls on my list of dirty f.u.c.ks.

I pull up the text feature first, but I know as soon as I see it that I'm not going to text Cleo.

I need to hear her voice.

I punch her number in and sit at the top of the front staircase, looking down on the foyer: a dark cavern, sparkled and polished-all for naught. No one who comes here cares about those sorts of things.

No one but me.

I like order.

Cleo lets it ring so many times, I'm surprised when the ringing gives way to silence. A little rush jolts through my body when I realize she's breathing into the phone.

"Cleo."

It takes her a moment to answer, and when she does, she sounds...young. "It's me."

I curl my fingers around the phone, remembering how good she tasted on my fingers. My d.i.c.k hardens, and as it does, my b.a.l.l.s draw up and ache. I ignore the pain and focus on the pleasure. My hand drifts down and wraps around the thick head of my d.i.c.k. I tug and grin, imagining how I'm going to discipline Miss Whatley as soon as I get the chance.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" I ask.

I know she's got something to say to me. Otherwise she wouldn't have answered my call. I wait a minute, stroking myself through the opening of my robe.

Finally she says, "What do you have to say for yourself? You made me feel cornered and set up. I don't trust you. If you try to rat me out, I'll say you lured me to your house and tried to force me. The bruise between your legs can back me up."

I laugh-a low hoot, surprising myself. "Can it?"

"Yeah, it can. I don't like you, Kellan. I don't want to talk to you again."

"Tell me-how does your p.u.s.s.y feel? My c.o.c.k is wounded. Even now, as it salutes you, it feels...misunderstood. Discarded."

"Are you really trying to s.e.xy talk me after what happened today?"

"No trying to. I am. Don't tell me you don't like it."

"Is that a threat?" Her voice is high, like she really thinks it might be.

"Cleo. Cleo, Cleo... We've gotten off on the wrong foot, I'm afraid. If you think I would hurt you, I'm forced to wonder if you're fanaticizing. I'd never hurt a woman who didn't beg for it."

"What does that mean?" she whispers.

"Have you ever been whipped?"

"No." Her voice is still a whisper.

"Have you ever had your c.u.n.t spanked?"

"No."

"Ever been bound?"

She hesitates.

"You have." My pulse quickens.

"Not really. My ex tried to tie me to the bed posts with one of his ties."

"What did you think of it?" My throat is so dry, the words stick a little.

"It was fun I guess, but he wasn't very good at knots. I got out in like ten seconds."

"Maybe you're just good at escaping."