I press the palms of my hands to my eyes, wishing to vanish my lust for her. This is how it starts. This is where I’ll break and how the darkness wins. I’ve never crossed that line until her. I have to save her from us, from me. “We don’t need her.”
“Maybe not. But we all want her, and that’s never happened before. Come on, Dec. She’s the first girl you’ve ever touched. You didn’t even think about it. It wasn’t hours of you putting yourself through agony just to look at her. She’s the key.”
“The key to eternal damnation,” I mumble under my breath.
“You were raised Catholic. Fucking doom and gloom. You see her as a bad thing, but what if she’s your salvation? Look at her.”
My eyes fall on her soft face.
“She’s the one.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘the one.’ The concept of soulmates is a deluded little girl’s fantasy.”
Lorne laughs. “You’re talking to me about fantasies when you believe in a man upstairs?”
I don’t answer his question. There’s no point. That’s the thing most religious people don’t understand about atheists. They’re as firm in their beliefs as we are in ours. Sometimes you have to remain silent in your words to stay strong in your convictions.
“No words of wisdom from that scripture of yours?”
“There are no words that can crack a heart that’s sealed. What would be the point of giving you the gun when all you’ll do is point it at me?”
Before Lorne can say anything, his phone rings. “Hello,” he answers.
I can’t make out who he’s talking to, but I’d wager that it’s Cas.
“I’ll send Declan, and I’ll take her home.”
Lorne hangs and meets my gaze. “Go meet Cas. Take care of Peter tonight.”
My stomach churns. It’s the same reaction every time. I know what I’m about to do is wrong, but I do it anyway.
I stare at my hands, focusing on the lines covering my open palms. Minor roads that map the various directions my life could have taken. Knowing I choose the path leading me away from salvation every day. “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—and I am the worst of them all.”
Lorne scoffs. “Sometimes you need to do God’s work because he’s too lazy to clean up the mess he created.”
“You don’t believe a word you just said.”
“No, but you do.”
Chapter 12
Caspian
I was two years old the first time I saw a man die. They bludgeoned his head with a hammer because he owed my dad five dollars. That death probably wouldn’t have done much damage, but my dad decided to give me a dead man's hand to occupy me so he and his henchmen could work in peace. That fucked up shit makes a lasting impression, especially on a two-year-old. Most dads give their sons a train set or a truck. Not my pop. He gave me a severed hand.
I turn up the collar of my black coat with one hand, the other on the handle of the flimsy motel door. I scan the dark parking lot before jogging to my car—an old black Chevy truck. I only drive it when I’m about to get bloody.
I reach into the cab and smirk as I pull out the black medical bag. I might not kill someone for five dollars, but the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. Dad didn’t give me much in life, but he sure passed on the lust for the kill.
I slam the door and stroll back to the room. Peter is tied to the cheap metal bed frame, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He cried like a little bitch. I’m surprised the guy didn’t tucker himself out. I thought most babies passed out after they wailed like lunatics.
I open the bag and place the white towel on the scratched-up thrift store desk. I can use a gun and get the job done with no bells and whistles, but where’s the fun in that? My father would be terribly disappointed if I didn’t take my time and enjoy the art. That’s exactly what killing is, a motherfucking art form.
I turn to Peter and laugh at the shock on his face. He’s spreadeagled on the bed, his legs tied to the footboard and arms to the headboard.
“I should get one of these bed frames for my room. I’m going to kill you, but it can be multi-purpose. The bed frame you can fuck or blow someone’s brains out. Mind you, I’m not so much into blowing brains out. I enjoy taking my time in all extra-curricular activities. Slow and steady for optimum satisfaction. No one likes a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.” I chuckle. “Well, maybe you would right now, but that would make me mediocre, and I’m anything but. You could say I’m a perfectionist.”