Patch's sexcapades must have come to a tragic end— maybe he scared the poor girl away— because he's following me in a beat down Maserati that could use a cool paint job and some shiny new rims. This thing looks like it's been sitting in a garage for the last ten years. I wouldn't be surprised if it just broke down here and now.
I would actually appreciate it, because at this very moment, Patch is about twenty feet away from rear-ending me straight in the ass. He's driving like a mad man— correction—he's driving like a drunk man. And I can't help but wonder how much alcohol he's consumed tonight. This could very well be the upper hand that I need in my life.
Besides, I'm very curious to know what Patchy the Pirate is like drunk. He's already crazy as fuck sober. This is going to be interesting; as long as he doesn't kill me first.
The car's dingy headlights illuminate the otherwise dark night, making it possible for me to see a few feet in front of me. I'm headed toward a children's park that's completely vacant and I'm not surprised considering what time it is. This entire neighborhood is asleep, unaware of the dangerous people that lurk right outside of their unlocked windows.
I could climb into someone's house and take cover there, but Patch would follow me inside. He's reckless without a cause. He doesn't care who he hurts or how it happens. At least Nevio is calculated and precise. Patch doesn't think before he acts. He just does it.
"You might want to slow down! You wouldn't want to get a speeding ticket!" I shout at the top of my lungs, picking up my pace. I'm used to running for long periods of time without rest. I've been running my whole damn life. Running from the ghosts of my past, running from my mistakes, running from my inner demons.
Patch presses on the gas, clearly not caring about getting a ticket. Who am I kidding? If a police officer shows up here, he'll just take them out with a bullet to the chest. That brings new meaning to the term brokenhearted.
I take cover behind a tree, just as he passes me in the ancient Maserati. He was only a few feet from running me over like roadkill, but I manage to dodge him thanks to this big oak tree.
"Thanks." I mutter to the tree, as if it can actually hear me. They say that talking to inanimate objects is the first sign of people going nuts, but I already know I'm batshit crazy. "The next person that tries to cut one of your brothers down, I'll slice their throat for you."
Just when I think I'm in the clear, Patch makes a sharp U-turn toward me. The tires of his car skid through mud, squealing and sputtering at the sudden change in direction. It even spins a little, but it's not enough to make him crash.
I run toward the play area of the park, hoping to take cover in the jungle gym. Once I'm in front of the humongous structure, I slide underneath the metal bars. It reminds me of a jail cell, but it's not nearly as incarcerating. The main difference between a jungle gym and prison is that I can get in and get out of my cell without having an overweight guard escorting me everywhere.
I'm not sure how strong these bars are, but as soon as they begin to buckle I'll start moving again. I expect Patch to rev the engine up and come at me with full force, but he stops the car right when he's in front of the jungle gym.
I know I should run, but my curiosity has gotten the best of me. Why didn't he try to run me over, or at the very least try to run me out of here? It's like he's changed his entire plan, avoiding the car altogether.
He steps out of the Maserati real slow-like, taking his precious time coming over to me. He holds an unlit cigarette in one hand and I can't help but notice his bruised and bloody knuckles. He must have punched someone recently. It probably happened in a bar fight... or a bar murder. Patch isn't the kind of guy that loses a fight. He's the kind of person who won't stop hitting someone until they're lying dead on the ground.
As he strolls toward me, I climb to the top of the jungle gym, putting a little bit of space between us. I need room for an immediate exit for when things things go south between us. And they will. He didn't just spontaneously change his mind about killing me. He works for Nevio Vignale. Patch is his fucking henchman. Neither of them are going to let me go.
"You're a bad driver, pirate." I say once he's close enough to hear me. "Maybe you should just stick to steering ships."
"Yeah." His lips pull into his signature half smile and he nods absentmindedly. "I don't need a DUI on my record anyway."
If it wasn't for his eye patch and his twentieth century fashion sense, he'd look so innocent and friendly. He would look like a normal person and that's what unnerves me the most about him.
As kids, we're taught to fear the monsters underneath our beds, but we're never taught to fear the ones we sleep with. He is a monster, but he looks like a man. A man that I would invite into my house and into my bed.
"You already have murder on your record." I shrug in his direction. "I think a DUI would be a step up from that."
"No, darlin', I don't." He puts the cigarette to his mouth, pulling a silver zippo lighter from his back pocket. He flicks the switch and an orange flame licks the end of the cigarette, lighting it up. "The best killers never get caught."
It's funny that he says that because it's the same thing my boss once told me. When I was selected to be a member of Nudiustertian, that's one of the first things they told me. Killers who get sent to prison often end up on death row, so the very best ones make it a priority to stay on the streets.
If you get caught, either the prison system will kill you or we will.
That's exactly what they tell all of the new recruits. It's kill or be killed. But really, it's blackmail.
"Why didn't you run me over?" I ask casually. "You could've flatten me like a pancake."
"You almost sound disappointed that I didn't." He pulls the cigarette away from his mouth, frowning just enough for me to see it. He looks different when he frowns, a little more menacing and a little less charming.
I wish he would keep glaring at me like that because my insides melt every damn time he cracks a smile. He has that kind of boyish smile that's full of innocence and promise. I know it's all a mask that hides the real devil beneath, but it's so convincing. He should be an actor.
"Yeah, well, I've always wanted to know what it's like to die." I admit quietly, shaking my head at how nonsensical I sound. Even I realize this is stupid, but I can't stop talking. "I've spent my entire life killing people. I guess a part of me just wonders what it's like to be the one being killed. I'm not talking about the painful part of dying, but the part where the pain ends, and then it's just over. I want it to be over."
"You don't want life to be over. You want the pain to be over." He accesses me with narrowed eyes, making me feel like I'm talking to a shrink. "But, darlin', life is pain and that pain isn't going to end until you do."
A moment passes before he adds, "You ever hear of euthanasia? Let me kill you so Nevio doesn't have to."
Even if I were really depressed and exasperated with my lifestyle, I'd never take that offer. I would never let someone take my life without a fight. And if I really wanted to end my life, I'd do it myself.
"I thought we were having a heart to heart," I say with a frown. "but you just offered to kill me."
"I don't have a heart, honey."
He reaches into his pocket, but before he can withdrawal it, I jump down from the metal bars. My feet hit the ground combatively, creating a ruckus loud enough that causing him to look up at me.
As soon as his blue eyes are locked on mine, I bring my fist to his face, knocking him right in the jaw. I retreat my hand quickly, only to bring it down on his nose once more. A splintering noise pierces my ears and I know that I've just broken something. Whether I've broken my own wrist or his nose, I'm too worked up to know.
I get one more hit in to the side of his head, before he finally blocks one of my attacks. He catches my left hand, twisting it back at an excruciating angle. With his free hand, he swings his fist back toward my face, bloody knuckles and all, but I swerve out of his way before can finish the move.
"Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me." I stick my tongue out, taunting him relentlessly.
I expect him to draw his bruised fist back, but instead, he reaches for the end of my dirty shirt. For a moment's timing, I think he's trying to take my clothes off, but then I realize he's pulling me toward him. I try to tug away, but he's got a death grip on the seam of my shirt. The only way I'm getting away is by taking this shirt off.
I've never been the most modest girl on Earth, so I slip my arms out from underneath the raggedy shirt in a steadfast motion. One minute I'm wearing a filthy shirt and the next I'm standing upright without even a sliver of fabric on.
I forgot that I wasn't wearing a bra. I probably would've done things a little bit differently if I'd known that.
The shirt slips out of Patch's fingertips, as he regards me with an open mouth. Even the cigarette falls from his soft lips. I don't have time to analyze the astonishment on his face. I have to go, and judging by the fact that I've taken him completely off guard, I might actually get away this time.
I sprint in the opposite direction, running like I'm in a marathon that I can't afford to lose. I pretend that I have a mean coach in one ear, yelling at me to keep going. I disappoint myself and the imaginary coach when Patch catches me five seconds later. Five fucking seconds later.
I guess I didn't leave him as breathless as I'd previously thought.
"Oh, no you don't, darlin'." His hands snake around my waist, pulling me back to his chest. I push, I pull, I kick, I shout, but his hold is impenetrable. It's almost like he's mechanical and he isn't programmed to let people go. "Not until I get to kiss you goodbye."
He pushes me backwards until my back is toward the jungle gym and I'm pinned up by his warm body. The look on his face has gone from cold and dry to hot and hungry. He unbuttons his jacket, throwing it to the ground without a care.
I notice that's he a lot more fit than I imagined— now that I can see his sculpted muscles through the thin fabric of his shirt. He has an athletic build, being toned and ripped in all the right places.
He notices that my eyes have fallen on his chest so he grabs me by the jaw, ordering me to look up at his face. I shake my head, but he doesn't relent. He only holds me tighter until I give in.
When our eyes are meet, he says, "That's better. Now I can see that pretty little face of yours."
He's mocking me, but it doesn't bother me as much as it should. In fact, it makes me excited in a wild way. He's letting his civilized mask slip and I realize that I'm going to be face to face with the real him. The monster that has the face of a man.
I know he has bad intentions, but so do I.
His hands move up my waist to my bare skin, igniting it with his featherlight touch. I don't want his touch to be frail, though, I want it to be as strong as he is. I want it to be lethal.
"Harder." I lean into him until my bare breasts are flush against his taut chest. He sucks in his bottom lip and I smell the alcohol on his breath. It should disgust me, but I've always had a thing for toxic smells. Gasoline. Poison. Acid. Alcohol. "Touch me like you're going to break me."
I guess he doesn't need a pep talk because his grip instantly tightens, until he's nearly crushing me in his grasp. I accept it without fighting him off. It just feels like he's giving me a hug, but I know that's not the truth. There's going to be marks on my body when he's done and I can't wait to see them.
He was wrong about me. I don't want the pain to end. I never want it to end. I love it too damn much.
"Are you going to kiss me or do you need another reminder?"
As soon as those words leave my mouth, his lips collide with mine brutally. It's not a sweet kiss or even a passionate one. It's something made up of desperation and hatred. It's a bitter kiss that I can't help but love.
His hands fist my dark hair until he's pulling it behind me roughly. It makes me wince, but I can't focus on the discomfort when he's biting down on his lip so damn hard that it might bust and bleed. I want him to bite my lip like that, but he does little to appease me. He won't give me what I want and I know why.
My hands find his neck and I wrap my arms around him. I bring my lips to him, barely brushing them against his. My hands tighten around his neck, but he doesn't do anything to stop me. He just thinks this is one of my kinks.
It isn't until his face is already a light shade of purple that he realizes what I'm doing. I'm choking him and I'm not going to let go until he's unconscious or dead. You know, whichever comes first.
He claws my back violently, trying to get me off of him, but I relish in the agony. It gives me strength and motivation to finish him off.
It only takes a few seconds for his hands to go limp and I blame it on his intoxication. I don't know how much he drunk, but it was enough to knock him off his game.
Right before his eyes roll into the back of his head, I say, "I feel bad for kissing a married man, pirate."
His eyes widen for just a moment, before they fall shut again.
I let him go and his body falls onto the ground with a giant thud sound. When he wakes up, if he wakes up, he's going to be very confused about how I got this information. But he should already know that I know everything about him. I know everything about all of them.
I'm already walking away when he slurs, "Ex-wife."
I guess he won't be too upset when I kill her then. Good to know.