The Complete Contract Series (19 page)

Miller & Stormy

You’re the voyeur in the family, Stormy—tell me what you see.”

I grab the binoculars on the seat next to me and begin to scout out the inner city park. I am glad for the tinted windows and the fact we’re hidden in the mouth of an alley. These people make Diego’s club look like a church dinner. This isn’t a normal park in the sense of mom’s day out with the kids; it looks more like a drug den. Hookers stroll up and down the street leading to its entrance, gang bangers sit on picnic tables talking shit and drinking Colt 45 liquor from glass bottles, drug dealers pace the sidewalk looking for the next customer, but the saddest thing is the fact that it
is
a park and it
has
kids playing in the midst of the mayhem, as if this is a normal atmosphere because for them, it is. Everyone here is suspicious in nature. What am I even looking for?

I decide to look around the park in the same systematic way I clean my condo, start at one corner of the room and work my way around. The binoculars enable me to see the madness in more detail and that’s when I spot him. He isn’t watching the kids though, he is watching the one woman in the park who looks like she doesn’t belong. She has a tired, sad look on her face, like she doesn’t want to be here but life has forced her to be.

The man watching her looks harmless—brown hair, glasses, and an innocuous looking nerd quality which I know only makes him that much more threatening. He looks like the kind of guy who works in the cubicle next to you—the one who never gets noticed unless he is being walked in on and taken advantage of or until you see him on the six o clock news after he has gone in and shot up the office, killing everyone—you know the kind. I can picture the interviews of colleagues and co-workers who survive saying things like: he was so quiet and shy, such a nice guy. Yeah right, a nice guy with hidden psychotic issues that get triggered when his wife leaves.

“Right there, the one in the glasses who is acting like he’s reading the paper, but he is really watching the woman with the baby in a stroller.”

“Good girl, I’m impressed. Now, why is he watching her?”

“I don’t know, I just know his interest is in her, not the kid.”

“Well, young lady, that harmless looking gentleman is a serial killer. Seems our little nerd boy has major misogynistic issues. Mommy bringing home tricks and fucking them with him in the next room really did a number on him. Now, in his mind, all women are bitches and whores. Oh…and you should probably know… he hates strong independent ones like you. He likes a clean kill so if they fight back and mess up his little crime scene, getting it all dirty and out of order, he really goes ballistic. Seems our boy has quite the temper. He is just a nasty little contradiction of terms. ”

“You’re kidding! I gasp, “The black rose killer?”

“No…I won’t touch him.”

“Why, if he is a serial killer, what is the difference between him and this guy?”

“There is a big difference.
Black rose
is a vigilante of sorts—this guy is a full blown misogynist. He takes his time with his victims. He keeps them for months at a time sexually objectifying them and not in a consensual good way. This guy isn’t kinky—he’s warped. He pulled one woman’s teeth out because she scraped his cock after he forced her to suck it. I want him dead before he traumatizes any more women. More importantly, I want him dead before he sends another kid into foster care because their mom died at his hands.

“Do you do what you do because of your childhood, Miller?”

He cuts his eyes at me and the mirth in his expression causes my hackles to rise. “No, I do what I do because I’m a fucked up sadistic mother fucker who loves to inflict God awful pain on my victims.” His lip has curled and he has the appearance of a snarl—a real one, like a feral wild animal. “You are seeing the tip of the iceberg, little lady. I like to inflict the kind of pain that causes eyes to be filled with terror and screams to be filled with gut-wrenching, anguished filled cries of begging and pleading for mercy. I’m a sadist with a heart, baby girl. I don’t want to inflict that kind of pain on just anyone, but I do want to inflict it on someone who deserves the full effects of me unleashing my wrath.”

“Do you like hurting me?”

“I haven’t even begun to hurt you, girl.”

“Do you want to?”

His cold stare feels as if he is pinning me to the door I am leaned against in order to face him while he’s talking.

“You offering?”

“Maybe…” I know I am playing with fire but I can’t help it.

“Well, then get your ass over here and pull my cock out of my jeans and suck it.” By now he has reached over and fisted my hair at the back of my neck, forcing my head over towards his groin. His cold eyes have now turned to yellow slits as he speaks, “And you had better make it good or I’m going to show you what pain really is.” He smirks, purposely taunting me, “or at least a low level of it. I don’t think you could deal with what I dish out. Now get those pretty little full pink lips of yours over here and suck my cock. It’s about time you got a taste of just what a turn on sexual objectification can be when applied in the right manner.”

“You’re such a bastard.”

“You have no idea. Now get busy.”

I am grateful for the tinted windows as I free his cock from his jeans. My moist mouth takes him in, wrapping my full lips around his bulb and pursing them into a tightly shaped ‘O’. My tongue swirls around making certain to pay extra attention to the sensitive area under the head. His groans and thrusting of his hips only spur me on to take him in deeper until he is in the cavity of my throat. His fingers clench tightly into two handfuls of my hair as his pumps become more urgent and I concentrate on bringing him ecstatic release. The warm spray of him shooting his seed into my throat offers me as much pleasure as it does to him—but he isn’t finished. He grabs a baby wipe from the console and cleans up as he eyes me.

“Get that frilly little dress of yours pulled up and finger fuck yourself—you better give me a damn good show too.”

I know no one can see me due to the alley we are parked in and the tinted windows but the thought of getting caught excites me. He pulls at the top of my dress, popping a tit out and slobbering on his hand, then smearing the moisture over my nipple and breast as he coldly speaks.

“You want to be sexually objectified? That is right up my alley of kink. Get this through your head, you’re my property. My toy to fuck and use whenever and however I see fit. Now finger fuck yourself with one hand and rub that clit with the other. Oh, and by the way, you have two minutes to come… twice… and if you fail or fake it, you’re getting the belt when you get home. Just thinking about it is making my cock hard again. A nice little branding with bruises on that sweet little ass of yours sounds like fun to me.”

I furiously pump my finger in and out of my now soaked opening as my other finger swirls over my nub of nerves, rapidly gaining pace due to the time limit he has allotted.

“You look anguished girl, like you’re crying out to me in need with those innocent blue eyes of yours. You look like you’re hanging onto me for your very existence. It’s true you know—I hold your life in my hands.”

His hand moves from my hair and clenches tightly around my throat cutting off enough of my air to cause panic to course through me—just enough fear to send me over the edge coming, with another orgasm right on the tail end of the first one.

“You are right on time girl, one minute and fifty eight seconds.”

I look up to see the bastard has been timing me on a stopwatch app he has on his phone. Sex never gets old with this guy—it only gets better. Miller is the only man I know who makes being an alpha male bastard so damn sexy.

“We are on the move, girl.”

I am shocked when I notice we’re tailing the woman and not the male target.

“Why are you following her? She isn’t the mark.”

“Because we need to know where she lives. I already have intel on him.”

“I never thought about that.”

“Ha, ha, that’s why you aren’t in charge, I am.”

“I don’t want to be in charge.”

“Good girl.”

I use the time to pay attention to the neighborhood we are in. Miller drives slowly taking his time monitoring where the woman walks to. Six blocks later we are watching her go up a stoop and into a graffiti laden apartment housed in the projects. I can’t help but wonder what this woman’s story is. Is she a woman who accidently got pregnant and has been forced into living on government assistance? Maybe she is like me, married to a man with money and then thrown away like she’s garbage for a newer, shinier model.

Regardless of what her story is, I find myself feeling sorry for her. She looks so sad and so very tired. She has no idea she is being stalked by a killer. As if life hasn’t been hard enough on her, now she is facing danger she isn’t even aware of. I promise in my heart I will do whatever it takes to protect her. Whether I realize it or not, I am becoming more like Miller with each passing day…

Melanie

I block out the jeers of the men sitting on the stoop drinking.

“Damn baby, you look good today.”

“Call me when you get him down for a nap and I’ll give you what you need.”

Yeah, you’ll give me what I need and you aren’t even man enough to open the fucking door for me,
I thought
.

I fight with the door and the stroller, and then I fight with getting myself, the stroller, and my kid, up the stairs in one piece.

I hate my life, I hate these projects I am forced to live in, and I hate my crappy waitressing job. I smile down at my cooing son, the only joy in my life, as I push the key into the metal dead bolted door—it is the one thing I feel good about concerning my apartment. The metal door, the dead bolt lock, and the bars over the apartment window, even though it is on the second story, offer me a sense of something I don’t have a lot of due to my circumstances—security.

I throw my keys down on a small rickety table and then change my mind and pick them up placing them in my pocket. There’s no sense in making it easy on someone if they do break in while I am home. I’m used to having to think in crime prevention mode—life has seen to that. It seems like no matter how hard I try to dig myself out of the pit I am in, life always offers another sucker punch—the last one being my unexpected pregnancy. My college boyfriend thought it would be funny to poke holes in the condom he wore. His idea of a joke had been my latest surprise. Gone were the days of college dorms and parties. Now I am left living in a rat trap, drug infested neighborhood. It is my new reality. I have worked so hard to get out of the lifestyle my drug addict mother subjected me to growing up, only to be right back where I started.

When I had Tommy, I vowed I would give him a better life and yet here I am subjecting him to all of the drama that goes with living in this neighborhood deemed ‘government housing.’

“I promise little guy, I’ll make it up to you somehow. I’ll get us out of here someday. Right now I have to get dressed for work if we plan on eating this week.”

Tommy’s eyes light up as I reach down, pulling him out of the stroller and kissing his forehead. His little legs kick in glee as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He is too young to grasp his living situation and like me, he is completely unaware his life hangs in the balance due to the serial killer who stalks me in the shadows.

I place him on the floor on a soft clean baby blanket with toys scattered about while I go to get ready. I am already running late but it isn’t like it will take long to throw on an ugly uniform. I purposely don’t wear make-up or fix my hair. I just tie it in a knot at the nape of my neck. It is hard enough dealing with truckers and drunks—they certainly don’t need to be egged on with the lure of beauty laden hygiene habits. I’m always clean and Tommy is too, but I gave up making myself beautiful for the public eye long ago. The fantasy of my knight in shining armor coming to rescue me died long ago, just like the rest of my dreams. Dreams that had once been a possibility within reach are now in a pile labeled ‘regrets.’ The only thing that I don’t regret is the birth of my son.

I quickly kiss Tommy goodbye and give the babysitter instructions as I go out the door and she comes in it.

“Keep the door locked; don’t open it for anyone. I have a few minutes of time left on my cell phone, a very few, so only call it for an emergency.”

I bound down the steps two at a time and out into the cool night air. I wrap my arms around myself half due to the night air that nips at my bare arms and half due to fear. The truck stop isn’t far but the walk means going through an area of abandoned buildings. Cutting through the field shaves off ten minutes and, ironically, the deserted eerie area is less scary than the over populated streets. I trot along through the darkened area and past the graffiti laden dilapidated buildings. I ignore the fact my heart is racing, and it isn’t due to the jog I am subjecting my body to, in order to not be late—it is due to an emotion that has now become a familiar nagging of constant fear. It hangs like a heavy oppressive cloud over me that I can’t escape. I am always afraid—afraid I can’t pay the bills, afraid that social services will take my baby, afraid of the danger that constantly surrounds me, and afraid I won’t be able to resist taking the single blade I keep hidden in open view in my medicine cabinet and slicing it across my wrist to end my nightmare called life. The only thing that keeps me from doing it is Tommy. I love that little boy more than life itself and I definitely love him more than taking the easy way out.

I trot through the parking lot and past the eighteen wheelers and almost right into one of the hookers working the lot.

“Watch where the fuck you are going, girl!”

I ignore the woman wearing more make-up than a mannequin and smacking on gum and continue making my way to my job, intent on not being late. I push through the restaurant door only to hear my boss yell out, “shut the damn door, you’re letting the heat out.”

I hastily make my way to the back, clocking in and tossing my purse in a locker that has no lock. It is better that he is griping about the wind getting in than the fact I’m almost late. It seems to give him a thrill to dock my pay. He has hinted around if I ever needed extra money, he can
help
me out, but I know all too well help doesn’t come free and I don’t have anything left but my self-respect… and it isn’t for sale.

I quickly adjust my apron and make my way out to the dining hall, placing my pen and pad in my apron as I hurriedly maneuver through booths to start work. A hand reaches out, gently touching my arm.

“May I have some more coffee, please?”

“Certainly, let me go get it for you” I answer.

I quickly make my way over and swoop up a coffee pot weaving in and out of the activity that has already picked up.

I take a moment to speak to the man as I pour his coffee and look into his kind brown eyes—the kind brown eyes of a killer…