*I. Death Comes to Blue Oaks*
Cold, hard eyes, eyes the color of cooling coals, looked down the barrel and through the sight of the carefully balanced rifle. The eyes locked onto the over-alled man with sandy blonde hair and a stupid grin: Lauren Starr’s target.
Her heart skipped a beat, but Starr’s face betrayed no emotion. As far as she was concerned, her emotions were as dead as her parents, six feet deep in a lonely Tennessee cemetery. And the man on the business end of her rifle was partly to blame.
At least, this is what she tried to tell herself as her finger tightened on the trigger. Sure, Tristan McCranie, the smiling over-alled idiot, hadn’t been a direct contributor in her parent’s death; hadn’t been there to rape her mother and mock her father before sending them both into another world; hadn’t been in Christian Cross’s gang when they’d set fire to the farm, but he was a part of Cross’s gang NOW, and that was enough to sign his death warrant. So she tried to tell herself.
Anything to flush Cross out of hiding. She had hunted him down for so long, nothing else mattered anymore.
In fact, the face she saw now down the long, cobalt barrel of her rifle no longer even belonged to Tristan McCranie. The stupid, toothy grin had turned to a dazzling smile framed with lusty lips and a set of perfect teeth. Blue eyes sparkled like the reflection of the sun on Turtle Creek during a hot summer day. His features were smooth and sculpted, the kind that can only be obtained as genetic gifts from God. The face was that of Christian Cross. In the end, McCranie, like the rest of them, was just an extension of Cross.
Starr pulled the trigger, and the face dissolved into nothing more than a cloud of red soup.
“Soon,” she promised herself before pulling back into the shadows and into the murky barn loft, away from the place she had dealt lead from above like a hovering angel of Death.
***
Hair swishing, her heaving breasts barely contained by a tight red brassiere, the blonde whore bobbed her thick lips over his stiffened manhood with genuine enthusiasm, and while Christian Cross normally preferred redheads, he had to admit the whore had something about her. Too much time had passed since a woman had affected him in this fashion. The whore looked up at him with pale blue eyes, a sorry contrast to his own, Cross’s cock half stuffed in her mouth. Loretta: a fitting whore’s name, he thought. Did she crave receiving this degradation as much as he craved giving it to her? Cross smiled with twisted lips. He thought so.
Loretta had become his favorite past-time since he’d begun his stay in town, and he frequented her as often as possible. She seemed to enjoy his company as well. Then again, she was whore, so it was impossible to tell the real sounds, the sincere moans and cries, from the fabricated ones. She’d probably been at the business so long, she didn’t know the difference herself. And in the end, it all came to the same conclusion: Cross’s semen glistening on her white skin.
Cross thrust himself deep into her throat without warning, and the whore coughed, gagged, and spat him out, fat tears springing into her wounded eyes. Cross hadn’t ever met a whore who could take all of his thick cock in her mouth. He prided himself on the fact.
“Too much?” he asked and laughed. His chiseled features drew up in a challenging expression, one eyebrow slightly raised.
Loretta growled at him like an animal. She grimaced, shot him a stony look, and grabbed his ass cheeks firmly with two hands. With steely determination, she pushed Cross with surprising force, showing him that she could, in fact, take him even deeper into the recesses of her throat.
Cross gritted his teeth, trying not to gasp. He had to admit, the whore was good. He’d only known one woman with a more talented mouth, and the thought brought a blood curdling smile to his lips. He thought of Lauren Starr on her knees, sucking him tenderly and passionately, her eyes still bright with longing for him, never realizing what Cross had planned in store for her and her parents. The image of Starr on her knees morphed into her family’s ranch house burning, plumes of smoke billowing into the night sky, her parents’ corpses scalped and frying, the smell of burnt flesh wafting on a warm breeze.
With such a glorious memory filling his mind, he couldn’t keep himself from creaming into the whore’s mouth.
Loretta recognized the look on Cross’s face and popped him out just in time to take the first blast of jism across her bottom lip. The fire of desire flashed through her eyes, knowing she had completed a job well done.
A loud rapping on the door ruined the rest of Cross’s orgasm. Loretta turned toward the sound, and the rest of Cross’s spending dribbled uselessly onto the floor.
“Chris! Chris! Big trouble!” the voice of Smith Dooley cackled on the other side of the door.
“It can wait!” Cross boomed back, his voice trembling with anger. Fucking Dooley, the wretch. The skinny bastard had no concept of what it was to be with a woman, so he had no idea what he had ruined. All Dooley cared about was his stupid fucking knives.
“Can’t! McCrainie’s dead!” Dooley barked.
“What?” Cross’s face bore testament to his startled surprise. Loretta wiped her chin and scurried into a corner, knowing better than to get in the way in case surprise might turn to rage. Her hand slipped in a wad of Cross’s gooey sperm, and she banged an elbow against the floor.
Dooley coughed on the other side of the door, clearing his throat, then hawked a large glob of phlegm onto the door. His voice rang, the words chilling Cross’s heart.
“His brain’s blowed out!”
***
On the west end of town, the burnt out husk of an old church stood like the backbone of some long dead prehistoric beast. The town had moved on since the church had burned, and presently a new church with a stretching white steeple sat in the middle of Main Street, giving God a worthy place to keep an watchful eye on the sinful proceedings two blocks away at the bustling saloon and brothel. But on the other side of town, where the remains of the old church stood, no one came to pray anymore; within its charred frame nothing stirred but a nest of squawking birds and the occasional coyote, a perfect site for Starr’s camp.
Lauren Starr closed her eyes and gathered her thoughts. She hadn’t been this close to Cross since… well, since before what had happened. She heaved a deep breath, pushing away the rage that threatened to build within her. She knew she needed to keep a cool head if she wanted to finish this business for good. Anger would only taint the pleasure she’d take in killing him and everyone who stood with him.
She consciously slowed her breaths, and her mind wandered back through time, when she had first met Christian Cross and had fallen immediately under his wicked spell.
*II. Turtle Creek, 13 Years Earlier*
Plunk! The knife struck dead center of the painted bulls eye, sending small splinters of wood flittering to the grass.
Lauren had never seen such skill. Since she’d been watching him, the dark haired ranch hand had yet to miss. She was captivated by him. It didn’t hurt that the young man was also strikingly handsome, black hair swept carelessly back, gleaming blue eyes concentrating on his objective. Her father hadn’t been sure about hiring the boy after hearing the rumors in town about his recklessness, but Lauren decided that she was glad her father had taken a gamble on him. Her heart fluttered in a strange but pleasant way every time she laid eyes on him, and yet the only thing she knew about him was his name: Christian.
“Ever miss?” she asked just as Christian released the knife at the end of one throw. He jumped at her voice, and the knife thunked at the top of the wooden post, well above the bulls eye. Christian frowned, considered the protruding knife for a moment and then shrugged.
“Only when pretty girls distract me,” he said, swinging his penetrating blue eyes in her direction. Lauren’s heart froze for a moment as her eyes met his. She felt blood rise in her cheeks, turning them red. Dammit, she thought. I’m blushing, aren’t I? She forced her eyes away from his gaze.
“Teach me?”
“Sure,” Cross said, and he waved her over.
He walked to the post, withdrew his knife, and handed it to Lauren.
“You try,” Christian encouraged, and he had a smug expression on his face as if waiting to be amused by Lauren’s certain incompetence with weaponry. Lauren, playing the part, cocked her head at him with a confused, questioning look. She waved an auburn lock of her hair away from her eyes, girlishly batted them and tried her hardest to keep a sly smirk off her face.
Then Lauren bit her bottom lip, closed her left eye, and raised her arm slowly, holding the knife by its tip between her thumb and pointer finger.
Her arm flew down in the blink of an eye, and an instant later the knife smacked into the center of the bulls eye with a dull thud. Christian’s jaw gaped open in surprise, and he didn’t bother to shut it as he looked her over with a renewed sense of respect. Smiling, Lauren placed her left hand under Christian’s chin and gently pushed his mouth closed.
“You look like a trout with your mouth hanging open like that. My brother taught me how to throw. It’s one of the only memories I have of him before he disappeared. Only my father isn’t keen on girls playing with knives,” Lauren explained, stammering as she held his hand against his jaw, feeling the scratchy bristles of his unshaven face. She slid her hand away, already missing the contact with him as she did so.
“Here,” Christian said, and he walked back to the post and tore his knife from the wood. He came back to Lauren, holding the knife toward her.
“Take it,” he said.
Lauren hesitated before taking the knife from his hand. Christian nodded at her, and Lauren held the knife in her palms, feeling its deadly weight. The handle was ivory, a gold cross design inset across the middle. It gleamed like hell’s fire in the midday sun.
**
*III. A Need for Revenge*
A dark red blotch smeared the grass where Tristan McCranie’s brain had met its horrible fate, splattered across the ground like a spilled bowl of crimson oatmeal.
Cross had only Smith Dooley and Biggie Dawkins with him. The last thing he needed was word getting out that someone had taken out a member of his gang with such apparent ease. Even in death, Tristan McCranie was an embarrassment.
“Probably nailed ‘em from up yonder,” Dawkins opined, nodding towards the nearby barn. Dooley hung back, picking his teeth with the end of a long knife. He pulled out a whitish glob of something and considered it a moment before wiping the blade clean on his faded jeans. Dawkins turned away in disgust.
“Who?” Cross wondered aloud, scanning the horizon.
“Who wouldn’t? That’s the question. Asshole had lotta debts all over town,” Dooley said, twirling the knife over and through his fingers.
Smith Dooley had a thing for knives; Cross had never seen him without one and had never seen Dooley with any other kind of weapon, not even a single pistol… ever.
“Goddamn fuckin’ idiot. What was he doin’ out here anyway?” Cross said, staring at the mess of blood at his feet. The body was gone, dragged away and hidden by Dawkins before anyone else could stumble upon it. He swore to Cross that no one would be able to find the corpse, expect maybe the coyotes.
“S’pose to meet some lady, he tells me yesterday,” Dooley said, sniffed the ground and peered around nervously, as if he might catch the murderer still lurking in the trees.
“Lady? What lady?” Cross said, his eyes narrowing to thin slits. He didn’t like the sound this. The thought of any woman being attracted to Tristan McCranie was immediately suspicious. The kid had been a complete dolt. As soon as he would smile over that set of horse teeth, women were running for the hills.
“Some lady, he says. Didn’t say much ’bout ‘er. Pretty. Reddish hair,” Dooley said in a throaty, croaking voice and punctuated his remarks with an indifferent shrug.
“So the girl lured him out here and BANG!”
Cross swung around to face his underlings. A deadly expression shaded his features. His jaw clenched. Fire burned at the back of his eyes.
“Find this girl. You find the girl, and she’ll lead us to the killer. Fellas, you don’t kill a member of Christian Cross’s gang. Not without severe repercussions.”
His lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl. His teeth ground against one another. If the legions of women who lusted after Christian Cross had seen him in that instant, they would not have recognized their gun-toting, bank-robbing Casanova of the West. They would have only seen the devil.
“”Severe” repercussions.”
*IV. Rumors of Gold (Turtle Creek)*
The young Lauren Starr wondered if there had ever been a fuller, more beautiful moon. It hung above the creek like a beaming lover, surrounded by admiring stars that twinkled in hopes of attracting her attention. Meanwhile, the night serenaded her with the love songs of crickets and cicadas.
Lauren dipped a toe into the cool water, rippling the reflection, and in response, the moon danced on the waves, lovely and glimmering.
Christian chanced draping an arm over her shoulders, and Lauren didn’t bother to stop him. The night was too perfect, and sometime over the past two months, she had stopped trying to fight off her feelings and Boone’s advances. She enjoyed his warmth next to her.
“You know,” Christian whispered, breaking the silence, “when we marry, this will all be ours.”
“You mean my father’s,” Lauren corrected. She smiled and intertwined her fingers with his. Christian was such a strange boy sometimes. Why would he just assume her father would give them all this land as a wedding gift? Had her father spoken to Christian? Lauren wondered.
“He can’t live forever,” Cross said, looking up at the moon. Shadows from the overhanging oak tree obscured his face. Lauren frowned at him.
“What do you mean by that?” she said. Christian shrugged in reply.
“Nothing. Just that no one lives forever. No matter what you have, someone will come along and scoop it up when you die. Like your father’s gold, for instance,” he said, his voice barely audible above the hum of crickets
Lauren hid her surprise. She should have known better than to think the subject of the gold was still a secret. When it came to something like gold, someone was going to talk sooner or later, and her father was far too trusting of too many people.
“What have you heard?” Lauren said, turning to face Christian. He leaned towards her, his face moving out of the shadows and illuminated by the moon’s glow. He was smiling, flashing his set of perfect teeth, and his eyes sparkled. He looked like the least suspicious person on Earth. Lauren told herself that he was just being innocently curious, and why not? Secret gold was always an interesting topic.
“Just rumors, really. You know how people in town are. Things like your paw found some buried treasure, some pirate’s booty. Used it to accumulate his wealth and squirreled the rest away just in case anything bad happened. Those kinds of things,” Cross said, peering deep into her eyes.
“You can’t believe everything you hear. Sounds pretty silly, don’t you think? Don’t know why anyone would spread talk like that,” Lauren said, leaning back and staring straight up into the night sky, her back against the wooden planks of the dock. She wondered if her voice sounded sincere. The last thing she wanted was Christian Cross to be interested in her solely because of her father’s riches.
Christian laughed and said, “People always talk when it comes to gold. And they’ll always think of ways to take it away.”
*V. Blue Oaks Lust*
Loretta moaned in mock lust as Mayor Brunson’s flab clapped against her own taut stomach. She was experienced enough to know how to make the moans sound real, and to her knowledge, every one of her clients believed himself to have given her the greatest orgasm she’d ever known. This was probably why she proved to be such a sought after lady of the evening. In reality, the distinction of the greatest orgasm she’d ever known belonged to none other than Christian Cross, who had given it to her just a few nights before. In fact, with Cross, it seemed that every new experience proved better than the last.
Greasy sweat lathered Brunson’s panting face, a face so red that it looked like he might burst a blood vessel at any moment. The last thing Loretta needed was Brunson keeling over while trying to pop his shot into her. A drop of sweat fell and splashed between her flopping breasts. Loretta thought about Brunson’s pretty wife with her dimpled smile and flowing blonde locks and wondered why the esteemed mayor of Blue Oaks couldn’t get it up for her. Probably the poor thing had no idea how to use the goods God gave her. Loretta, herself, wouldn’t mind spending some quality time with the girl and turning her into a woman.
This thought was cut off by the slam of her door. Brunson froze, his penis still buried inside of her, and Loretta felt it wither away in fear. If the mayor was afraid he’d just been caught with a whore by an upstanding citizen of the town, he had nothing to worry about. Christian Cross’s darkened frame stood at the door, motionless. The fact that it was Cross was something to worry about for other reasons entirely. Loretta felt her heart flutter in her chest.
“Get out,” Cross said quietly.
“Now, see here, sir. I don’t know who you think…” Brunson babbled, his bald head slick and shiny with sweat.
“Get out,” Cross said again, the implied threat obvious underneath his voice. Brunson opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and climbed off Loretta. He scrambled to find his clothes in the darkened room and deciding he’d rather dress outside the room than take his chances with Cross’s temper, stumbled out the door.
Even the mayor was held captive by Cross’s power. Loretta felt the blood rise in her cheeks. Was she in love? She thought she might be.
Cross only stared at her. Loretta’s heart thudded in her ears. After a moment of silence, she shifted on the bed.
“Keep ‘em spread,” Cross said. Loretta complied. Her knees trembled.
She heard a rustle of clothing as Cross undressed. Then his lithe form moved through the shadows, towards the bed. Loretta felt moisture trickle down her thighs. She licked her lips in anticipation. No man had ever had such an effect on her. Christian Cross was a special breed, rotten to the core. Just like her. Perhaps that why she craved his cock so much and so often.
The cock was already hard, straining from Cross’s crotch to meet her slick pussy. Cross’s cock was at its hardest when he was angry or frustrated as if he could fuck his problems away. Or perhaps relieving his sack of its distracting juices simply allowed him to face complications with more clarity of thought than normal. Who could say for sure? And it didn’t matter much either way to Lorretta. As long as it stayed hard long enough.
He slammed his cock into her forcefully, a thin squeal of pain issuing from her lips. So that’s how it was going to be tonight. Not that she minded. She liked it when Cross fucked her senseless.
Where Brunson’s penetration had been a pleasant if innocuous sensation, Cross’s cock plunged into the depths of her soul and reviled in its blackness. She gritted her teeth, sucking in greedy gulps of air.
Cross slammed into her again and again, growling, spittle flying from his lips and peppering Loretta’s face. His face was a venomous snarl, eyes open and determined to see an expression of hopelessness on the whore’s face as he forced this degradation upon her. Loretta would not give him the satisfaction. She snarled back at him defiantly, daring him to give her more. More was precisely what she wanted.
Cross cupped her breasts with his hands, squeezing them, his fingers closing on her nipples and pinching. Loretta’s entire body rippled from the force of his thrusts. She dug her fingers into the flesh of Cross’s back, scratching him as he moved in and out of her, his cock pulling and pushing into her pussy with wet, squishy noises.
“Yes, fuck me, Christian! Fuck me with that big cock!” Loretta grunted.
Cross shut her up with a stinging slap to the side of her face, a glowing red hand imprinted on her left cheek. Loretta felt tears spring into her eyes, and she was helpless to stop them. She knew Cross wanted to see her vulnerable, but Loretta forced herself to keep the tears from leaking over. She would show that asshole that she was just as strong as him. In ways, probably stronger.
“Don’t speak, whore. Don’t fucking ruin it,” he said, pushed her down forcefully into the mattress with his strong hands on her shoulders and thrust himself as deep into her as he could.
Loretta came with a screaming howl.
Some time later, after what seemed an eternity of senselessness, orgasms and hits and curses, she felt Cross empty his seed into her, filling her with his black essence.
For the first time in her life, Loretta Reed wished she could get pregnant.
*VI. More Death on the Other Side of Town*
Biggie Dawkins would probably never have found her if it wasn’t for the horse.
He heard it before he saw it, a quiet neighing by a stream. Dark brown and muscular, it was the best looking steed he’d ever seen, and Biggie decided that it would catch him more than a fair price in town. Or, perhaps, he could offer it to Cross. Such a horse might earn him a few steps up the gang’s food chain. At least as far as that ijit Dooley’s equal. Being considered lower than such a man turned Dawkin’s stomach. The thought the horse most likely belonged to someone else didn’t bother him; Dawkins was no stranger to murder.
Still, something about the situation worried him. Why wasn’t the horse tied down to something? The owner must be nearby. Dawkins surveyed the surroundings with cautious eyes: birds chirping, the last slivers of the sun setting. Not much was around but the remains of the old church, its frame a blackened wart on the green countryside. Biggie licked his lips. Inside would be the most likely place someone could hide; in fact, he’d hid there once before when he’d first passed through town, years ago.
Dawkins’ senses heightened. Maybe this was the very killer he sought.
He slid off Stranger, his own horse, and upholstered his pistol. He didn’t want to take any chances in case an encounter with McCranie’s assassin might be in store for him. He checked the barrel: fully loaded, just as he expected.
Dawkins flipped the barrel closed. He swallowed, feeling a certainty of violence coming upon him; Dawkin’s always had a kind of sense about those kind of things, his own personal sixth sense, and it had always kept him alive. Up to this point anyway, and Dawkins had no plans for that to change.
He crept to the side of the burnt building and glanced through an old window, the glass broken out by rambunctious kids some time ago.
Broken boards, cobwebs, the remains of split and twisted pews. And there, in the corner, the form of a woman, her hat pulled over her face, her long hair flowing down her shoulders. Reddish hair, just like McCranie had described to him and Dooley Smith over beers just yesterday. Yep, this had to be her. The woman’s chest moved up and down in slow, deep breaths.
She was sleeping.
Dawkins’ lips curved up in a devious grin. It had been some time since he’d had the pleasure of forcing himself upon a hapless female, and he would have no trouble disarming a sleeping woman. He could already hear her cries, feel her wrists squirming in his steel grip, taste her fear on his tongue. The beast in his pants stirred a little at the thought.
It was going to be a good day, after all.
Something moved behind him, and Dawkins swirled around, his finger tightening on the gun’s trigger, and then he lost his footing on a mound of dead leaves, stumbling roughly against the side of the building. He grunted as his shoulder met with the charred timber of the church. It split with a wooden crack. A crow cried and fluttered from his perch on the roof and soared into the oncoming evening sky.
Dawkins cursed under his breath. The fucking horse! It had followed him to the church and snuck up behind him, and he’d almost put a bullet into its stupid fucking head for all of its trouble. Maybe he still would for pissing him off after his business with the woman was done. Fucker could have ruined everything! Dawkins stole a peek through the window to see if the woman had been startled out of sleep.
Her chest still heaved long breaths, her hat still pulled over her face.
Thank God for that. A chance remained for some fun before the killing had to start.
Dawkins tiptoed to the entrance to the church and deftly ducked inside and behind an old pew. The door had either burned or been ransacked by kids or looters, and Dawkins was glad. One less object to make noise and give away his position. He didn’t think he could afford any more mistakes.
He slipped out of his hiding place, holding his gun before him towards the sleeping woman, and a moment passed before he realized that she was no longer there. Confusion dizzied him. Had he gotten the angles wrong? Hadn’t she’d just been sleeping right there in that corner where… yes, Dawkins recognized a knothole that he had noticed in the wood just above her head when he’d looked through the window but then…
“Looking for someone?” her cool, hard voice said, and Dawkins swung around to put an end to her life, his gun ready to blaze, his face a snarl of vehemence.
Her knife swished through the air, and a jet of blood spewed from Dawkins’ throat in an arterial spray that painted the far wall in splashes of red.
*VII. Lauren Starr’s First Love (Turtle Creek)*
* *
“You know I love you,” Christian told her, and his soft lips slipped over hers. Lauren felt electric tingles sizzle through her nerves. The smell of hay and straw was strong but his scent overpowered even that and made Lauren feel weak, and she knew her inhibitions were slipping. Slowly but surely, Christian Cross had lowered her defenses over the past six months, and Lauren knew that there would be no turning back, she’d allow him to enter her keep and take her prisoner for the rest of eternity.
Christian allowed their kiss to end and looked at her, pulled a bit of hay out of her hair and smiled his perfect, dazzling smile.
Was this how her journey to womanhood would end, in this barn with this arrogant, foolish and beautiful boy? Lauren hoped so. Her body trembled in the anticipation of such an act. Her hand drifted up and touched the side of his face. Her heart ached for him almost as much as her body desired him, and was this how love was supposed to feel? This terrible, needy ache that made her want him, not his body but his soul, so badly that it hurt her, twisted her insides? Should it feel so bittersweet? As though she was missing it before it was even gone?
Then his mouth met her mouth again, and Lauren was swept up in it: the emotions, the passion, the overwhelming need.
Lauren drifted through the lusty haze, her mind clouded by the drug of passion. She came up for air just long enough to notice:
His hands on her, moving up her legs, caressing her thighs, pushing up her dress, inching ever closer…
His kisses hot and wet on her neck, moving down her chest, pulling down her blouse, just as slowly as his hands moved up…
Her own gasps, fighting for air, fighting to somehow stay in control…
Then his mouth found her breasts, his hands found her gathering moistness, and Lauren Starr felt the wave of this drug pull her under and not let go.
Her hands were in his hair, clutching, holding on to him, her moans building in intensity. His fingers slipped into her, and a blast of pleasure shook her body.
She tried to open her eyes, wanted to see him, to look into Christian’s eyes and show him how he made her feel, but all they wanted to do was roll up in their sockets and allow her body to feel the pleasure that absorbed it without distraction.
Then Christian’s lips brushed against hers, and Lauren let his tongue slip through and flick against her own. He fumbled with his pants, and Lauren’s curiosity got the better of her. Her eyes grew wide seeing Cross’s engorged member protruding from his lower extremities. It looked nothing like she’d thought and was much bigger than expected. She tried not to panic at the knowledge that thing was going to try to worm its way inside of her.
And then Christian thrust forward, and it was inside her.
She pushed him away just so she wouldn’t bite off his tongue. A bolt of pain howled up her stomach, and Lauren gritted her teeth, a gasp of air rushing through her lips.
“You ok?” Christian asked her, a look of concern on his face.
“Yeah, yeah,” Lauren said, and after the initial pain it did seem to be ok.
After some time, Christian began to gather speed, and he bucked on her with more and more authority, eager to please, working up his courage, or so Lauren believed. Lauren began to understand her classmates obsession with the act of sex, and with each mounting thrust from Christian, Lauren felt ropes of good feeling pulsate from within her, his breath hot on her shoulder.
More and more, Lauren knew that she would want this again and want it as often as possible. But only from Christian Cross because she loved him, and with him, this act was beautiful. It wasn’t just fucking, as her classmates had described it to her with such vulgarity. This was lovemaking.
“I love you,” she whispered into his ear as he took her towards the threshold, her body speeding towards the inevitable peak.
“I love you,” Christian said in reply, and the words brought Lauren to climax. She bit her lips to stifle the scream, lest she wake her parents at the house. And then she surfaced, the waves of pleasure bringing a surprising high, and Lauren felt herself leave her body for a moment and soar to heaven. She blinked, and she was back, half naked in the hay in the loft of her barn, and Christian was grunting and pulling himself out of her.
Lauren didn’t understand completely what was happening, still trying to force her mind back to some form of clarity, but she saw that Christian was stroking his member furiously until his body clenched. Then streams of what appeared to be white snot squirted out of the end of his penis and splattered onto her legs with gooey warmth. Lauren did her best to hide her repulsion, understanding that this was what her classmates had told her a boy’s “cumming” was like. Lauren already felt more like a woman of the world, experienced in ways that young girls were not.
“I love you so much,” Christian gasped when it was all over, and Lauren found that she didn’t mind his cumming on her that much, not as long as it brought them closer together.
A month later, her parents were dead.
*VIII. A Message*
Christian Cross stood above the bloody corpse of Biggie Dawkins and let loose a flurry of expletives that would have made the devil proud. Smith Dooley stood to his side, scratching his throat, hoping that wrath of Cross would not head somehow in his direction. Dooley let his eyes drop back to Dawkins.
Dawkins’ throat had been cut, a jagged red slash from ear to ear, but that wasn’t what troubled Christian Cross. The thing that troubled him was the message that had been carved into Dawkins’ chest. The words sent a chill up his spine that he hadn’t felt for years. It felt a little something like fear.
Two words: “I’m coming.”
And in the dirt, next to the body, a knife protruded from the ground, standing proudly, no doubt the culprit that had cut Biggie’s life short. Cross recognized it at once with its ivory handle and gold cross design. The knife he’d given Lauren Starr 13 years ago.
It gleamed like hell’s fire in the midday sun.