Page 18 of Sick Little Devotion

“How you been?”

His Adam’s apple bobs at my voice. “What’re you doing back in town, Aiden?” He’s surprisingly terrified of me, and I hope like hell that he pisses his pants. “I haven’t—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t care what you have or haven’t done. You exist, and that’s a fucking problem to me.”

His eyes drop to the gun in my hand, and I watch as the perv lunges for his nightstand drawer. A grin remains etched on my face as he rips it open—only to discover that it’s empty.

“Something missing?” I taunt him as the fat fuck sits up straight in his bed. The only light comes from the TV, but I can still see that the guy is missing his shirt, showing off his grossly hairy and round body. The stale smell of unwashed sweat and dirt assaults my senses, making my stomach churn in disgust.

“Y-you…” He stumbles over his words.

“Yeah, I know. I thought it through this time, Ron,” I tell him, casually leaning against the dresser adjacent to where he sits. His eyes bounce to the door. “Don’t even think about it. You won’t be able to get your fat ass to the door before your brains are painting the walls.”

“If-if you kill me, my brother will come for you.”

I scoff. “Oh man, really? With all due disrespect, I disagree.”

He swallows hard at the sarcasm in my voice. “You’ll go to jail.”

“No,” I laugh. “I won’t go to jail. Why would I go to jail for you killing yourself? That seems rather unfair, don’t you think?”

Ron’s eyes turn to slits. “I ain’t killing myself.”

“Oh yes,” I sigh. “Yes, you are. We both know you belong in hell with all the rest of the sick perverts like you.”

“You still hung up over that stupid bitch?” Ron’s lips curl in disgust. “You know she ain’t shit to me. Never touched her.”

“Only because you never had the chance to, and then she aged out,” I bark, my hands beginning to shake. My mind fills with images of destroying this man—of mutilating his genitals in a way that would make even the sickest of people cringe. I want him to have the most painful death, begging for mercy…

But I’m also no fool.

I don’t want the law coming after me—or worse—Sara. It wouldn’t take much digging to know that this is a fucked-up household. “I need to move this along,” I say, taking a step toward him.

He cowers, his body trembling. “I ain’t gonna kill myself.”

“Yeah, yeah you are.” I pull out his pistol from my waistband. “There’s one bullet in this chamber, and you’re going to take care of this yourself.”

“You can’t make me.”

“You sound like a child. No wonder you’re attracted to them,” I cackle, racking the pistol. I’ve got a lot of practice with this, having used the tactic before. The shotgun rests against my hip, pointed at him, and the pistol is in my other hand. It’s also pointed at him.

It takes coordination to pull this off.

But it works every time.

“You turn this gun on me, and I’ll blow a hole in you.” I’m surprised the guy isn’t running. Part of me thinks he’s accepting his fate—and that kind of pisses me off. I want him to fucking cry for me to change my mind. I want him to beg. Instead, he’s sitting there in shock.

Coward.

I’m at the edge of the bed, and I can’t help but notice again the scent of his body odor. This guy smells putrid and acidic. My eyes burn as I get closer, but I force myself to anyway.

Lifting the shotgun from my hip, I shove it into his bare chest. He wails like a fucking baby, and I laugh. His hand flies up to the barrel, but I hold it steady. He’s not moving it. He’s got flabby, weak arms.

“Open your mouth,” I growl, coming at him with the pistol. I’d like to pistol whip him, but I can’t afford the evidence. That’s the fucked-up part of this. If anger gets the best of me and there’s any evidence that might lead someone to think I did it, then I’m fucked. It has to look as if he killed himself.

“I-I-I ain’t gonna—”

“I’ll break your fucking teeth,” I bark, startling him when I shove it through his parted lips. He gags, and I find myself laughing all over again. What a fucking loser. I shove the muzzle all the way to the back of his throat and cackle as he retches. He doesn’t vomit, but now he’s crying.