Prison Promise (Prison Saints Book 1) by Demi Vice (25)

I had many rules I followed before a hit. Paranoia and caution at its finest.

Number one: Never use a gun.

Abso-fucking-lutely NEVER. Even if the gun was untraceable and the serial number was scratched out. Never. It’s too noisy, too fast, too pain-free, and too much evidence if you lose a shell. Also…I couldn’t shoot for shit. I’ll admit it. I’m not about to lie to gain some invisible man points. I’m a horrible shot, and I refuse to get better.

I tried to learn once, but I couldn’t aim for shit. I’ll aim for the heart and shoot the motherfucker in the cock (true story, one of my early jobs and not my best). It was supposed to be a ‘pain-free’ job, but turning a man into a eunuch was not the definition of ‘pain-free.’

My bad.

Not really.

That’s why I loved my blades. If you gave me a knife, I promise, I’ll give you a show to remember. I could play the Knife Game and sing the little jingle, all while I’m blindfolded and using my non-dominant hand, never getting a scratch. I could even juggle, throw knives at targets, or swallow them. I had some cuts from years of practice, but nothing major. Even when I shaved, which I did twice a day, I rarely cut myself. I could probably count the times I had on one hand.

I had other methods of bringing pain. Brass knuckles to the face, rope around the neck, pliers to the teeth, and soccer kicks to the gut. But for today, I’ll stick with my good old-fashioned knife and fists.

I played with my double-edged butterfly knife as I waited. Twirling it around my hand and fingers, closing and opening it. The blade at its sharpest and the quality at its finest. By far the best knife I had ever bought.

I should start a knife collection again.

Wait, no.

That’s what kitchen knives are for, Jack.

Number two: Never wear your own clothes.

I went to Walmart and did some shopping. I’d picked up a pair of shitty black jeans without rips in them to hide my tattoos, a turtleneck to hide my neck, an oversized black hoodie to hide my build, and a black baseball cap to make sure no hair fell and could be traced back to me. Even though the fire was going to take care of that.

Although my clothes were off-brand, my Docs were a must. They were my babies; however, I did alter them. I’d added duct tape to the sole to make my footprints a solid print, no grooves. Once I was safe, I removed the tape. I could get new shoes, sure, but my boots were my trademarks, my lucky charms, and I had a unique tradition I loved to keep.

I looked down at my Docs, ready to be worshiped.

Number three: Always get a motel and pay in cash (a must if you’re going to do anything illegal).

I’d rented a motel room a mile or two away from the crime scene, and I always walked. I walked down the shady streets, melting into the darkness, and avoiding any interaction with people. Before the crime, I prepped my room. I had bleach, a spare change of clothes (this time my clothes—Levi’s not my Italian), a burner phone, and cash.

I cleaned up the motel, bleached the evidence where blood might have touched—the shower, knife, and my boots—and used my photographic memory to inspect the rest of the room. I cleaned the room better than when I arrived, triple checking everything and making sure nothing could be traced back to me.

Then I’d walk maybe another few miles. Maybe five this time. The further away I am, the better. I’ll get to a gas station, toss my clothes and bleach into the dumpster and call a taxi. But I don't go home just yet.

I’d go to the Chicago River a few miles away from The Bayne. Then I’ll smash the burner phone, take out the sim card, bite it down to the chip, and toss it out in the river along with the knife. I’d walk a little further, a mile, then take the tape off my boot and toss it out. After that, I’d enjoy my walk, practically skipping my way home.

All told, the job would take, three, maybe four hours. A ten-mile walk and a ten-minute car ride.

Number four: Never bring anything personal.

No ID, no wallet, no phone—nothing. Nothing that could be traced back to me. I left my life where it belonged, at home, or in my case, with Emilio. I didn’t want to go back upstairs to put my things away. I didn't want to wake up Ahri and lie to her again. If I told her the truth, that girl would’ve tried to talk me out of it, and I knew she was never going to ask for help. So, I took it upon myself to bring the help she wouldn’t ask for. My mind was already made up, and my bloodhound was hungry for my final job.

My most selfish and satisfying job.

Number five: Never smoke before or on the job.

I liked to stay pure and sober. My head in the right place with no distractions, even if it was just nicotine. I loved to make my trail as invisible as could be, and that meant, no cigarette ashes or filters with my spit on them. I wouldn’t be that fucking stupid to leave it at the crime scene, but better safe than sorry then to have my ass back at Tavernville.

To be honest, I was taking more precaution then I should. He had no family, no friends, or anyone to care about him but I didn’t want to go back to prison, not while I had something worth staying out here for.

My Ahrianna.

My baby girl who trapped herself in her own prison, worked herself to the bone and pushed herself to the limit. My precious fallen angel who didn’t deserve the short straw she’d been handed but did the best she could with it. And now it was my turn to finish what she’d started.

It was time for Jack to fix all of it. Ahri’s life, Fidget's sentence, Aurora’s vengeance—fucking everything.

I told her I was going to be the best fucking thing that ever happened to her. And I meant it.

I let out a heavy sigh, swirling the knife around my hand. I was bored as fuck. I’d left The Bayne over eight hours ago so that I could prep everything. I thought finding him would be the hard part. Nope. It had taken less than an hour. The dumbass was even dumber than I expected him to be. Not sure if he even had a brain cell left.

He still lived in the same house where he took Aurora’s innocence and filled her with nothing but a dark void she couldn't get out of.

He still lived in the house that turned Ahri into a fighter who fought back with all she had. She needed her revenge on her mother and aunt. I don't blame her. Shit, I would’ve helped. After Ahri’s half was ripped out of her hands by his actions. Ahri needed vengeance. She needed a small source of control and sanity in her life which meant he had to pay with his.

He still lived in the same house where Ahri’s plan had backfired and sent Fidget to me. One of the best damn things to have ever happened to me aside from Wallace. Not to mention, I’d finally connected the last piece of the puzzle. Not only was I doing this for Ahri and Aurora, but for Fidget.

The Lore family’s chaos had brought me my happily ever after. I’m a selfish bastard for thinking this, but I think we established that I loved myself and my life. I loved the chaos. I loved the outcome. I wished it didn’t involve the death of someone that could have been my sister-in-law, but I loved the butterfly effect her death caused. If Fidget was never framed for Ahri’s crime, he would’ve never came to Tavernville and met me, and I would’ve never met Ahrianna.

Call me a sucker or a loser, but I believed in fate. If I didn't, the tattoo above my heart would’ve meant shit to me, but it didn’t. Everything happens for a reason, and I believe Fidget being assigned to me, out of all the fucking inmates in Travenville, was fate.

A smile appeared on my face. My final job felt like exactly that.

Final.

The grand fucking finale.

I looked around the place one more time. The smell of bonfire still intoxicating my nostrils even though I’d been inside the house for what I could assume was three hours. I thought I would get used to it, but the stench was too potent. Sitting at the bottom of the half-burnt stairs, I snapped my head behind. There was no way upstairs. The fire had started on the second floor and each step I took, the wood bent and cracked under my weight. I wasn't going to take the chance and collapse with the house, so my ass stayed on the first floor.

Not only was the second floor off-limits, but so was the basement. Closed off by a cement wall with a few hits in it. Someone had tried to take a sledgehammer to it, no doubt. The only accessible floor was the first floor. A kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. The house was shit and why wouldn't it be? Half-burned, abandoned, and neglected with random holes in the walls and ceilings.

I stood up and grunted, stretching tall. The stairs made an ‘L’ shape with three small steps to get down to the first floor. A sunken green couch was in front of me, the back facing me. It looked like a cesspool of diseases. Mysterious stains, a used needle on one side, and a brown scrunched up blanket on the other side that reeked of fucking vomit.

Fucking disgusting.

Beer bottles surrounded the couch like The Great Wall of China ready to protect him. Yeah, I don’t think so. Nothing was going to save him if I was in the picture. The coffee table was cluttered with newspapers, colorful plastic lighters, used needles, and spoons stacked on top of each other with brown residue on them. The front windows were boarded up, the front door permanently unlocked (which is how I’d gotten in), and the back door was nonexistent like my door at Wazowski’s, ripped right off the damn hinges.

The house was a shit-show, and the neighboring houses followed the same theme. Only a few houses on the street had lights on, but that was a block away where the street lamp still worked. I thought Whole Park was shitty, but goddamn Scorch Side. It made Whole Park look like a fucking palace in comparison.

I walked around the living room, memorizing it. I didn’t have to. Everything was going to be burned to a crisp, but I did anyway. Force of habit. I dropped my duct tape and paper matches on the table, the impact making a crash. The whole first floor echoed and I took a deep breath, inhaling the stench of the rotten and burned house in my lungs.

Strangely, I loved this part. The calm before the storm. I’d always had. Did I like the killing part? I didn’t not like it. I had talents that made me a great killer, and I was good with blood. In my defense, I had been shaped for this life.

Mama Baronski’s house turned me into a clean freak. Everything always had to be clean, spotless, and perfect. Attention to detail was the key to success.

The Morris’ house turned me into a paranoid kid who was always aware of my surroundings even when I was resting. Always aware of who was watching me and from where.

Papa Schultz’s house had turned me against guns. Making my love for knives eternal as well as a talent worth millions in the end.

And the Baker's house? What really did it for me was when they let Link leave without letting me say goodbye. That was it. That was the final crack that shattered me, turned me to dust as I vanished into the wind.

Take in my genius-ass and the shitty beginning I’d been served on a silver plate, and you had my life. I was bound to end up where I am. I got lucky. Oh, I got so fucking lucky, but I was modeled, shaped, and sculpted to have this life as well as my reward.

My anti-Shakespearean ending.

My happily ever after.

I took another breath, humming one of Ahri’s favorite songs. “Guillotine” by Jon Bellion. She listened to it more than a thousand times in the past year and played it a few hundred times at the library. Needless to say, it was permanently stuck in my head like Ahri herself. I muttered the song under my breath, letting my smile grow with the perfect lyrics that were made for us. Dark secrets, skeletons in closets, but perfect for each other.

Oh my God, I fucking adore that girl.

There was no denying it. I mean, shit, look at where I am. I was coming out of retirement for her, and I was going to work for Emilio like I promised him. Just for Ahri. The two things I told myself I would never do once I got out of prison. But this was my finale. The grand finale where fireworks rose at the end, or you know, what started fireworks.

Fire.

After a while, I lost track of time. I didn't know how many hours passed even though my internal clock was telling me I must’ve spent a total of five hours in the house. I played with my knife most of the time until I heard footsteps outside. I moved back to the steps, hiding in the corner where I blended with the night and the burnt wall. I glared at the back of the couch where I knew his limp body would end up.

A smile was bound to be slapped on my face the whole time. I was a sane psycho with a sinner’s intentions, but a heart full of loyalty and devotion. A servant ready to wreak havoc on a person who deserved all of what was coming to him.

He came in, and like I predicted, he dropped his limp body on the couch while a cloud of dust and diseases poofed out of the cushions and vanished in the air. I watched the back of his head with my knife in my hand, gripping the steel handle tighter with each muttered word that left his waste of oxygen breath.

Now, this is the part in my brain where I had to flash a disclaimer.

I moved quietly and silently in the darkness. I stood behind him, grazing my steel blade across his neck. The blade was so sharp that if he swallowed or took a deep breath or moved, it would let the color red and the smell of iron spill out of him a little too early for my comfort.

“Hoooonnnney, I’m hooommme,” I sang.

He let out a whimper. He wasn’t as drunk as I was expecting him to be. Good. I looked down at his hand. He clutched a small plastic baggie with foggy white rocks inside. Ahh, yes. He couldn’t be too drunk or else he wouldn’t remember the high.

“I-I swear, I’ll give you the mon-money, Grizz,” he whimpered, the bag of meth shaking in his hand so hard he almost dropped it.

“Grizz? Guess again.” I smirked, holding the knife closer to his waste of flesh.

“Who-who are you?”

“Don't fucking make a sound,” I spoke the same words as last time and he gasped, knowing very well who I was. “Oh, I wouldn’t move if I were you. Unless you would want me to accidentally slit that stringy throat of yours.”

He let out another whimper, whispering, ‘Please’ under his breath.

“Relax, I’m here for the journal.” I lied.

I loved playing with my food. Like a killer whale playing with a seal pup, tossing it up in the air before I swallowed the morsel whole.

“I-I swear I didn’t tell anyone. I-I didn’t tell the cops. I was bluffing.” His voice cracked with each syllable.

Pulling the knife away from him, I noticed a drop of his blood at the tip. I wiped it off on the couch and walked around to face him, stepping over the wall of beer bottles to stand next to the table.

“That’s not what I fucking asked you. Don’t make me repeat myself. I hate repeating myself.”

“The journal. You-you asked about the journal. Ahri’s journal.” He sat tight on the couch. He swallowed, his throat bobbing like a buoy. “It’s under the kitchen sink, taped to the side.”

I tilted my head to the side with a menacing smile before I sang, “Liiiiiiiiiaaaaaaar.”

I punished him for this. I clenched the steel knife handle in my fist and gave the hardest punch I’d ever given anyone in my entire life. He spat, the blood landing on the vomit blanket followed by his face.

I kicked everything off the coffee table and sat on the clean surface. I set the tip of my sharp blade at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes opened wide as he realized that I was not someone to mess with. Although it took him too long and even if he had cooperated with my questions he was already a goner. In my mind, his body was already burning.

“Ask me who I am?” I grinned.

“Who are you—”

I cut the corner of his mouth giving him half a Joker smile. He cried and whimpered, holding his cheek tight as blood poured down his hands and jaw. When he tried to swipe the blade away, he cut his hand.

“Fuck!” he screamed looking at his trembling red hand. “Help! HELP!” he cried louder, but no one was going to hear him in this abandoned block. I brought the knife closer to his throat, moving it slowly into his flesh until he shut up. Tears filled his eyes, but there was no room for mercy in my soul.

Only revenge.

“You don’t think I did my research? Do you think I don’t know which houses are occupied and which ones have been left to the cockroaches to breed? Huh?” I cocked an eyebrow. “I’m no fucking amateur, Eddy.”

His body trembled, his soulless eyes begging for me to stop.

“You lie to me again, and I won’t hesitate to make your neck my blade’s new sleeping bag. So, tell me where the fuck my journal is before I blow a fuse.” A single chuckle escaped my throat.

Pun number one: check.

“It’s-it’s under the chipped floorboard in the corner.” He pointed his shaky bloody finger behind me, but I didn’t look. His eyes were praying I looked back. So, I didn’t. I already knew he was telling the truth.

I scanned his outfit, the same he wore yesterday, but now the smell of his blood masked the bonfire and booze stink.

“Ask me something?” I demanded.

He looked at me blankly until a light bulb turned on. “Who are you?”

“Oh, very good. You got it right.” I chuckled as I moved the blade away from his neck. He still held his bleeding cheek, and not a sound came out of his cracked lips. “Hi, name’s Jack.”

He gulped. “I-I didn’t tell anyone about Ahri. Not a soul. You can take the journal, and I promise I’ll never, never, never, never go near her again. She’ll be safe.”

Oh, I know you’ll never go near her.

I nodded. “I like the sound of that, but I have a better idea. If I’m going to let you live, don’t you think you should worship me? Get on the ground and grovel at my feet because I’m so fucking generous. It’s only a suggestion. A very strong suggestion,” I spoke calmly.

I stood up, and stepped backward, knocking over the bottles to give him enough room to beg for his life. It didn’t take him a second to get on the floor on all fours with tears in his eyes, blood pouring down his face, ready to plead for his life.

“My boots are pretty, don’t you think? They should get a nice kiss, right Eddy?” I wiggled my foot closer to him so that he could kiss the toe, and he did. His bloody, cracked lips left a mark on my boot, and I couldn’t help but grin. “Do you know how many men have been where you are? How many horrible, low life, piece-of-shit men have given me the Black Kiss? And how many men survived?”

His head slowly rose up, his eyes trembling like an earthquake as he sobbed uncontrollably.

“Come on guess. I’m burning to find out what you think, and if you get it right, I’ll let you walk. I promise.” I grinned, looking at my knife full of blood. I flicked it off, his blood covering more of the hardwood floor. “I’ll give you three chances.”

Pun number two: check.

He swallowed. “I don’t know. Twelve?”

I sucked my tooth and looked at my blade that dangled right above his left eye. “Higher.”

He gulped. “Twenty-nine?”

I shook my head. “Come on. Higher.”

“Eighty-two?” I could hear the fear oozing out of him like a gas leak.

My booming laugh echoed in the abandoned house. “I’m not going to lie. It was a trick question. I lost count after I hit triple digits.”

He froze in terror and disbelief as I kicked his face like a soccer ball, the beer bottles clashing against each other as he fell. He yelled and tried to fight me, hitting me a few times before I pulled him up by the collar and threw his body on the couch. The couch screeched across the floor, and the dust that came out of it stuffed the air. He tried to fight me again, but I’d been fighting my whole life, preparing for this moment. And I was going to fucking win.

His punches got weaker the harder I took out my therapy on his face until his face became almost unrecognizable. Swollen eyes, broken nose, and a gash on his lip deeper than the cut I’d given him. After the twentieth or so punch, he passed out, giving me what I needed. Time.

Using an old newspaper, I wiped my bloody hands clean. I crumpled up that same newspaper, pried his jaw open and shoved it inside. I topped off the homemade ball gag with duct tape so no one would hear him. I then taped his wrists and ankles together before securing his body to the couch. I went around and around like a fucking merry-go-round, making sure his ass stayed on his death couch.

I scavenged for Ahri’s journal. I went over to the loose floorboard and smashed my foot down through the rotten wood. It cracked underneath my boot heel, and like he’d promised, the journal was there. The yellow cover was full of swirly circles I knew Ahri drew when she was nervous or bored. I checked the journal, not to read it, but to make sure no pages had been torn out.

Nothing was torn out.

I tucked the journal into my waistband, snug against the small of my back, and got busy. I went to the kitchen to find the only bottle of alcohol he had. Cognac. Perfect. I went back to the living room and began to throw newspapers on him before I soaked the couch and him, with liquor. Rolling the leftover newspapers, I made a fuse. I had my fun making it coil around the floor like a snake, but I didn’t add more booze. I wanted the journey of the fire to move slowly until it hit him and the flame burned bright.

Once I was done, I chucked the roll of duct tape as hard as I could at his face.

“Wake up, Sunshine!”

His eyes flickered open, and when he saw the state he was in, his cheeks puffed in and out like a blowfish as he panicked and struggled to get out of his permanent seat. He cried and let out muffled screams, but it didn’t faze me. When his reaction no longer thrilled me, I walked over to him and sat on the coffee table across from him.

The stench of Cognac and bonfire stung my nose. I scanned his ‘Please, don’t’ face, but all I did was throw on my vicious, dead serious mask. I flexed my jaw, my eyes the color of what was going to surround him, and my lips in their natural semi-frown state. He stopped wiggling in his seat as tears coursed down his swollen face.

“You’re probably thinking, ‘Why are you doing this?” My voice was grim and cruel.

He nodded.

“Simple. The Lore family or…what’s left of it.”

He said nothing.

“Do you wanna know what I’m thinking?” I smiled.

He shook his head ‘no’ and cried.

“It’s fine. I was going to tell you anyway. I’m a killer, a demon, and a sinner. I am all those things and so much fucking more. I’ve thrown morals, ethics, and fucking right and wrong out of the window…obviously.” I dragged my eyes around the room and scoffed. “I've done it all for money, and to not worry about a damn thing. I’ve done it all, but you know where I drew the line? Do you know where my mercenary actions come to a complete fucking stop? Huh?”

He shook his head whimpering at his words.

“When women and children are involved.” I gritted. “I would never hurt them, yet you…” I let out a single laugh of disbelief. I looked at my blade, begging for more of his blood. “…yet you. You fucking managed to hurt both. A woman, Aurora, in ways I couldn’t even imagine. And my fucking God, you were about to hurt a child, Luke.”

He tried to muffle something, and I shut him up with a fist to the face.

“Did you know I went to prison?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Well, I did, and better yet, I ruled the fucking joint. On top of being on the kitchen staff, I was a brute, a savage, a monster. If I ever saw those kinds of eyes on Luke ‘Pretty Boy’ Lore, my cellmate, you best believe the fuckers didn’t get fed. I, along with Blue, the Smuggler, ran the kitchen. I decided who ate and who starved. And when Fidget came to prison, let’s just say there were a lot of leftovers.”

I stood up and paced around the living room, continuing my story. “When I saw any low-life, pathetic, lonely, sack-of-shit go near Luke. Oh, that’s when I had my real fun. That’s when I didn’t hesitate for one second to take that piece of shit where the cameras didn't work and beat the living hell out of them. By the time I was done with them, they were unrecognizable. Kind of like you, but worse. Call yourself lucky, Eddy.”

“After people knew not to mess with my celly. I taught Fidget to fight, I got him a job in the kitchen, and I introduced him to Blue. I created a nice little kingdom for him, so when I left, he got to control it all. I’m a nice guy like that. Wouldn’t you say?”

I walked around to see his face as his cheeks puffed from his yell. “Do you know why I was so overprotective of my cellmate? Aside from him reminding me of my foster brother and actually being a friend I liked to talk to and mess around with. No? Well, that’s fucking bullshit, Eddy. And you know it.”

I sat across from him on the table again, holding the handle of my blade so tight my knuckles turned white. I held it to his throat, digging it into his flesh and watched his blood slowly flow over the blade.

“Luke got drunk off some shitty prison hooch the first week he came to Tavernville. He told me about the time he moved into a new house. About the man who was drunk and fumbled around in his room in the middle of the night. About the man who stripped down to his tighty whities with a hard on and pinned him down. About the man who tried to rape him when he was fourteen…” I growled, pushing the knife deeper inside of his throat as he cried. My upper lip twitched with rage, but my hand steady as a surgeon.

“Luke was a child and you, you sick fucking pedophile, tried to rape him and take advantage of him. Well, lucky for Luke, he fought back. Hard. Kicked you in the nuts so hard you never went near him again. But you didn’t stop. Oh, no, Eddy the pedophile rapist never stopped. You went to the next youngest person in the house. Aurora.”

I moved the blade across his neck, the gash getting deeper, his blood leaving his body like it was unwanted, and it was. He let out muffled screams, and I watched the blood trail down his burned neck, seeping into his shirt as it spread like wildfire. I knew he was going to burn alive, but I wanted his death to be as slow and painful as it could get. And if the cops were to come again and the fire didn’t finish him then, the loss of blood would do the job.

“I really am a man of my word. I told you I would finish the job myself and set you on fire. Did I not?” I looked down at his wrist and slashed them open, just enough to have his blood glaze his wrist, but not flood them. “You should’ve died in this house years ago, Eddy. You should have burned and fed the rats so they could’ve had their little barbecue party with your fucking corpse.” My upper lip twitched with rage.

He let out loud muffled yells, but his struggles were weaker as he lost more blood. I wiped his blood off my knife on his dirty jeans.

“Well, you’ve already taken too much of my precious time, and I have to get going.” I grunted, standing up, and picking up my matches. I lit the whole pack up and stood at the beginning of the long snake-like fuse I made. “Oh shit. I have one more pun left.” I cleared my throat. “Hopefully we see the brighter end to this story.”

Horrible not-really-a-pun pun number three: check.

I dropped the match pack and watched the fuse slowly light up. I didn't wait to watch him burn. Like I said, he had already taken too much of my precious time. I turned my back on him and walked away, heading for the doorless back door. By the time I made it to the front, his muffled screams were music to my ears.

About damn time.

I walked to the end of the block where a huge oak tree stood alone on the corner. It wasn’t until I hid behind the tree when I finally looked back and saw my grand finale. A two-leveled house, painted in an old dark-tan color, lighting up the whole street. Only flames, smoke, and ashes escaped the house this time. I leaned on the tree, smiling at my handiwork until I remembered my Black Kiss. I took my cap, wiped the bloody kiss off my boot, and shoved it into my back pocket. My hands were still red, but nothing pockets couldn’t hide.

Now it was time to burn some calories on my long ass walk home.

Bonus pun for shits and giggles: check.