J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [737]
It picked the blade, meandering forth in a ruby red stream.
“Please . . . don’t kill me.”
“What’s your answer.”
“Yeah. I’ll do it.”
Lash pressed in harder, watching the blood run. He was momentarily captivated by the reality that if he took the weapon and pushed it farther through the flesh, this human would cease to exist, like a breath of air disappearing into a chilly night.
He enjoyed feeling like a god.
As whimpering breached the kid’s chapped lips, Lash relented, easing back. With a quick lick, he cleaned off the blade and flicked the weapon shut. “You’re going to like where you end up. I promise you.”
He gave the guy a chance to recover and knew it wasn’t going to take long for the kid to get his groove back. Asswipes like this one had egos like balloons. Pressure, particularly the kind that came with a knife at the throat, caused them to collapse in on themselves. But the instant the stress was relieved, they rebounded, puffing back up into place.
The kid snapped his crappy leather jacket down. “I like where I is just fine.”
Bingo. “Then why are you looking at my car like you want it in your garage?”
“I got a better ride than this.”
“Oh. Really.” Lash eyeballed the bitch from head to foot. “You come here every night on a BMX. Your jeans are torn and not because they’re designer. How many jackets you got in your closet? Oh, wait, you keep your shit in a cardboard box under the bridge.” Lash rolled his eyes as all kinds of surprise bubbled up from the passenger seat. “You think we didn’t check you out? You think we’re that stupid?”
Lash jabbed a finger toward the Xtreme Park, where skateboarders were making like metronomes on the ramps, up and down, up and down. “You are the shit in this playground over here. Fine. Congratulations. But we want you to go farther. You join with us, you’ve got muscle behind you . . . money, product, protection. You hit it with us, you’re going to be something more than a two-bit punk swinging your cock around a concrete lot. We’ve got your future.”
The kid’s calculating stare shifted toward his little slice of territory in Caldwell and then floated over to the horizon where the skyscrapers loomed. The ambition was there, and that was why he’d been chosen. What this little bastard needed was a way up and a way out.
The fact that he’d have to sell his soul to do it was going to dawn on him only when it was too late, but that was the way of the Society. From what Lash had been told by the lessers he now commanded, there was never a full-disclosure thing before they got inducted—and this was understandable. Like any of them would have believed that evil was waiting on the other side of the door they were knocking on? Like any one of them would have volunteered for what they were getting into?
Surprise, motherfucker. This ain’t no Disney World, and once you get on the ride, you are never, ever getting off.
Lash was totally fine with deception, however.
“I’m ready for bigger shit,” the kid murmured.
“Good. Now get the fuck out of my car. My associate will pick you up tomorrow night at seven.”
“Cool.”
With business concluded, Lash was impatient to move the little bastard along. The kid smelled like a sewer and was screaming for more than a shower—he needed to be hosed down like a dirty stretch of sidewalk.
As soon as the door was shut, Lash backed out of the parking lot and hooked up with the road that ran parallel to the Hudson River. He headed for home, his hands gripping the steering wheel for another reason than the urge to kill.
The urge to fuck was just as strong a motivator for him.
The street he lived on in Old Caldwell had Victorian-era brownstones running down it and sidewalks planted with trees and property values no lower than a million dollars. The neighbors picked up after their dogs, never made any noise, and put their trash out only in the back alleys, and