Page 43 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I reached down, grabbing a handful of Dale’s hair like he was a bitch boy getting what he deserved. I looked him right in his one good, terrified eye.

"Let's try this again," I said, and then I punched him. Hard. My knuckles connected with his jaw, and his head snapped with a sickening crack. I hit him again.

I shoved his face down into the dirt and gravel, pressing it hard into the ground. I wiped his face back and forth, grinding it into the sharp stones like I was trying to clean a stain. "There you go," I grunted, my voice thick with satisfaction. "That's a good little boy."

I let go of his hair, leaving his face in the dirt. He just lay there, whimpering, a pathetic mess of blood and tears. I stood up, pulling out my pack of smokes and tapping another one out. I lit it, the flame dancing in front of my face, the smoke a welcome comfort.

I walked over to the community board, where Lacey was still standing, her face pale and her eyes wide with shock. She looked like she'd seen a ghost, and I guess, in a way, she had. She just stared at me, her mouth slightly open, unable to form a word. This was Mercy Ridge. Fights happened. This was just a little more brutal than usual.

I took a long drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling around my head, and waited for her to snap out of it. She just kept staring, her eyes wide and vacant. I sighed, blowing a plume of smoke towards the sky. This was getting boring.

I reached past her, my arm brushing against her shoulder, making her flinch. My fingers closed around the thumbtack holding Rory's poster to the board. I pulled it free, the paper crinkling in my hand. I held it up, looking at Rory's face, at the forced smile and the vacant eyes in the school picture they'd used. It was a good picture. She looked like a trapped animal.

I looked back at Lacey, a slow, wide grin spreading across my face. I held up the poster, like a trophy. "Thanks for this," I said, my voice a low, teasing purr. "I think I'll hang it up at home. It'll look real nice on my wall."

I didn't wait for a response. I just turned and walked back to my truck, the poster flapping in the breeze. I got in, the engine roaring to life, and drove away, leaving Lacey standing there, a silent, horrified witness to the madness that had just unfolded in the middle of her sleepy little town.

Chapter 15

The old truck rumbled up the dirt path to the holler, a cassette tape blaring from the speakers—some loud, screechy garage rock that made my teeth ache. I loved that shit. It was the sound of chaos, the sound of my own damn head. I turned it down as I got closer. The sudden quiet was almost deafening after the noise. I killed the engine, the silence settling over me.

I grabbed the bags from the passenger seat, my knuckles screaming in protest. They were split and bloody, the skin scraped raw, and I could already see the bruises starting to form. I shook my hand out, a sharp, satisfying pain shooting up my arm. God, that feels good. A grin spread across my face. Made me feel alive. I wished I could've killed those boys, really sunk my teeth in, but we had to be careful. The Knucklebones were already connected to a few... disappearances. No proof, of course. Just missing person posters faded and forgotten, next to where Rory's was.

I thought of that pretty little hiker from when I was 10. It was winter, the one who got stranded in the mountains when the snow came early. We were all getting hungry, the food running low. Hester, she's a survivor. She took care of it. They never found a trace of her, but we ate good for a month. Blythe, he's good with his hands. He took her bones, the little ones from her fingers and wrists, and made a new set of wind chimes. They hung right outside my window, and they made the prettiest sound when the wind blew just right.

Then there was that traveling salesman, a real smooth-talker with shiny shoes and a greasy smile. He thought he could get fresh with Momma. Blythe didn't like that one bit. Nobody touched Momma like that. They never found him, either. Blythe used his skin to make a new wallet. Said it was the softest leather he'd ever worked with.

We were a family of artists, and the whole damn mountain was our canvas. I grabbed the bags and headed for the cage, my mind already racing with all the things I was going to do to my little firecracker. I had a new mask for her, a new bottle of her favorite drink, and a whole lot of new ideas.

I headed straight for the cage, the bags digging into my bleeding knuckles. As I got closer, I stopped dead. The window. The goddamn curtains were wide open, a black rectangle against the light. Idiot, I snarled at myself. What kind of amateur shit is that? Curtains get shut every single night. Never know what kinda things are crawling around out here, what kinda eyes are looking in. I made a mental note to beat my own ass for it later.

I crept closer, my boots silent on the packed dirt. I peered through the grimy glass, my heart starting to pound a little faster. Rory was still laying down, just starting to stir on the bed. She was still wearing Blythe's big, flannel shirts, the fabric hanging off her small frame, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was a wild mess, a tangle of dark strawberry blonde curls fanned out on the pillow. She must've tried to clean up, 'cause most of the blood was gone from her lips, but I could still see a faint, pinkish stain, a ghost of my mark.

I watched her, my breath caught in my throat. She looked so small, so vulnerable. It was a damn good look on her.

Then, her hands started moving, slow and lazy, like she was still half-asleep. They drifted down her body, her fingers tracing the sensitive skin of her thighs. My own breath hitched, my eyes glued to the window. What the fuck is she doing? My mind started racing.

She didn't stop. Her hands moved higher, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Then, slowly, she reached down and pulled up the hem of Blythe's flannel shirt. And then I saw it. Her pussy. It was right there, on full display, pink and perfect in the dim light.

A low groan escaped my lips, a sound I couldn't hold back if I tried. My cock, which had been semi-hard since the fight, went rock-solid, straining against the zipper of my jeans. I felt a primal, feral rage building inside me, a hunger so intense it was almost painful. I wanted to burst through that door, throw her down on the bed, and bury myself so deep inside her she'd forget her own name.

I slowly, carefully, set the bags down on the ground, my eyes never leaving her. I was gonna have her soon. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do to stop me.

I watched, mesmerized, as her hand drifted up her stomach, her fingers hooking into the bottom of the oversized flannel shirt. She pulled it up, bunching the fabric under her chin, exposing her breasts. They were perfect, her nipples hard and pierced the silver glinted in the dim light.

She took one of the small, silver studs in her fingers and played with it, twisting it gently. I saw her mouth move, a small, silent gasp escaping her lips. Her other hand moved up, cupping her own breast, squeezing it, her eyes closing as she lost herself in the sensation.

I was losing it. My hand moved to my own crotch, my fingers digging into the denim, rubbing against the hard length of my cock. I was staring at her, fantasizing about her hands on me, her mouth on me, her hot, wet pussy wrapped around my dick.

She moved her other hand down, tracing the curve of her hip, her fingers dipping into the soft skin of her inner thigh. She kept one hand on her breast, groping and squeezing, while her other hand slid lower, her fingers spreading her pussy lips apart, revealing the glistening wetness inside. She was touching herself, and I was watching, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I couldn't take it anymore. I let out a low, growl, the sound vibrating in my chest. "Fuck it," I muttered, my voice a guttural rasp. I reached down, my fingers fumbling with the buckle of my belt, and undid my pants. I pulled my cock out, the thick, angry head already leaking precum. I grabbed the base of it, giving it a firm squeeze, and started to stroke myself, my eyes locked on the private show she was putting on just for me.

I gripped the base of my cock tight, my knuckles white and bloody, and started to pump. Hard and fast. The pain from my battered hand shot up my arm with every stroke, a sharp, electric jolt that only made me feel more alive, more desperate. I watched her through the window, my eyes glued to her fingers as she dipped them inside her own wet pussy. She was playing with herself, and I was jerking off to the sight of it, the two of us connected by the glass.

She moved her fingers to her clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles. I could see her body tensing, her back arching off the mattress. She was trying so hard to hold back, to be quiet, but I could see her mouth opening, a silent gasp escaping her lips. She bit her lip, trying to stifle the sound, but I could see her throat working, her neck flushed with pleasure.

I was losing my mind. I was obsessed with her. I needed to hear her moan. I needed to hear her scream my name. I was going to make her scream.