“That fucking bitch is going to die,” Spencer grumbled as he stood on the front porch to the beach house awaiting his ride. A trip to the emergency room wasn’t on his agenda for this trip. All he wanted was to slide in and out under the radar of the press. Little did he know his daughter would lose her fucking mind and stab him.
“I’ll fucking slit her throat, cut her up, and feed her to pigs. Yeah, that’s it. She will fucking be eaten by fucking pigs,” spouting off, Spencer held his hand to his thigh to slow down the bleeding. “Where the fuck is that car,” yelling, putting his hands up in the air, he was on a full rant forgetting about the blood pouring down his leg.
“Hey, are you okay?” the young brunette asked as she approached the porch with a bag in her hand. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding,” speaking, her voice with a slight hint of an accent.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, his eyes narrowed, but that didn’t stop him from licking over his lips at the sight of the young girl. Spencer had one major flaw. He thought with his dick more than his head.
“Nic. I was dropping off a grocery order for the lady that lives here, but do you need help?” acting concerned, Nicolette prided herself on the ability to get into a man’s head and earn his trust. “Come inside. We can dress that wound,” her smile softened, she was doing just that. Earning this pig’s trust. Inhaling deep, the scent of his blood perfumed the air. She loved the way each drip of crimson fluid played a lullaby of sorrow as it dripped down his thigh. The greatest symphony ever played was the sound of a man dying as she jacked him off to the grand finale.
“Where the fuck is this car?” Spencer grumbled, looking around for the driver. Nothing. “Get some stuff and wrap this up. I need to get the fuck out of here,” demanding, his power being used on the wrong woman, but for now, he would get his wish. She would clean him up and take care of taking out the trash another day. She hadn’t fed the mouse enough to devour him yet. That day would come soon enough. For now, he could continue to run on the wheel after each thing she baited him with. Little treats that only the sick and twisted desire.
“Come in. I think Miss Kennedy keeps stuff in the kitchen,” smiling, the young brunette led the male into the house, not stopping until she reached the kitchen. By the looks of the house, she knew something happened but knew that Gypsy was alive. Nicolette could feel her pulse in her veins. The bond they shared allowed her to feed on the young woman’s fears. The faster her heartbeat, the more she craved.
Taking a seat at the bar, Spencer had pulled his jeans down before doing so. It’ wasn’t bad but throbbed like a mother fucker. “Just tape it up so I can get the hell out of here. The stench in the place is revolting,” he said, looking around as the female sought out the materials needed to bandage him up.
Nic poured the peroxide over the wound, her heart beating along with the pace of Gypsy. “This won’t need stitches. It’s almost stopped bleeding,” smiling, she hummed while fixing Spencer’s leg. It took everything inside of her to not slide her slender finger into the wound and rip it apart until he bled out. In due time, but not today.
Growling as the fluid seeped inside of the cut, the manila envelope on the counter caught his attention. The seal was already broken. Opening it, a smirk creased his lips in an upward motion. A photograph of his granddaughter. There, he had finally seen her. She did look like her mother. The spitting image of Mary at that age. He refused to call her Gypsy. “How do you know my daughter?” asking, curiosity was getting the better of Spencer.
Applying the final touches to the wound, Nicolette returned all the first aid care materials to the cabinet, smiling at the elder male, “I deliver for the grocery store. I don’t know her personally. Well, not yet at least. Can I ask you something though? How did you get a stab wound in your leg?”
“Accident. Thanks for the help, if you ever need anything,” pulling out a card, sliding it across the counter, “Feel free to give me a call. I owe you one.”
Nicolette smirked, looking at the card, “I will be in contact very soon, Mr. Kennedy. Very soon.”
With the picture in hand, Spencer took one last look at the female, leaving. The car still not out front, a short walk down the street would be the biggest blow of the day. In the front seat, the driver sat slumped over, his throat slit from ear to ear. There was no way this was the work of his daughter. She was still locked in the safe room of her house. Random? Not likely. On the driver’s forehead, attached with a thumbtack, was a note.
“One two, I’m coming for you.”