Kiss Me, Kill Me Page 4

  I had one thing left to say. I said it with finality since it may be the last word I ever spoke to him. ‘Goodbye.’

  Oh, there was one more thing. ‘And fuck all of you!’

  I turned on my heel and made my exit.

  There was an eruption of noise from the silent room. Scraping sounds as chairs were pushed back along the timber floor, and then Melanie was yelling at the top of her lungs, ‘You’re a heinous bitch, Stepfucker!’

  I spun back around beneath the archway to watch my bestie bringing the smackdown. ‘You deserve to be whipped. I want to beat the snot out of you this very minute.’ I hoped Melanie remembered to keep her thumbs on the outside.

  In an unexpected turn of events, I had the bizarre urge to laugh.

  Melanie pointed a finger at Geneva. ‘You will never get a modelling contract. Your inner hideous comes out of you and makes you ugly on the outside. Plus, you are actually ugly on the outside, you skanky troll.’

  Oh my frickin’ hell!

  ‘And you,’ the finger moved to Michael, ‘what a deluded twat you are. You’re an entrepreneur of shit. You should wake up to yourself and just get a sodding job. Both of you. You sit around here and talk big and put on your large fucking attitudes—all bloody fur coat and no knickers. You two are the biggest bloodsuckers on this planet.’

  I laughed. Quietly. To myself. Because Mel wasn’t aware of this, but Greg was the only actual bloodsucking entity in the room. Mel was right, though. My stepsiblings: two large parasites. The two of them and their mother would take everything they could from my father. If anything happened so that he could no longer provide for them, I’d bet he’d be left in the dust as soon as they managed to pack their bags. And somehow, I didn’t care anymore. They all deserved each other.

  My d— The dude who fertilised my mother’s egg opened his mouth to say something I would surely have no interest in hearing.

  Melanie nipped that shit in the bud, cutting him off before he could even begin. She said in a voice dripping with disdain, ‘And you can just shut your cakehole.’ She pursed her lips and shook her head.

  ‘Bleedin’ useless codger.’ This was muttered to herself as she began walking towards me. I believe everyone heard it, nonetheless.

  She obviously remembered there was something else she needed to impart. Swivelling around, she spat the words at Lydia. ‘By the way, you’re balding, and that ridiculous bird’s nest on your head is fooling exactly no one. You have the stupidest hair I have ever seen.’

  That verbal slap was for casting aspersions on my hair. I wanted to hug the hell out of my bestie as she came to me, grabbed my hand and headed into the foyer. As a parting shot, she yelled over her shoulder, ‘And your turret looks like a fuckin’ vag passage!’

  I felt hysterical laughter bubbling up. We grabbed our handbags and rushed out the door one behind the other, like twins being birthed from the canal. We ran out onto the lawn and erupted into hysterics. It was possibly a combination of stress, finally letting go of some suppressed rage, and the ridiculousness of what had happened in that last minute, but we were both in fits.

  Finally, Melanie grabbed me and hugged me. She hugged me like a maniac until I could barely breathe. Then she kissed my cheek, held my face, looked me in the eye and said, ‘Bleedin’ hell, I never knew it was so bad.’ And then she burst into tears.

  I hugged her the way she’d hugged me and said consoling things to her. I thanked her for being the best BFF in the whole universe and for giving the Bag of Dicks such a good bollocking. Which was the kind of word she’d use. Which made her laugh. I followed that up with, ‘Let’s blow this jacked-up popsicle stand.’

  And she said, ‘Fuck yeah!’

  Then we both looked around and came to the conclusion that Greg was missing in action.

  We crept back and peered into the dining room window. No one was there. All the windows along the front were open, but I couldn’t hear a sound from inside the house. We walked along, peeking inside windows like a couple of cat-burglars. Then I heard Greg’s voice coming from the study. I went on tiptoe, peeked in—and my eyeballs almost went and popped out of my head.

  Lydia had her back against the wall, and Greg was right up in her personal space. And fuck me sideways, he had his fangs out!

  Thank heavens Melanie was so short that she couldn’t see into the high window. She tilted her head up and was straining to hear what was going on.

  Greg’s face was rigid with anger when he said, ‘If I see you on Facebook or any social media platform, posting about people beating up or kicking puppies, and making comments about how terribly upsetting it is to you, I will make statements about how you did those things to a child in your care. I will publicly humiliate you so that every one of your family and friends will understand what a vicious fucking bitch you actually are.’

  I had seen one of those kicking-puppy posts. At first, I had cried because of the terrible cruelty to the poor animal. Later, I’d ended up on Greg’s lap, sobbing into his chest about what a hypocrite Lydia was. Because how could she be so outraged about someone treating a puppy that way, when she’d been perfectly happy to kick the crap out of a little kid?

  While I watched the events play out in front of me, I felt equal parts happiness and worry. I was happy Greg was giving Lydia a serve. I was worried because Greg had let anger override logic. Lydia had seen his fangs; she knew what he was.

  Unless he planned to kill her. That would tidy up the problem.

  Was I concerned by that?

  Not overly much.

  Greg’s hands slammed against the wall on either side of Lydia’s head. He raised his face, scenting the air, and then his gaze immediately slid to the side, zeroing in on me. He didn’t react, instead turning his attention once again to Lydia. ‘I will not let Ana get within ten feet of you. If you happen to cross her path, you will not say one bloody word. If I find you have, I will rip your voice box out of the front of your fucking throat. You will not even look at her sideways, or I will tear. You. Apart.’

  His hand came around her throat. He squeezed. His lips curled up and he fully bared his fangs.

  Lydia was shaking like a leaf, whimpering and white with fear. I suppose she didn’t enjoy being threatened and frightened by someone bigger and more powerful than herself.

  Greg stared hard into Lydia’s eyes, and Lydia went a bit dazed and slack-jawed. Greg then let her go and strode from the room.

  Lydia blinked repeatedly as if she were coming to after passing out. She stumbled away from the wall towards the door. Turning back, she glanced around the room in confusion, seemingly unable to comprehend what she was doing there.

  That was when I saw it: she’d wet herself.

  She spotted me spying on her through the window. She looked down at the big wet patch on her pants and then back at me. We stared at each other. I had a strong sense—in fact, I was quite certain—we were remembering the exact same thing. The times she would beat me for so long that I’d end up pressed into the corner of the room, praying that she’d stop, and wetting myself with fear that she wouldn’t. And the punishment that followed for losing control of my bladder—which had been to put me in panties that were so small they’d almost cut off my circulation, and then send me to bed.

  Melanie grabbed my hand and started tugging at me. ‘Greg’s here,’ she whispered. I kept my eyes on Lydia for a long, long moment before turning and walking away.

  Chapter Three

  A couple of weeks later, Christmas had come and gone. We’d basically ignored it. Scott had to work during the holiday period. We’d made a plan to go up to the snowfields in the middle of the year with Scott and Melanie to have a white Christmas. Scott and I had never experienced Christmas in winter, so we were looking forward to it. We’d all decided to keep the traditional festive feasting and present exchanging for that time.

  Although, Greg couldn’t help himself and had bought me some things. None of which were Christmas presents, according to h
im. Apparently, the lack of themed wrapping and bows was supposed to throw me off the scent.

  We’d toughed out the forty-two-degree-Celsius Christmas Day, sitting on our balcony with Melanie. Mel and I had cold boiled prawns dipped in an assortment of sauces, and a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot. We’d also attacked some of Greg’s edible non-Christmas presents, including liqueur chocolates and smoked Gouda cheese. Greg had drunk me at room temperature from vacutainer tubes. We all took turns sitting in the inflatable kiddie pool filled with water and a bit of ice.

  Also, by then, I’d pretty much recovered from the showdown on Stepfucker Street.

  In the interim, there’d been quite a bit of crying. Some raging and stomping. I’d lamented the fact that I hadn’t mentioned this or that. There’d been a large amount of lamenting.

  Greg had eased my concerns about Lydia outing him as a vampire when he’d told me exactly what had happened in that room. In a nutshell, he’d read Lydia the riot act, bared his fangs, and made her believe he was about to rip her throat out. Then he’d mesmerised her, erasing her memory of everything to do with fangs. All she’d been left with were the echoes of threats ringing in her ears, fear oozing from her pores, and the large wet stain in the crotch of her trousers. Plus, a hefty dose of confusion.

  There’d also been a postmortem of the dinner and following debacle with Greg and Melanie. After that, we’d come up with ideas about what we should have done. Examples: I’d talked about placing chicken bones and cans of cream in strange locations. Greg had talked about breaking bones. Not chicken ones. Melanie wished she’d taken a birthday candle and actually set Lydia’s stupid bird’s nest on fire. She suggested it could still be done. When asked how she imagined we’d gain access since it was doubtful we’d receive further invitations from that address, Melanie decided a battering ram was the way to go. A nice detail was that it would be shaped like a huge dick and she’d use it to bash down the door to the vagina tower before storming the castle.

  The Shoulda-Done Committee meeting was a long one, involving a substantial consumption of alcohol, a large amount of belly laughing and a detailed sketch of the battering ram, including measurements. Melanie had then added to it by drawing Lydia bent over, presenting her ass to the weapon.

  Which I was contemplating posting to her.

  Over the past fortnight, there’d been a number of phone conversations with Melanie and Scott, and heaps of discussions with Greg. The bonus of having Greg as my counsellor: all the tender loving-up sessions that followed.

  Greg had touched me and kissed me as if I were made of spun glass. He’d stared into my eyes as he loved me. Whispered beautiful things in my ear. Stroked and held me tight afterwards.

  I felt safe and loved and cherished.

  A memory of the previous night flashed in my mind, where Greg had cradled my face in his hands and chanted my name as he came inside me. I figured I’d had to go through all the hard stuff to get to this. This place where I was so loved. With this magnificent, awe-inspiring man who was so perfect for me. I decided I damn well deserved this joy.

  My man was waiting for me when I returned home from work. He was sitting on the sofa, looking equal parts gorgeous and mischievous. ‘I have a surprise for you,’ he offered in greeting.

  Closing the door behind me, I leaned back against it and raised an eyebrow. My individual brow control is absolute rubbish, so I was possibly exhibiting a startled mien. Nevertheless, he understood what I was trying to communicate. That being, will it be as exciting as the last surprise?

  Three days prior, Greg had returned home holding an oversized Jiffy bag with webbing straps poking out of the top, and the opposite hand clutching a long chrome bar. He’d rushed through the apartment to the multipurpose (gym/study/storage) room, telling me to stay where I was. That he had a surprise for me but had to install it, and he’d call me in when it was ready.

  I’d waited in the living room thinking ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod over and over.

  Because here’s what had happened about a month prior.

  I’d been reading a kinky book that featured a sex swing. Over dinner, I’d raised the subject, offering my opinion that using a swing for sex was rather interesting and something I’d be keen to experience. Aside from listening intently to me extolling the virtues of this particular piece of sex equipment, Greg hadn’t reacted, except for a barely there curve to his lip and a minutely raised eyebrow. (Greg has excellent individual eyebrow control.) When I’d finished speaking, he resumed eating and, since he’d shown no interest, I’d dropped the subject.

  So, back to three days ago. Apart from all the ohmigods in my head, there had also been other thoughts like, holy crap, he actually bought us a sex swing! What the heck will he attach it to? Without a sturdy attachment point, things could end very badly. For me. Come to think of it, for him, too. Ceilings falling on the back of your head can’t be too healthy. Plus, where am I going to hide it when people come around? A hook in the middle of the ceiling is highly suspicious. Do I need to pretend a newfound love of hanging macramé potholders? Was that what all the macramé potholders were for in the sixties? To disguise the sex-swing hooks? And on it went.

  When Greg had finally called me over, I’d run down the corridor with great anticipation. Then stopped short and frowned at the setup before me. Across the doorway, right near the top, the chrome pole had been attached to the inside of the doorframe. From the centre of the chrome pole hung a long webbed strap. At the bottom of that was a piece of stretchy rubber tube with a stirrup attached.

  It didn’t look like no sex swing to me.

  Greg instructed me to hold the pole, put one foot in the stirrup and pull myself up.

  And I suddenly remembered another conversation I’d had with Greg around the same time as the sex-swing convo. That conversation was about the fact that I am absolutely crap at doing pull-ups/chin-ups. I don’t even try doing them at the gym because I’ll embarrass myself, dangling lamely and pointing my chin at the bar while not moving an inch closer to it.

  The next minute, I was swinging back and forth on the damn CHIN-UP ASSISTER and doing my best to appear excited about this gift Greg had given me.

  Greg had said, ‘No, Ana, don’t swing back and forth. Use it to help you go up and down.’

  I’d focussed awfully hard on getting the motion right. I’d also focussed awfully hard on not letting my disappointment show.

  When I was finally getting my chin somewhere in the vicinity of the bar—kind of—I’d glanced at Greg. The amusement dancing in his eyes had been immense. He’d been struggling not to laugh. And if he’d contained that laughter for one more second, he’d have busted a valve. I’d hoped it would be in his left ball. That would’ve taught him.

  In the here and now, Greg stood up and walked over to where I was standing. Undoubtedly still looking like an idiot with my two raised brows. He kissed my forehead. ‘It’s not a big surprise. Merely a little something interesting.’ With that, he produced a blindfold from his pocket and tied it around my head, obscuring my vision. Taking my hand, he led me over to what had previously been known as the multipurpose room, now dubbed (by Greg) as the chin-up-assister room. Because he’s so funny like that.

  When we stopped, he raised my hand and had me grasp something. He moved my hand up and down, so I was essentially fondling a webbing strap. If his plan was getting me to do blindfolded pull-ups, I was gonna kill him slowly and with much pain. On his part, not mine. I wouldn’t feel a thing.

  Greg untied the blindfold—and all thoughts of painful deaths were halted abruptly.

  Because OMFG there was an actual sex swing hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room!

  ‘It’s an actual sex swing!’ I exclaimed.

  The only response I received was his look of suppressed amusement: slightly curved lip on the left side and narrowed eyes surrounded by crinkles.

  ‘How did you get one so quickly?’

  He watched me for a little longer be
fore saying, ‘I ordered it at the same time as the chin-up assister.’

  Greg loved to trick me. Bastard. God, I loved him. He could trick me all he liked.

  He could fuck me all he liked, too. Speaking of fucking…

  I tugged on the swing. ‘Is it secure?’

  ‘Yep. It’s attached to a hardwood ceiling beam. It’s not coming down in a hurry.’

  I cupped a hand around my ear. ‘Who’s not coming in a hurry?’

  ‘Kayana? Are you being naughty?’

  ‘Me?’ I gestured to myself and sucked in my cheeks. ‘Nevah.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ said Greg, his voice becoming sterner. ‘You know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you, Kayana?’

  ‘No.’ Oh, but I did have a good idea of what might be involved. Whenever Greg used my full name instead of Ana, it meant I was in trouble. Usually the good kind.

  Greg stepped closer, getting all up in my space. Which I loved. He looked down at me, his face harsh and stern, gaze filled with mirth. His finger came under my chin, tilting my head up farther. ‘They get strapped into sex swings so that they’re spread open and defenceless. And then they get fucked, hard. For a long time. Until they beg to be allowed to come. And maybe they get to.’ A pause. ‘Maybe they don’t.’

  With those words, the strength was sucked out of my body, my knees going weak. Greg, knowing exactly how his words would affect me, was ready. His arm came around me, pulling me against him.

  ‘I’m not that naughty,’ I whispered, wanting to avoid having to suffer through orgasm denial. I really loved the way Greg made me come. I wanted that. So badly.

  ‘Take off your clothes, Kayana.’ The order was delivered in a rough voice. The amusement in his eyes having been replaced by lust. Large lust. The trouble was gonna be so, so good.

  He released me, and I did exactly what I’d been told. Quickly stripping off everything, not bothering to go slow, tease or tantalize. That swing was calling my name.