Tainted Love Book 3

Book Three

Daxon

“Hello and good morning from the sexiest motherfucker south of the Canadian coastline. My name is Daxon, and I hope you eat shit and die. Thank you and goodnight.”

Darrion drags a hand down his face, one arm bent at the elbow and the other shielding his eyes.

Let’s just say he isn’t a fan of how I've used our new little discovery.

“What?” I scoff, shrugging my shoulders. I don’t get it.

The knob on the dashboard is slid down so I can hone in on the next call coming through the speakers one at a time. I pride myself on this nifty little invention I came up with.

They all laughed when I drew my specs out. Said it couldn’t be done. Said it was impossible.

Well, look where we are now—and have been for a good ol’ minute, thanks to my drunken dream journal. It took a lot of convincing and gadget-altering before they would even sit down and hear me out.

Finally, when I tuned in to Unc’s “Shaggin’ Wagon,” they started to take me just a little more seriously.

About damn time, am I right? I’ve got loads of good ideas up here. Especially when I’ve got a drink or two in me.

The hardest part was getting Dad on board.

“HEY, YOU! Yes, I’m talking to you. I know you can hear me, and guess what, fuckface? I can see and hear you.

“Every moment of the day. Every second you spend beating off. I’m here. Just watching as time ticks away. Tick tock. Tick tock.”

I change the station to the next cell.

“What was the point of that?” Darrion repositions the mic and takes over the video controls. It makes my day seeing them tweak out when they hear me over the speakers.

“Why are you the ruiner of fun?”

Tuning into the cell I have really been after, some real fun starts.

“How’s it going in there? Warm? Comfy?”

I made a promise to Savannah that I wouldn’t let these fuckers go.

They have to pay for what they did.

Picking up on the vibrations in the air, I turn it to 10 and hold it for four-second intervals, letting them rest and then starting again.

I already had some pretty good ideas on torture practices. Here in the wolfpack, we know our way around what goes bump in the night.

“Do you have somewhere to be, man? I’m good here. If you need to do something, go right ahead and don’t let me stop you.”

Darrion always acts like the next thing on his to-do list is so much more pressing than whatever it is we’re doing. Just like how all this came to be.

I guess he forgets faster than I do. I don’t really know. Thinking of what’s going on in a play-by-play upstairs in Darrion’s headspace would ruin my entire goddamn week. He is wayyyy strict.

Savannah had him dead to rights with the whole stick-up-his-ass thing. Always has been.

“No, but you do.”

This time he is the one to reset the board. This little soundboard reaches a frequency that can rupture eardrums if I hold it on for too long.

I’ve found the sweet spot for most men to be right around 6 to 8 seconds, so I’ve been having a blast tuning it to just about 5 seconds and giving them a rest before going in.

This way it just hurts very, very painfully. And thanks to my nifty little setup here, I can do this whenever I want for as long as I want.

And since they are locked away, I have free access whenever I want to kill some time.

“They deserve this. She’s right. You know it. They deserve worse than this and if we would—...”

If we would have been better brothers. We would have known. It wouldn’t have come to this.

He called Savannah when the chips were down. He called someone besides us to come help. To protect him from something he shouldn’t have been in.

We can’t tell him we know. Can’t offer much else to Tristan.

If there was a list of all-time greatest fuck-ups, we would be at the top of the list.

We can’t say shit to anyone. Not to Dad, who is back on the hating bandwagon. Nor to the rest of our brotherhood, who think Van is just a spoiled, selfish cunt.

Not to Dane, who thinks he’s all alone now that he can’t just run to Van.

“I got up early for this.” I set the controls back and have another go. Darrion gives up, turning away and heading for the door.

“Tomorrow you will, too.” The sound of his boots on the floor halts with precision.

“Excuse me? You’re not the fucking boss of me.”

Yeah, I figured that would get him.

He hates being told what to do.

“You’re right, I'm not. But he isn’t just my brother, and these pieces of shit should have had a lot more than just some ear pain coming. So tomorrow you can do your part, just like I’m doing mine.”

I hold the sound for a half-second longer and look at the screen. Cataloging the way Ricky bucks off his cardboard cot and upchucks onto the floor.

“Wow, that escalated quickly. I hear the jailhouse slop is exceptionally better coming up than it is going down. What do you think, hmm?”

The sting of the paintballs hasn’t been forgotten on my end. Come tomorrow morning, we will see if Darrion has forgotten.

***

“Making my way downtown, walking fast, faces pass, and I’m homebound. Dananaan. And I miss you. Danana, and you know I’d walk a thousand miles if I could just.. Seeeee. Youuuu- tonight!”

Singing along with the radio outside of the high school, I make sure I give Mrs. Watkins a whistle when her fine ass comes out the gym doors.

It isn’t all bad being on babysitting duty for Percy. He isn’t that bad to be around. Kinda like Van, without whom I am bored as shit.

Everything is important, and I can’t have much fun with all these hardasses.

I need a rematch. I will win eventually. She can’t have luck that good over this shit.

I’ll sell my soul at a crossroads. I really don’t care. I want my victory more than I have ever wanted anything. Ever.

“Hey, Emily, how are you doing this beautiful afternoon?” I’m off my bike and tailing the round end of the biggest tease on this fucking planet.

It was my sophomore year of high school when Miss Emily Watkins became our teacher’s aide. Lucky for me, I was a problem child who needed an extra set of hands.

Oh baby, does she have hands.

I was a minute past my 18th birthday when I showed up at her apartment and said I was ready to make my birthday wish come true.

“Get out of here, Mr. Henley, before the campus police escort you off the premises.”

Oh, if looks could kill. Yikes.

“Now, now, Emily, it’s important you play nice with the other kids.”

The official-looking folder in her hands whacks at my chest. Her brown eyes looking up through those glasses already have me amped-up and ready to go.

“Mr. Henley. If y—”

“Don’t you think we are on more of a first-name basis, Emily? Or do you return to proper ways after your delicious pussy has been snacked on?

“I didn’t finish school. I don’t know what the proper English is for the title of the person who made you take an impromptu vacation just so we could fuck—”

Her hands cover my mouth.

The bell rings at every corner of the quad, and doors erupt with high schoolers. The end of another day in paradise, I’m sure.

Kissing her hands, I shoot her a wink before I let her go on her way. I'll be coming back for more after I get Blondie squared up. Off to debate practice it is.

So much fun.