Adrenaline Rush (Death Chasers MC 4)

My eyes hover on a cat basket full of yarn.

“Yeah. Sure. Follow the fucking femme fatale psychopath to the basement willingly. Why not?” I say under my breath as I shake my head and move through the small house to the door that’s open.

There’s barely any light creaking out at the bottom of the stairs, as Sarah’s giggle travels up like a creepy horror movie.

“Come on, Rush. I don’t have all day, and I feel stabby.”

“I question my life choices on days like this,” I mutter under my breath as I head down the stairs.

It’s like an old-school interrogation room fully equipped with the dim bulb dangling from a cord just above a man.

There’s a table in front of him, and his hands are strapped down by homemade clamps that bind at the wrists. His body is strapped to the chair, and there’s a gag in his mouth. The room is so dark that the beam of light only surrounds him and sheds very little glow into the rest of the room.

“It’s easier to interrogate people when they can answer the questions,” I point out as the guy sits stoically, eyes flat and dead like he has no reason to worry. “Also, maybe you should just tell him who you are, because he doesn’t seem to know.”

He gives me a bland, careless look, before moving his eyes back to the vacant spot in front of him. He’s not sweating this at all.

“Sarah, how important is this guy?” I ask warily, wondering where in the hell she even is. At his calm glance back at me, I add, “I’m not beating some high-level mafia dude to a pulp just for—”

A knife suddenly stabs through his hand, seeming to drop from the air above.

He and I both dart a look at it, since it’s stabbing into the metal table beneath it with the hilt buried all the way against the back of his hand.

He makes a strangled cry of pain, staring with wide eyes like he can’t believe that just happened.

Music starts playing…

The tune of I Feel Pretty plays as the TV beside me cuts on and scares the shit out of me. Little words start bouncing on the screen like someone’s getting ready for karaoke.

But…the words being sung from the rafters do not match up with the lyrics on the screen.

“I feel stabby. Oh so stabby. I feel stabby and bloodthirsty and delight! And I pity any girl who isn’t me tonight!” she sings with perfect pitch as she swings down from the rafters, hanging upside down with her knees holding her up.

We both look up as she grabs the cord holding the light, shuts her eyes, and sings into the lightbulb like it’s a microphone.

“I feel alarming. Oh so alarming. It’s disarming how alarming I feel! And so stabby that I hardly believe I’m real!”

His eyes dart to me with wide panic, but I’m too busy staring in horror.

Fucking. Crazy. Ass. Bitch.

Another knife stabs into his other hand, and I barely see her make the move to do it, even with her eyes closed. He makes another pained, muffled scream, like he’s working hard to hold back.

Meanwhile…the crazy bitch sways and continues singing into the lightbulb.

“See that stabby girl in the mirror there!” she shouts into the bulb…and then turns the light on the mirror that barely casts back a reflective glow.

He swallows thickly.

I take a step back.

“Who can that murderous girl be? Such a crazy look! Such a crazy head! Such a crazy smile! Such a crazy meeeeeee!”

She smiles that wild smile she’s trademarked as her eyes open and land on him. He looks way less calm now.

She stops singing long enough to miss some words as she reaches down to her hip and throws three more knives in quick succession.

I’m not sure where the third one lands, but the two that stab into his knees make him scream like a bitch. I finally spot the third one just a hair’s breadth shy of his crotch, and his eyes widen in more panic as his gaze drops to it.

He shakes in the chair, crying out when the knives stabbing into his hands tear against the flesh.

Sarah lifts the remote, rewinds the song a little, and resumes singing. Her knees straighten, and she turns a flip as she smoothly drops from the rafters, jarring the table hard enough to make him scream again as his hands drip with fresh blood.

“I feel angry and unrepentant. Feel like killing and avenging for joy! For I’m loved by a stabby, psychotic booooooy!”

She flicks his cheek with the knife, and the gag drops as she sings in his face, idly dragging the blade of the knife across his lips as he trembles and sweats in appropriate fear.

This is why I don’t like the mafia. They produce these chicks like it’s a conveyor belt assembly line.