Malum: Part 2 (The Elite King's Club 5)

“Fuck me, Stuprum. You trigger happy or what?”

“I’m trigger happy.”

The light on his chest flips to the word “Shot” that flash over his small screen, and then I help him up and watch as he heads back to the house.

Something smashes against my back and I yelp, spinning around as ten more bullets fly into my chest.

“Alright!” I yell, falling to the ground.

Whoever shot me doesn’t come to check on me, so I stand, rubbing off the dirt and make my way back to the cabin. There’s a fire that’s been started in the pit and I rip the vest off me, tossing it to the ground while snatching the familiar bottle of bourbon from Brantley.

“I hate this game.”

He chuckles. “Same.”

My eyes go to Ace. “Sorry about shooting you.”

He shrugs, just as Bailey comes stumbling down the stairs. “Why is there three on your team here and only one from my team?”

Brantley rolls his eyes. “She accidentally shot her teammate.”

I burst out laughing, swallowing my drink. “These two days are going to be great.”

Once everyone is back, we all pile inside and the subject of bedrooms starts. I’m still angry at Nate, and not ready to talk to him about what he said earlier tonight, but when I find him, it’s his retreating back ascending the stairs, so I guess I don’t have to worry about that.

“She can sleep with me!” Bailey says, winking at me. “I stole a bed as soon as I got here. It’s a double, and has another double in there, but I think Eli took it so it’s fine…”

I smile. “Thanks.”

Yeah, I take that back. These next couple of nights might go slow.

Nate

When I say shit to Tillie, it spills out. There’s no fucking filter that it goes through first to have a second thought on what I say or even how the fuck I say it.

I fall onto the bed. The queen bed that I always take whenever we’re at the cabin. Bishop, Brantley, and I are the only ones who always have a bedroom when we get here. We don’t have to fight over the other four rooms. It’s furnished with a queen bed and a fireplace, no TV. The whole point of being out here is to get away from the world. A fucking TV just replaces your world and gives you a false one. But Hector battled for the one downstairs so that got put in.

I kick the blankets off my body, my eyes drifting out the large windows. I prefer my room to Bishop’s because of these windows. They’re tinted heavily so the morning sun doesn’t assault you as much as if they weren’t. Should I have let her in here? I settle on no. We have too much on the line, including going against our fucking Godfather. Bishop is still not on board and refuses to allow us to conduct a plan to kill Hector. I get it. Not only is Hector his old man, but he’s the fucking Godfather. You can’t kill someone like Hector without triggering the fucking apocalypse. So he has asked for time. Time to build an army against Hector, a case, but the only thing about building an army against Hector is the fact that we have to share our reservations. To our enemies, that’s a fucking weakness.

I rub my hands over my face and then grip onto my cock. I should just sneak into Tillie’s room and fuck her to sleep. But I won’t. Instead, my hand dips under my briefs and I slip my thumb over my wet tip, squeezing roughly and thinking about blood dripping down her thighs.

The sun pounds down on me as Eminem raps through my earbuds. I pick up my pace, running through the forest like someone is fucking chasing me. This is my legacy, legacy… yeah, yeah… Sweat drips down my temples, my shoulders aching from doing the same back and forth swing motion. I pause, and turn around, sprinting back to the cabin. I push myself until my heart is slamming against my chest and my knees wobble from fatigue. I thrust through the clearing and ignore Bailey and Cash who are on one of the logs that surround the bonfire pit. Falling to the ground, I rip the earbuds out of my ears.

Tillie is standing over my head, blocking the sun. “Hungry?”

I look at her pussy. “Starving.”

She rolls her eyes and leaves. I roll onto my side. “Hey!”

She doesn’t stop, because she never fucking does. “Breakfast is ready, Nate.”

I chuckle, ripping my shirt off and tossing it across the grass. I make my way inside, stacking pancakes on my plate with bacon. I love her cooking. I don’t know what it is, but when Tillie cooks, it’s like she creates fucking magic. I push my fork into the cakey fluff and swipe it into the maple.