Raw Bloody Power

Chapter 9

9

WANNA PLAY PSYCHO KILLER?

Rio

October 2009

Jonathan has been my best friend since we were six. He’s like a brother to me. Not that I need another—got those fuckers coming out of my ears—but he’s one of them. He’s also notorious for throwing ragers whenever his parents go out of town, which is usually every two or three months. What can I say? Harrison and Natalie Reed enjoy the finer things in life—sans their children. I don’t know how he’s managed to keep the parties under wraps for so long, but they’ve yet to find out. That or they just don’t give a shit since the house is in its usual pristine condition by the time they walk through the front door.

I would know. I’ve been on clean up duty after each one. This is gonna take us hours, though, and we’re gonna need help.

And by this , I mean the last-minute House of Horrors Jon decided to put together when his parents left earlier in the week. The inside of the house is one big maze of neons, strobes, and scare traps that lead to the backyard where the actual party is going down.

You wanna party?

Gotta get through the house first.

Jonathan’s younger brother, Kris, mans the front door and lets small groups in at a time, rocking the Leatherface mask. The initial path, lined with small animatronics and petty booby traps, leads them to Jon in the neon-illuminated dining room and kitchen, waiting to pop out at the perfect time with Michael Myers mask in place and a whole ass chainsaw.

With him on their tail, they hit the first set of stairs to the second floor, almost completely shrouded in darkness, where our buddy, Theo, descends from the fog-filled shadows as Jason. The clink of the machete sends them barreling down two hallways, skipping past blowers that simulate hands reaching for their ankles and globs of fake spider webs, to the second set of stairs at the back of the house where they slam headfirst into me.

Ghostface.

I ditched the robe (‘cause fuck that) and went for a black hoodie instead, armed with the biggest knife in Jon’s kitchen. In the disorienting, flashing depths of the strobed living room, they have to dodge their way past me and book it through a labyrinth of tall, reinforced plywood walls to the patio doors. And then they’re free. Well, most of them anyway.

Ivory Belucci won’t be so lucky .

The second Jonathan told me Shannel Hart was coming, I didn’t have to question whether or not that included Ivory, too. They’ve been attached at the hip for years, like a two-for-one package. Where Shannel goes, Ivory goes, and vice-versa.

I made it known she was mine the second she got here.

Kris

She’s here.

The message I’ve been waiting for pops up in the group chat. I grin beneath my mask.

Me

Just her and Shannel?

Kris

Nah. They’re in a group. There’s four of them.

Jonathan

Let them in. I’ll push the other three upstairs while Rio grabs Belucci.

Theo

I’m ready, too. What happens when they get to the back stairs tho?

Me

Just follow em through to the end.

Kris, don’t let anyone else in until T gives you the all clear.

Kris

Understood .

Show time.

Tightening my grip on the knife, I leave my post and head for the kitchen. The UV lights cast a bluish purple glow through the space, the white grout of the tiles brighter than usual. Jonathan tips his head at me from his place in the shadows as I slink up to the archway and press myself to the wall. Once he separates them, I’ll reveal myself to the little flower.

Screams ricochet off the walls, melding with the built-in sounds of the animatronics and the adrenaline-fueled breaths blasting through my mask. Shannel’s the first one to breach the space, her ass nearly on full display from the short plaid schoolgirl skirt of her costume. Judging by the white shirt tied up beneath her small tits and the pigtails on her blonde head, I’m gonna go ahead and say this is her rendition of Britney Spears.

Two other girls I’ve seen floating around the halls at school barrel in right behind her. One is clearly Christina Aguilera in her ‘Dirty’ phase and the other one is unmistakably Avril Lavigne when she came out with ‘Complicated’.

A blink later, Ivory appears, holding onto “Avril” in this glittery maroon outfit that shows off her midriff and and adheres to her newly defined, slim curves. Her dark hair cascades down her bare back. She’s Selena; there’s no doubt about it, completing their nineties/early two-thousands singer theme.

I try not to notice the way her ass jiggles beneath the skin-tight fabric, but the sparkles are like fucking hot glue for my eyeballs. I’m so entranced, I don’t realize how far the group has moved until Jon’s chainsaw and their terrified screams break through the fog.

I snap my head up in time to catch him urge Ivory back several steps, giving me all of five seconds to move into her line of sight before he chases the other three out. The moment I slide up in front of her, those luminous golds widen and she takes another three paces back, probably to bolt for the front door.

She couldn’t if she tried.

Kris is there, blocking the way out. He’s not as big as the rest of us, still growing into his sophomore frame, but it does the job. She backs right into him and spins around, yelping in the process as he lunges for her. This time, she flies flush into my front, right into my trap.

With a quick hand, I wrap her hair in my fist and bring the blade to her throat, ducking my shielded face down to her ear. “Wanna play psycho killer?”

Ivory whimpers in my hold and shakes her head to the best of her ability, gaze boring into the black eyes of my mask.

“Then run,” I growl tauntingly, releasing her despite the fact I’m very much enjoying having her pressed up this close.

Fuck if I know why.

Yeah, she’s older now and all types of beautiful, the baby face from elementary school gone, but still…she’s a freshman, and I’m a senior. I shouldn’t be looking at her like my next meal.

A meal who has no desire to be eaten, not by me anyway, because she bolts, taking off in the same direction Jon chased her friends just minutes ago. I give her a five second head start, thanking Kris with a two-finger salute before he returns to his post where a line of partygoers awaits him. The chainsaw comes to life and, as if on cue, she screams, drawing a chuckle from deep in my throat as I spin on my heel and head for my prey.

Jonathan and I fist bump at the bottom of the staircase, and like the dick he is, revs the chainsaw again. Flicking her eyes over her shoulder, Ivory bellows when she realizes I’m right behind her and careens around the corner of the landing in an attempt to put as much distance between us as possible.

She doesn’t get far.

The thrill of the chase has me in a chokehold, my pulse roaring in my ears, steps thundering louder and louder as I close in on her. An arm curls around her waist, coaxing another horrified scream free as I haul her in through the next available door. Once my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, strips of moonlight pouring in through the windows, I realize it’s the office.

Not a single word comes out of her mouth, only meek whines and unintelligible pleas as she backs herself into the desk. The scent of her fear does it for me, serving a greater high than any drug on the Guerra table. Carrying me forward in anticipation. I wish I could tell you why I enjoy fucking with her so much. I know a small part of it is the contention between our families. How could it not when it’s been ingrained in my psyche to hate her and everything she stands for?

But the rest?

I don’t have a clue.

It’s like this demented, compulsive need to seek her out and reduce her to a puddle beneath the intensity of my stare.

My words.

The not-so-gentle feel of my touch.

Caging her in, I press myself against her, eager to feel the way she trembles beneath me each and every time. The knife comes out to play again, hitching her breath as I drag the tip along her windpipe. I can almost hear the wild tempo of her pulse.

“I know it’s you…” Words, finally. They’re only a notch above a whisper, but I hear them loud and clear. “What could you possibly want from me? We’re not even at school.”

You. I want you.

The thought instantly paralyzes me, so much that I nearly drop the blade as I suck in a lungful of air. Shock, confusion, disgust, rage; a kaleidoscope of emotions trample through me in a dizzying domino effect.

What was that?

What. The fuck. Was that?

“…let me go, please. I won’t even stay. I’ll tell my friends we need to leave. Please, Rio.” The way she shifts beneath me, innocently rubbing against my dick sucks me out of my head mid-plea.

Because that’s exactly what Ivory Belucci is—innocent.

And for one reason or another, I’d love nothing more than a chance to taint every inch of that innocence and shatter her perfect halo into tiny, little pieces.

Fuck. Stop it.

Stop it right now .

Removing the mask through a blinding mix of perplexed and aggravated, something I brought on myself, I bring the knife to her throat anew and drop my face to her level. “Now why would I do that when hearing you scream for me is so much more fun?” I grit through my teeth.

“Please,” she whispers feebly. “Please just let me go.”

“Louder, Ivory.” Her thighs spread automatically as I lean my entire body into her, forcing her onto the desk. “Let me hear you.”

“Please…p-please let me go,” she repeats, but it’s still not what I want.

Not remotely.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” I coo, purposely flicking the tip of the blade against the curve of her neck, reveling in the crimson droplet that appears beneath the moonlight. “Scream. For. Me.”

That’s the last thing she does, though. To say she takes me by surprise is only putting it lightly, leaving me not a second to dodge or defend myself against the unexpected attack.

Her fist.

My nose.

A remarkable amount of force behind it.

The knife clatters to the hardwood floor, and I roar around the pain now radiating through my face. A storm of white specks obstruct my vision, preventing me from seeing a damn thing, much less anticipate the next swift blow.

Her foot ramming into my balls.

All the air whooshes out of my lungs as I fold over in complete and utter anguish, incapacitated to my very core. A wet stream pours down my lips, undoubtedly bright red, while my dick howls in my pants. I feel her whiz past me in a flurry of motion, ripping open the door to the darkened hallway and bolting out.

No.

“Theo!” I holler as deafeningly as I can manage above the noise level. “Stop her, man!”

That’ll teach me to stay in my fucking lane and remember who the fuck she is.

A Belucci.

Forbidden or not, that fruit isn’t worth betraying my namesake for.

The moment her screams fill the air, I know he’s got her. I right myself as best I can with my balls still on fire and hurtle like a bat out of hell from the room to find them. I’m still huddled over, an arm clutched around my mid-section when we run head-first into one another. He doesn’t question shit, and I don’t offer even a ‘thank you,’ rallying every ounce of strength I can muster and hauling her over my shoulder. Without a fuck to spare, I storm into Jonathan’s bathroom and slap the lights on, trampling the door shut with a determined, impatient foot.

This is where that Guerra fire comes in; vengeful and impulsive, aggressive and unrelenting. It’s not something that can be taught, we’re simply born with it, encouraged to nurture it, feed it, refine it. And I have, trust me, I have. I’ve got this shit down to a science, an eloquently crafted masterpiece that can rival Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata .

Tossing her into the walk-in shower, I set her beneath the shower head and let it rip. Another scream resounds off the tiled walls, just like I wanted, louder still when I thread a hand in her hair and force her head backwards beneath the ice-cold spray. The sound of the water pelting her face fuels me almost as much as the sight of her body flailing as she sputters to breathe.

“You little bitch!” I bark, bringing her up for two seconds of air while reaching for one of the wash cloths hung on the white tiles. “You’re gonna regret your decision to do that.”

Mascara runs down her cheeks, eyes wide when she spots the small square in my hand. “Rio, no!” she shrieks, but I’m too far gone.

Nothing around me exists in this place, in this headspace, drowned out by the need to raise hell and seek my revenge. My heart stampedes in my chest, thrashing against my rib cage in a frenzy as adrenaline pumps hot through every ounce of my being. I’m fully aware the metallic zing of blood on my tongue is that of my own, but my brain is fully convinced it’s hers.

And it wants more.

The cloth.

Her face.

I yank her back into the spray, over and over again, finding solace in the gasps, sputtering, and spitting that emit from her person.

And the only reason I eventually stop is because of that stupid rule.

A rule that one day won’t exist when I take my place on the throne.