Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) Read online

  “I’m going to make you scream,” she growled under her breath before she forced herself to walk away. She had spent too long there, and she knew it. If she stayed much longer there was a risk that he’d notice the blonde staring at him from across the road, a chance that he’d recognize her – and she needed to surprise him.

  She wanted him to have no idea what was coming until it was too late.

  The walk back towards the hotel was long, but the rage inside kept her warm even as the snow started falling again. When Smith had left that morning she had known exactly where she was going to go, and it seemed that Joe hadn’t changed his routine much. Still living in his shitty little apartment, still walking the same set of blocks to the same shitty repair shop, still wandering away from his coworkers to eat alone in one of the abandoned buildings at lunch.

  A monster in a blue collar. Hiding in plain sight.

  Standing outside her temporary home she looked up at the floors of the hotel and felt like ants were climbing over her skin. Cooping herself up in the hotel room was only going to drive her crazy, so instead she turned and flagged down a cab.

  A few hours at the shooting range would blunt the edge of rage inside her. It was just what she needed.

  Her arms were buzzing by the time she packed up the gun and grabbed dinner. She’d fired so many rounds that she’d lost track, but one thing was for sure – she wasn’t the terrible shot she’d been when Smith had first brought her there. Now the gun was a deadly weapon in her hand, lethal with her skill.

  It was in the cab on the way back to the hotel that the nausea started to creep in. She’d spent too many hours focusing on Joe Wilson’s face, pulling the trigger over and over as she pictured him, and now it was like she’d cracked open a door. All the memories were skittering inside her mind like wicked demon spiders, wedging themselves in her conscious, tormenting and whispering to her.

  ‘I’m going to make you scream for me…’ his voice hissed inside her head and she felt her stomach turn over. Rubbing at her face she smelled the gunpowder on her skin and took deep breaths of it.

  Fuck this.

  She had a gun. She had everything she needed to kill him, and if she found the right moment she’d do it tomorrow. She needed to get her fucking head under control. She wasn’t weak.

  “Here, stop here.” Camille tapped the plastic partition and the driver barely glanced at her as he slid it aside and accepted the cash. In a matter of minutes she was back in their hotel room, and she flipped the TV on so that the noise would drown out the thoughts in her head. Drown out the memories.

  It worked, mostly, and as night crept on she knew she had to sleep. Had to be fresh in the morning, able to think, able to fight if she had to. Able to kill.

  With a deep breath she pulled back the sheets on her bed, and then turned to see Smith’s. Clumsily made by his own hand since they kept the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door at all times. Chewing on her bottom lip she crawled into his bed instead, the heady scent of his skin finding her nose in an instant.

  “You’re fucking pathetic,” she growled at herself as she buried her face in his pillow. They’d been close too many times in sparring sessions, she knew exactly what he smelled like. Knew what his skin felt like against hers, just not in the ways she wished. Not in the ways that would erase the memories still crackling on the edge of her subconscious.

  It was always worse when Smith was gone, as if his strength was recognized even when she was asleep. Making her mind keep the monsters at bay. With him gone, and only his pillow to keep her company, she closed her eyes and practiced breathing.

  Sleep. Don’t dream. Don’t think about it.

  Don’t think about it.

  Don’t even think -

  * * *

  It was dark behind her eyes, and the darkness got smaller and smaller until her shoulders were pressed against boxes. Old, stale clothes brushed her face and shoulders, and then panic took hold inside her.

  There was rustling on the other side of the door that formed in the darkness, narrow strips of light framing the edges, and she scrambled for the doorknob, scratching at the wood. There were tears on her cheeks. Hot and wet. Her voice came out weak as she begged, “Please, please don’t!”

  The hard thump of furniture being moved against the door made her cry harder, her hand twisting the knob, uselessly throwing her full weight at the door as if it mattered. Then that voice, Steve’s voice, was on the other side and she threw herself away from it like it might burn her. “You fucking know better, Camille. If you’re nice to us, we’re nice to you. You think about whether or not you want to behave.”

  “NO!” She screamed, and the panic was making her chest tighter. There wasn’t enough air. The closet was too hot, too stifling, too full of junk, and the small square of floor space she’d been dumped on was already cramping her limbs. But she didn’t want them to touch her again. She had bit one of them, some piece of flesh, an arm, or a hand. They had hit her, and now she was in the closet again.

  They wouldn’t feed her in the closet.

  Steve forgot to feed them even on a good day.

  She closed her eyes and rocked, the darkness eating at the walls, devouring the cardboard at her back, eating at the tiny shreds of light like little monsters, determined to leave her alone with the demons. The last shred of light was like a lighthouse beacon, high at the farthest corner of the door, and she wanted to reach for it, to feel the light on her fingertips – but it disappeared.

  Suffocating, empty black.

  She wanted to cry out, to scream for help, but every part of her knew it was futile. Knew that the darkness would only last longer the more she screamed. She had to behave if she wanted out. She had to be good. Quiet. She had to play nice.

  It seemed to have a texture, the darkness. Something foreign, and yet familiar, but above all it felt wrong, threatening. Camille started counting in her head, to different rhythms and meters, closing her eyes against the empty space as if it would make it better.

  Then there were hands. Petting her. Stroking her from the black. They pressed at her thighs, between them, groping and pinching, invisible lips and tongues and teeth on her skin. She tried to brush them away, to escape their touch, but nothing worked.

  Weak. Powerless. Vulnerable.

  ‘Slut,’ the voices whispered against her cheek, ‘You like it. You want it. Just take it.’

  “NO!” Her scream shook the darkness. “NO! NO MORE! I WON’T LET YOU!”

  The words made the shadows tremble, but the hands kept scratching and clawing at her skin, trying to tear her open so they could get inside. So they could own her. Inside and out.

  “I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” With her roar the closet shattered, there were no more hands – and there was light. She was surrounded by it. Yellow, and dirty, and flickering, but it was light. Her eyes opened on it, and she blinked.

  So much red. Too much.

  It was everywhere.

  Shit. She had tracked it through the house.

  Twice.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

  Why the fuck was there so much blood? Should there be this much blood? Had she cut herself?

  Camille was naked. She was almost always naked. She scrubbed at her arms, her stomach, her thighs, but it just kept spreading. It was under her nails, in the grooves of her palms, and she clenched her teeth as she scrubbed harder.

  She’d really done it.

  Slamming the water off she tried to stop shaking, dripping pink droplets into the tub. Grabbing the already ruined towel she managed to wipe most of it away, and she almost tripped as she climbed out of the bathtub, bracing her hands on the sink.

  Her blue eyes were bloodshot, her white blonde hair lank and damp against her cheeks.

  Was she crying, or was that the water from the shower?

  The knife. It was in the sink, still slick with blood. The sides of the bowl were streaked with it too, and she stifled the urge to start screaming as
she flipped the water on to rinse it.

  Had she screamed earlier? Had someone heard her? Had they made noise?

  Shaking her head she pounded her fist against her temple. “Get it together, Camille. Get it the fuck together.” Reaching for the knife she hissed and yanked her hand back. “SHIT!” The water was boiling hot, and she growled as she flipped the faucet the other direction before she snagged the washcloth and wiped the knife clean, and then the sink.

  Water won’t work. Water doesn’t do this.

  Turning on her heel she stormed through the house, ignoring the petite bloody footprints that criss-crossed the already filthy carpet. The kitchen was a wreck, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the smell of rotting food wafted out of the fridge even with it closed. Swallowing the bile in her throat she tore open the cabinet under the sink and almost laughed when she saw the bottle of bleach next to the half-empty bottle of dish soap.

  “Looks like it’s my day, asshole.” Camille ripped it from underneath and poured bleach onto the rag as she traced the path she’d taken. Cleaning her bloody fingerprints from the walls, the doorknobs, the railing at the bottom of the stairs. Then she was back in the bathroom, pouring it into the sink and splashing it across the tub and the tiled walls.

  Her reflection caught her again and she wanted to slam her fist into the mirror.

  “I’m not you! I’m never going to be you again, you hear me?” She was shouting at the girl in the mirror. The weak, pathetic girl that had existed before tonight. That had been locked in the closet. That had been held down, and used, over and over and over.

  Never again. Never.

  Camille dropped the bottle of bleach into the tub. There was too much blood across the house. Too much to wipe away, and even then they’d find her DNA everywhere. Not to mention the fucking bodies. She couldn’t move Steve, or Mama Carrie. Fucking pointless.

  Clothes. Shoes a size too big. The knife. Cash from the coffee can in the back of the pantry. A coat that reeked of pot smoke and cigarettes.

  Dressed, she finally went and got the key and unlocked the room. Two terrified shapes huddled on narrow beds, whimpering, shaking. She had been like them an hour or two before. She had been them, or maybe she had never been like them, but now she knew she wasn’t. She would never be again.

  It took a minute more to unlock the cuff at each of their wrists, and then she pulled away from them. Not wanting to touch them, not wanting to feel their fear, afraid her own might return.

  “Run.”

  They didn’t speak as they stumbled past her, grabbing clothes left in the closet. The closet they all knew too well, and then they were gone. No questions. No words.

  What words were there for this level of fucked up?

  Then she was standing at the front door, looking at a crime scene, or what would be a crime scene in a day or so. They’d come back. They always came back. Joe. Clinton. Barry. Roger. They would find them, and then they’d know. They would know she had done it – the other two never fought back.

  Joe would be first.

  Joe was the worst.

  Joe Wilson.

  His face flashed in front of her, flickering like a poltergeist, charging from the shadows in the corners, and she stumbled back as the floor gave way like quicksand. Inches from the front door and she couldn’t reach it. She was going to escape, she could see the moonlight on the dirty walkway, the ragged, weed-covered lawn. Camille tried to scream but her voice was gone, and she clawed at the doorframe, trying to drag herself out. Out onto the cold concrete. Outside this hell.

  “No, no, no, no. I’m out. I made it. NO!”

  “Yes…” a low voice hissed just behind her ear. She felt that rough palm over her mouth, and then she screamed as it pulled her down.

  * * *

  Camille sat up with a jerk, dim early morning light cascading through the gap in the curtains. In the hotel room. She was in Smith’s hotel room. In Smith’s bed.

  She was out.

  She’d made it out.

  Her heart was racing in her chest, and her stomach heaved. She barely made it to the trash can next to the dresser, the carpet burning her knees as she threw up again and again. Sweat coated her skin, clammy with it, and she crawled across the floor until she found her gun on the nightstand. Hugging it to her chest as she took deep breaths. Breathe. Center. The memory of Smith’s voice was soothing as she moved air in through the nose, and out through the mouth. Slow and steady.

  That had been the worst nightmare in months. Fucking hell.

  Camille smacked the center of her forehead with her free hand, leaning back against the side of the bed as if the hard press of it could ground her in the reality where that particular nightmare was over, had been over for almost a year.

  This was all because she’d stalked him down.

  All because she’d done the right thing.

  Watched him. Monitored his habits. Identified four separate places she could take him out without raising an eyebrow.

  Now he was in her head again, back to the crippling nightmares that had always sent her clamoring for fresh air. Confirmation that she wasn’t still trapped, still the plaything of a bunch of monsters. She clenched her free hand tight, digging her sharp nails into her palm until she threatened to break the skin.

  “Steve is already dead, you fucking know he’s dead, and today is the day Joe Wilson dies.” Camille swallowed and nodded to herself, flipping the safety of the gun on and off with practiced ease. “Today is the day Joe Wilson dies. Then there will be three. Three bastards until the nightmares stop. Three more until you’re fine.”

  Chapter Five

  Her stomach was still a knotted, empty mess as she followed him from half a block back, her gun tucked against her palm in the pocket of her hoodie. Finger off the trigger, just like Smith had taught her.

  It will be today.

  Camille breathed slow clouds in front of her, feeling the cold wind chap her cheeks into a reddened blush as she watched the baseball cap bob through the scattered people in front of her. Joe Wilson was walking with the kind of casual, head down stroll of a man with no enemies. If it were possible for her to hate him more, she did then. While she had been starving on the streets, doing all the fucked up things they had viciously taught her just so she could stay alive, he had been indoors. Eating enough to keep his body soft. Sleeping in safety while she had crowded into an abandoned building with a bunch of addicts just so she’d have a bit of warning if someone approached.

  This goddamn motherfucker.

  He seemed almost cheerful this morning, tilting his body to let others pass instead of checking them with his shoulder. Had he found another girl? Did they have a new little place that he visited on random nights? Was that what made him so fucking polite in the morning light?

  A sharp turn to his right had her slowing her gait, and then she saw him step into a corner store. Camille stopped on the other side of a stoop a few doors down, keeping her eyes casually moving over the pedestrians, the crowded street in front of her where the cars inched by in the morning rush. Her white blonde hair was tucked into a soft hat, hiding it from sight under the hood, and she tried to keep her head down as he exited and she renewed her hunt.

  Stop for a cigarette, asshole. You know you want one.

  Joe had always reeked of cigarettes on top of her. His breath heavy with it against her cheek. A shudder rushed through her as she followed him, her grip on the gun tightening almost painfully. It took a conscious effort to ease back, to swallow the bile in her throat at the memories, and focus on her target.

  He’s a target. Just a target.

  Half a block shy of the rundown mechanic he worked for, he stepped into an alley to light up – right on time for his routine. Coiling her finger around the trigger she let the steady flow of people carry her forward, head down, her steps moving her one by one closer to the man from her nightmares. When he was within sight she flipped the safety off, easing towards the right of the sidewalk s
o she could aim without hitting someone else.

  ‘If you have to fire in a public place, do it discreetly, and then react with the group. Don’t respond until someone else does, then mimic them. Move with the crowd. Fade into it, and leave.’ Smith’s words were as much a part of her as the memory of Joe’s voice against her ear.

  Clenching her teeth she raised her gaze and saw him, eyes angled down towards the ground where he was dragging his shoe through muddied snow, and then he raised them. Brown ones, like the color of the filthy runoff in the middle of the alley, brushed across her skin. Her knees almost buckled and her grip on the gun in her pocket went slack, with a shift she managed to move herself to the other side of a woman carrying a sack of groceries in her arms. Pulse racing, lungs tightening, Camille walked past the alley. Past Joe Wilson. Past the mechanic shop, and on and on and on.

  Her hands were shaking too much to touch the gun and so she let it hang, heavy as her shame, in the pocket at the front of her hoodie.

  Eventually she stumbled towards a small park, dropping onto a bench where the damp wood soaked up into the seat of her jeans. The tears came then, like a storm held back by spun sugar, wracking her with sobs that she silenced by biting down on her knuckles.

  Weak. So fucking weak.

  Useless, weak, piece of shit!

  There was no end to the names she called herself as she rocked on that bench, screaming inside her head over the wasted moment. The wasted opportunity to end him.

  She’d had the chance, and she’d failed.

  Failed.

  When she finally forced herself to stand, wiping her nose, she could feel the cold biting through the wet jeans, and it all felt like the right level of miserable for someone as pathetic as her. The walk back to the hotel was freezing, and long enough that it gave her ass a new appreciation for warm, dry clothes, but it also let her think over what had happened. Slowly. Picking it apart like someone from a distance.