Page 164 of Vile Bastards
I stare at the item. It’s maybe three inches long with a rounded pink tip on one end, a fairly clean cut on the other. The skin on the thing is wrinkled, and a bit off looking. My initial thought is that it’s a small, dead animal of some kind.
My initial thought is wrong.
“What is it?” Widow asks, creeping closer. He looms over me, casting a shadow across the box and its macabre contents. He leans in, and I turn my head just enough to see him squinting at the thing. “Is that … it’s a hairless mouse.”
It looks like a hairless mouse, doesn’t it?
I take a step back into the house and gesture at Widow with my right hand.
“Lamp,” I command, and he scowls at me, pretending to bite my ear.
“How dare you boss your king around like that,” he growls, but he yanks the lamp’s chain anyway, flooding the small box with golden light. “Why would Bohnes send you a dead mouse? He’s even crazier than I thought.”
“It’s not a mouse.” I’m certain of it now that the light’s on. I can understand why Widow might think that. It’s sort of … shriveled up. At first glance, I wasn’t sure, but I definitely am now.
“If it’s not a mouse then what is it?” he asks, stepping up beside me again. This time, when his face blanches, I can see that he’s realized it, too.
“It’s a dick.” I can’t stop staring at it. It’s just … it’s just lying there, all accusatory-like. “It’s a goddamn fucking dick. Widow.” I glance over at him, but he’s still just staring at the thing like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing with his own eyes. “Bohnes sent me a severed penis.”
The words come out with a certain sense of awe, a clear and undeniable psychosis (I need help from a well-trained team of psychologists), and a just a tiny bit of affection. Not for the hacked-off cock, but for Bohnes.
He’s … wow. First, the fingers of a groper. Second, the head of a goon. Now, a penis?
As if his monster cock wasn’t enough of a gift. My lips twitch in an unwilling smile.
“Whose dick is it?” Widow asks, his voice wary but not completely perturbed. See? We might actually be able to work this thing out. He’s learning to deal with Bohnes’ eccentricities, and Bohnes is learning to stop threatening to kill him every time he sees him. We’re getting there.
“There’s only one candidate.” I look askance at Widow. “Chet Jr.”
Question is … did Bohnes kill him, too?
Alexis’ bedroom door opens upstairs, and I very quickly snap the lid back on the box.
Oh dear. What am I supposed to do with the penis now? Dump it? Give it back to Bohnes to dump? Put it down the garbage disposal? Shit, I don’t know.
There’s only one thing I know for certain: I am head over heels in love with Kellin Bohnes.
Widow
My first thought is: how the fuck am I supposed to compete with a severed dick?
Believe it or not, I’ve seen something like this before in another romance novel. Maybe two. Honestly … could be three or four. It’s considered the ultimate gesture of dark romance to gift a girl her attacker’s genitals. At this point, what more could I give to this woman?
Don’t do this to yourself, Widow. Don’t freak out.
But on the inside, I’m screaming. I’m screaming because Scarlett Force is my future wife, and these other men are competing at Olympic levels for her affection. I crack my knuckles and feel my lips turn down in a sharp frown.
No. No. This isn’t defeat. This is a call for me to do better. To fight harder.
To fight dirtier, more like.
Scarlett’s sister comes down the stairs, and I do my best to keep a neutral expression on my face. Won’t lie, I don’t like the girl. For many reasons, really, but mostly because she treats Scarlett like shit and, kindhearted as she is, Scarlett allows it.
“What’s that?” Alexis demands snootily, surreptitiously sneering at me before gesturing at the box with her chin. She crosses her arms in a haughty, self-serving way, and my skin crawls. Mental illness? Maybe. But really, the girl is just a bitch. “Another gift?”
“Another?” Scarlett asks, glancing back at me. I cock a brow. I didn’t send either of these gifts which makes me wonder if I should’ve come up with something more than my mere presence. Even if I don’t have money, I could write something for her. A poem. A short story. A song. That’d work, right? “Where is it?”
Alexis glares at Scarlett, rolls her eyes, and then throws a miniature temper tantrum as she sweeps over to the coffee table and throws out an angry finger in the direction of a velvet box.
It’s small, suspicious, and immediately gets my hackles up.
