Page 99 of Tormented

“Give me a break,” Cash whines. “Not as though you never fucked up, buddy. Remember that time in Chicago?”

Sawyer ignores him, turning back toward the bodies and starting to whistle.

I tune in to the slow notes, ignoring Cash’s pathetic pleas, as Sawyer wanders the room checking out the carnage. I know the song, it irks at the back of my mind. What the hell is it?

He picks up one of the arms, pale and adorned with a small butterfly tattoo at the wrist. The thing’s rigid as a baseball bat, which is exactly how Sawyer holds it as he turns back to Cash.

“How old were these ones?”

“I . . . I don’t know for sure.”

Sawyer chuckles. “Course you don’t. Bet you didn’t know their names, either.”

“They’re merch, man.” Cash’s bloodshot eyes flick my way. “You know her name?”

Sawyer blinks slowly, lifting the arm over his shoulder with both hands on the wrist as though he’s preparing to hit a home run. “You don’t get to hear her name,” he growls, low and resonant. “It doesn’t belong in here with this hell.” He arcs the arm back and swings it at Cash, hitting him in the side of the head and across the hands as the fool tries to defend himself. “Why did you cut them up?”

Cash takes a moment to retch, hands to his knees as he doubles over and heaves his stomach in and out. There’s gore on his cheek, in his hair, and worst of all, covering the stair close to my feet.

I should be doing the same thing, throwing up or passing out in shock, but I’m not. Instead, I can’t take my eyes off Sawyer as I wait to see what he does next. He’s circling his neck again, eyes closed, lips moving every so often.

He’s in conversation with his dark side.

It’s sexy as hell.

And I’m fucking certifiable for thinking so.

“I haven’t got all night to wait around, Cash,” Sawyer warns.

The guy straightens up, pale and lucid. “I looked up different ways to get rid of the bodies without burying them. I didn’t want any trace.” He sucks in a deep breath. “The sites said the acid worked faster with more surfaces to eat at. It suggested chopping the bodies up.” He makes a god-awful gagging noise and averts his gaze from his handiwork.

“Logical,” Sawyer muses. “Why did you stop?” He drops the arm in his grasp and picks up a leg instead.

“I can’t do it. Every time I’m down here I can hear their crying, them pleading. I can’t take it, man.”

Sawyer snorts a bitter laugh, and then spins at the same time as raising the leg over his head. He rains what remains of the knee down on Cash’s shoulders as the guy hunches into a ball in the corner.

“Stop it, man! Cut it out!”

Sawyer backs up, tossing the leg in his grasp so it now hangs like it would have on the woman’s body. “Did she kick you like this?” He flicks the foot into Cash’s knee. “Or did she plead and try to push you away like this?” He positions the foot against Cash’s shin and presses.

Our host cries out and tries to back away. But he can’t; he’s penned in. So he does the only thing a desperate fool would—he tries to run for the door.

I reel back as the guy’s leg hits me in the shoulder and knocks me off-balance. On instinct, I shoot a hand out and try to grab his ankle, but his jeans slip from my grip.

“Fucker,” Sawyer growls as he strides past me, taking two steps at a time to chase Cash down.

There’s a scuffle at the top of the stairs as I find my feet, Cash swinging wildly to get Sawyer off him. He succeeds in glancing a left hook off Sawyer’s jaw, and slips from his grasp.

I dash up the stairs and follow them out into the living area, making it through the door just in time to see Sawyer tackle Cash to the ground mere feet from the entrance. Cash cries out, a desperate, high-pitched wail that shows he knows this is it—no getting lucky a second time.

I creep closer, using the sofa as a blockade between myself and the madness as Sawyer straddles him, sitting atop the guy with his thighs either side of Cash’s shoulders. Our host thrashes and bucks against the hardwood floor, trying in utter desperation to escape. He throws everything he has into it, probably well aware it’s his last shot at life.

All he succeeds in doing is making Sawyer appear as though he’s riding one of those bucking bull machines. I can’t help it; I smirk at the sight.

“Babe,” Sawyer calls out, turning his head to locate me. “Catch.”

He reaches behind him and takes a gun I had no idea he carried from his waistband, tossing it my way. I fumble, wrapping my fingers around the thing as it strikes the floor.