As we start to back up, I swear I see a shadow move, the barest outline of a very tall man glimpsed before melting into the shadows. It’s so reminiscent of the night I saw Trey hiding in the shadows when I set that building on fire that I write it off as nerves.
***
The Retribution Killers. That’s what the media has named us. I guess it’s to be expected since I’ve been writing it on everyone’s forehead, but still. They maybe could have been just a little bit more original. I’ve not been watching the news myself; I lived through it all, I don’t need the media rehashing everything my sisters and I lived through.
It hurts too much.
Trey keeps a steady watch on it on his laptop, respecting my wishes by plugging in headphones.
I can tell that he is starting to worry. He went into a bit of a rage yesterday when it was briefly mentioned that a jacket had been found at the house with semen on it. I had to stop him from flogging himself over his mistake.
That night had been a lot for both of us, and he made my safety his priority, getting me out of there so I wouldn’t be caught. But he blames himself for forgetting it, and for not getting the computers out. I made him take it out on me instead, and today I can barely walk, I’m so sore.
I laugh to myself. I don’t mind it at all. It makes me feel alive when he takes me like that; hard, rough, painful, thrilling, mind-blowing. He’s blasting my walls down more and more each day, and I’ll admit that there’s not much more than rubble left.
Today is Judge Easton’s turn to pay for his sins. I’m dressed and ready to go, just finishing packing our bags up, as we’ll switch hotels again tonight. We’re going to do Doctor Ortega tomorrow, and then we’ll be leaving Arizona for good.
Trey says we should let God guide us to our destination, and I won’t argue with him. I may have stopped believing myself, but he is adamant that God led him to me, and how can I argue with that? It means we don’t have a plan just yet of where we’ll head once I’m done with the doctor, but I trust Trey. He’ll make sure we’re safe.
Trey steps out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind him as he dries himself off. His cock is thick and heavy against his thigh, and my mouth waters. He glances up, catching me looking at him, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in a smile.
He watches me with hooded eyes as I walk towards him, his pupils blowing out when I drop to my knees. He starts to harden and I bring him into my mouth, swirling the tip with my tongue, then sucking him in.
The towel drops to the floor and his hands come to my head, fingers tangling into my hair. “Fuck, Rebecca,” he mutters with a sigh, hips snapping forward, butting the edge of his now fully hard cock against the back of my throat.
I hum around him, swallowing, letting it slip further down my throat.
“Shit!” he shouts, holding my head still as he begins thrusting.
I gurgle around him, drool running out of my mouth and down my chest. He picks up speed, his balls slapping my chin, as I struggle to breathe through my nose. I can’t do anything but let him fuck my mouth, his thrusts growing more savage, more desperate as he nears his release.
Cupping his balls in my hands, I gently knead them, holding onto his thigh with the other to keep steady. He stills, groaning, and lashings of hot cum empty down my throat. He draws back slightly but I stop him, holding tightly to his thighs as I move my head back slowly, hollowing out my cheeks, sucking hard. He jumps, oversensitized, and I release him, slowly, so slowly, letting his length out inch by inch as I make sure it is thoroughly cleaned.
“Sweet Jesus,” he gasps when I finally free him. I shoot him a wicked smile, then rise to my feet.
Pressing a kiss to his lips, I whisper, “Morning,” then walk away, turning to see his eyes on my ass. My shoulders shake with mirth as I plop myself onto the bed, watching him dress.
That’s a sight to behold in and of itself. The muscles rippling across his scarred back as he shimmies into his jeans. The way his arms bunch and curl as he shrugs his shirt on. And of course, the whole time he watches me back, eyes filled with promise to satisfy my own cravings once Mitchell Easton has been well and truly tried, convicted, and executed.
***
Slipping into the 2015 Prius that Trey bought off of Craigslist, I have to admit that I miss the roominess of the Jeep. The one that is now burned to a crisp in an industrial parking lot just outside Phoenix. I won’t deny that it was a bit of a rush seeing it go up in flames, and the explosion afterward was enough to set my pulse racing.
Setting my mind back to the task at hand, we’re only minutes away from the courthouse and my second to last justice killing. With the police hunting the Retribution Killers, the FBI involvement, and the media going crazy, Trey explained that it would be best to get in and out as quickly as possible, and I agreed.
As much as I would like to make them suffer as they did us, I’m not willing to be caught. I won’t survive being a prisoner for a second time.
Stopping one block away from the courthouse, Trey parks under a tree, and pulls his laptop from the back seat. Flipping it open, he types away, while I wait patiently. In just a couple of minutes he’s in, having disabled the alarm on the emergency exit and running a loop on all the cameras as a precaution.
Once Trey has finished, we jump out, going to the trunk. Trey hands me a bag containing our masks, guns, and other essential items. We take our time strolling towards the courthouse, just looking like another couple out for an early morning walk. I keep watch as Trey gets the emergency exit open, then we slip inside, donning our masks and guns. When we’re ready we move quietly down the hall, listening at the judge’s door for a moment before pushing inside.
Trey locks the door behind him, and we step into the room, catching the judge’s shocked face as he freezes behind his desk.
I wasn’t sure what a judge’s chambers looked like, but somehow, I’m not surprised. The ceilings are tall, ten feet or so, and diplomas, awards, and photos with celebrities line one wall. A sofa with two chairs facing it on the left, large windows to the right. An American flag hangs from a pole behind the large wooden desk, and bookshelves line the final wall.
Mitchell is in his early fifties and has been a member of Papa’s little organization for as long as I’ve been there. He was less about physical pain and more into humiliation.
He would dress us up like babies, make us wear diapers. Would shout and call us names, make us lick his feet. The only weapon he ever really used was a taser, the kind police use.
