Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2) (29 page)

Jake's hands clamped around her throat,
cutting off her airway along with the rest of her sentence.
Nichole's eyes got even bigger as she realized she'd pushed too far
and grabbed his wrists to pull them away. She couldn't.

“
You're not going to touch her,”
he
growled, eyes wild. At that moment, he couldn't have said if it was
the woman's plan to have her sick way with Laurel, or the threat of
Poole's men mob-raping Kat that sent him over the edge. The only
thing he knew was he couldn't let this madwoman near anyone else he
cared for, and he was willing to damn himself to prevent her from
achieving either scenario.

The ex-stripper's face began to redden as
Jake clamped down on her throat and she started to panic. Try as
she might, Nichole couldn't budge his hands. She kept fighting to
draw a breath as he realized what he was doing. He began to let her
go and his back-brain screamed at him.

You let this crazy bitch live and you
might as well tie steaks about both of the girl's necks and throw
'em in a shark tank!
It bellowed through the vaults of his
mind.
Do you have any idea what these bastards will do to
them?!? The phrase, prison-ho, will take on a whole new
meaning!!

Jake kept squeezing.

Nichole's eyes and mouth were painfully wide,
as she tried to get air into her lungs. Her struggles became weaker
and more desperate, as her body cried out for oxygen that just
wasn't coming. She clawed at his arms and tried to pull his hands
away from her throat, but her strength was fading along with her
supply of O2.

Time slowed down, and Jake flashed back to
the night they'd met at The Blarney Stone Pub.

He and Allen had arrived an hour earlier,
after roving the Brewery District during the St. Patrick's Day pub
crawl. Jake wore his family kilt (the Clan Cian tartan), sporran,
combat boots with a
sgian dubh
in the top of his right sock,
and one of his CBGB tees. Allen, on the other hand, was sporting
lime-green Chuck Taylor's, a pair of cargo shorts, an oversized,
floppy, green, Dr. Seuss hat with a light-up, emerald bow-tie, and
a shirt posing the question
Want to hold my shillelagh?

They'd just gulped down a pair of Irish
car-bombs and were working on their pints of Guinness, when Valerie
bounced in. She had been Allen's flavor of the month at that point.
Val worked at Silk Stockings as a stripper (sorry...
exotic
dancer
). They'd met when she'd brought her Lexus into Ryker's
Auto Body for an oil change. Needless to say, Allen had turned on
his charm (after he'd pulled Val's car back outside) she'd been
helpless against his powers, and the car wasn't the only thing that
got its dip-stick checked that day. She'd also brought her
very-bestest, super-hot, girlfriend along, who'd given her a lift
because she'd lost her car keys. For the eighth time and who was
available and would be perfect for Jake.

Two minutes later, Nichole had turned quite a
few heads when she strutted in. The little black dress, Volatile
knee-high combat boots, shock of long blonde hair, the body
displaying all the right curves, and a
I dare you to try
expression, drew a chorus of wolf-whistles as she bee-lined for the
boys sitting with her friend. She'd been funny and engaging and
seemed generally interesting as they'd all enjoyed the evening,
quaffing drinks until Cinderella’s pumpkin time. Jake had been in a
funk for a few months prior to their introduction, so he wasn't at
his best when she turned on the heat. She even managed to coax him
out onto the small dance floor for a couple of songs, despite his
rhythmic ineptitude. Yellowcard's “Back Home” wasn't that difficult
to dance to, so he hadn't embarrassed himself
too
badly.
Besides, she'd more than made up for his lack of ability with moves
perfected by eleven months of parting lonely suckers from their
hard-earned cash.

Valerie and his slim friend had stayed for
the after party, when Nichole asked him to take her home. O'Connor
had settled his bar bill and flagged down a cab, asking where she
needed him to drop her off. She'd laughed, stepping to him with a
smile and said,
You can take me to Cup-o-Beans Coffee House. In
the morning.

That had pretty much settled that.

The cab ride to his apartment had been
interesting. The trip up in the elevator even more so. By the time
they reached his door, she'd been undoing his belt, as he pulled
her against him, a hand gripping one of her well-rounded,
you-could-bounce-a-quarter-off-that, firm buttocks. Kicking the
door closed, he'd pushed the LBD (little black dress) up around her
hips, stripped off the BLPs (black lace panties) and jammed her
against the wall of his entryway. Nichole had opened a condom she'd
pulled from her purse swiftly, and had it rolled over him in about
a second once she finally tore his belt away, which should've clued
him in right there. While the things don't take forever to get on,
no one should be able to do it
one handed
.

Jake had ignored the warning signs though, as
their tonsils busily engaged in a Stanley Cup-worthy game of
hockey. She'd twined her arms over his shoulders, wrapped her legs
around his waist and pulled him against her insistently. He in
turn, slid both hands under her flank to support her weight, thrust
into her firmly drawing a ragged cry from her lips, and proceeded
to give Nichole her first (of four) orgasms of the night.

Then he flashed back to the look on her face
when she'd described what she'd done to Karen. He remembered her
look of anticipation over what she had planned for Laurel and her
indigo-haired friend. The expression she'd worn that night in his
apartment, when Jake had refused to have threesomes (even with
other women). The night they'd had their truly monumental break-up.
In the lot at Foster's safe-house, when they'd exiled her along
with Barron to probable death in zombie-filled streets. The mad
glint the blonde had shown him, just minutes prior, as she relished
the thought of subjugating his friend, and his lover, to the worst
experience short of death—or living death—that a woman could go
through.

That was the
real
Nichole.

O'Connor shut his eyes. He had no desire to
watch as he choked her. The thought of doing so sickened him. He
was about to commit hot-blooded murder. Despite all his morals,
despite all the things he'd been taught and believed and fought for
over the course of his life. He was going to do it willingly to
protect Laurel. To keep the Purifiers from ever laying eyes—or
hands—on Kat. He'd blacken his soul a thousand times over to ensure
those things didn't happen. Taking a deep breath, he turned his
face away from the gasping woman and squeezed his fingers tighter
around her throat.

Nichole still fought, but was swiftly losing
the battle. She tried again to pull his hands away from her neck,
but to no avail. Jake's fingers were clamped firmly under her jaw,
cutting off her windpipe. Starving her brain of oxygen. Killing
her.

She couldn't believe the same wishy-washy
journalist she'd hit with a glassful of wine at Brio was the one
doing it. She tried to twist away, attempting to loosen his grip
for a second. If she could just get a little
air.
She was
having no success in drawing even a single, short breath though.
She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and began to have
trouble keeping track of her thoughts. She realized that was a bad
thing but couldn't decide what to do about it. And was the room
actually getting darker?

The blonde woman's struggles lessened as Jake
maintained his strangling grip. Being throttled was
not
pleasant or exciting, and Nichole was learning that first hand. Her
vision continued to darken and her hands grasped ineffectively
against his wrists as she started to lose sensation in her limbs.
She was making small, pathetic noises as Jake moved his knees up
her torso and under her arms, preparing to finish her. From that
angle, he could support all of his weight with his legs, while
making sure the blonde never got the chance to abuse anyone else
the way she had Karen.

Nichole was dying now. She'd become almost
completely unresponsive, except for her mouth still moving
fish-like, while her lungs fought to take a breath. Jake squeezed
harder as her eyes rolled back, until only the whites showed and
her jaw dropped open, displaying her darkening tongue. She
convulsed weakly and he knew he'd have to maintain his grip to
insure she was finished, even after her muscles eventually stopped
their awful spasms. He steeled himself to end it and tried to make
his hands meet around her spine while she shook, teetering on the
edge of death.

That was when the pair of guards, reacting to
the
quiet—
as opposed to the normal screams of either passion
or violation—burst into the room. They began clubbing him with the
butts of their rifles, forcing O'Connor to lose his hold on the
blonde's limp form as they knocked him from the mattress and beat
him into submission. Between blows, he saw Nichole begin to come
back to herself and silently cursed. While the Purifiers did a job
on him, she rolled to her knees off the bed, coughing harshly and
rubbed at her throat. One of the guards kicked him in the chest,
sending Jake flying back to where his head made contact with the
unyielding wall. Then somebody dropped a building on him and
everything went black.

His next moment of consciousness was a far
cry from the quiet darkness he'd briefly enjoyed. Someone was
holding him up, and someone else was slapping his face harshly,
trying to bring him around again.

Oh, good. Somebody came along and dug me
out from under the building,
Jake thought.

He heard a female voice arguing with a deeper
one and tried to open his eyes so he could see what all the yelling
was about. His eyes told him to get bent. They were happy just the
way they were, thank you very much. He tried to force them open.
They retaliated by sending shooting pain through his head, which
caused him to dry heave. His body clenched as his stomach
flip-flopped, sending a cornucopia of pain up through his nerve
receptors from the damage the guards had inflicted. He thought
about vomiting, but reconsidered the idea. He couldn't imagine how
badly
that
would hurt.

A few minutes later, his eyelids relented and
allowed themselves to be opened. The writer took a chance and
raised his head carefully. When it didn't fall off, he figured he
was going to live and took a look around.

Another slap rocked him suddenly. He would've
hit the floor again if it weren't for the two guards holding him up
under his armpits. Jake shook his head and—after it didn't come
off—focused on Tompkins as he helped the still shaken Nichole to
her feet. The skinhead was scowling so hard, it added another inch
to the depth of his brow. As his blonde-haired and (more
importantly)
crazy
companion finished pulling herself
together, Jake could see Tompkins considering the best way to
separate him from his appendages. Maybe with the help of a hatchet.
A dull one.

“Boy,” the shaven-headed man drawled, “I've
tortured men to
death
for looking at me without the right
amount of respect. What do you think I'm going to do to you
for—”

Jake was through playing nicey-nicey with
these pricks. He pointed weakly at his sliced and blood-covered
torso. “See this,
Milo?
I'd like to see you sit still while
some crazy bitch starts carving on your favorite chest. Then tells
you she wants to screw around? Literally? Give me a break.”

Tompkins' gaze flicked to his woman's
form-hugging, blood-smeared shirt. It was sticking to her breasts,
making it look like she'd entered a wet t-shirt night at a
slaughterhouse. Strangely, even though it was quite hot on the top
floor of the main building, it was clear her nipples were still
extremely hard.

The blonde gave a cough, took her hand away
from her bruised throat, and smiled languidly at Jake. “Now
that's
what I call foreplay.”

“Hey,
more
than happy to continue.
Send these guys out, get back on the bed, and we'll try it again,”
he said.

“Promises, promises,” she replied, licking
her lips.

“Go have someone take a look at your neck,”
Tompkins snapped, then gripped her by the arm and lead her to the
door. “I'll come check on you after I finish.”

She gave him a bright smile and left the
room, pausing only to look back towards Jake with hot eyes.

He flipped her off and blew her a kiss. “Not
gonna happen. Not if you got down on your knees and
begged
me.”

She moved out of sight and the Purifier's
second in command turned to regard O'Connor thoughtfully. The man
walked back across the room to stand in front of him, staring at
his bloody chest. Jake thought about asking Tompkins if he saw
anything he liked, but thought better of it. They
did
have a
couple of males in the harem, after all.

“She's been hard to control.” Tompkins said.
“The way her mind works is... interesting.”

“If by that you mean she's bug-fuck
looney-tunes crazy, she was that way
before
the outbreak
too.” Even though his bruised ribs were screaming at him, Jake
managed to half support himself with the Silly-Putty stumps his
legs had turned into. It also relieved some of the pressure the two
guards’ fingers were putting under his arms, as they basically held
him up. “Personally, I can't believe you put up with her.”

The Purifier shrugged. “Nichole's a great
piece of ass. Since she arrived, I haven't had to wait for a turn
for one of the broads in the harem. Besides, somebody has to handle
the women. Having her around to do it just means it's one less
thing I have to deal with.”