Bonus Chapter

CASPER

ELEVEN YEARS PRIOR

What did crazy feel like?

Good fucking question. Best way to describe it was a million different conflicting thoughts zapping through my brain. Buzzing and bouncing around until one of them finally stuck the landing. Then veered off again. Kinda like me.

Come to think of it, guess you could say my ass was the epitome of crazy. Unpredictable. A little unhinged. But a lotta fucking fun. Especially in the bedroom.

The things I could do to a chick's body. Hell, the shit I could do with my own body. Mind-fucking-altering. Back-breaking.

I reached down and gave my cock a good squeeze through the thick fabric of my jeans. I'd take care of him later. I had a job to do first. And Big Daddy AKA Surge AKA Lamb Chop AKA Lambo AKA the man who paid for all the blow I liked to shoot up my nose and liquor I liked to pour down my throat would be more than a little peeved if I made a pit stop to get my nuts off. Guy had a stick up his ass the size of the Mother Land. But I owed ?em life and limb. In the very literal sense.

The moment the neon-yellow bike whizzed by like a big fat bumblebee calling my name, the engine cranking and whining down the street, I jumped in through the driver's side window of the little beater car and followed the fucker with a big ego and a small dick—I assumed, couldn't tell you for sure until I got an eyeful. You'd be surprised how many guys in this city had thimbles hanging between their legs.

Okay, maybe not hanging. Shit just kinda poked out like a turtle head. No idea why micropenises were such an epidemic all of a sudden. Maybe there was something in the tap water. One of the reasons I stuck to straight vodka.

No teeny weenies in these jeanies, ladies.

I kept just enough distance between me and Buzz Lightyear to maintain my tail, my palms drumming across the steering wheel to the rhythm of the loud bass I was playing in my head. Couldn't turn on the radio as much as the stereo button was begging me to touch it.

Press it. Come on, you know you want to. FUCKING PRESS IT ALREADY.

I shook my head. I had to resist the impulse because the fucking noise would give me away. And just when I got to the best part. Really leaned into my silent solo, my palms tap-tap-tapping in rapid succession, the bike came to a stop at the light.

I grinned, slammed the car into fourth and gunned for the Buick sandwiched between me and Mr. Quick-Nut Cheerios. The poor driver didn't know what hit him and neither did the prick on the bike. Fucker skid across the pavement like the smoothest skipping stone, leaving a wide streak of blood and gore from the middle of the street over to where he stopped, dropped, and rolled up next to the barrier.

Chicago's finest hose jockeys would have been proud.

The Buick took off and I cruised on by, pausing when I heard a groan coming from the mass of mangled limbs that shouldn't have enough brain matter left in his skull to be making noise. I flashed my busted headlights in the fucker's direction and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. The twitching of his foot. The stretching of his right arm. And then he pulled himself onto his side.

Might not have had a big dick, but the prick sure as hell had steel balls. Didn't know if I'd have it in me to be feeling around the grass for my missing fingers. The best thing to do would be to back over the guy's skull and put him out of his misery.

But that shit wasn't up to me. Surge would have to make that call. Whole thing had to look like an accident according to the client. Rat… or was it Rath? Or maybe Weasel. Guy sure looked like a couple of weasels piled up and wearing a lab coat. And while I loved pushing my boss's buttons, I'd also learned my lesson. A week of forced bedrest—and I mean physically forced ?cause your legs don't work no more—will do that to you. Especially when your version of hell is being confined to a chair.

Just the thought sent a chill down my spine, which was a feat all its own, considering I couldn't feel shit from the base of my neck to that spot right where my dick started.

Thank God for small favors, am I right?

I shoved a hand into my pocket. Tugged my burner phone free and pressed dial on the only number in my contacts. He answered on the first ring but didn't speak. It was the way we did shit. If I was calling from this line, it was because I had something to say and not because I was asking him what we were having for dinner tonight. Though the slight chill in the air had my stomach rumbling and my mouth watering at the thought of my mother's solyanka.

"Minor hiccup." I could hear him breathing but the boss man wouldn't respond until I gave him a reason to do so. "Fucker just doesn't want to stay down. Should I take care of it?"

"No." One word. Cold and definitive as always.

"You sure?"

"Yes." Click. That was it. Honestly, I didn't expect more.

With one last glance in the rearview mirror, I shifted gears and sped off in the opposite direction. The night was young. Plenty of time left for me to crash this car in some ditch and still find a pussy or two to warm my cock. My reward to myself for a job "almost" well done.

I mean, even the best hitman this city had ever seen couldn't win ?em all.