7. Penn

Chapter 7

Penn

B lood on my hands. Sticky, warm. I can taste the coppery tang just from looking at it. The dumbasses’ blood smeared all over my knuckles and rings. Reagan’s lip gloss is still a ghost on my lips, glitter stuck in the corner of my mouth, stabbing at me. Her lips felt like nirvana dipped in poison when I kissed her.

The parking lot’s dark, barely visible under the flickering lights. But I can see the frat fuck boy, crumpled against his car, clutching his nose. Blood drips between his fingers still, staining his designer shirt. How utterly pathetic. It’s just a little jammed nose.

“Hey there,” I purr, my boots appearing in his line of sight. He jumps, eyes dragging up my body like he’s seeing fucking Beetlejuice. My smirk widens; he looks like he’s about to piss himself. Not my thing, but to each their own.

“Wh-what do you want?” he stammers, voice muffled by blood and fear. No longer acting like he’s drunk.

“Relax,” I say, flipping a switch inside me, turning on my Blackwood charm. Everyone loves Lincoln for being the quarterback, Graham for being the grumpy, unattainable one and Jeremiah for being the pretty boy. They love me because I make their cunts and cocks leak, and everyone wants to fuck crazy then brag about how this one-time Penn Blackwood shoved his cock so far down their throat before coming on his boots and making them lick it off until they shined.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Didn’t mean to hit you that hard. Sometimes I just don’t know my own strength. Football boy problems, ya know?” I shrug my shoulders, making myself appear smaller than I am and quirk one side of my mouth up.

“Fuck off,” he says, but his eyes are confused, wavering. Yea, he’s hooked already.

“Come on, don’t be like that.” I lean closer, close enough for him to smell the whiskey on my breath. “You know, you’ve got a pretty face. Shame to see it all busted up. I’m real sorry I messed with perfection.”

His eyes widen, confusion being quickly replaced by interest and desire. Perfect. I pull my cap off my head and run a hand through my curls and let my voice drop an octave. “How ‘bout we go somewhere more private? You know, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Y-you’re serious?” His disbelief is palpable, but so is the glimmer of hope. Stupid little fucker. Why the fuck do college bitches let their cocks lead them? And that’s coming from someone who’s the same age and I follow my dick a lot of fucking places.

“Dead serious,” I whisper, leaning in even closer. “I promise to set your blood alight tonight.”

“Alright,” he says, after what feels like an eternity. The word is barely out of his mouth before I’m opening his car door, my mind already racing ahead .

Hook, line, and sinker.

My fingers brushing against his lower back just enough to make him shiver.

“Where to?” he asks, trying to sound confident but failing miserably.

“I’ll give you directions,” I say, rounding the hood and sliding into the passenger seat like I own it.

“Okay,” he mutters, starting the engine. His hands are shaking, and I can almost hear his heart pounding over the hum of the car’s motor.

“Take a left here,” I instruct, and like a puppy he follows. The city lights blur as we drive deeper into the industrial district, far from most of the population. It’s dark out here, it swallows everything whole. My kind of place.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” the guy asks, doubt creeping into his voice.

“Positive, I have a sweet little studio one of my ‘clients’ gave me,” I say, letting my eyes linger on him a little longer than necessary. “Trust me.”

“Alright,” he says again, more to himself than to me. Idiot.

“Pull over there,” I point to a strip of asphalt near the lake, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. He parks the car, cutting the ignition. The silence is heavy, oppressive. Just how I like it.

“Now what?” he asks, turning to me, anticipation and fear battling in his eyes.

“Get in the backseat and get naked,” I say, my tone flat, unwavering. “I wanna see if you’re worth all this trouble.”

“Uh, okay,” he stammers, climbing over the console into the backseat. I watch him fumble with his clothes, stripping down to nothing but his vulnerability. Pathetic. His hard-on is laughable, barely four inches. But it’s not about that, is it ?

“Good boy,” I purr. “Now, let’s get you ready.”

His eyes widen, confusion mingling with arousal. He doesn’t know yet, but he’s already mine.

I flash him a sly grin as I pull out the tube of lube from my pocket. Never know when you need a little lubrication. His eyes follow my every move, like a moth to a flame, unaware he’s already burning.

“Here,” I say, uncapping the top and squeezing the slick liquid onto his pitiful excuse for a hard-on. “Get yourself nice and ready for me.” My words wrap around him, tight and suffocating, as I watch him begin to stroke himself, desperation in every motion.

“Yeah, just like that,” I encourage, even though the sight is less than impressive. My fingers flick my lighter open, the small flame casting a glow inside the car.

“How’s it feel?” I ask, my tone mockingly sweet. He mumbles something incoherent, too lost in the moment to realize the danger lurking within my smile.

Perfect. He’s too fucking distracted to notice what the fuck I’m doing as I bring Naomi closer to the flame. His eyes never leave his own hand. The metal heats up quickly, turning a threatening shade of orange.

“Keep going, don’t stop now,” I command, my voice laced with amusement.

I wait until he’s fully immersed in his own pathetic display before making my move. The knife slices through the air with a swift, precise motion, connecting with the tender flesh of his ball sac. Blood spurts out like a crimson geyser, painting the cracking leather seats in a castration masterpiece.

“FUCK!” he screams, the sound echoing off the confined space of the car. His face contorts in agony, eyes wide with terror.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, leaning in close, my laughter dancing on the edge of sanity. “Didn’t see that coming?”

His cries fuel something deep inside me, a sadistic pleasure that coils around my veins like a venomous snake. I revel in his pain, drinking it in with every gasp and sob.

“You’re a good listener now, aren’t you?” I whisper, my voice soft, like a lullaby. “Now, let’s make sure you never forget this lesson.”

His tears fall and mix with the blood, creating a grotesque show of suffering. And all I can do is laugh. Laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. At how easy it is to bring someone to their knees.

My hand dives into his pile of discarded clothes, fishing out those dirty white briefs. They’re stained and rank, just like his pathetic existence.

“Open wide,” I say, shoving the filthy fabric into his quivering mouth. His eyes widen further, if that’s even possible, as he chokes on the taste of his own filth.

“That’s better,” I purr, leaning in close enough to smell the fear radiating off him. “You know, you really should learn some manners. Grabbing Reagan like that? Tsk tsk. She’s not some toy you can just play with whenever your dick gets twitchy. Actually, you shouldn’t grab any woman like that. And pretending to be absolutely wasted for an excuse is deplorable.”

The guy whimpers, the sound muffled by his underwear gag. His terror is almost palpable, filling the cramped space of the car with a heady, intoxicating aroma.

“See, this is what happens when you let your cock do the thinking,” I continue, my tone conversational, almost friendly. “You end up in situations that are…well, less than ideal. You end up with your balls hanging by an actual thread. You get what I’m saying?” I pause for a moment, giving him a chance to respond. His nod is frantic, desperate, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Good boy,” I croon, patting his cheek with mock affection. “Now, you can leave. Get the fuck out of my sight.”

I get out of the car and slam the door shut. Whistling, I stroll over to a nearby door to a building owned by an offshore entity Wraithwick Incorporated, retrieving a gas can I know is there. The weight of it feels good in my hand, promising, like the prelude to the rest of the evening.

“Whistle while you work,” I sing-song under my breath, the tune light against the fact I just castrated someone. My boots crunch on the gravel as I make my way back. Every step is slow and measured, savoring the anticipation that coils in my gut.

“Knock knock,” I chuckle, throwing open the backseat door. He’s still there, curled up and sobbing. “Oh, you’re still here. You had a chance to leave, and you didn’t. Bummer for you, but a gift for me. Appreciate youuuuuuu.”

The look on his face when he sees the gas can? Priceless. His eyes widen, a fresh wave of terror washing over his features. I take my time, enjoying the slow pour of gasoline onto his trembling form. The sharp scent of fuel mixes with the acrid tang of fear, creating a noxious cocktail that makes my pulse race. I’m also pretty sure he’s shit himself. Honestly rude of him to make me smell that. He definitely needs more fiber in his diet.

“Now, add a little spice,” I flip open my lighter. The flame dances up, highlighting his terrified face.

I touch the flame to the cheap seat. Instantly, the fire leaps to life, hungrily devouring the gasoline-soaked area—and him. His screams pierce the night, mingling with the crackle of flames. And all I feel is a deep satisfaction.

His skin blisters and peels, the scent of burning flesh mingling with the gasoline fumes.

This is the kind of fire you roast wieners on. I should have brought boy scout rations or whatever it those fucking kids do. Then it hits me, and I burst into laughter, doubling over as the realization washes over me.

Holy shit, I’m literally roasting a wiener right now. It ain’t the kind that goes in a hot dog bun but technically I’m still being a boy scout. Where the fuck is my fire starter badge and my cooking badge?

I straighten up, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes, and glance back at the inferno. His screams have dwindled to pitiful whimpers, barely audible over the roaring flames. The smell of now charred meat fills the air, thick and nauseating, but I breathe it in deeply.

I should probably push the car into the lake before it blows up and draws more attention to this area than is necessary. I move to the rear of the car, glancing at the flames licking hungrily at the windows. Thank fuck I remembered to put it in neutral before I got out.

With a grunt, I dig my boots into the gravel and start pushing. The damn thing’s heavier than it looks. The car resists at first, but then gives way, rolling slowly toward the ledge.

Finally, with one last heave, it lurches forward and begins its descent. The tires skitter on loose pebbles, then lose their grip entirely.

Time seems to slow as I watch it roll off the edge. For a brief moment, it hangs suspended above the dark water below, an almost serene pause before chaos resumes. Then gravity asserts itself and the car plunges down like a stone. It hits the water with a deafening splash that sends ripples racing across the lake’s surface.

The once-violent flames hiss angrily as they’re swallowed by the cold embrace of water. Steam billows up in ghostly plumes, curling into the night sky. The lake greedily consumes its new offering, bubbles rising in frantic bursts until they too disappear into silence.

My peaceful fucking night is interrupted by the shrill, incessant ring of my phone. My pulse spikes as Highway to Hell loudly demands my attention. Satan himself is calling. Just fucking lovely.

I should have known my moments of peace wouldn’t last long. Pulling the phone out of my pocket, the name Robert Blackwood glares at me. My fucking father. Or Satan, as I lovely refer to him.

“Yeah?” My voice drips with annoyance.

“Get your ass to the house,” Robert barks. No pleasantries, just demands.

“I’ll be there in an hour.” I roll my eyes, my tone oozing sarcasm.

“Twenty fucking minutes, Penn. Or else.”

“Sure thing, Robert. Can’t wait,” I say, but the line’s already dead. Figures.

I stuff the phone back into my pocket, my mind already churning through the shitstorm that’s about to hit. Robert doesn’t call unless it’s business, and it’s always business. We aren’t about to play a round of family golf for a father-son bonding moment.

Forty minutes later, I stroll into the Blackwood mansion. The air’s thick with the smell of leather and old money. It’s so fucking ostentatious. Robert’s pacing, already fuming.

“You’re late,” he snaps, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to drill holes into my skull.

“Traffic,” I shrug. “What do you want now?”

“Save the excuses,” he snaps. “We need to talk. Now.”

“Lead the way, Satan,” I say, following him down the dimly lit corridor. Each step feels like marching toward my doom.

“Don’t call me that,” he bites out, not even looking back.

“Why? It fits you so well.”

He finally stops at his study door, swinging it open with a force that makes it slam against the wall. The room smells of leather and cigar smoke, an aroma that’s as comforting as it is revolting. He takes his throne behind the massive oak desk, leaving me to stand like a schoolboy summoned to the principal’s office.

“Sit,” he commands, nodding to the chair. I don’t move.

“Suit yourself,” he says, leaning back, the leather creaking under his weight. “I’ve been hearing things, Penn.”

“And just what have you heard?”

“Cut the crap,” he snarls, slamming his hand on the desk. “You’ve been following Reagan St. Pierre.”

“Reagan?” I feign ignorance, fiddling with the brim of my cap. “Who’s that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me! You think I don’t know what goes on under my nose?”

“Well, considering how much time you spend with your head up your ass, I’d say it’s a miracle you know anything at all.” I wince in my mind; I’m going to fucking pay for that remark.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he hisses, his voice dangerously low. “I’d hate for something to happen to your brothers or one of their whores.”

My fists curl tightly at my sides. I can feel the blood rushing to my head. The room closes in on me—suffocating me in his presence.

“Leave my brothers and the girls out of whatever fucking shit you think is going on,” I snap, my voice barely controlled. “You got a problem with me, take it up and out on me.”

His eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flickering as he leans forward, fingers steepled under his chin. “Oh, I intend to,” he says softly, too softly. “But you see, Penn, I need leverage with you. Your brothers and their…distractions are perfect for that.”

I want to leap across the desk and throttle him. Instead, I take a deep breath, trying to keep my composure. That’s exactly what he wants, and I can’t give it to him so easily.

“She saw something,” I say, leaning against the ornate desk. “Something she shouldn’t have. Went to handle it, but then her dad showed up.” I smirk, loving how this is pissing him off.

“Jesus Christ,” Robert mutters, rubbing his temples. “What the fuck did she see?”

“Look, we may have taken a little trip to go pay some guy a visit. Jere may have gotten a bit carried away, but ya know he loves little Ashford. Rapist got what he deserved and just so happened the chick was walking by and saw it play out.”

“You’re a bleeding heart just like Jeremiah,” Robert says, his voice dripping with disdain. “Fucking hell, I’ve been too soft on all four of you.”

“Yeah, Robert, you’re a real inspiration,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Maybe if you had half my backbone, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” he growls, leaning closer. “You shouldn’t have gone after that frat boy because of what he did to Oakley. Now look at you, paying the price.”

“Yeah, well, somebody had to teach the prick a lesson,” I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets.

“Now, you figure out how to keep Reagan quiet without fucking killing her,” Robert snaps. “And do it quickly.”

“Yep,” I say, my jaw tightening. “I’ll handle it.”

“See that you do,” he says, glaring at me. “And Penn? Don’t fuck this up again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mutter as I turn to leave. The door closes behind me with a heavy thud, finally giving me silence. I fucking hate that man, and one day I’m going to drive my knife right into his fucking jugular.