Anti-Hero (Wild Heart Ranch Book 4)
Anti-Hero: Chapter 7

Something is definitely off with Erik. He’d been weird during our time at the cabin. It’s all relative, of course, but he was weird by even his standards, and I’m not even talking about that spray down in the shower, which…yeah.

Anyway.

His cabin walk-through was a distracted clusterfuck. I’ve seen him do the final review and cleanup of a few locations already. A cabin this size would usually take him ten minutes, tops. It ended up taking half an hour because he kept forgetting small details. Like bagging my bloody clothes. Or destroying the SIM card on New Orleans’ phone—which I thankfully remembered to do. Or setting the digital detonators for the explosives he rigged around the place.

“Shit. Left my overnight bag on the fucking bed,” he curses, shoving my bagged-up clothes in the trunk. He gets about two steps, then stops and curses himself. Spinning on his heel, he walks back and re-opens the trunk, grabbing the garbage bag. “I’m blowing this place up. Why would I take your bloodied clothes with us?”

I raise my shoulders while he mutters and returns to the house. I don’t hate watching him run back and forth, especially considering how his broken-in jeans cup his delicious ass. Which reminds me—he totally got dressed in front of the window. I don’t think it was to tempt me, but…fuck. I’m tempted.

Anyway.

I’m a little disappointed we can’t go straight to the island, but I’m looking forward to seeing Hopper and meeting his crew tonight. After that, Philly will be a short trip, followed by Minneapolis.

I laugh as Erik races back into the house to grab the leather overnight bag he’s had forever. Charlie once told me Erik’s parents gave him the bag as a present the Christmas before they kicked him out, and he’s always suspected they meant it as a hint.

When Erik finally finishes everything on his little checklist, we start down the long, bumpy road back to the main highway. After half a mile or so, he grabs his phone, unlocks it, and slaps it across my chest, startling me.

“I almost forgot. Find the munitions app and press the green button.”

We’re still miles from anyone else when I zero in on the app and hit the button. The low explosion is barely audible. I give a celebratory woo-hoo, but Erik is locked in focus mode.

A few seconds later, a message dings on his phone.

“Can you check that for me?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the road. “Should be confirmation from Wimberley.”

“So soon?”

He nods. “Their explosives expert rigs the devices to send a signal to their satellite team just before they go off.”

Holy shit. That’s some advanced technology.

I avoid the temptation to fuck with his Grindr profile and instead pull up the messaging app Wimberley’s tech team has loaded on all our phones.

“Yep. Satellites confirm the cabin is toast.”

Rather than using his words, Erik merely nods and continues driving. He doesn’t say anything for the next hour, which, luckily, gives me plenty of time to revisit how it felt to have his eyes on my body at the cabin.

For a solid year, I’ve had strict rules about where I’ll get dressed and undressed, always making sure I’m in a room with a locked door. Over the last few months, however, I’ve relaxed. I swim in the creek behind Levy and Javier’s place all the time. I’ve even made the occasional midnight run to the bathroom in my boxers.

Today, though, I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I decided he was safe and I could get undressed in front of him. I just started undressing.

I didn’t even question it when he offered to rinse me off. I can’t tell what I loved more—having New Orleans’ blood all over me or having Erik wash me clean. I vaguely remember stroking my cock, but the memory of him aiming the pulsing water at my balls is distinct. Fuck, I was so drunk on killing New Orleans that I pushed my ass out, practically begging Erik to take me. Instead, he acted like a skittish colt, almost dropping the sprayer.

If I were in my right mind, I’d be cringing until the day I died, but I can’t replace it in me to be sorry for getting naked or that I caught him looking.

When he left me to shower on my own, I was so fucking turned on that within seconds of putting my hand on my dick, my knees nearly gave out under the most brutal orgasm I’ve ever had. Ever. It left me strung out against the cool tiles, but it still wasn’t enough.

I played with various angles on the massaging showerhead until I hit the same spot behind my balls, then paired that with a little pinch-roll over my nipples. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to come again, but then I saw a smear of blood on the tiles, and it was all I needed.

To be clear, blood isn’t the thing that gets me off. It’s the control I have over these fucks. I had absolute power over New Orleans’ life and death, and it was glorious.

Hedy once asked me what I’d do if I could go back in time to the night I was kidnapped as the adult I am now. I gave her the obvious answer—I’d save the kid version of me. I admitted, however, that I wouldn’t stop there.

Close your eyes, Little Ant. I’m about to gut this motherfucker.

Hedy was neither surprised nor disturbed by my answer.

Later I’d asked Hedy why killing made me horny, especially after sex had seemed like such an unpleasant expectation for so long. She explained how fucking and killing were two sides of the same coin—specifically, life. One side is about making and affirming it, and the other is about taking it.

“Universal balance,” she said with a wink.

It was enough to make me wonder what she gets up to with that Wimberley team.

I get what she’s saying though. Killing bad people has slowly but surely given me back the ability to experience and enjoy the other side of life’s coin. Well, killing random bad people. New Orleans was different somehow.

As for killing the randos, I may have told a fib or two to my friends, making them think I’ve been going on all these one-night stands in addition to the killing. That’s not true. It’s only ever been about the murder.

When I think about the other side of life’s coin—fucking or being fucked—I can’t begin to fathom doing that with a stranger. Hell, I’m just happy I get to experience being horny. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I only recently developed the desire and ability to touch myself.

Even though it does make me feel like a loser, one of my secret Friday-dinner appreciations was that I’d come by my own hand for the first time. As a kid, I was already a late bloomer, so I’d never touched myself before I was taken. And I definitely didn’t jack off while I was in the life.

It wasn’t easy to ask Hedy about it—until then, I’d felt too numb and shy to attempt anything approaching self-pleasure—but she was kind and talked me through it.

Things didn’t rev up, though, until the night I saved Erik’s life. The second I got home, I dry-jacked into the toilet and nearly passed out from how hard I came. I remember leaning against the counter, watching the white fluid circle the water, feeling like I’d just experienced a damn miracle.

I’ve since worked up the courage to try lube and one of those stroker toys. Now, every time I kill someone, I treat myself.

Killing New Orleans, it seems, has thrown my sex drive into overdrive. I was still high on that feeling when I ended the shower and got changed in the room after. I had not a single fuck to give about my nudity.

Murder is fucking magic, kid, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.

That’s when I noticed Erik’s eyes getting caught on my ass and cock. Like my body was flypaper or something. Then he’d shake himself and refocus, but it wasn’t too long before his eyes found me again.

I know what his hesitation is, but he doesn’t look at me the way the johns looked at me. They looked at me like I was property. He looks at me like I’m his. Like he wants to taste me.

Still, even though I’m dying to go skin-to-skin with him, I’m terrified of his reaction to touching me. He could decide to hold me forever, or he could jettison me out of this car right now. So…yeah. Showerheads and jerk-off sessions for the foreseeable future.

When we pull up to the hangar an hour later, however, he still hasn’t said anything.

Worried, I touch his arm as he puts the car in park. “Hey, Erik?”

“Yeah?” he asks, struggling to unbuckle his seat belt.

“You okay? You’ve been even quieter than usual.”

He sends me a quick glance, then looks away just as fast. “Yep. I’m good. Just…making sure I got everything covered.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

“Will do,” he says, exiting the vehicle.

Ugh. This guy.