Perversion (Perversion Trilogy #1)

“Go, Gabby. Please,” I plea, with all the strength I can muster. What bothers me most is that my concern for her is still real, even if nothing else is.

Gabby hesitates again before finally removing her hands. “I’ll be back. I’m getting you out of here,” she promises. And with a quick kiss to my cheek, her footsteps dart off to the other side of the room followed by the familiar sound of a window sliding open.

It reminds me of when I’d snuck into Grim’s room. I’m temporarily comforted with thoughts of being in back there. In his bed.

In his heart.

A time not long ago when I had hope.

The door opens, bright light floods the room. Marco’s shadowy silhouette stands in the doorway. “You look good all tied up and ready for me,” he says with a wicked chuckle before stepping into the darkness.

My stomach rolls.

A time when I wasn’t wishing for death.





A PREVIEW OF NINE





The Tale of Kevin Clearwater





Kevin Clearwater, AKA “Nine”


“Can you believe that Canada’s Prime minister is named Justin?” Preppy shouts from the living room.

“Why the sudden interest in Canadian politics, brother?” I respond, emerging from the kitchen.

“I’m trying to move some shit in from the good ‘ole north. Figured I should know a little about the fucker trying to put the smackdown on my delivery.”

“Although I’m pretty sure the Prime Minister himself isn’t trying to involve himself in your business personally, I’ll bite. What kind of shit are we talking ‘bout here?” I ask, leaning my elbows across the back of the couch.

Preppy’s smile widens. His voice turns soft. He’s downright awestruck as he speaks. “The finest, purest, grade A maple syrup ever made.”

“Syrup? You’re smuggling in syrup?” I’m not stunned. Preppy’s always up to weird shit. I mean, the man has a framed restraining order from Dr. Dre hanging above the dining room table.

“My Preppy-cakes deserve the very best, little bro.” He stands, jumps over the back of the couch and wraps an arm around my shoulders. He holds his hand up to the ceiling like it’s a canvas and he's about to paint me a magical picture. “This syrup isn’t just any syrup. It’s made by mounties riding ginormous moose bareback in the deep woods of British Columbia. It’s very similar to how the good ‘ole American moon-shiners did things back in the day. And when I get it, I’m going to pour it all over Dre and…”

“Got it,” I cut him off, pushing his arm off of me and slapping at his hand before he can finish making whatever gesture I’m sure I don’t want to see.

Preppy shrugs and turns his attention back to the TV. “I mean really. Justin. What kind of name is Justin? Sounds like a tween actor.” He’s now holding a bowl of Cookie Crisp cereal under his chin, speaking between bites.

I glance up at the screen. Justin Trudeau is waving to a crowd from the back of a car in some Parade. “Nah,” I say, “he looks more like a former boy-bander, you know, the one who dropped out of the group first, tried other things. A little real-estate, a little meth, a little house arrest. Eventually, he decides to clean up his act. After some extensive dental work, a shit-ton of Botox, and enough penicillin to cure a small plague, and BAM! He’s back, singing about sweaty, dirty love again while dancing like a cheerleader at a half-time show. Although, now he’s singing to a much older, much smaller, crowd of course. But there is still plenty of panty-throwing honeys to be had. He needs a little blue pill these days to get the job done, but he still manages to slay a fuck-lot of nostalgic choker-wearing bitches, their doc Martins all wrapped around his shoulders like it’s nineteen motherfuckin’ ninety-nine.”

I’m still thinking about other similarities to the Canadian Prime Minister and members of 90’s boy-bands, when I look up to Preppy, whose jaw is on the floor. Milk dribbles down the side of his chin. I think he’s going to say something about us being brothers, and the way we both always manage to say the oddest of shit, but he doesn't. There’s a cry from the other room. Then another. He scrunches his nose. “Wow, you’re a strange kid. You know that?” Preppy says, shaking his head. He gets up and heads down the hallway to tend to the twins.

“I’m a strange kid?” I shout after him.

I sigh, and my thoughts turn to what happened yesterday.

About her.

I talk under my breath, so Preppy can’t hear me. “You have no fucking idea.”

Bo comes running into the house and crashes into me. His watermelon of a head feels even bigger when it connects directly to my balls. “Bo, what’s up buddy?” I grit out through the pain.

He looks up at me with his dark hair and pale face wearing the same bow-tie and suspenders set that Preppy has on. He smiles, and it’s downright Adams Family creepy. “I see dead people,” he whispers.

“You got to start going to sleep earlier and stop watching all those late night movies you know you’re not supposed to be watching.”

Bo shakes his head and drags me to the sliding glass doors. He points to the backyard. “No, seriously. There’s a body in the backyard.”

I look out to see a mangled clump of naked man directly in the center of the yard.

“Holy shit. You’re right.” My jaw is still on the ground. My mind racing and in full alert mode. I try to follow the protocol Preppy’s been teaching me, but all I can think of is questions. Who? When? Why this fucking body is in the backyard? Who the fuck put it here?

“Told you,” Bo says, skipping off to the kitchen. “You want a cookie, Uncle Kevin?”

“Uh, I’ll be right back. Save one for me. And can you go ask your dad to come out here? Like, right the fuck now?”

“Sure thing,” he says around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie as he strolls leisurely down the hall. “Dad, Uncle Kevin wants to talk to you about the dead guy in the yard!”

I approach the body slowly, swatting away the flies colliding into my face. I notice a tattoo on the body. No, it’s spray paint. It’s not until I’m up close when I can make out what it says. When I do, I stop. Stop walking. Stop breathing. My heart stops fucking beating.

It’s a number. And not just any number.

It’s the number nine.