Read Hellraiser (The Devil's Own #2) Online
Authors: Amo Jones
Hellraiser (The Devil's Own #2)
HELLRAISER
The Devil’s Own Book Two
By Amo Jones
Copyright 2016 Amo Jones
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Note: This story is not suitable for persons under the age of 18.
*Potential triggers lie within this book.
**If the word “fuck” offends you, please don’t read this book.
Cover by
Kari Ayasha from
Cover to Cover Designs
Model: Marshall Perrin
Photography by
Wander Aguiar
Interior graphics and formatting by Max Henry from
Max Effect
Editing by
Daryl Banner
CONTENTS
This book is dedicated to all my loyal readers. Thank you for always believing in me and having my back during my journey.
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”
—William Shakespeare, The Tempest
HELLA
Rubbing my dick into dirt was never my intention, but the way a cunt would contract itself around my shaft always had me yearning, no matter who the owner was.
Girls went in categories for me automatically. When I’d see a girl, my mind knew in less than two seconds whether I’d be delivering to her or not. And that didn’t go by how hot she was—although, of course that’s always a bonus. It went on her dick-taking abilities. You could tell a lot by the way a girl would carry herself. A whore could wear pigtails with her ass planted on a church bench on Sundays and I’d still be able to read the level of kink she had.
My taste was unusual, yes, but sometimes pussy was pussy, and judging by the way my firm grip was wrapped around this junkie’s throat, I’d say her abilities didn’t matter to me right now. Jessica Bryant was a preppy, rich bitch junkie with daddy issues. She chose to fill the void her parents left her while jet-setting around the world with blow. She was choosing to repay me in sexual services, only she didn’t know yet that I didn’t accept getting my dick wet as payment. If anything, she’d owe me more money.
“Yes.” Jessica’s back snapped, her ass pressing against my pelvic bone in a circular motion. I gripped onto her sharp hip bones, squeezing tightly. “Fuck me until I come, Hella,” she whispered in muffled tones, her face pressing into the pillow.
Bringing one of my hands to the front of her neck while my other came to the back, my grip tightened and her body stilled, her vein pulsing under my palm from her panicking. My cock hardened at her fear, feeding off of it like a dried out whore locked in a monastery. Bending down, I brought my lips to the back of her ear and growled, “Shut the fuck up. And one more thing,” I added, bringing my hips back. “It’s until
I
come.”
My hips thrust forward, my cock colliding with a foreign wall deep inside her around the same time she let out a deathly scream. Wrapping her hair around my fist, I shoved her off me roughly, the cold air whipping around my shaft.
“The fuck?” I said, stepping back and looking down at my blood-smeared cock. I looked back at Jessica, who had to be a couple years older than my fifteen. “You a fucking virgin?”
She raised her hand up to her mouth, shaking her head, her platinum blonde locks falling over her shoulders. “No, Hella. That’s never happened before. I’m so sorry, I’ll get a towel.”
Fucking liar.
I chuckled, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket before banging one out on the palm of my hand. I placed it into my mouth, sparking my Zippo and inhaling deeper as my eyes ran over her body, big tits, slim waist, and runty legs that were pulled up to her chest to cover her pussy. I smiled, placing the smoke back into my mouth and inhaling again. “Nah, Jess. No towel needed.” Her body visibly relaxed, her eyes calming a smidge, but not enough so she could smile. She was scared of me, like most smart people. “You can come wrap that filthy mouth around my cock and suck me clean.”
She paused, swiping her hair away from her face before crawling across the bed. I stepped up to the foot of the four-poster bed, my knees hitting the end. Her hands came up to my thighs, eyes widening in horror. Rolling my eyes, I gripped onto the back of her head and shoved her down over my cock, the warm cushion of her mouth welcoming me while her moans vibrated against my shaft.
After nutting in her mouth, I shoved her back onto the bed. She ran the back of her hand across her lip.
I pulled my jeans back on. “Drop the cash.”
She hurried to her bedside drawer and pulled out her wallet, dropping down two-fifty large. “You wanna stay?”
I cocked my head back. “Did I fuck you brain dead? No.”
“Where do you live?” she asked, reaching for her panties that were torn and lying on the carpet. “I’m just saying. No one is here but me and Renee, our maid. I won’t mind.”
After shoving my shirt and hoodie back on, I walked up to her, wrapping my hand around her chin, squeezing it and tilting her eyes to meet mine. “I don’t need your fucking help.”
She pulled her face out of my grip. “Fine, walk yourself out.”
I laughed, putting a cigarette back into my mouth. “You know where to find me if you need more.”
“Yeah,” she called out just as I hit the door handle. “Under the Brooklyn Bridge.”
The moonlight reflected off the still water of the East River, and I drew my legs up, resting them on my knees. The darkness of the night was blinding, with light only coming from the bridge and the burning bin that was sitting on the edge of the river bed. Tippy, one of the old homeless men who had been here longer than I had, lights it every night.
I’ve been under this bridge for two months now after living in and out of foster care my whole life—courtesy of my crack whore mother and nonexistent father. Being on the run was the only life I knew, and it contributed to the ice-cold blood that now ran through my veins. I wasn’t sorry about that. Selling coke for wannabe gangsters who live in the Bronx probably wasn’t the ideal lifestyle for a fifteen-year-old boy, but I adapted to my life a long time ago. I learned to fight when I needed to, and anybody who’s anybody knew who I was around here. Tippy and I had it better than some homeless; we had the river, shelter from the bridge, and for the most part the cops left us alone. I looked older than fifteen; you could see the lifestyle I lived just by looking into my eyes. I was built bigger than other fifteen-year-old boys. I took every chance I got to lift anything heavy and maintain my size. Though I was big, size didn’t mean shit if you didn’t have the fight, but the fight inside me was more than heartless; it was unmercifully cold-blooded.
Throwing my hood over my head, I reached into my pocket to fish out my cigarettes just as Tippy came walking toward me with his trench coat on that reeked of sewer and stale, cheap whiskey. His unruly beard ran long down his chest, and his grey hair tied to the back of his head.
“Didn’t I say you should start washing your clothes, old man? There’s detergent under my sleeping bag. There’s no need to smell like that.”
“Shut up, boy,” he laughed, taking a seat beside me as we both watched the still water. “You don’t have to live out here. You’re young. Are you going to take my advice and get your shit sorted?” Tippy asked, running his hand over his beard. Tippy was well-known in this area. He’d been homeless all his life, I think. He never told me his entire story of why or how he came to be on the streets. He took to me right away. Tippy takes to no one, so that’s saying something. He’s a vicious old man, but he’s been nothing but kind to me since I’ve been here. Or maybe that’s the street in him. The streets change you. You can’t be a good person when you’re out here; good will get you killed.
I shook my head, lighting up my cigarette. “I just have to live under the radar until I’m eighteen, then I’ll get my shit together and get a house. In the meantime, I need to save money.”
His eyes narrowed from over his aged skin. “Boy, let me tell you about how I came about. I had a family once—” He reached for his old leather wallet, pausing slightly.
“—Shhh,” I cut him off, bringing my finger to my mouth.
He raised his eyebrow. “What is it?”
I waited for a few seconds to pass. “Never mind, keep going,” I said, flicking the ash off my cigarette.
He threw his wallet onto my lap. The ember hadn’t even landed on the sand when a bright spotlight beamed right into my eyes, blinding me.
I threw my hand up to cover my eyes from the assault. “What the fuck?”
Rough hands gripped around my upper arms at the same time a sack was shoved over my face. All I could smell was hay and horseshit. “Let me go!” I roared, attempting to pull out of both grips that were wrapped around me tightly. My feet were being lifted off the ground when I started to twist and turn. “Tippy!” I shook my head roughly until the sack fell off my head.
“Fuck!” The man to my left grunted.
I spun my head around to where Tippy and I were just talking only to find his lifeless body lying on the sand with a gash across his neck. His eyes were empty, peering straight at me.
I shoved his wallet into my pocket before roaring, “Tippy!” I swung my head back around to an elbow coming straight for my face.
The empty color of nothingness took over, my eyes fluttering open and closed. Blurry silhouettes walked in front of a bright spotlight that sat in the middle of the river. I hung my head between my shoulders, dropping my weight when the East River covered my legs and feet with the splashing of its water. My vision would come back in blurry spots, my eyes falling on the water under my feet before I was being propped up onto a speedboat. They dropped me into the boat, my eyes still refusing to open with the last thing I hear being, “Kurr will be mad how sloppy that takeover was.” My eyes shut out, the pounding of my head playing like a deep lullaby, or a warning of what was about to come.
“Agent 112,” someone growled into my ear, “that’s who you go by now,” before everything completely shut out.
MELISSA
18 Years old
Blood. The metallic tang slid down my throat with my head pounding and my body aching along with it. Every single part of my being was aching with pain. My eyelids began to gain density with each passing minute. My sister’s annoying voice came softly into my ear, “You should always pray, Lissa, even if you don’t believe.” I’d laugh at her and call her a crazy churchgoer. Who was into church at our age anyway? We’re in college; she should be at parties and getting drunk, except that’s exactly how this chapter in my life started. The darkness began to welcome me, the calmness already overwhelming. I’d feel no pain soon. Being awake became a struggle as my lids shut and the last two months began to play back like a horror movie.
Two months earlier
The deep-sounding bass shook the frat house of Gamma Kappa as I sipped on the bitter, cheap beer. Clutching my red cup, my eyes darted around the room to see what all the fuss was about. What was the big deal about these parties? I was a freshman attending UMD. It was a rich, preppy college, but my mom managed to get me in, thanks to her scraping up money since we moved to Detroit from Westbeach, California. My mom didn’t have an honorable job, but she took care of me and my sister. We were all she had, and although her making money came from doing lord-knows-what with rich, high-flying men from high-flying places, I lived with it.
I began bobbing my head in the corner, pushing my glasses back up my nose as they fell down. I wasn’t entirely impressed with this party. I had seen better back home in Westbeach thrown by underage tweens. I could already see my roommate, Billie’s face. I wouldn’t say we were friends; she was about as nerdy as I was, if not more. We didn’t know how to be friends and I was cool with that. I was much better at being a loner anyway—less drama. I told her that I was going to come to this party tonight and try to live the experience at least once before midterms began. She insisted it was a bad idea to hang around people with a lower IQ than me. I shook my head, dismissing her judgment, but now I’m thinking she may have been right. All that I saw was a bunch of jocks in one corner, a bunch of sluts in the other, and somewhere in between there were the people who came to party hard, dancing and drinking in the middle of the living room. I must say, I was a little disappointed.
I pushed off the wall and walked towards the kitchen, ready to toss my empty cup and make my way back to my dorm when Eddy Woolbrock banged into me—or rather, I banged into him. “Sorry,” I said, not looking up to meet his eyes because truthfully, I didn’t exist to these people.
“No problem. Your drink looks empty?” he questioned, and my shocked eyes drew up to his face. Blond spikey hair, scruff on his jaw, calm gentle eyes that made the ladies go crazy.
Swallowing, I nodded before clearing my throat. “Yeah, yes. I was just about to—”
“—get another?” he interrupted my answer.
I smiled. “Sure, okay.”
He took hold of my elbow and led me toward the kitchen where three other guys were standing, slouched. They all straightened up and smiled at me. I had seen these boys around campus a few times. They were well known and popular, unlike me. They came from homes that not only had both parents, but money too, whereas I came from a struggling single mother who had to sell herself on occasion just so we could make rent each week. Although she got good money and we weren’t struggling anymore, it was still sad and I hated it. She put all her money on me going through college because I was the smart one, so I lived for the day where I could take care of her and she didn’t have to do what she did anymore.