You suggesting I take you back upstairs and we play buddies? I don't think so. Not unless you want to play the 'I hire two hookers to come have sex with you and take lots of dirty photos so I can use you to run guns through Chicago' scenario. But hey, you might even enjoy that version, and I'm not here to do you more favors than I need to.
[ The knife flicked away out of sight, but not before nicking Ray's bicep, just above his tattoo. The blade was so sharp and precise that it cut a sharp straight line; it'd heal without a scar, but it'd sting, and bleed, and really it was all about making a good impression. He'd leave Ray looking worse than he felt, and hope that the detective had the good sense to pretend it was pure agony.
With a sharp thunk, he jammed it into the wooden part of the chair beside Ray's elbow, and then there followed a rustling of fabric; Armando getting out of his silk suit and cotton shirt, stripping in fact all the way down to nothing, and pulling on a crisp white kimono from the wall behind him. He left it to hang open--it'd be destroyed when he was done, but it'd have the desired effect--any blood that splashed his way would stain the silk red. He dragged the sleeve deliberately across Ray's bleeding shoulder as he reached to pick the knife back up again. ]
No, Ray. You see, you attacked me in public, in front of my men, and if you aren't limping out of here looking like half a man, they're gonna start thinking I'm not one either. That I don't keep my word, that I'll let anyone walk all over me. That I forgive easily.
[ This time when he brought the knife up, he let the sharp edge lay against Ray's shoulder, and then dragged it up like a flat razor, following the contour without leaving a single mark, but with the full knowledge that his first cut had made Ray very aware of what pain felt like, and that it was very likely to happen again.
In fact, he scraped a layer of skin away as he followed the stubble along the curve of Ray's chin, leaving behind a dense razor burn. His grip loosened, and the blade came up higher, curled in until the base of the blade was set against the bottom of Ray's ear. He didn't cut, but he did lean closer, whispering against him so close that his mouth touched Ray's ear, his breath condensing on the cool blade. He might just let his tongue linger between words, flicking it against salty sweat skin, tasting fear.
Don't move, the position said, no matter how much I bait you. It's going to hurt. ]
But you know, I don't blame you. Vegas prostitutes--you might as well beg me to shoot you in the head. You know I haven't had sex in more than a year? That's why I'm giving serious thought to fucking you, Ray. You're from out of town, that's gotta count for something.
no subject
[ The knife flicked away out of sight, but not before nicking Ray's bicep, just above his tattoo. The blade was so sharp and precise that it cut a sharp straight line; it'd heal without a scar, but it'd sting, and bleed, and really it was all about making a good impression. He'd leave Ray looking worse than he felt, and hope that the detective had the good sense to pretend it was pure agony.
With a sharp thunk, he jammed it into the wooden part of the chair beside Ray's elbow, and then there followed a rustling of fabric; Armando getting out of his silk suit and cotton shirt, stripping in fact all the way down to nothing, and pulling on a crisp white kimono from the wall behind him. He left it to hang open--it'd be destroyed when he was done, but it'd have the desired effect--any blood that splashed his way would stain the silk red. He dragged the sleeve deliberately across Ray's bleeding shoulder as he reached to pick the knife back up again. ]
No, Ray. You see, you attacked me in public, in front of my men, and if you aren't limping out of here looking like half a man, they're gonna start thinking I'm not one either. That I don't keep my word, that I'll let anyone walk all over me. That I forgive easily.
[ This time when he brought the knife up, he let the sharp edge lay against Ray's shoulder, and then dragged it up like a flat razor, following the contour without leaving a single mark, but with the full knowledge that his first cut had made Ray very aware of what pain felt like, and that it was very likely to happen again.
In fact, he scraped a layer of skin away as he followed the stubble along the curve of Ray's chin, leaving behind a dense razor burn. His grip loosened, and the blade came up higher, curled in until the base of the blade was set against the bottom of Ray's ear. He didn't cut, but he did lean closer, whispering against him so close that his mouth touched Ray's ear, his breath condensing on the cool blade. He might just let his tongue linger between words, flicking it against salty sweat skin, tasting fear.
Don't move, the position said, no matter how much I bait you. It's going to hurt. ]
But you know, I don't blame you. Vegas prostitutes--you might as well beg me to shoot you in the head. You know I haven't had sex in more than a year? That's why I'm giving serious thought to fucking you, Ray. You're from out of town, that's gotta count for something.