By now, you’d forgotten when and how you got to Ambrose, but you knew it must’ve been nearly a decade ago. Doing the same mundane chores made the days in the Sinclair house merge together into a continuous blur. Loving, and being loved by Bo made it all worth it in the end. He’d never expressed his love out loud, never letting those three sweet words slip from his lips even by accident. It was shown in his actions, in the days he’d take you into a nearby town, in the valuables he’d collected from his victims just for you. He wouldn’t dare bring back something that wasn’t exactly your style.
Fingers between your slick folds, you had failed to notice Bo leaning against the bathroom counter and watching you with a hungry grin on his face. You let out a whimper, gripping the side of the bathtub.
“Seems like yer having fun without me, not that I mind.. You look real pretty like this.” Bo murmured, standing up straight and approaching the tub. You let out a shriek as he spoke up, immediately removing your soaked fingers from your pussy.
“Cmon, now. You ain’t gotta stop for me, baby. I was enjoying the show.” Still frozen from shock, you stared at him with your mouth agape. He kneeled beside the tub, his fingers caressing your soapy breasts before taking your nipple between his fingers and gently twisting it.
“Bo- ah.. I didn’t think you’d be home for at least another hour..” You moaned, sucking in a breath when his fingers suddenly travelled down to your clit.
“So you decided to start without me, to deprive me of seeing and providing my gorgeous wife’s pleasure. I see how it is.” He chuckled, pinching the already swollen nub between his thumb and index finger.
“N-no, it’s not like that.. I just couldn’t wait, I needed you so bad.” You leaned back in the tub, grinding your pussy into his touch. He hummed in a way that made it seem like he didn’t believe you, as insecure as he was, he probably didn’t.
“Could’ve just come to the garage and found me, I would’ve taken care of ya. Thought you’d know that by now, sweet girl.” His hand moved to your entrance, pushing two thick fingers in just enough to make you whine in frustration, not enough to make you feel good yet. You tried to fuck yourself on his fingers, but his free hand came down to keep your hips still. He shook his head in faux disappointment
“I know, I know.. I just didn’t wanna bother you- Oh!” Your words were cut off by him pushing his fingers all the way in, the tips brushing against your cervix. He kept them still for what felt like forever, and you were really starting to regret not bothering to walk to the garage. You knew he’d tease you as ‘punishment’ if he felt like it. His hand tightened its grip on your hip, sensing how badly you wanted to make yourself cum.
“Not yet, baby. Have patience.” He leaned over to kiss your forehead, inhaling the sweet scent of your raspberry shampoo before slowly trailing towards your exposed neck. He sank his teeth in.. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to hurt. You yelped at the feeling, but instead of telling him off, you leaned your head to the side and exposed your neck more. His tongue traced the now visible teeth marks near your shoulder, drawing soft mewls from your lips. He started moving his fingers inside you antagonizingly slow, occasionally letting his thumb run circles around your clit.
“Bo, please.. I just- I wanna..” You babbled, lost in the pleasure of his thick digits stretching and filling you. He ignored your pleas, not speeding up his movements in the slightest. If anything, it felt like he was going slower.
“Are you gonna be good? This pussy is mine.” He paused his movements and pulled his head away from your neck, so he could look at you. “Say it.” The shit eating grin on his face told you he was joking, but you decided to play along anyways, hoping he’d let you cum.
You nodded, turning to look away as the embarrassed blush took over your face. “Use your words, baby. Is this my pussy?” He pulled his fingers out of you to hold your face in both of his hands, making you look up at him. “Well?”
You whimpered at the loss of his fingers, nearly whining. “Yes! Yes, god. It’s your pussy, please let me cum..”
“No god here, darlin’. Just you and me. Move over for me, would you?” Not waiting for you to actually move, he quickly stripped off his coveralls and settled in behind you in the tub. His chest was warm against your back, his long legs on either side of yours. You could feel his erection on the small of your back. His right hand trailed back down towards your aching folds, his cold ring snipping at your skin and leaving behind goosebumps. You let yourself go limp above him as his index and middle fingers finally pressed on your clit, drawing slow circles.
It still wasn’t anywhere near enough, but it was something. Moaning, you threw your head back to rest on his shoulder and let him take care of you. “You need more, my love?” He asked teasingly, his chuckle tickling your neck as he kissed it. All you could manage was a weak nod and a whine. He let out a genuine laugh and moved his other hand to your entrance, slowly teasing in one finger, then eventually two.
The relentless pace of his fingers brought you to your peak in a matter of minutes. “Gonna cum for me, pretty girl? Cmon, you can do it.” The praises murmured directly in your ear sent you over the edge. Holding your mouth open in a silent scream, your orgasm washed over you and your fingers dug into his forearms. Easing his pace, he guided you through your orgasm while pressing sweet kisses to your hairline. He kept his fingers on you until you squirmed and whined from overstimulation.
He conditioned your hair and washed your body, making sure to get every nook and cranny. While you rinsed yourself, he washed the dirt and grime off his own body. He got out and helped you up, before wrapping you in a soft pink towel and helping you dry off.
He was still hard, painfully so. He set you on the bathroom counter, letting the towel fall off you and stepping in between your legs. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet, gorgeous.” His hands gripped the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him as he slid his tip between your folds, grinding against you.
You ruin Bo's plans, but his desperation to keep you around is stronger than his desire to set you straight.
Warnings: 18+, AU, smut, slight dubcon, f!reader, language, unhealthy dynamic but he tries, controlling dynamic, mommy issues + mommy kink (the term mommy isn’t mentioned), breast/nipple play, dom!reader, sub!bo, reader is morally grey, violence, mentions of blood and murder, typical horror warnings, weapons, alcohol, smoking, angst and comfortish, but you love that man like nobody can, softer!bo, grammar probs WC 8.7K
A/N: Please advise warnings, this dynamic certainly isn't for everyone. I didn't list stockholm syndrome as a warning because I didn't imagine the reader as a real captive, rather a figurative one. I did a lot of research on this film because I love it so much, and though Bo's killing technique isn't mentioned canonically, I wanted to emphasize that my creation of Bo may be a serial murder, but he is certainly not a rapist or sexual predator. I wouldn't be able to stomach that. So, I may have softened him a bit but its because I'm a romantic and I love to self indulge. ANYways I hope you enjoy regardless. Listened to Ethel Cain on repeat for this one. My inbox is open, as are my requests!
A sheen layer of sweat glistened on your temples. The sun shone harshly onto your exposed skin as you loaded paper grocery bags onto the bed of the truck. The black metal scorched your skin, hissing in disapproval of your time leisurely spent in the outskirts of your enclosure. Bo's truck was similar to him in that way.
The driver seat groaned beneath your weight as you situated yourself behind the wheel. Stale cigarette smoke permeated from the hot cabin, settling in your sun-baked hair. The truck engine whined, and for every second spent out of his sight, you knew Bo would have too.
You just couldn't help yourself. Ambrose seldom offered normalcy. The neighboring towns bustled with livelihood and the gratitude of functioning air conditioners. Their communities did not reek of death, but of life and prosperity. Of fresh laundry and ripe tomatoes. Of newly cut lawns and gossip caught from open windows. Children's bikes chimed and dog paws clacked on fresh pavement. Clothing rotated in shop windows—constantly changing to resemble the magazines that women held in salon chairs.
Dust was not swept to keep up appearances. Contraptions were not built to mimic the steady rise and fall of a breathing chest. Prescriptions did not expire behind pharmacy counters, and wax did not glaze over ordinary imperfections. Ambrose made these little Louisiana towns resemble heaven, and as your head lied upon the same stained fitted sheets in a town with a population of four and a dog, you could only have dreamt of something so luxurious.
So, you grew aggravated. Harbored enough resentment to fuel Bo's truck to New Orleans and back.
Bo's lingering touch stung your bare skin. Left imprinted uncertainty where you once felt adoration. You grew hopeful he'd spend more time in the garage, and less time searching for you—peering within the shadows that the street lights and shop signs neglected to illuminate. You'd slowly began moving some of your possessions to a house down the street, with a back deck and a rocking chair that faced the expansive forest. Thick vines twirled onto the banister, gripping with its green hands as if loosening would prompt the entire structure to collapse.
You weren't going to leave, not completely, yet the thrill of disobedience flourished with every object you moved to your house rather than a home you shared. A hairbrush on the old dresser. Sheets you had bought from the department store in town stitched newly and save without wear. A newspaper clipping of salons in the next town over, employment listings seemingly etched on the back. The stacked cardboard boxes in the Sinclair house taunted you. Misplaced photographs and empty beer cans spilled along the filthy carpet. It made your skin crawl. No vacuum was strong enough to suction decades worth of cigarette ash and emotional distress, embedded in the worn rug as if it was installed when the house was built—trapped inside. Seeping out, and grasping at your slipper-clad feet as you maneuvered around the house of horrors.
You'd never truly leave. You didn't truly want to. Bo handing over the keys to his beat up truck was a test you aced every time. He would search for you, not that he would need to go far, because you would return to him all over again.
Readily, you'd fall into his creaky bed. Into the chapel as he prayed over his deceased mother, seeking for advise she could no longer—if she ever was able to, provide. Your fingernails would paw at the stitching of his suit jacket as if you were a child grown bored by the intricacies of Sunday mass. You'd crawl onto the porch and into his lap while he held a cigarette between his calloused fingertips. The amber glow would glisten onto his softened face, settling into the fine lines around his stern eyes. You would cradle his stubbled jaw, thumb swiping over the coarse bumps along his throat.
The image hardened in your stomach. You were utterly dependent. Utterly restricted by rules you abided by. Bo never strapped you to a chair. Never threw you over his shoulder and gave you a reason to fear him. Never duck-taped your mouth shut and trailed a knife over your beating heart to prove he was your keeper, to prove he was the only one capable of determining your fate. He didn't have to. Seemingly didn't desire to. And as you turned onto the main road in Ambrose, you thought about flooring it straight into the damn garage.
Bo's truck shifted over the pavement, nearly urging itself towards home without your assistance. The air conditioned breeze brushed upon your face, goosebumps biting along your forearms. Bo's truck remained the only place in Ambrose with functioning AC. The unit he had bought sat unopened in a spare room up at the house, awaiting installation as impatiently as you were. Your whining needed to be done tastefully, preferably on a day where the eldest wasn't stricken with the burdens of maintaining a ghost town. Lester would install it in a heartbeat. That much you knew to be true.
You grew restless at the thought of stepping out into the sun once more, as something odd caught your gaze. Two figures were placed before the church. The woman was clad in a white tank top that struggled to stay put upon her small frame, flowing with the subtle drift and reaching just barely above her mid thigh. Her companion was a very tall man, hovering at least a foot above her.
You'd never seen these figures before. Maybe Vincent had them stored elsewhere. You glanced at the time ticking on your wrist. Perhaps you'd been gone long enough for a new capture to have swept through. For Vincent to have ample time to carve through their humanly imperfections—smoothing them as if they had never existed at all. Though, the feminine figure wasn't wax at all. She leaned into the chest of her companion, hand trailing his broad shoulder as her lips stretched into a pleasant grin. She was another living, breathing person standing idly by the church.
Your hands grasped the leather steering wheel, desperate to get to them before anyone else did.
The truck halted across the street from the white chapel. The couple watched as you hopped out from the driver's seat and into view. Hesitating, the man followed shortly behind his female counterpart. She was certainly not as cautious.
Sure, you were complicit. You watched as Vincent hauled men twice his size over his shoulder and into the basement. You heard the screams as they echoed along the empty streets, piercings into your eardrums and aching beneath your molars as you clenched your jaw. You knew Bo took tourists beneath the garage before, strapped them into his twisted fantasy and all you could hope was that he didn't touch them how he touched you. Pathetic.
"Can I help you?" You swallowed. A swift hand shielded your already sunglass-clad eyes. A self-conscious submission. Please don't see the blood on my hands.
The woman stepped before you, a shy smile offered. Something foul lingered along your nostrils. Death. Rot left out in the tenacious sun. "Do you know where we can find Bo?" She asked. Her head tilted in a way that seemed as if she wasn't sure Bo even existed.
"I'm not exactly sure where he is at the moment. Maybe I can help?"
The man peered over his presumable girlfriend, thick brows furrowed in bemusement. His striped shirt grew damp along his neck. "Are you a mechanic?"
You shifted your weight onto your other foot, hand finding the dip of your waist. "No, are you?"
The girl's hand swatted against his chest. "Listen," she began. "A guy brought us here, said to look for Bo. We need a new fan belt."
"Fifteen inch," he added, unhelpfully. "We tried asking for help from somebody in the church but seems like there's a funeral goin' on."
"Yeah, bad timing," the young girl laughed. Your eyes scanned the pebbles beneath the soles of your boots. You didn't have long. "I'm Carly by the way, this here's my boyfriend, Wade."
A small stretch pulled at your lips as you told her your name. She seemed sweet, young. Maybe college-aged. A little frazzled by the combination of heat and the lingering aroma of roadkill, most definitely. If Lester brought them here, surely Bo must've known about them already. Your head swiveled towards the chapel doors as if glaring at them would grant you the ability to see inside. You imagined Bo's body pressed up against the wood, waiting to intervene. Waiting for you to make a mistake.
"I don't...think we have those, but the next town over might." Your shoulders lifted in faux defeat. It was a long shot. You weren't exactly sure if the shop had them. It was a matter of getting them into your car before he burst down the church steps and wrapped his hands around someone's neck.
"Are you sure? Can't you check first?" Carly panted.
Wade pinched the skin between his brows, nearly hissing at you as a rebuttal. Louisiana heat was no joke. "How far is the next town anyway?"
"It's not that far, I can take you. It's really no problem." Believe me, you have bigger ones, you thought. These were exactly the kind of tourists that didn't make it out alive. Nagging, picking fun at Vincent's art and trespassing where they didn't belong. Their personal belongings would be thrown in the old mill before they could locate Ambrose on a map.
Carly inhaled deeply. "It's just that we told our friends to meet us here-"
The door to the chapel swished open. Church music dissipated as it wafted shut again. Bo dug into his suit jacket pocket, and fished out a cigarette. His hair was styled, slicked with gel and combed back behind his ears. It curled at his tanned neck. You hadn't seen him in a suit in ages. Your heart began to pick up speed, thumping in the safety of your chest.
Bo stuck the cigarette onto his lips, nodding in your direction. He looked unfathomably handsome as he tilted his jaw down for you to give him a light. Your hand buried into the contents of your purse, swiftly flickering the lighter and watching as the butt glowed amber. Carly's eyes narrowed curiously, and you almost forgot they were standing there.
"Shouldn't have walked in." Bo exhaled a cloud of nicotine away from your face as Wade sighed.
"Yeah, I know. It's just that we have car trouble, and we're not from this town." He explained. Bo's glare remained fixated on your face. The laces in your boots suddenly became extremely interesting to you.
"We were looking for Bo. He works at the gas station," Carly added.
"You found 'em," Bo scoffed. The man took one last inhale, tossing his cigarette onto the ground. He was wearing dress shoes. The black leather barely scuffed. Faded fold lines imprinted onto his dress shirt. You would have ironed it, had he asked...
"Really? Well, we need a fan belt-"
Wade interrupted her, "We were camping up the road and..."
"You walk in on a funeral for a fuckin' fan belt?" The Sinclair twin stepped forward, leveling himself with Wade. Despite his stature above that of Bo, Wade seemingly shrunk. Carly's eyes trailed over to your position. A subtle plea.
"Bo, they didn't know," you reasoned. Your fingers burned, desperate to reach out to him. Consoling him in front of them would likely irritate him. Still, you yearned to brush the accumulated debris off his broad shoulder—hand lingering where his bicep proved strong.
"Yeah, well let me just go dump the casket in the ground," he murmured. "I'll be right there."
Bo set for the stairs, softly closing the chapel doors behind him. Your head shook solemnly. It was an act, you knew this well. You knew him well, yet part of you wondered if today was an exception. An anniversary of some sort.
Your knowledge of Trudy was limited to what Bo had confided in you, and the few photographs scattered in packed drawers. Newspaper clippings were framed in the wax museum, but your lack of interest deterred you from investigating. You did not care to know the boys' mother. Their peculiarity was enough for you. The indentations on Bo's wrists and ankles. The cower in Vincent's shoulders. Lester's desperation to please. Trudy Sinclair was better off memorialized with her mouth shut. With a permanent procession of strangers and a beaded rosary upon her wicked hands.
Carly lingered for a moment, waiting for your day dream to pass. You imagined the gears turning in her head. "You said the next town wasn't too far?"
You shook your head. "'Bout thirty miles."
"Kinda far," Wade scoffed.
Your sunglasses suddenly weighed heavily upon the bridge of your nose. Carefully, you pushed them back onto the top of your head. Eyes narrowed, your gaze dug straight into Carly's boyfriend. "It's different down here, you're not in whatever city you came from. There isn't a gas station or diner on every street." Your hands gestured sternly towards the vast emptiness of the town before you. "I can try to help you, but you're gonna need to develop a bit of patience."
Wade's stripe-clad shoulders shrunk once more, this time in acquiesce rather than submission. Carly's brown eyes softened. "This isn't a lot to ask of you?"
"Not at all. I make this trip often." You gestured to the truck standing just feet away from you, groceries idly in the back.
The duo exchanged a knowing look, but before they could accept your proposal, Bo stepped out from the church once again. He found his way beside you, heat radiating from his body. Cigarette smoke and faded cologne floated along your nostrils. It was intoxicatingly familiar. Bo's calloused hand rested among the small of your back, prompting a subtle tilt of your head. He was somewhat grinning. It was muted, but evident in the perk of his lips. He was uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry. You know, someone very special to me passed. And I didn't mean to take it out on you," he admitted.
Wade eyed your closeness as Carly's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Bo was an incredible actor to an unknowing audience. It didn't help that he was undeniably stunning, and ostensibly normal.
"No, no, no," she persisted. "It's totally understandable. You guys just lost someone and we're begging for a favor." Trudy's death was hardly a loss, you thought. More like divine intervention. Bo's hand rubbed at the exposed skin of your hip.
"I reckon things will wrap up soon," he said. He gestured down the hill with his free hand. "Why don't I meet you guys back at the station in 'bout a half?"
The girl's shoulders released. Her gratitude would likely be short lived. Maybe not if you could help it. "That'd be great, thank you both. Really."
She smiled brightly, grasping onto Wade's arm as they walked onto the path towards the museum. Bumping hips and intertwining their hands like kids in a school parking lot. The museum would be nothing like field day, however. No relay race or capture the flag. Only unwilling participants frozen in a game of freeze-tag.
Your attention returned to the man beside you. "Are you gonna help them?"
He scoffed. "Don't I always help the needy?" A smirk spread onto his lips, both hands now resting on your waist. His thumbs rubbed beneath your t-shirt.
"Seriously, Bo. They seem nice," you paused. "And young. Just get them what they need and let them go."
"You're awfully bossy, sweetheart."
You hummed, pressing short kisses along his shaven jaw. It smelled of aftershave. The stubble left your lips tingling pleasantly. "Someone has to keep you in check."
"And I suppose that must be you?" He murmured against your lips. Molding them together as if that's the only place they belonged. He tasted faintly of nicotine and spearmint. Perhaps that was why he was so addictive.
His head tilted side to side in mocking consideration. "I let them go, and then what?"
You pulled away. "You'll be graciously rewarded."
Bo stepped closer, hovering over you. His blue eyes narrowed in an attempt to appear intimidating. He didn't scare you, though. His gaze surveyed your entirety. "If you're just offering a chance to get between your legs, that ain't nothin' special."
You wound your hand to smack his chest, but he was much quicker than you. Catching your hand, he intertwined your fingers with his own, resting just above where his heart should be.
"Jackass," you hissed, but the smile on your lips provided anything but malice. "You certainly won't mind me finding someone that would appreciate it then, huh?"
His grin was wicked. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he pinched your jean-clad ass. Right in front of a church. His mother's final resting place. How fitting.
"Don't y'got groceries to put away, girl?" A firm kiss was planted onto your hairline. "Money just meltin' in the bed of that truck."
"Not like it's yours."
"'Scuse me?" Sharp lines creased between Bo's brows. His eyes remained squinted. You slid your sunglasses off of your face, and placed them carefully onto his. Likely the heat, but you swore you saw redness flush along his bare neck and beneath his black collar.
"Nothin', baby." Your hands stroked the shoulder pads on his suit jacket, rubbing intentionally. "I'll see you back at the house after you help Carly and Wade."
Your lips pressed against Bo's, a final provocation to do precisely what you ask of him. Hips swaying down to his truck, you hear the man clear his throat.
"And which house is that?"
Frozen, you turned on your heels to face him. You expected steam to outpour from his ears. Maybe a knife clad in his hand or Doc Sinclair's shotgun that usually remained safe over the fireplace. But his lips were not tilted downwards, and his sharp jaw was not clenched. He looked curious. Amused, even.
Your mouth popped open, but before you could find the ability to explain he interrupted once more. "This isn't over," he said, finger pointed at you like a recruitment poster. Uncle Sam looked ridiculous in your round, crystalized sunglasses. "I'll deal with you later." The man returned into the chapel, door ushered closed behind him.
Of course he knew, and part of you felt guilty. Why did you always assume he would react aggressively? As if he ever acted that way towards you to begin with. He had never harmed you. Never laid a finger on you that you didn't want, didn't beg for. Perhaps it was because you knew what he was capable of.
You had scrubbed the blood from his hands, beneath his brittle fingernails. Had wiped the frustrated tears from his sorrowful eyes, and rinsed the stains from his worn clothing as if it was simply a wine spill. A simple mistake, and not a well thought out plan that commenced with the order placement of duck tape and medical equipment.
Bo was complicated in his own way. You’d known him to go months without bloodshed. Ambrose was secluded enough that visitors were not habitual, but a periodical nuisance. He was sloppy, aiming mostly for a weaker target that didn’t fuss too much before his hands could wrap around their throat.
Vincent was stronger. Perhaps more so than Bo ever was. Ever could be. Destined for a life of misery. Of emotional stunting and a relentless phobia of abandonment. In a way, they all were.
They made you comfortable. Encouragement, you figured. Please don’t leave us like our mother did. Like our father did.
Bo could leave, you thought. If provoked. If begged. But it wasn’t in your nature to do so.
Stumbling upon Bo Sinclair was a rarity. A coincidence. In his mind, fate.
It was late July in New Orleans. The skin of your bare legs stuck to the barstool you sat upon. Legs crossed, you cradled a chilled glass in your right palm. The condensation made a mess of your hand, yet you still offered it to the man that slotted himself beside you. An assertion of dominance. Of course he knew. So he wiped his large hand onto his jean-clad thigh— a temporary marking. Something like a hickey.
You learned that he was from a small town about two hours North of New Orleans, and about forty-five minutes from Baton Rouge. He was a twin, though he couldn’t remember who was just seconds older, and an older brother nonetheless. His palms were rough, no doubt victim to physical labor. His wrists were decorated in badly healed indentations, as if rubber bands had overstayed their welcome on his poor skin. He rolled down his sleeves just as your eyes caught sight of them.
He was persuasive, and charming. A southern gentleman that worked with his hands, and smelled vaguely of stale cigarettes. There was evidently more to his life than he led on, but there were skeletons in your closet too. None that compared to the horrors of Ambrose and the dust-caked museum resting upon the hill, however, and as you leisurely rocked back and forth upon the deck of your abandoned home, you contemplated the sanity of remaining stagnant.
Bo's imperfections were not smoothed over with scorching candle wax, but solidified in the irrationality of his routine. His incessant obsession with perfection in appearance, while the Sinclair house withered with an essence of demise.
Trudy's lanky figure stalked the halls, lingered past the blind spots of street lamps and whispered with each passing breeze. She brushed strands of your hair off of your damp forehead during the particularly warm nights, and stood eerily in the background of your peculiar dreams. Her bedroom door would waft open, despite the lack of a draft. It was better that her eyes were waxed shut, you thought. Yet, at times when Bo wasn’t looking, you swore the blues of her irises shined beneath the burning candles scattered along the church. Her black lashes tickling the edge of her brows. Eyes forever unmoving, but profoundly open.
She wasn't the only figure that loomed within your vision, but the others made themselves scarce. You wondered if a proper burial would put an end to her visits. God forbid you told Bo, yet something told you he saw her too. There were certainly more than five permanent residents in Ambrose, even if the majority were deceased.
The sun was just beginning to set along the horizon. Burnt amber loosened along the tree lines, settling behind the museum on the hill. You couldn't see the main house from here. Though, if you stood on the top step of the Sinclair porch, you could faintly see the red garage door attached to your humble cottage. Unsuspecting to most, you were sure Bo could have sensed which one you occasionally occupied just by pure intuition.
You didn't choose this house at random. Trudy seemingly never visited you here, neither by dream or by apparition. It was far enough from town for the whirl of generators to only be heard scarcely, beneath the rattle of the window fan you had cranked on the highest setting. Only Jonesy would find her way to you when she felt as if she was being neglected. She'd scratch her filthy paw at the screen door, waiting patiently for permission to enter. You'd brush her and tend to her nails, sometimes bathing her when she was being extra sweet. Those moments sat uncomfortably in the pits of your heart. A yearning for normalcy. A shared home with Bo where nightmares didn't ensue. Jonesy could run freely along the backyard while you nursed a melting glass in the comfort of Bo's lap. Vincent and Lester could loosen the tension in their shoulders.
After departing from Bo, you had put away the groceries and tidied the lingering mess of the small kitchen. You cursed at the accumulating mess before setting down the main road.
Carly's caramel brown hair wafted out the open window of the pick up that he usually kept stationary beside the shop. Perhaps it had something to do with the broken headlight that appeared miraculously overnight.
The yellow exterior floated along the pavement. You brought an eager hand to shield your eyes, whether from the sun or the atrocious mustard steel you couldn't be sure. But as Carly's hand waved happily from the passenger side, a glimmer of hope festered in your belly.
Bo's truck was once a luxury you couldn't afford to lose. You frequently cringed at the memories of when he would fish through the receipts, scanning with a glare you could only interpret as uncertainty. Mistrust. You believed it had less to do with the items and cost, and more to do with his compulsion for control. That sort of behavior needed to be reprimanded, and Bo learned quickly not to check another receipt.
Footsteps thumped along the front steps of your residence, echoing to your position on the back deck. The chair rocked leisurely beneath you, as you stretched to place your book on the nearby table. You did not wait for him to knock, or for your name to be called from behind the black screen. It wasn't in his nature to wait for permission. That needed to be taught.
Your neck craned as you sensed his figure looming behind you. A smirk pulled along his lips. He was leaning against the doorframe, still clad in his mechanic uniform. Soft tufts of hair snuck out beneath his baseball cap, curling at the base of his neck. You gestured to the empty seat resting alongside you.
The wood creaked beneath his weight. The sound settled along with the chirp of nearby crickets and the rustling tree branches as they swung in the wind.
“Did you help them with their fan belt?” You asked, breaking the comfortable silence that laid over the two of you like the cotton sheet you had on the bed back home.
“Sure did, just like y’asked of me.” He rolled his head towards you, brows raised as if waiting for praise.
“They’ll be on their way then?” A smile played carefully along your lips, unsure.
He hummed mindlessly, eyes planted on the wild brush ahead.
“Why did you do it?”
“D'what?” His blue eyes were finally on you now. Lips pressed in a thin line, his expression was somewhat misleading.
“You helped them, and let them go.” He did, didn’t he?
Bo removed the cap from his head, rough fingers threading through the brown locks revealed beneath it. You reached out an eager hand before he could return it to its place. Your fingertips toyed with his scalp. His eyes fluttered closed in submission. He was capable, you thought.
“‘S what y’asked me to do.” He murmured.
Your hand glided swiftly from his scalp to his cheek, thumb swiping along his lips. “You’re a good boy, Bo. Y'take such good care of me.”
He smiled. He panted into your hand, eyes still closed as he suckled onto the pad of your thumb. You pushed the digit leisurely in and out of his mouth. His ample tongue chased closely behind. The bulge forming beneath the constraints of his uniform was visible to you now. The setting sun glazed over his face, caressing the scar on his chin and resting within the fine lines of his forehead.
Carefully, you got up from your own chair and stood before him. His cap rested on his knee, hair still tousled upon his head. Bo brought his large hands to rest on your hips, and you took this as permission to straddle his lap. You placed his baseball cap onto his head once again, this time angling it backwards so you could lean in.
Bo groaned into your mouth, pushing his lips against yours eagerly. Your hips shifted over the hardening bulge that aligned with your clothed pussy. Gasping, you steadied yourself and placed a delicate but intentional grasp onto his broad shoulders. The chair creaked beneath the two of you as you dragged your hips agonizingly back and forth over his lap.
Bo struggled, his lips chasing yours with furious determination. Warmth fanned onto your face with every sharp exhale through his nose. He grasped harshly onto the fat of your ass—an attempt at getting his way. An attempt to force your hand and allow him to take charge. His submissive facade seemingly faded and the Bo Sinclair you knew was coming through once more. Not this time.
You pulled off of his lips, your own tingling with dissatisfaction. The man’s brows screwed, hand still rubbing the skin he previously squeezed. “‘S the matter with you?”
“You were being so good.” You spoke lowly, almost taunting. Your swollen lips pursed in disappointment as he took you in. His stern gaze softened as his eyes rampantly scampered around your face like an obedient puppy. His hair was a mess. The collar of his shirt was disarray and partially unbuttoned. You smoothed it, shaking your head softly. “You always do what I ask, don’t you, baby?”
“Course I do.”
“Then sit still, and don’t touch me,” you hissed. You swatted at the lingering touches on your waist, his fingers releasing rapidly as if he grazed a hot stove top.
A small scoff escaped his lips nonetheless. Bo’s head shook. Curiosity danced along the dark blues of his irises. Within this lighting they appeared nearly obsidian, blown with arousal and slight pain. Pain of releasing control, of passing it onto you as if it were a family heirloom. Blown with reluctance and simultaneous acquiesce. He was at war with himself. But he is capable. You know, so you persisted.
“You always give me want I want,” you cooed. “You always take care of me. Let me do the same.” Hands roamed his chest. You pawed at the tufts of hair peeking out beneath his undershirt.
He sighed heavily, chest falling as his gaze loitered along the fabric covering your stomach. It wasn’t until his shoulders were freed of lingering tension that you relented.
Your hand trailed down the length of his torso, index finger tugging beneath his leather belt. The cold metal tingled onto the pads of your fingertips—a sharp contrast from the passion radiating from his body. You wondered how it hadn’t melted, pooled into the palm of your hand like he soon would. For now, you leaned forward. Your warm hand palmed his bulge, lips swallowing each grunt as he allowed them.
Bo’s hips twitched with each grasp, each pressed kiss onto his neck. “You’re being so good, I knew you could be.” You murmured against his lips.
“C'mon, I need…”
You thought you had imagined it, but as your thumb swiped over his cheekbone a sudden wetness reflected within your fingerprint. Tears had accumulated in his frustration, yet instead of forcing a change in dynamic, he relented.
“You need what, honey?”
He gritted his teeth. “More, fuck. You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.” He pleaded with every tear collected in his waterline, voice rasped in despair.
“Tell me what you want, Bo.” Your hips shifted slowly over his lap now. Your hands warmed as they cradled his head, annoyance pouring from within him.
“I need t’touch you, please.”
Bo hissed as you slipped from his lap. The sudden lack of body heat was quickly absorbed in the chill of night. The sun had trickled beneath most of the tree line now, leaving a veil of darkness above. The profound cold nipped at your exposed forearms.
You stood above him now. Your shoulders relaxed with this newfound pride. “Bed. Upstairs, c’mon.”
You feel him behind you the entire way up the staircase. His head swirls around, taking in this place that’s become your second home. It’s vague, empty save for the few items you had brought in: a hairbrush, novels, new makeup and curtains that needed to be ironed.
Your bedroom was reminiscent of a bedroom you had had in a previous life, where the horrors of Ambrose had yet to manifest. In an apartment where Bo's things were not thrown over living room chairs, and his toothbrush didn't nestle too closely besides yours. Cardboard boxes weren't filled with his deceased mother's things. Your apartment had yet to experience the nuisances of living with Bo Sinclair. Yet, you couldn't imagine sharing a bedroom with anyone but Bo.
He took in the clean sheets pulled onto the thick mattress, the window fan blowing summer air into the space. Curtains billowed along with the breeze. It smelled of you, he noticed.
You pursued the bed, laying your head onto the fluffed pillows as he watched, awaiting further instruction. Awaiting permission. Your fingers curled, summoning him to you. His rough hands toyed with the buttons of his shirt, undoing them as if being timed. One by one, Bo peeled both layers from his torso, tossing them gently onto the floor. He moved with such fluidity, such dedication. You wondered if he had even taken a breath.
Bo kneeled onto the bed before you, hands resting firmly on the plush of your hips. His bangs had fallen onto his forehead now, dampened with perspiration. "What do you want, baby?" You cooed, brushing those persistent hairs out of his eyes. He nuzzled into your palm, stubble tenderly pricking the skin.
"Let me taste you, please.” He begged, voice gravel as his restless hands palmed the softness of your flesh. You nodded, and he began to guide your shorts off of your body. Your hips rose with ease, desperate for the throb in your underwear to be dealt with.
Bo messily pressed his lips onto your inner thighs, inhaling your undeniable arousal. His fingers easily buckled beneath your panties, pulling them down the expanse of your legs.
The chill of the window fan flutters along your newly exposed skin. Goosebumps bite along the surface as Bo buried his face into your mound. You gasped—an encouragement to push further. Your hips rocked along his soaked face, gliding over his eager tongue as he lapped your juices.
He ate as if he were starved, emaciated by months of deprivation. Breathless, your back arched off of the comfort of the mattress. He was insatiable. Heat festered in the endless pits of your abdomen, fanned by every lick of his tenacious tongue. Your nipples hardened beneath your loose shirt, tickled by the light fabric. As if he could sense your desperation, a calloused hand slithered underneath your top. He palmed your ample breasts and summoned a whimper to fall from your agape lips.
Bo was filthy with exhilaration. Damp curls soaked onto his forehead as he groaned into your pussy. The vibrations prodded at your arousal, and his nose slid over your throbbing clit. Hips jerked over his zealous mouth, and Bo's strong arms trapped you securely around his shoulders.
Passing the baton of control was seemingly addictive, and his eagerness to please had you incoherent—babbling praise as he persisted in chasing your high. "Don't stop," you all but pleaded.
His chin was slick, coated in your excitement. It wasn't until then that you noticed his own arousal pushing into the mattress. His hips rotated, hopelessly grinding into the plush comforter in need for release. His tongue flickered in and out of your hole, nose dragging back along your throbbing sex.
"You're such a good boy, Bo," you praised through uneven pants. "You're gonna make me cum." His moans vibrated against your sensitive mound, pushing you over the edge. Pleasure crashed over you, mouth agape as you whined. Your toes momentarily froze as your legs shook over the comfort of his broad shoulders. His arms still firmly held you in place. Your walls clenched, aching as your orgasm washed through you.
Your chest rose and fell rapidly. Heart thumping as if it were trying to completely pry itself from your body. You sat up, blinking at him. He was disheveled, eyes glazed over as if hypnotized. He wiped his face on your previously clean sheets, breathless and utterly obedient. His dark eyes trailed up your torso, finding your gaze and awaiting instruction.
Your fingers grasped onto his chin, still partially dampened. You tugged him forward until he was hovering over you. His face squeezed between each of your fingers as you held him above you. “Lie back.”
Bo maneuvered himself onto the pillows. His bare chest glistened beneath the moonlight pouring in from the open window. Soft brown hair decorated his torso, trailing all the way to his fastened belt buckle as you tugged at it. It snapped in release. You tossed the heavy leather off to the side, the object thumping as it hit the wooden floors.
“What do you want?” You asked, toying with the seams of his black trousers. You felt the elasticity of his briefs beneath them. You yearned to snap it onto his unsuspecting skin.
Bo’s gaze fixated elsewhere. His jaw grew slightly sharp as he gritted his teeth. He was fighting himself once more, you figured. But you knew how to be patient.
“Good boys use their words. Don’t they, baby?” You asked, head craning in mock sincerity.
He nodded. Gaze still glued to the walls as if he were watching them dry.
“I can’t hear you.”
“I wan-,” he grunted. “I jus’ want to be inside o’you.”
Your warm grasp rested on his clothed thighs. He wasn’t the only one practicing restraint. He was an utter mess—hair slicked onto his forehead, lips parted as he rejected submission. His eyes were glossy, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“You wanna fuck me, Bo?”
Eyes finally meeting yours, Bo nearly moaned. “Yes,” he hissed.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then lift,” you spoke. You pulled onto his trousers, guiding them down his legs. His bulge pressed angrily against his thin boxers. The outline of his tip flushed against the fabric, alongside an undeniable stain of arousal. You grinned, brows furrowing.
“See, wasn’t that hard, was it, baby?” You cooed. Bo was completely exposed to the lingering air circulating the tense bedroom. You tossed his boxers somewhere onto the floor, reaching for the hem of your light shirt.
He was propped against the headboard as you straddled his lap. Heat radiated from his eager body. Your hands roamed the expanse of his chest, finally settling upon his shoulders.
“Do y'want to touch me?” You asked, brushing his stubborn bangs from his damp forehead.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Always a quick learner. Perhaps it was a defensive trait—learning what appealed to his mother. What to say, what not to say. How to not step on her toes. You weren’t that way.
“Go ‘head, honey.”
Bo’s rough hands gravitated from your waist to your hardened nipples, palming the flesh as he watched your face. Gaging your reaction. A gasp escaped, and you situated yourself above his throbbing cock.
You grasped onto his shaft, his head prompting falling back onto the headboard. His tip was raging, throbbing a vibrant pink as you guided him through your slick folds.
Bo’s pearly teeth sunk into his bottom lip. Your hips rocked agonizingly over his, soaking his cock solely with the lubricant of your arousal. You moved just enough to stimulate your own pleasure, while simultaneously denying him of his.
He grunted, teeth gritted like an emaciated animal. He latched his rough fingers onto the plush of your waist, tossing you off of his lap and beneath him.
Your hands flew onto his pecs, handprints pressed into the flesh—his weight falling onto your grip. He hovered over your entirety, hand restraining you from taking back control.
His cock aligned with your slick entrance.
“Bo…" Your words dripped of a disappointment.
The man slid himself inside of you, inch by inch until there was nothing left to give. His hips were connected to yours, pubic hair tickling your groin. His head threw back in ecstasy as he groaned loudly. It was as if he had finally injected himself, the instant sensation of pleasure too great to resist.
He pounded into you, complaints falling short on your chapped lips. Breathless, you wrapped your legs around his lower back. The new angle allowed him further access, fucking into you as the bed frame screamed in agony. He was doing so well.
“Shh—baby, I’m…”
You wanted to scream. His thrusts became animalistic—grunts filling the empty room as if they were part of the initial decor. He felt so good. He knew your body better than you did. And as he guided himself in and out of you, you couldn’t help the heat from building inside of your stomach.
"Poor baby," you cooed. His thrusts remained relentless, and your hand grasped harshly at the roots of his brown hair. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"
Bo’s eyes filled with tears, streaming down his flushed cheeks—steam nearly rising at the contact.
“I’m… so sorry.”
You pulled at his thick hair, forcing him to look at you. His lip quivered, moaning as your slickness sucked him back inside.
“Oh, honey,” you said. “You’re not used to having to ask, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” he cried.
"You just take, and take. Don't you, Bo?"
Bo’s thrusts were slowing in pace, still pounding you into the plush mattress.
“It’s not your fault, baby.” Your fingers swiped underneath his tired eyes, collecting the tears before they dripped down onto your face. “You really tried. You tried to be good, didn’t you?”
“Yes! Yes, I…”
“I know,” you cooed. Your lips found his, tasting the salt of his tears as you molded them together. “You can be good, I know you can. You just need someone to show you, hmm?”
He buried his face into the nook of your shoulder, gasping for relief as the emotion streamed down his cheeks. He was a mess. He was your mess.
“I can teach you, baby,” you promised. “Would you like that?” Hand trailing down the expanse of his back, you coaxed a serial murder. He nodded, whispering a plea into your neck as if it were a recited prayer. Our father, art thou capable of forgiving such a sinner?
He kissed roughly upon your neck, trailing down to your ample breasts. His tongue circled the risen flesh, left breast to right and back again. Along your sternum, behind your ear, lips navigating as a nonverbal apology. I can be better, he promised. And so he shall.
His wet mouth found your nipple again, suckling with a persistent tongue. He doesn’t nip, just moans into your flesh as he finds his pace inside of you again.
“Go ‘head, honey. Take what you need.”
Your hand finds his scalp, threading through the locks while he latches himself to your nipple. Your chest dampens with his accumulated tears, yet the action seemingly calms him. His thrusts become much more intentional, grinding into you as his eyes fluttered shut.
His lashes brush against your skin. The slight tickle prompts goosebumps to rise along your body. He is all over you, weight completely upon you, and you’re utterly full. Your core throbs around him as his whimpering picks up.
“Cum for me, baby,” you panted softly through your lips. “You’re such a good boy, Bo.”
It washes over him instantly. His length twitches inside of you, spilling hot spurts of cum along your walls. His lips release your nipple as he orgasmed, and moans pleasantly filled the bedroom. His shoulders shook, hot pants of breath padded onto your skin.
He softened slightly inside of you. Your heart beat rapidly pulsated beneath his head. His ear pressed against the cavity as if ensuring you were alive to begin with. His brown hair curled at the base of his neck, tinged with sweat and a day of relentless sun. Relentless torture from the woman he loves.
Bo remained inside of you, shifting only to wrap his arms around your body. A mixture of tears and saliva dried over your breasts. He didn’t seem to mind, not while he listened to the rhythm of your heart. His head lifted carefully as you inhaled, promptly falling as the air slowly exited from your lungs. This was the most intimate you had been, likely the most you ever could be.
The window fan spun around and around, circulating the aroma of pleasure. Of pain. You brushed your fingers onto his bicep, nodding for him to get up.
You wrapped a thin robe around your frame, setting down the staircase and back onto the back deck. The sun had completely fallen. The night sky relished in darkness, harboring scattered stars as they reflected from lightyears away.
You fumbled with your package of cigarettes, as Bo entered from behind you. Looming against the doorframe, he was still shirtless. His chest glistened less, and his eyes remained sorrowful. The skin around them grew swollen. You had never seen Bo cry, not in the time you had known him. And you were positive even he could not remember the last time he sobbed that heavily.
His work pants were pulled back onto his hips, unzipped to reveal thick tufts of black pubic hair. He flickered his lighter, nodding towards you as you leaned forward.
The cigarette butt glowed amber. Wafts of nicotine dissipated into the night. Moths fluttered about, chasing the porch light while it shined.
You eyed his groin, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke as he lit his own cigarette.
“Very ‘70s,” you teased. A small smile pulled at your lips, but Bo remained somewhat impassive. His jaw clenched as he flicked ash from his cigarette.
“Did y’mean it?” He asked.
You hummed, lines settling between your brows.
“That I could be good.”
Your bare feet padded towards him, chilled against the wood. God, were his eyes full of pain. You hoped you hadn’t permanently broken him.
“Of course I did, Bo. I know you can be.”
Your chest was mere inches from his. Truth radiated from his silhouette. It lingered with the nicotine, swirling into your nostrils as your own eyes brimmed with tears.
“You are good, Bo.” You spoke lowly. “You are so good to me. You’d do anything for us—for me, Vincent… Lester.” What would it take?
“We could start fresh,” you added. Your hand cradled his jaw. You were being too optimistic. “We could leave Ambrose. We could have something normal—“
“Normal?” His voice raised. It was as if he had never heard the word before. Bo shook his head, defeat filled your belly like the first time you tried a strong liquor—unsettling and agonizingly misplaced.
He turned on his heels, flicking his cigarette into the brush.
“Bo, please!”
“What was that, huh?” He asked, chest puffed as his lips curled. His hand gestured to the ceiling. “Tryna trick me? Make me soft so you can get what y'want out o’me?”
Tears threatened your waterline, merely crossing as your lip quivered. “No… I just want you!”
The man leveled with you, glaring down at your frame as his shoulders tensed.
“Don’t you get it?” You pleaded. “I’m saying it doesn’t have to be this way—that we could have something normal. Where people are real, and they don’t need mechanics to fake their movements!”
You hadn’t realized you were crying until Bo’s gaze subtly softened. The lines beside his eyes somewhat disappeared, and you pushed.
“Vincent can still sculpt! He doesn’t need live models. You never needed any of this,” you gestured wildly.
“Yeah? And what 'bout me?”
“What about you?” You dared. “You did so good today, baby. You’d let them go—you helped, and let them go. Like I knew you could.”
He scoffed, gaze heading straight for the front door. “Y'not happy here? Is that what this s'bout?” Bo asked, blue eyes finally returning to your face. His tone softened, but his posture remained frozen in discomfort.
Were you? Was anyone that had lived here? Had anyone asked you a decade ago to describe your dream life, your dream home and relationship, would you have described this?
Ambrose was unforgiving. It was permanent to all those that encountered it, consciously or not. It ran on old generators and southern hospitality, and the gracious hands of Bo Sinclair. It ran on generational fear and neglectful mothers that had a shrine in the town church, and sons that worshiped her, even if they couldn’t understand why.
Nothing could completely change what happened here. Nothing could erase the body count that had tallied on the imagined chalkboard of your mind. Could people like Bo change? Like Vincent? Like Lester? Like you? Your shoulders shrunk, and the man before you remained restless.
“No.” You finally admitted.
It settled between you, nagging like a needy cat clawing at your socks. Pawing at your leg. Kneading the flesh with wide eyes.
He stared.
“Would you have chosen this for yourself?”
“No,” he hesitated momentarily. His lips curved downward. You could tell he ached for another cigarette. “Na, I wouldn’t.”
“I want a life with you, Bo.” You cried once more. Your fingers reached for his hand, lacing them together. You waited for him to pull back, yell and disappear into the night.
“I want a house that doesn’t have cardboard boxes for decor. I want clothes that fit my body.” You rubbed the callouses of his hand with your thumb. “I want to get my hair done—like normal women do. I want neighbors that laugh through open windows..."
His jaw clenched.
“I want to live in a place that's accessible on a map! I want a bed that doesn’t have sheets with holes in them—a mother-in-law that doesn’t haunt my dreams, and stalk the corners I round!”
“My mama—“
“I want a life that doesn’t entail imminent death or prison time, but I need you to want that too.”
The silence weighed on you heavily, resting on your shrunken shoulders as they shook.
He considered you carefully, and you wondered if he too were made of wax. If this whole time you had simply lost your mind. Unmoving, except for the occasional blink of his stern eyes. You had never been afraid of Bo, though you could see exactly why one might’ve been.
“I don’t know how t’leave.” He admitted, broad shoulders shrugging as a humorless laugh escaped his mouth. He reached to adjust his hat, but it still remained on the back deck. His hand fell to his side. “This s’all I know, y’get that?”
“Yes,” you nodded. Your eyes stung and you bit your lip to keep it from trembling.
He nodded once, arm reaching to pull you in. Against his bare chest you sobbed for every person that never left Ambrose. For every can of expired food, and for every roof that caved in from lack of maintenance. You cried for every time you lied restless in your shared bed, afraid to close your eyes in fear Trudy would appear behind them. For every article of clothing that didn’t belong to you, yet you wore it anyway. For every pair of shoes that didn’t quite fit. For every cobweb that tickled the corpses in the House of Wax. For every family that remained devastatingly optimistic. For every piece of duck tape on young Bo’s wrist. For every crude remark made on Vincent’s behalf. For every moment where Lester felt as if he never existed.
By morning, Bo would slip from your shared bed and confront his brothers, unknowing that they all felt the same.
Yet, for now, you let him rock you gently in your little house, in the safety of his strong arms and the scent of his faint cologne. You let the aroma of stale cigarettes blanket your exhaustion. You let dreams of paint colors and salon chairs fill your mind while he murmured soft promises against your hair.
Your mind filled of freedom, for you never thought you would dream of it again. And for the lowering of Trudy’s body into God's green earth, for none of you would truly be free until she was gone.
My delicious, handsome, beautiful, husband Bo Sinclair’s full name is FUCKING BEAUREGARD SINCLAIR???? I THOUGHT “BO” WAS SHORT FOR LIKE ROBERT OR SOMETHING BUT FUCKING BEAUREGARD???
A/n: I want an escape from my shitty life rn so I'm gonna start rewriting my Ambrose series some of my past works that I don't like too much starting with this one.
Your feet sting, walking for miles in wedged saddles and a sundress did not feel great. what felt like forever went by when down a long gravel road and over a small stream of flood water you reached the small, old, almost abandoned looking town called Ambrose. A place you probably would have never be caught dead in unless absolutely needed, and right now it was very needed. Your shit box of a car had broke down miles back, luckily where your tire popped was close enough for you to see a sign telling you about a roadside attraction.
What the hell even was a wax museum doing in the middle of nowhere?
Passing the sign that welcomed you into town you you see light at an itty-bitty gas station, you had been walking for so long you hadn't even noticed the sun had started to go down. You sigh softly and push the glass door open hoping to find salvation in who ever may be in the store. The bell above the door rang and you see a tall man in a mechanic jumpsuit and a hat. His feet are up on the counter leaning back in his chair at the front of the store. Once he sees you he sits up giving you a lazy smile. "Hello there Darlin' what can I do for you?"
"Hello..." Your eyes flick to his embroidered name tag. "Bo, My car broke down a few miles form here and I need some help..." "Awh poor thing got a flat tire?" He says with his Louisianian twang. You give him a confused look "Yeah actually how'd ya know?" "well darlin' that's just a lucky guess... Plus I assume a beautiful thing like you ain't hiking in that pretty little dress you got on willingly..." He chuckles. "Well.... yeah..." You laugh softly looking at your wedged saddles, pieces of gravel stuck in the bottom of your soles.
"where you headin' Babydoll?" The man you now know as Bo looks you up and down slowly taking in your figure not so subtlety checking you out. "Was just checking out the state..." You answer meekly. "Just travelling for fun?" He asks raising one eyebrow, his gaze lingering on your chest for a few seconds before flicking to your eyes. "Something like that..." you give a tight liped smile crossing your arms in front breasts. Bo smirks, leaning back in his chair again. "well darlin' you're a long ways from any type of civilization." You give a slight ackward chuckle. "So I've noticed..."
Bo chuckles, watching you carefully, taking in the way your dress hugs your curves. Your eyes don't meet his almost hungry gaze. "So... Bo... Could you fix my tire for me? I...i don't really know anything about cars... so I'm kinda helpless." Bo licks his lips and grins, standing up and making his way around the counter. "I can help ya with that, darlin'... ain't nothin to worry bout" He gives you a wink. "why don't you wait here for me while I go change that tire of your's" You nod in agreement, clearly not wanting to be in a car with this hot weirdo.
"Great, I won't keep you waiting for long darlin', make yourself comfortable" Bo smiles, walking past you, looking back to catch a glimpse of your ass before the bell dings as he leaves.
You sigh in relief when you see his truck speed off. As you watch him disappear in the distance you catch a glimpse of the House of Wax.
Surely Bo wouldn't mind if you went to explore the House of Wax would he?
You don't ponder on it too much on it before you exit the gas station and begin to walk up the the hill to the museum. The small unpaved streets are quiet. You reach the front door and open it, closing it behind you, you wonder in to see the wax people sculptures. Your gaze catchs a shelf with smaller scaled wax figures, you smile looking at a octopus lady. You go in further into the museum untill you stumble upon a flight of stairs leading to a lower level. You figure there is no harm in exploring so you descend the stairs and see a man with long black hair working on a wax sculpture. "Oh sorry... I didn't know anyone was here..." You say softly.
The mans hands stop working on the sculpture, his hand grips the carving tool tightly as he turns to you slowly, revealing a masked face. He tilts his head. You awkwardly stand there and to brake the silence you ask. "Ar... Are you the artist h...here?" You ask your eyes fixed on the carving tool in his hand. He looks at you trying to figure you out but none the less he slowly nods his head. "Yo...your very talented..." You say slowly backing up from him like he's a scared animal.
The long haired man watches you like a hawk as you trip on the bottom step, your wedged saddles doing nothing to help you catch yourself as you smack your head on a step higher up on the stairs. Your dazed when you hear a familiar Louisianian twang. "Hey there Darlin' see you meet Vinny..." Your vision blurs in the candle lit basement as you try to look up at him. His silhouette menacingly towering over you. Before you can say anything Bo's boot collides with your head then every thing goes black.
