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Fuck, I miss my wife.
I love her.
I can’t wait to get her back, and this time, there’ll be no sneaking around.
No safe houses.
I want to be the perfect husband for Gigi and for us to have a real marriage. And I’ll do whatever I have to in order to make that happen.
She smiles, all fake sultriness now gone. “Lucky woman.”
“Nah, I’m a lucky man.”
She clasps her hands together and steps away from the door. “So what’s the plan?”
“Greet Sonny as normal, bring him to the bedroom, and I’ll handle the rest.”
“And you swear I’m safe? I might be a hooker, but I don’t want to die for this.”
“You’re not just a hooker, Candy. If anyone else tells you that again, tell me, and I’ll kill them.”
Like I told her, I keep my word.
Unless Candy ever turns on me, I’ll make sure she’s well protected.
We start preparing for Sonny’s arrival. Candy lights candles that smell fucking nauseating, and I enter the bedroom. It’s as sleazy looking as the living room, and I’d allow someone to slit my throat before I lay naked on the bed. I drop my bag on the stained carpet and wait for my prey.
My blood already hums in anticipation of seeing him.
I crack my knuckles when Candy says, “Sonny, baby. I’ve missed you.”
“Put on that outfit I like,” he grunts to her, already sounding out of breath, most likely from climbing the stairs. “The straitjacket number. I’m in the mood to get frisky.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
I hold back the urge to vomit all over the bed.
He smacks her ass and grunts again. When I hear footsteps approaching, I hide behind the door. As soon as he steps inside, I slam the door shut, trapping him in. He trips forward, losing his balance, as I flip on the light and flick the lock.
He’s close to naked, wearing only holey, stained boxers. His hairy belly hangs over his waistline, and he stares at me, wide-eyed. When he attempts to charge forward and flee, I shove him. Unless there’s a weapon up his asshole, he’s completely defenseless.
“Candy!” he starts to yell, but I punch him in the face mid-scream.
He groans and stumbles backward. When his thighs connect with the bed, he topples over it, landing on his back. He nearly rolls into a ball while cupping a hand over his nose to catch the blood from my punch.
He’s so busy fucking with his nose that he doesn’t notice me gripping the syringe in my fist. I jam it into his neck and don’t stop until it’s empty.
“What the …” he cries out, swatting at his throat when I pull away.
“Pavulon,” I say, referring to the drug that causes muscle paralysis.
He stares at me, panicked, fully aware that in just a few minutes, he won’t be able to move.
I roll my eyes when he calls for help. And even though I relish his pleas, I don’t want anyone else hearing and calling the cops. I collect the roll of duct tape from my pocket, and it squeals as I extend it. I rip off a piece with my teeth and slap it over his mouth.
He stays still, like he’s already given up, and I tie him to the bed.
Staring down at him, I inhale a breath so deep that my lungs rattle. “How fucking pathetic you look.”
