1
Notes:
This might come as a surprise, but I’ve never been a hit man or a whore. All mistakes are my own.
Rowan
Naked and tied to a bed. In a luxury hotel room. On a flower-patterned duvet. This cannot be how I go.
The client seemed okay at first. Badly dressed, but fine. I’m not one to judge over a rumpled suit.
Nervous. Shy.
Not, and I’m no professional, but notfucking psychotic.
“…a sin for a man to lie with another…”
Jesus Christ. Is he serious? I’ve never given in to any shame or guilt about being gay, but I can’t help but flinch at his words.
The man is muttering as he approaches from where he’d been rifling through a duffel bag he dropped by the door. He’s holding some kind of a knife. Or is it a dagger?
Whatever it is, it looks big. And sharp.
“Shit.” I tug at the straps around my wrists again, but they don’t budge. The more I twist and pull, the more I tear at my skin.
They warned me this job could be dangerous. Had a few clients get rough. Never pictured something like this.
The psychopath with the bad comb-over presses an ear to my chest, making me afraid to breathe. He’s still muttering things—to himself, I assume, since I can’t really understand. The word “abomination” floats to me.
My heart tries to pack itself into a tight little ball.
“Look, scientists disproved all those stories about redheads a long time ago, man. I don’t even know any magic spells.” I’m shouting to hear myself over my erratic heartbeat.
If I thought that might break the guy out of his trance, I was so wrong.
I’m wrong a lot, though. This is not my first poor decision, just terrible timing.
When the guy drags the blade across my chest, I think I’m going to be sick. And here I thought nothing could make this situation worse. The cut’s not deep, but a faint red line rises in the knife’s wake.
Then he rises on his knees with the big knife thing clutched in both hands. He’s got it aiming straight down. Straight down. At my heart.
He’s aiming a knife at myfuckingheart.
“No. No.” More tugging at the straps. My wrists might be bleeding. I’m afraid to look. “Fuck. Please. I don’t know what you think I did, but—”
A sort of “tch” sound hits my ears. Suddenly, the man slumps forward so that bad comb-over waves at me from the top of his head. His body’s completely still. The weird knife, still clutched in his hand, stabs into the mattress beside me.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck.” I’m trapped underneath the body of a… “Is he really dead?”
“Lucky thing, right?”
“Jesus! What the fuck?” Ignoring the pain in my wrists, I twist frantically again. Searching for the source of the disembodied voice. A smiling face appears over the shoulder of the dead guy.
Platinum hair with smiling gray eyes. Cheekbones as sharp as that goddamn knife. What’s more fucked up? How cheerful he looks, or that he’s holding a gun?
Or that I’m noticing how red and full his lips are, when I’m still underneath a man who tried to kill me. A weird sort of high-pitched giggle escapes my throat.
This is a psychotic break or something. It’s got to be.
