Page 42
Fine.
I close my phone when ten eye roll emojis appear across the screen, punctuated by the word ‘okay.’ I look up to take another drink, peering around at the fat rabble in the bar. I can guarantee not a single person here cares about hygiene or exercise besides me, of course. The scraping sound of a chair against the floor catches my attention.
An arm grips my shoulder with a squeeze. I don’t have to guess who the liver-spotted, yellow-nailed hand belongs to. Dennis Freer.
His ever-increasing penchant for young sex workers garnered my attention fairly quickly. When two went missing after getting in his car, he sealed his fate. I’ve visited this rat-infested, burger-slinging hellhole three times a month for the past six months to build a rapport with him. I just need him to present me with the right opportunity to meet him alone. My fingers itch at the opportunity to sink my hinges into his joints. A perfect specimen for a marionette.
“The Knicks look like shit, don’t they?”
I give him a nod and take another sip of my beer, focusing my attention on the television above the bar.
“No kidding, I’ve been avoiding my bookie because of those assholes.” He takes a seat and raises his hand to get the attention of the bartender. She nods and starts pouring his pint.
“Well, maybe they’ll get better. I have faith.”
“You’re the only one.” He chuffs a laugh as he shakes his head.
“Then I’m in the most excellent of company.” Raising my hand, I bring it to my heart and toss my head back theatrically.
“I thought you had a date?” He elbows my arm.
“Well, I couldn’t afford my date…so I decided to come here and drown myself alongside better company.” Flashing a wink, I tip my beer at him. I let my smile fall immediately, hinting at disappointment.
“Really? I thought professors had fancy cars and free apartments?”
My eyebrows lift in surprise. It’s astounding that he can remember anything I’ve told him in our previous encounters. He’s usually several drinks in, with beer dribbling down his peanut-shell-encrusted beard. Shaking off the disgusting image, I let out a sigh.
“Not all of them. At this point, I might as well buy a date, if you know what I mean.” I lower my head with a conspiratorial glance his way.
Shifting closer in his seat, he leans so close, I can see grease seep from the pores along his forehead. His rotten breath assaults my nose as he waves me closer. His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the clamoring of the bar.
“I may be able to help you with that. How much do you have?”
I arch my eyebrow in mock surprise and let my lips tip up on one side—an open invitation of approval.
“Mmm…around a hundred, I think. Could you really help with that?”
I make sure to cast him a devious, almost giddy smile.
“I mean, I know a guy who occasionally finds dates for me. I don’t see why he couldn’t fit two in…” He rubs his fat fingers over his beard. “It wouldn’t be tonight, though. Friday work?”
“I guess that would work. What time?”
“Ten. Meet me here at the bar. Just remember to bring cash.”
I nod.
With my meeting confirmed, the rest of the evening is spent talking about sports I have little to no interest in. When I’ve regurgitated every basketball fact I can muster, I give him a tap on the shoulder before leaving. The cool night air washes away some of the calmness in my mind. Images of bacteria coating my skin quicken my steps to the car. I pull out my emergency bottle of hand sanitizer and drench my hands. It’s not much, but anything is better than the thought of the concoction of spit, vomit, and beer I’ve rested my arms in all evening.
Slipping into the driver’s seat, I shuck off my coat and throw it in the passenger-side footwell. I may have to burn it. I’ve burned at least three coats in the past few months. They’ve not died in vain. In just a few days, the bloated piece of shit will be on display for everyone to see. That makes finding a location all the more important. I know whatever location Patience gives me will be compromised. However, it does provide me with an opportunity to see her again. I rest my arm against the glass.
What a fucking mess. Half the people in the world are women, and the only one that has any sway over me is a vengeful little spirit.
Location, missy?
I include an emoji of a clock ticking to work her temper. Waiting for her response, I imagine the purse of her lips as she reads “missy” in the text. My cock begins stiffening at the thought. When no dots appear, I shove the car into drive and head home.
Once in my driveway, the hope of being clean comes into focus. Bounding to the kitchen, I remove my clothes and shuck them in a trash bag. I’ll have them sanitized tomorrow. A bitter taste coats my mouth, doubtless from the cheap beer. I turn into the kitchen, plucking a cold water bottle from the fridge. The anxiety of cleanliness rattles between my ears once more. I head upstairs, mentally preparing to scrub my skin pink.
