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“Hey,” she called again from the bed, her voice more strident.
Charlie put a smile on his face. It wouldn’t do to let her see his real self. But he’d made a mistake in choosing her. He’d thought she might satisfy him in all the ways he loved, but she’d been a cheap distraction at best. Tonight she hadn’t even shrieked, and the way she looked at him sometimes made him wonder if her earlier enthusiasm had all been a fake. Yes, he could get her to respond, but it wasn’t with the same energy as Kristina.
Kristina. It was a fucking shame she’d chosen a coma instead of death: hanging on, thwarting him, laughing at him, making certain he couldn’t watch her die.
“Hey!” his date called again, truly irked.
Charlie boiled up with sudden rage. He wanted to slit her throat and watch her gurgle and flail while the light died out of her eyes, but he couldn’t yet. Too dangerous. Too many people might remember seeing them together. She didn’t have as much to lose as Kristina, so she’d met him at public places. For now he had to play it safe. He would take care of her later, when she was way, way back in his rearview mirror.
He rejoined her in bed, though he didn’t want to. All part of the act. But when she kittenishly reached over and grabbed his dick, he felt a wave of revulsion. Too much of this kittenish shit. He wanted a woman who’d go the distance.
Closing his eyes, he strolled back through his memory, searching for a kill that could get him humming, settling on those last moments with his mother, his real mother. He recalled the sensual feel of the knife sinking into her flesh. She’d fought him good, but he’d won easily, overpowering her with his physical strength. His dick stirred at the memory, and his date giggled and thought it was her doing.
Giggling. God, h
e wanted to squeeze the life from her. Maybe . . . maybe . . .
No.
Just need to get through this. Make it fun.
With an effort, he went back to his memories. The hot, liquid warmth of Kristina St. Cloud surrounded him, and he could hear her in his mind, moaning and screaming and begging. He climbed atop the bitch in his bed and screwed her hard.
Unfortunately, afterward, he felt more anxious than he had before he started, and as she stretched and regarded him languidly, as if she thought she’d been amazing in the sack, Charlie turned away and picked up the remote, clicking on the late news.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer, just channel surfed around. There should be something on Kristina’s condition by now, he figured.
Catching sight of the shingled siding of the Rib-I, Charlie stopped his surfing. Good. At least there was more on his first kills of the week. A male reporter was describing the scene from outside the restaurant two nights earlier. Two people murdered. Garth and Tammie. Charlie watched with a distant fascination as the reporter stood in the driving snow and urged anyone who’d seen anything to come forward. For a heart-stopping moment he thought of DeWitt, sitting in the Rib-I like a spider in his web, a drunken spider, but nonetheless ready to spin a web of words as he talk, talk, talked....
“Damn you,” she suddenly snarled, throwing back the covers and stomping naked to the bathroom.
Charlie barely noticed. His mind was now traveling back to Tammie and Garth, reliving those moments when he’d looked in their eyes, watching the light disappear into nothingness. He felt himself stir to life again, and even with the sex he’d just had, he suddenly wanted to masturbate. Now he wanted her, and of course, the bitch was locked in the bathroom.
But he could be so persuasive.
Rapping on the door panels, he said lightly, “Come outta there. Mr. Happy wants to see you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ah, c’mon, baby.” He was suddenly hot all over. This was what it was supposed to feel like. This was what Kristina had done for him, what Chandra had almost managed, though she’d been a bit of a cold fish.
Chandra Donatella . . .
He’d called her first that night, told her to meet him at their house. He liked the idea that it was edging toward the rim of the bluff. The vision of it being sucked into the sea got him going sexually. But Chandra had taken her sweet time in getting there. Growing impatient, he’d then sent a hot, seductive message to Kristina, who could pick up his radar like she was standing next to him. He sent her the image of a gun. Her handgun, the one she’d told him she’d bought for protection. Protection, ha. He’d understood, even if she hadn’t, that she’d bought it because of him, because of the fear he churned inside her, which she was powerless to fight. He’d thought the gun might be an interesting sex toy.
Kristina had shown up with it in her purse, and he’d pulled it out and waggled it in front of her eyes. They were role-playing, and things were just getting interesting, with Kristina precariously balanced on a couple of kitchen chairs and him on top of her, when there was the scrape of a key in the front lock and Chandra suddenly burst in, practically panting with desire. Charlie had the gun in his hand, and for a split second he thought maybe he could talk them both into a threesome, when Chandra’s husband, Marcus, came in behind her like a charging bull.
He stopped at the sight of the gun leveled at his chest.
Naked, Charlie had calmly told Marcus to take the chairs and set them in the living room. Then he had Chandra and Marcus sit on them. Marcus tried to argue with him, but Charlie had the weapon. A gun wasn’t as intimate as a knife, but it sure as hell commanded respect, and no amount of double-talk from the goddamned high-and-mighty Marcus Donatella was going to convince Charlie to stop. In fact . . .
His date suddenly threw open the bathroom door, knocking into him. “Shit!” he snapped, good and pissed.
“Get out,” she ordered.
“Ah . . . no . . . let’s make up.” Suddenly Charlie was feeling really horny. The more they fought his power, the better it was. He reached for her arm, and when she yanked it back, he laughed, grabbed her around the waist, and tossed her back on the bed.
