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“Well, to be honest …”
Oh, here we go.
“My ex, we were married for a few years, but she was cheating on me with this huge bodybuilder type. Left me for him last year.”
I feign shock. “My god, that’s brutal. You must have been pissed.”
“Oh, I was.” He lets out a burst of laughter. “Pissed enough to throw her out of the house. Her and all her belongings.”
A coldness bites at my chest. “Wow.”
“Yeah, I don’t screw around. When someone wrongs me I wrong them back.”
I nod and force a smile. “I like that about you. A man who doesn’t take any shit. Good thing you didn’t have kids. Or … I assume you didn’t have kids.”
He pulls a face and shakes his head. “Hell no. Never wanted ‘em.”
Bile climbs up my throat as he sets his drink on a nearby table and moves his eyes over me. Listening to him talk like this, it’s like staring at a pile of dog shit and the smell is hitting your nose hard and sharp. But no matter how much you want to you can’t turn away.
“Don’t like kids, huh?” And here I am, poking the pile of dog shit.
“Little germ factories? Hell no.” He moves to me, slips a hand up the back of my neck and presses his body to mine. I panic, worried he’ll feel the wig. “Now, can we please change the subject. Maybe to something more appealing, like how I can’t stop thinking about sliding down that throat of yours?”
His lips are on mine and I can literally feel myself grimacing as his tongue darts around mine. I have the strongest urge to bite it off.
Play the part, Tove. Do your job.
My hands are on his chest and I let them move around to his back. He fists my hair and I feel my wig come loose. So I press him away, panting, staring at his face, his mouth and chin covered in red lipstick.
“Do you mind if I use the restroom? Get cleaned up?”
He pulls in a deep breath and seems momentarily flustered. “Yeah, sure. Meet me in the living room when you’re done.”
I step away, relieved he didn’t notice my hair. Or he did and he doesn’t care. When I get to the bathroom I close the door and look in the mirror. The wig is intact, not a hair out of place. I take a few calming breaths and open my purse, getting the .22 out and turning off the safety. I make sure the silencer is on and has a snug fit.
A dizzy spell hits me and I grip the counter and take a few breaths. I look at my reflection, and the second those images of my dead mother come flashing back, I shake my head and I push them down.
I have a job to do.
My phone buzzes inside my purse and I peek inside. Two messages have come through from Rigger.
Germ factories? Jfc.
BTW, you got this. Don’t hesitate. Just do it.
I realize he’s right here with me, on the other side of this little mic inside my bra. This is a pivotal moment for me because I want to make him proud of me. But with this gun I’m too nervous. I’m afraid I’ll fail. I’m afraid Chris will find the mic before I have a chance to do what I have to do.
Normally these situations charge me. To be able to control a man who has hurt innocent women or children right before taking his life. But this … this feels off. And it occurs to me that the only thing I can do to change the situation and give me back that power and control I have—and to stop being paranoid—is to remove the mic.
I reach inside my shirt from the bottom and find the piece of metal, pinching the clip. Because Rigger can hear me, I mutter a soft “sorry” as I place the mic inside my purse.
“Hey!” A knock at the door causes me to flinch. I jerk my eyes to the doorknob.
Shit.
I forgot to lock the door.
And the .22 is sitting right on top of the counter.
