AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He doesn’t ask for my coat or make a move to remove it, so I take it upon myself. As I lay it over the sofa, I am reminded why I am here. I have two main goals. The most important is to walk out the door alive. Which is why when he asks me if I want a drink, I don’t answer. My attention is on the couch. It’s the ugliest I’ve ever seen, rich people or no.
He walks over to the bar and fills a glass with whiskey. Once he tops off a second glass, he turns to me and says, “The dress I like. But what’s with the gloves?”
“It’s cold out.”
“This should warm you up.” He forces the tumbler in my direction.
When I neither respond nor move to take it from him, he turns toward the TV. I clock him with a left hook. He drops the glass, the caramel colored liquid soaking into the kind of plush white carpet no one with kids should ever own. Blood seeps from his bottom lip as he lunges forward. He swings as hard as he can but I dart aside, coming back with a knee to the chin that has him on the floor before he knows what’s happening. He spits blood as he tries to rise, but I can see in his eyes there isn’t a lot to give.
In a single beat, I’m on top of him, straddling his chest. As I reach for my knife, the tips of my fingers grazing it, he shifts his weight, which causes me to side-swipe my hip with the blade. Suddenly, his hands are on my thighs. He squeezes hard. Our eyes meet and I see it then. He thinks this is a game. He thinks it’s part of the act.
“So you like it rough,” he says. It’s not a question. Something that is quickly apparent in the way he bucks me off and backhands me, once he’s succeeded.
Using the back of the horrid sofa, he manages to pull himself upright. He lands another blow. This time it’s a fist to my head. I’m slumped forward, propped up by my forearms, when his elbow comes down between my shoulder blades, forcing me all the way down. It knocks the wind out of me, but ignites a fire somewhere deep within. “Why is it the best whores,” he says smugly, “always put up a little fight?”
I feel him moving behind me and then he’s close. His weight presses me into the plush white carpet. “Look what you’ve done,” he says, kissing my ear, his erection pushing against my back. I shift, trying to get the knife in a position that won’t be useless. With his weight pinning me, it’s impossible. I reach around and jab my finger into his eye.
He rears backward long enough to allow me to turn onto my back. We roll several times as he gets a few hits in. Finally, he pulls me up by my hair, and that’s when he learns that even the best of wigs don’t stay put under that kind of stress. “Not even a redhead,” he says, shaking his head. I take two steps backward, defeat in my eyes.
He tosses the wig aside and then leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. He tries to catch his breath.
Blood drips from my nose, and I stagger a little as I attempt to regain my footing. The heels don’t help.
He sighs heavily, surveying the mess. He motions at my injuries. “Is that enough for you—or sho
uld I keep going?”
I don’t have time to answer. Suddenly, he’s standing in front of me. Suddenly, he’s forcing me to my knees, my hair twisted around his fist. With his free hand, he unzips his pants.
I’m aware that I’m in a bad position, but my mind is clear and my hands are steady. He removes his shirt, slowly, button by button. Using my mouth, I snake my way up his torso. I pause and take him in. “Where are the girls?”
“The who?”
“The girls.”
He takes my head in his hands and tilts it from side to side as he studies my face. He could easily snap my neck at any moment and I think he just might. “How the fuck should I know?”
Shaking my head loose, I lean forward and nuzzle his stomach. “He said I should talk to you. If I was interested.”
“Me? No. You’ll have to ask Dunsmore.”
“Dunsmore,” I repeat, cupping his balls. I stroke the length of him, first with my hand, and then with the tip of my tongue.
Eventually his head lolls back and his eyes close. He’s in the zone now, the place where expectancy and ecstasy meet in the dark, like a swirling tide, leaving him exposed.
His blood splatters beautifully against the white space, the cut to his throat clean and precise. With a confused look in his eye, he staggers forward.
I smile, knowing he’ll bleed out in seconds. That the job is done.
The thrumming sound of my pulse beating between my ears picks up pace as I watch him fall to the floor and then take his last breath.
Kneeling down next to him, I lift the knife to his chest, stopping and hovering just above his rib cage. Using the tip, I trace the word liar into the tanned, taut skin above his heart. Then I plunge the blade deep into his chest, erasing everything. I stab again and again, until I hit bone, until I feel nothing, until I’m slumped over him, breathless.
A familiar sensation washes over me, and I sigh, once again reminded that this is what it feels like. Bliss. Sweet, fleeting bliss.
When my breath steadies, I stand and compose myself, tucking the knife inside my dress. Then I make my way into the kitchen, where I locate the computer monitor that displays the footage from the cameras. I watch for movement. I see nothing. In the living room, the pundit on the TV is still rambling. I follow the sound back to my drink. I’m pleased to see the ice cubes haven’t watered it down. I take the glass and make my way over to the horrible couch, where I stand for a second, sipping the whiskey, taking it all in. I wonder what was going through their minds. Was it a fad purchase? Or a beloved piece carefully selected with this room in mind?
Maybe a little of both.
