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“I don’t do drugs.”
“Hmm… then what kind of fun are you looking for?”
“I’m not opposed to some company.” My eyes find his. “Of a particular kind… if you catch my drift.”
Cheri brings me my beer, but I don’t touch it because DNA is powerful evidence. And if anyone knows, it’s me. I also don’t pay with a card. Instead, I slide a few bills across the bar.
When Cheri notices my gloved fingers, she lifts her heavily lashed eyes to meet mine, questioning why I’m wearing gloves in this heat.
“Keep the change,” I say.
With a tug of a smile on her lips, she turns away to silently put the money in the cash register, then moves away to wipe down tables, leaving my new friend and me alone.
“You got a name?” the man next to me asks.
“Name’s Duquette. My first name don’t matter.”
He slides onto the stool next to mine. “Are you a cop, Mr. Duquette?”
“A cop?” I chuckle. “I fucking hate cops.”
He studies my face, and I wait for him to remember me, but his brain has been marinated in alcohol for too long, and there is no recognition in his bloodshot eyes.
But he WILL remember.
He WILL remember everything he did in excruciating detail.
He relaxes.
His defenses are coming down, and it makes him easy prey.
“Well, I think it’s your lucky night, Mr. Duquette.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You know… for the right kind of money, a guy can have whatever he likes in this town. I can see to that personally.”
“Is that so?”
His gaze drifts to my crotch, and he sucks in a shaky breath. His lips are wet and eager, his revolting eyes filled with sexual attraction and heat.
Leaning in, he runs the tip of his finger along my forearm seductively. “See, if you let me suck that anaconda I know you’re packing in your jeans, then I’ll let you fuck me for free. Normally, I charge thirty-five for a blow job or fifty for some backdoor lovin’, but I have a suspicion there is something very impressive behind that zipper, and my curiosity makes me generous.”
Despite the bile rising in my gut, I smile. “You think you can handle what I’ve got to give?”
Lust shimmers across his face. Hook, line, and sinker. “Meet me out back in two minutes, and I’ll show you.”
He leaves first. It’s what he always does. I know because I’ve spent the last few weeks watching him from the shadows, absorbing his patterns and behaviors, and studying his quirks and mannerisms because that’s what I do before I take down a mark.
Knowing a man’s routine makes it easier to kill him. And I know everything there is to know about this guy. I know he beats his girlfriend when he returns to their trailer near the swamps full of alcohol and stinking of failure. I know he doesn’t go anywhere without his flannel shirt and trucker cap fixed firmly over his greasy hair. I know he looks like a redneck and likes to suck cock, and that coming here to hustle every Friday and Saturday night is more enjoyable than he’d ever admit to his beer-swilling buddies down at the pool hall.
I wait the two minutes, then leave by the back door.
By now, he’ll be rubbing himself through his jeans as he waits for me by the dumpster.
Stepping into the late night, the heat of the evening mingles with the scent of garbage and piss and the recent rain shower. I know this alleyway. I know there are no cameras or access to it other than the door I just exited from. It makes it a popular location to make some easy cash if you don’t mind sucking cock in the shadows or getting fucked-up against the wall. But tonight, the rain has kept people away, and it’s empty.
But, of course, I knew that too.
