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I spend the next hour or so purposely not looking at him, too embarrassed by my flirtation and his blatant dismissal. Yet I’m very aware of his presence, of his eyes moving over my body, and it puts me on edge.
He finally departs without a word, leaving me a hundred-dollar tip, as usual. I pocket it for Zoey’s medicine, wishing I could thank him. His tips are the only thing that’s helping my sister.
The rest of my shift is uneventful, and when it’s done, I’m exhausted. I grab my coat and bag and wave goodbye, munching on the fries Will gave me. I drag my feet as I head home, knowing Zoey will be back at the apartment. Carol, who lives on the first floor, watches her while I work.
As I turn the corner, the bright LED lights of the strip club Tease catch my eye. I draw closer, not knowing why, seeing the crooked poster in the window asking for dancers like every day this week. Not for the first time, I debate whether or not I should apply for a job. I probably wouldn’t get it, but I hear it is damn good money. Money I could use.
I really should strip. My customers, the dirty ones, tell me often enough I have a banging body, as they call it. I don’t see it. All I see are bones. Still, the idea has merit. I could at least make more money for Zoey to see a professional about her head and then get her the proper care and medication she needs, instead of having to choose between her food or medicine.
I stare at the building, finding the courage to go inside, but when a certain pair of blue eyes flash in my head, I turn away and head home.
It’s a stupid idea anyway. I have no experience and only an okay body and face. I would probably get booed off stage, I think bitterly as I drag myself up the steps to my apartment.
But when I open the door and see Zoey’s smiling face as she waits for me to feed her, I know every sacrifice I’ve made so far is all worth it.
CHAPTER8
Alaric
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath when my butcher knife fails to slice through the bone in one clean break.
With gritted teeth, I manage to tug the knife out and add more elbow grease to my next swing. This time, my blade cuts through the cartilage with one loud thud.
“Now that’s better.” I smile, giving the dead congressman’s chin a fake punch.
I turn the volume up on my earbuds, enjoying the sound of Tchaikovsky’sSwan Lakemelodies as I continue to work. I have a playlist for every type of job, but when it comes to dismemberment, I always find that classical music makes the grueling work more pleasurable. It gives the tedious task of slicing and dicing human flesh and osseous matter a certain type of elegance. Unless the client has personally requested that the target sees the end of the barrel of my gun, I have free rein on how I execute the kill. That also extends to how I dispose of their corpses too. I refuse to dump a body in the Hudson like some fucking amateur. I never leave any trace of my kill, unless it’s what the client has previously requested, that is. Some of them like to leave a message and have the rotting corpse paraded on their turf as an intimidation tactic.
To each his own, I guess.
I personally don’t like leaving loose ends and prefer to erase the evidence of my crime from the face of the earth. You’d be amazed how easy it is to dispose of a body. For instance, I have a few funeral homes that don’t bat an eyelash at me handing them some quick cash just so I can use their furnace and cremate the evidence to ash. If you’re short on time, then you can always shove your kill into a barrel full of lye solution. As long as it’s heated up to three hundred degrees Fahrenheit, then the oily brown liquid will dissolve everything in just three hours. I’m also fond of having a few pig farmers on speed dial. Nothing gets through bone faster than a hungry hog.
Unfortunately, the congressman lying on the slab of my work table must have pissed off someone very important, since they were very clear on how to get rid of him. They wanted his head to be hand delivered on a silver platter and the rest of him cut into tiny pieces so they could feed him to his dogs.
And what the client wants, the client gets.
Especially when they are paying me a cool million for the job.
Yeah, I’m not cheap.
You want to pay less, then do it your fucking self.
I take pride in my work, which means I demand to be paid accordingly. Thankfully, my high fee hasn’t injured my workload in any way. Not a week goes by when I don’t get a call with a new job. Sometimes I get more than one call each day, which means I have to turn some jobs down. It’s not ideal, but it’s a necessity. When I was younger and hungrier, I’d take every job that was offered. Now that I have years of knowledge and experience under my belt, however, I know that to do a job well, I can’t have my focus divided. My mind should be on the task at hand and not on my next kill, hence my one job at a time rule. Again, I don’t get many complaints since most of my clients are willing to wait their turn.
Pulling myself out of my reverie, I take a deep inhale, swing my arms in the air with the music, and then continue to butcher this poor bastard into tiny pieces. Spurts of blood spray every which way, my goggles and black leather apron taking the brunt of it. Every so often, I take a break to rehydrate and wipe my sweaty brow. Another smile tugs at my lips when I finally finish the job in record time. All the stiff’s limbs are wrapped in plastic and placed in an icebox, and the congressman’s head is positioned at the very center, just as requested.
I leave the icebox behind in the basement so I can go upstairs, take a quick shower, and change clothes for the drop off. Once I’m all cleaned up and in my usual black attire, I grab my car keys, ready to finish the job.
Luckily for me, the abandoned warehouse I’m supposed to leave the congressman’s remains in is in Queens, just a twenty-minute drive from my brownstone in Brooklyn. I scope the place out first, and once I’m sure no one is casing it, I get out of my car and leave the icebox inside, patting myself on the back for yet another job well done.
I slide back into my car and log onto the darknet, sending an encrypted message that the parcel is ready to be retrieved. Less than a minute after it’s sent, the other half of my million dollars is deposited in my offshore account. Like a well-oiled machine, the whole process, from start to finish, ensures that my client never knows who he is actually working with.
Anonymity is another thing I greatly value, and I go to great lengths to preserve it. I’ve set my business up so that anyone who is willing to pay my price can find my services online on the darknet. Once they have made their submission, an automated call comes through my phone with only a password. I log into my account, use the generated code, and gain access to all the information I need about my next target and any special requests the client may have. If I accept the job, then my new employer has exactly one hour to cough up half my fee as a down payment. Should they fail to do so, the job is null and void, and the person is barred from making any new submissions to me.
I don’t have time for fickle people.
They are either as committed to the task as I am or they can fuck right off.
A quick glance at my watch tells me I’m right on time for the real highlight of my day. Sure, I’ve been up all night working and should probably go home to get some much needed shut eye, but there’s no way I could go a day without seeing her glorious face.
