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Charles P. Brighton was a pompous ass, another character Rozwell enjoyed playing.
But despite his appreciation for the Vieux Carré, and the amusement of playing a pompous ass (with a tidy trust fund), he felt—as Charles would say—considerable ennui.
The last kill—RIP Robin—had left him oddly dissatisfied.
She’d been the perfect mark. Attractive, accommodating, trusting. With the loans he’d taken out on her house, accessing her bank account, what he’d netted on her spanking-new Hyundai, he’d cleared just over seventy thousand.
It had all been so easy.
Too easy, he thought now, strolling with his takeaway rum punch. No challenge whatsoever to play a woman so eager to start a relationship. And in Robin’s case, she hadn’t had close friends. The sister, yes, but they hadn’t lived in each other’s pockets.
She’d been prime for his skills, Robin had, and turned into a disappointment.
She’d nearly bored him brainless with her delight in his attention. While he’d been happy to kill her—at last—there’d been no crescendo, no rush.
It wasn’t only about the money, after all. The money provided the lifestyle he wanted and deserved. But the kill? The kill brought him to the buzz, the bang. It offered the glory he could live on for weeks, even months after.
But not Robin.
And not with Morgan Albright’s ridiculous roommate.
He needed that buzz, that bang, that fucking crescendo.
He deserved it.
Two women walked by him. Young, the one on the left a bit heavy in the ass for his taste. Tiny shorts, tiny crop tops—asking for it, no question. Add drunken laughter.
He could have killed them both, so easily really. Follow them into the next bar, strike up a conversation, pay for their drinks.
Entertaining the idea, he kept an eye on them. It wouldn’t take much, he mused. Lure them up to his hotel suite. Women thought they had safety in numbers. Easy to roofie them both if he had to. Or just disable Fat Ass, then play with the brunette awhile.
Since it gave him a much-needed lift to imagine it, he tossed the rum punch and slipped into a hole-in-the-wall behind them.
A crowded hole-in-the-wall where the beer ran cold and the zydeco hot. People rubbed asses, women shook their tits on a dance floor the size of a silver dollar.
Since they stood two deep at the bar, he had time to study them.
Fat Ass had the better face, and blond hair if he ignored the solid inch of black roots. But the brunette had the longer, slimmer build he preferred.
Mash them together, he thought, noting the women ordered gin fizzes, and get one winner. And wouldn’t housekeeping get a shock in the morning?
He started to step up behind them. Make that three! he’d say.
Boredom didn’t excuse stupidity, he reminded himself. He could kill them—oh yes, he could see exactly how he’d do it—but thenhe’d have to pack, leave the hotel, leave New Orleans, and with only what these sluts had in their pockets.
Not how he played the game.
He wandered out, but since he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind, stopped and bought a ball cap, a New Orleans Saints T-shirt, and a pair of goofy sunglasses.
Maybe mixing up the game would pull him out of his slump.
With his hair piled under the cap, the T-shirt layered over his own, and the sunglasses in place, he walked back into the hole-in-the-wall.
Fat Ass shook it on the dance floor. The brunette giggled with a couple of college-boy types at the bar.
He’d just order a beer, see if opportunity knocked.
Before he could, it knocked loud and clear when Fat Ass headed toward the back.
