Tonight, I’ve opted to make fettuccini Alfredo with chicken. I packed the pre-marinated meat in a soft-sided lunch bag with an ice pack to keep it cold.
The old fart’s wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and a forty-thousand-dollar Rolex on his wrist, like he thinks he’s going to impress me.
Before I start looking for pots and pans, I pull on a pair of nitrile gloves I brought with me.
“What’re those for?” he asks.
“I’m picky about touching my food when cooking,” I say. “Especially chicken.” I shrug. “I spent too much time working food prep at restaurants in college. Never got food poisoning, though. Old habits die hard.”
“Oh. That makes sense. Why’s it brown?”
“Special honey teriyaki marinade.” I smile. “Old family recipe. You’re going toloveit.”
He talks to me while I’m cooking, pours us glasses of wine, and takes every occasion he can to rub and grind against me. He has no idea where anything is in the kitchen because he has a cook who does all that for him, usually. So part of my time is spent hunting for crap. I’m nearly positive he doesn’t have an injector pen on him when I open a kitchen drawer while looking for cooking utensils and see one stashed in there.
“What’s that?” I ask, even though I know.
“Oh, in case I ever have a peanut allergy hit me,” he says. “Not like I’ll have a reaction anywhere else in the house, and I don’t like to carry one on me when I’m running around here.” He grins. “Yes, that’s my dick you’re feeling in my shorts, notthat.”
Ew.
I smile. “Good, because I’m hoping to see more of it later.”
No, not really.
When he steps out of the kitchen to use the bathroom, I take the injector pen from the drawer and stash it in my purse.
I haven’t added the sautéed chicken to the main dish yet when he returns, but I’ve taken several bites of it, including the mouthful I’m working on now, with some stashed in both cheeks like a chipmunk.
“Man, that smells good,” he says.
“Like I said, old family recipe.” I turn off the stove and move the pan of chicken onto a cool burner. With my back to him, I take another bite of chicken, coating my lips with the marinade.
He’s standing right behind me, wrapping his arms around me.
I turn and kiss him, using plenty of tongue as I grind on him to distract him.
It takes about ten seconds for him to react, gasping.
Thank goodness I have fifteen years and good physical condition on him, and the lazy fuck obviously doesn’t work out. I wrap my arms tightly around him, hook one leg behind his knee, and take him down, pinning him on the floor while he’s trying to get free. Meanwhile, I barely avoiding getting head-butted by the old fuck. As he gasps and stares up at me, I smile.
“This is for Emma, you old fuck. And for all the other people you had killed trying to protect your share of your daddy’s money. Also, it’s for all the kids you and your daddy brought into this world without any intention of taking care of them.”
I don’t know if he’s really understanding me now or not. It takes about ten minutes for him to finally stop moving and gasping for breath. Suffocation like that is a horrible way to go, and damn sure not slow enough for my tastes.
But it’ll do.
I retrieve the injector pen from my purse and pull off my left glove to check his pulse.
Nothing.
I wait another minute, just to be sure, before I jab him in the thigh with it, then wrap his fingers around it before letting it and his hand fall to his side on the floor.
Standing, I pull the glove back on, make sure to open the drawer where it’d been stashed and leave it open, and dump the chicken into a clean baggie I brought with me.
Humming, I use a damp paper towel to remove the traces of the marinade from his lips and mouth.
You havenoidea how badly I want to kick and punch him, especially in the balls, but I resist.
