"Fine," Marcos chuckles, guiding the tiny furball towards me. "Nat, Monster. Or Momo. She loves a good chin scratch. That's the key to her heart."
I can't imagine that'll be useful information since I'll only be here this once, but I take the advice anyway, reaching for Monster and giving her the obligatory love you must provide such a regal creature while in their home. I can feel Marcos' eyes on me, locked in like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce.
When he releases the sweet angel, she saunters down a dark hallway, disappearing from sight as the shadows swallow her tiny form.
"Do you want a drink?" Marcos asks, easing his jacket off. "I've got wine, whiskey, water?"
"No, thanks," I stand frozen at the entranceto the kitchen.
He closes the door, blanketing the kitchen back in that dark, moody, barely there light, taking the handful of steps to bring himself right in front of me.
"So just straight to it, then?" he glances at my lips, humor and heat filling his expression as he looks me over.
My mouth goes dry, unable to say anything, overwhelmed by the hunger in his gaze, nodding instead.
"You strip," he looks down my front, gesturing with his gaze to my clothes, "I'll start a fire."
"A fire?"
He nods, walking towards a fireplace in the corner, "It's the middle of winter, so no one will find a fire suspicious. It's going to be the best way to dispose of your ruined clothes."
"So I'm just going to be walking around your apartment naked, then?" I scoff out a laugh, wondering at the absurdity of how this night is going.
He shoots me a salacious look over his shoulder, "Ideally, you won't be able to walk at all when I'm done with you."
Heat fills my cheeks. While it's no secret what I'm here for, Marcos saying it so brazenly makes me feel inexperienced, like I'm about to get well and truly fucked for the first time.
A chuckle fills the air as he continues stoking the fire, both the literal one and the one building between my legs.
"I'll get this going while you shower and I'll grab you some fresh clothes." He gestures with his free hand down a hallway, "Guest bathroom is the first door down that hall. Help yourself."
I can't believe this is happening.
Putting this kind of trust in a stranger is stupid.
I've hardly even entertained men for the last ten years. Now, in one night, I'm going to sleep with oneandtrust that he's going to help with the murder I committed rather than the smart thing, which would be turning me in.
As I strip the disgusting clothing from my body, peeling the sticky bra off last and adding it all to a neat, bloody pile, I wonder if the part of my brain that can think rationally also broke that night I killed my stepfather. I've lived recklessly since then; tonight is just the most egregious of my actions over the last decade.
Turning on and slipping into the giant shower, I let the warm water soothe away any errant thoughts of Thomas that try to haunt me when I'm feeling flayed alive and vulnerable. I finger the knife holding my hair up, the ritual soothing.
I may not have used this on him, but I was ready to if the need arose. This little weapon is the closest thing I've had to a security blanket since I was 13 and the abuse began. It took me six years to kill him. Six years after I bought this weapon, and I didn't even get to use it to end his life.
Steam fills the bathroom as I use Marcos' body wash to scrub away all the blood coating my front, frantically rubbing and rubbing until my skin is red and raw, hoping it'll be enough.
By the time I get out, the scent of cinnamon and pine has seeped into the bathroom from the hall. Wrapped in a deep blue towel, I step out of the shower, finding my pile of clothes right where I left them, but a fresh t-shirt and sweats are laid out on the counter.
I didn't even hear him come in.
He had a naked girl in his shower and yet came in to leave the clothes without joining me? I'm unsure if I should be offended or thankful that he let me do what I needed to without interrupting me.
When I exit the bathroom, clothed in this strange man's shirt and pants, I see the back of his head as he waits patiently for me on the couch.
Almost instantly, he turns around, his eyes landing on my outfit and heating with what can only be described as possessive need.
"Umm," Nerves threaten to overtake me. "Thanks for the clothes."
His eyes dart past me to the bathroom. "You're welcome. I didn't grab the bloody ones yet because I figured you'd want to see for yourself that I disposed of them."
