My mom wants me to see someone, to talk about what has led me to feel this way, but I prefer to figure it out on my own, especially since I already know what the problem is.
I found out that my most recent victim has two daughters that he cares for. His wife is in the military, and he went out to the bar for a long-overdue night away from home, thanks to his parents visiting in town.
Now I feel rotten to the core. I don’t think it would have bothered me if I never heard his backstory, but it made the news. During the broadcast, the wife pleaded for the return of her husband, and it nearly broke me—the two little girls huggingher legs, tears flooding their faces, wanting nothing more than to have their dad back. I’m a shit bag.
Fuck.
I have no one to talk to except for Mastyx about this stuff, but the only way to get him here is to kill again, and I can’t even lift my head right now. The soup I heated up sits on the coffee table untouched. I thought I wanted it; my stomach has been growling nonstop, but I can’t find the will in me to pick up the spoon.
A thick layer of dust covers my coffee table, and the smell of stale air violates my sinuses. I should get up and try to clean before my house starts growing mold and attracting more than just spiders. If only I had the energy.
My door rattles for the third time today. Jesus, does no one read the fucking sign? I’m not getting up. I curl the throw around my shoulders and ignore it. Multiple voices filter into my head all at once. One says to answer; one says not to; another says bring Mastyx into the mix and have him take their soul for disturbing your pity party. Another is my mom’s voice, asking when I’m coming over for dinner again.
I’ve built up enough stock of art to last several months, and all my clients have received a message letting them know I’m taking a two-week vacation. And by vacation, I mean sitting around doing nothing but watching television and ignoring my responsibilities.
Let’s face it. I’m in a funk.
The doorbell chimes multiple times overhead. Persistent fucking bastard.
I pick up my phone, find the camera app from my security system and peer down at a man holding a clipboard scanning the street before looking back at my door. His hairline is receding, but his beard is well-trimmed, and his tattooed arms send a tingle between my legs.
Don’t do it, Tessa. It’s broad fucking daylight.
The doorbell rings again, and I cover my ears with the couch pillow. If he keeps this up, it’s fucking on.
I listen to the room, hear nothing but silence and pull the pillow off my head. Good, he’s gone. I didn’t want to have to get up.
Rattle, rattle, pound.
Mother fucker.
I throw the pillow across the room, roll off the couch, stagger to the door and yank it open. “For fuck’s sake. What?”
The man stands there, staring at me, looking up and down before clearing his throat. “Umm, yes, I’m from the local solar energy company and wanted to see if you’d be interested in learning more about it?”
His teeth are crooked, but his thin waist and wide upper body tell me he works out. And the smell wafting into my nostrils, one of my favorites, Polo Ralph Lauren. Not the blue bottle crap, the green one. Man, that stuff could make even the ugliest guy tempting to fuck. He slides a hand in his front pocket, tilts his head, and raises a hopeful, thick eyebrow, waiting for me to answer.
I want him. And besides, he knocked. Maybe that can be my new rule. Don’t knock or else.
“Sure, come on in,” I say with a smile.
He hesitates and nods down to my lower half. “Do you want to put pants on first?”
I glance down at my attire. I’m still wearing a T-shirt and underwear, but nothing else. I’ve been wearing the same thing for two days. “Well, if you’re not comfortable with what I’m wearing, then I guess I’m not comfortable letting you in my house to listen to your pitch.”
The door slowly closes as I swing it around, and his hand slaps against it. “No. It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
A slight smile curves on my lips. Gotcha.
He pushes the door closed behind him, and I gesture for him to have a seat on the couch. When his back is turned, I twist the deadbolt on my front door and join him in the living room. “Drink?” I ask him as I seize my half-empty bottle of wine, before pouring myself a full glass and sitting in the armchair across from him beside the fire, crossing my legs.
“No, thanks.” His eyes drift from my wineglass to my lips as I take a sip, then hyperfocus on my bare legs. “Umm, so what do you know about solar?”
“Enlighten me,” I say, batting my eyelashes before taking a massive swig of wine and then setting the glass on the floor beside me. Fire ignites with a quick whoosh inside the fireplace as I ignite it and uncross my legs.
He opens a folder on his clipboard and begins his speech, his words intermittently staggering as he tries to rattle off the benefits of the sun’s power. In my head, all I can hear is blah, blah, blah. I yawn broadly, quickly growing bored.
Without realizing it, he has stopped talking, his eyes locked between my legs. My hands slide up and down my open legs, grazing my inner thighs with my nails. His jaw drops as I slide my fingers inside my pussy and moan. “Do you like what you see, Mr. Solar Salesman?”
