I nod and hurry to the janitor's closet at the end of the hall. Inside, I find a bunch of regular cleaning shit, but behind those bottles is something I've never seen before—a gallon jug with a skull and crossbones on it. The label reads:BLOOD-B-GONE: Industrial Strength Organic Material Dissolvent.
When I bring it back to Ramsey, his eyebrows shoot up.
"Why the fuck does a dance studio have that?"
I shrug because I don’t actually fucking know. "Ballet dancers' feet bleed all the time. Plus, you know, periods happen."
"Jesus," he mutters, taking the jug from me and reading the label. "This'll work. Get some gloves and paper towels from the bathroom."
By the time I return with an armful of supplies, Ramsey's already dragged the wrapped body to the emergency exit that leads to the back parking lot.
"We work fast," he says, pulling on the gloves I hand him. "You start on that side; I'll do this one. Saturate the blood first, let it sit for thirty seconds, then wipe."
I follow his instructions, watching in fascination as the chemical eats through the blood, turning it into a weird foamy substance that wipes away easily. The metal smell is fucking overwhelming, making my stomach churn. We work silently for a good twenty minutes, wiping away every trace of what I've done. I steal glances at Ramsey as he works so fast, which I guess makes sense if I think about how many times he’s probably done this.
I bend down, scrubbing at it. "You're weirdly good at this."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "You have no fucking idea." He stands, surveying our work. "That'll do. Let's get the hell out of here."
He wets a paper towel and steps closer, gently wiping my cheek, my forehead, my neck.
Ramsey gathers our bloody paper towels and gloves intoa garbage bag, ties it off, and tosses it into a duffel I hadn't noticed before. He shoulders it, then grabs one end of the yoga-mat-wrapped body.
"C'mon, let's go get rid of ballerina Barbie," he says, nodding toward the emergency exit.
I grab the other end, surprised at how fucking heavy she is for such a skinny bitch. We awkwardly maneuver through the door and into the dark parking lot where Ramsey's black pickup sits waiting, tailgate already down.
We heave the body into the truck bed. Ramsey covers it with a tarp, securing the corners. My heart's racing, but not from fear—from the fucked-up thrill of it all.
"Go back inside," he says suddenly, wiping his hands on his jeans.
I stare at him. "What? No way."
"Walk out by yourself and lock up like normal," he continues, like I hadn't spoken. "Use the front door."
"Why the fuck would I do that?"
He points to a small camera mounted on the corner of the building. "Because I'm gonna have to splice and loop the cameras, and I'll use you as a body double for this one." He throws a thumb at the tarp-covered shape in his truck bed.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I hiss. "You think I look anything like that skinny blonde cunt?"
"It's dark, you're both in dance clothes, and no one's gonna look that closely," he says. "Trust me, I know what I'm doing."
"And what happens when someone realizes she's missing?"
"They'll see her leaving alone on the cameras." His eyeslock with mine, intensely. "Then they'll never find her again. Now go."
I hesitate, then nod. "Fine. Where do I meet you after?"
"Meet me at the coffee shop two blocks over."
I hesitate, then nod. Before I turn to go back in, he catches my wrist, pulling me against him. His mouth crashes down on mine, hot and demanding. My body responds instantly, pressing against him as his tongue slides against mine.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with hunger. "You're so fucking hot when you're covered in blood."
"Shut up," I mutter, but I'm smiling as I push him away.
Walking back inside, it looks like nothing even happened here. I shut the lights off and walk out the front door, locking up and heading down the street.
