Melissa’s fate was sealed the moment she crossed my threshold.
I’m acutely aware of the girl’s presence as I open the wine fridge and scan the labels without really seeing them.
She’s wearing too much perfume. Cloying jasmine and sickly sweet almonds, and she keeps reapplying it every time she visits the bathroom. Everything about her is trying too hard—the low-cut Chanel dress, the way she leans against the kitchen island, her practiced laugh when she thinks I’ve said something clever.
“Such a beautiful home,” she says, running her fingers along the marble countertop. “It’s very you.”
“How so?” I pull out another Pinot—a better vintage than she deserves, but perhaps it will salvage the evening for one of us.
“Mm,” she hums. “It’s…sophisticated. Intimidating.” Her body warms mine as I reach for the corkscrew. “But also kind of…inviting? Like you. You want people to feel comfortable, but you also love showing them who’s in control.”
She moves into my space as I work the cork free, near enough that her breast brushes against my arm.
Bad Wolf recoils so violently, I fumble the bottle and nearly drop it.
“Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong,”it growls.
“Shit, that was close,” she says through a giggle. “Too much wine, Professor?”
“It’s Bastian, please,” I mutter, forcing a smile. “Do me a favor, girl, and turn on the fireplace?”
Her eyelashes flutter. Not because she’s flirting—although she hasn’t stopped since the first glass—but because she’s struggling to process a simple instruction.
Looks like the drugs are finally kicking in.
Melissa totters off, her bare feet slapping on the kitchen tiles until they hit the rug in the living area.
Didn’t even have to ask her to take off her shoes when she came into my house. Didn’t have to ask if she was okay with wine. Whenever I tried to engage her in philosophical debate, she bent over for me like a textbook histrionic, begging for validation.
No fight.
No friction.
Blow-up dolls are more fun.
I pull a small baggie of pink powder from my slacks, pinch it open, and tap a measure into her wineglass. Glancing up to make sure she’s still fumbling with the fireplace’s control panel, I stir her wine with my finger until the powder dissolves.
I laughed when Corbin offered me a sample of ‘pink cocaine’ a few months ago. Laughed harder when he produced a baggie of actual pink powder. He admitted it was the chemical equivalent of fish stew, but swore on his mother’s life he didn’t lace his batches with fentanyl—though he could provide someFentyfor me, if I was into that.
I was bored and reckless that day, so I took both. The pink cocaine was too chaotic for my tastes—hallucinogens, stimulants, and opioids in one ungovernable cocktail—but I understood the appeal.
Agony Hollow thrives on chaos.
Melissa would probably accept a few lines of the stuff if I offered, but I don’t want her to know why she’s suddenly incapacitated.
Where’s the fun in that?
She turns as I’m sucking the wine off my finger, and gives me a double take.
“Like this?” she calls out, as if there’s a fucking football stadium between us.
I nod as I carry our wine glasses back to the living room, setting hers on the coffee table. She’s staring into the flames, swaying. I move to within a foot of her, studying the way her dress clings to a body that offers nothing to study.
No visible underwear lines.
This is the moment I should feel the predatory thrill of having someone young and beautiful trapped in my home. Where the sick anticipation of blood and cum and violence should be rushing through me like cocaine.
But all I feel is…annoyed.
