Too bad none of this opulence translates into liquid cash or assets.
“Do you want it?” I ask as we jog up the stairs on silent feet. “When all his shit goes to auction after his death, I’m sure I can get it for a steal.”
Hill looks around as if gauging the place before he frowns and shakes his head. “No, I’m good. This place feels oppressive and evil. Like a line of dickheads owned it and anyone who owns it after them will likewise be dickheads.”
I chuckle as we make our way down a long hallway to reach Beningfield’s bedroom. “We could remodel it. Maybe rent it out for some kind of high society parties.”
“That’s an idea. Let’s see how much it costs first. Gotta make it worth our while.”
Hill and I aren’t worried that one of Beningfield’s guards will be after us. When it came out that he was broke, they jumped ship since they hadn’t been paid in a while.
After the attempt on Hill’s life, Beningfield was questioned by the police. They had nothing on him, but it would only be a matter of time before they checked his business ledger and saw a large transaction into a private banking account. It took Hill’s people two days to find that bit of information with an incentive of ten grand and several pounds of weed. He’d hidden it very well, buried under the cost of labor for several of his real estate holdings. But the people Hill knows are better than Beningfield is at hiding shit.
My own people have been able to dig up tons of illegal dealings since the hit piece came out, so we have ammo against Beningfield if he wants to come at us again.
I’m sure the police will be here in the following days to arrest him.
Reporters that clamor at his gate usually leave after sundown, since Beningfield usually locks his shit down like a fortress after hours. Hill and I were sure to sneak out the back of his apartment building, so we weren’t seen leaving.
Fucking paparazzi will ruin all of our fun.
Taking his hand, I kiss the back and says, “Anything you want, little psycho.”
I mean his name now more than ever, since he basically got away with murder.
The cops reviewed the tape, saw how Hill was accosted, tried to get away, but was forced to defend himself and kill his attacker. It was fucking beautiful. I’ve seen him kill before, but watching him kill someone right in front of their faces? I fuckedhim good when we got back to my condo, dicking him so good that he forgot any words but my name.
Hill and I do nothing to muffle our arrival, but the walls are so thick that Beningfield won’t know we’re here until we wake him from his uneasy sleep.
It’s been rough for him, businesses dropping him, women coming out about his abuse, and reporters overwhelming him with phone calls. The few times he’s gone out in public over the past two weeks, he’s looked haggard and worn down, nothing like the man that snubbed me at the charity event.
And his check bounced, which pissed me off.
When we get to his bedroom, we push inside, seeing the shape of his body under the blankets.
“Wanna just shoot him now?” I ask, pissed off that I left him alive to hurt another woman and hire someone to kill my man. But it’ll be over soon.
“Gotta make it look like a suicide,” he reminds me. “But that won’t be hard. He has so much shit going on, the press will have their pick on what to blame it on.”
We’re not speaking quietly, but Beningfield still hasn’t stirred. Huffing, I walk over to his bed, and I’m almost knocked back by the scent of alcohol in the small space.
Ah, he’s passed out, not sleeping.
I hate to ruin his peace but…
…no the fuck I don’t.
I take my gun out, wishing I could pistol whip him, but knowing that will only draw questions. Instead, I take the barrel and press it hard under his chin.
Beningfield stirs, looking around as if to see what’s going on. His eyes land on me and they widen comically as he scrambles up in bed. The alcohol in his system makes him clumsy and his hands slip a few times.
Still, he gets his bearings and holds his hands up, swaying into me. “What do…” he hiccups and covers his mouth. “What do you want? Why are you in my house?”
Digging my gun harder into the soft tissue of his chin, I say, “You tried to kill my fiancé. That’s grounds for me to fucking blow your goddamn brains out.”
Hill sighs behind me. “Did you just propose?”
“Depends,” I say, not taking my eyes off Beningfield. “Will you say yes?”
