ChapterEighteen
Alittle red dot speeds across my phone screen.I’ve watched it move from the scarcely populated area by Ava’s home, down winding roads, and onto the highway leading directly into the city.The app I installed on both of our phones alerted me the moment hers left her house.
“Where are you going, little bird?”I mumble at the moving dot.
I clench my fists at my sides, frustration crawling through my muscles.The damn tracker can only tell me her location, but doesn’t give me access to anything else.I should have made Shawn hack her phone entirely so I could have figured out what she’s up to.
A loud groan from behind me makes my head turn.A few feet away from me sits a man named John Merrick, strapped to a metal lawn chair.His head lolls back and forth with his chin pressed against his chest.A dim overhead lamp glints against the sweat and blood matting his patchy, brown hair.
My eyes roam around the unfortunate space in which John is going to die.A monochromatic basement where cracked concrete walls are stacked over a cracked concrete floor.A thick coating of dust covers the only items in here, a small hoard of soggy cardboard boxes.The musty scene of stagnant water clings to their exterior, polluting everything inside and making their marker-written labels droop.He’ll die surrounded by old, forgotten holiday decorations and broken lamps.How festive!
I approach John and grab a chunk of his dirty hair to lift his head.When our eyes lock, he screams under the duct tape covering his mouth.
Tilting my head toward him, I ask, “You have a woman, Johnny?”
His head bobs up and down as a new stream of tears dribbles from his sunken eyes.
“Mmm,” I hum, “so then you must know how infuriating they are.”
He nods rapidly in response and grumbles some incoherent noises.I hold my phone screen up to his face before continuing, “This woman,mywoman, is apparently on her way into the city tonight.I don’t know where she’s going, but I’m going to find out.Unfortunately, that means we’re going to have to cut this little chat short.”
His eyes widen and a fresh wave of muffled grunts get stuck between his mouth and the tape.A crackling hiss resonates against the concrete when I rip it from his chapped lips.
“P-please,” he cries, “d-don’t kill me, man.”
Looking down at his battered, swollen face, I scoff.“You should be grateful, Johnny.Since my girl is off doing, well, whatever the Hell she's doing, I’m going to make this quick.”I gesture toward my clothing soiled with his blood and spit.“Obviously, I can’t go out looking like this, so I need time to get ready.”
Honestly, the guy is getting off much easier than I had originally planned.He’s taken a beating, but his fingers and toes are still attached.Luckily for me, I wasn’t paid to get information out of him, an act which I obviously no longer have time for, anyway.I was just paid to make it hurt before I end it.
I was a bit surprised when I got a call from Bianca asking me to take care of Johnny, given how much she enjoys this kind of work.Despite the fact that I’m certain she’s throwing more jobs my way in an attempt to get me to work for her exclusively, I’m not in the business of turning down good pay.
I pull a knife out from behind my back, and watch the blade’s reflection in his glassy eyes.His lower lip quivers.He sniffles, but it doesn't stop the trail snot and tears from dripping onto it.His eyes close, a small gesture signaling that he’s accepted his fate.There's no way out for him, and we both know it.
I don't feel guilt.Not when a sob breaks through his lips.Not when I drag the blade across his throat.Not when he opens his mouth in a desperate attempt to take a breath.His actions led to his death; I’m just the tool by which he met it.
* * *
The little red dot on my phone led me to a bar on Milton Ave, a bustling restaurant district near the center of the city.Once inside, I weave through the small crowd at the bar until I find an empty booth in the back corner.The worn, faux leather seat crinkles and whines when I drag myself onto it.My knees bump the bottom of the table, but I force myself to look comfortable when the middle-aged waitress takes my drink order.
My eyes move around the room, scrutinizing every detail of the place my little bird chose to visit this evening.Square, glass lamps dangle from heavy cords above the tables and bar, drenching the area in yellowed light.The dim lighting almost hides the bar’s need for refurbishment.The dark varnish on the heavy wood tables is scratched.Its edges curl upward like it’s trying to escape this early 1990s hellscape.The floor tiles, that I suspect used to be beige, have browned with age.Brown and biscuit-colored patterns crawl up the dried wallpaper until they meet with cracks and cobwebs at the edges.
Ice cubes clink together as the waitress’ shaky fingers place a glass down on the table.I smile at her briefly before she schlepps away, her shoulder hunched under a heavy tray of filled pint glasses.Looking down at the sweating glass in front of me, I rake my fingers through my hair, taming the messy strands that haven’t had a chance to dry after the shower I took at warp speed to remove Johnny’s blood from my body.
Amidst the chaotic hum of conversations, my ears prick up, seeking out one familiar, feathery voice.My eyes rocket upward at the sound of her laugh, floating over the dull notes of everyone else in the room.At the sight of her, my fingers clench against the whiskey glass, threatening to crack it.
She's not with her blonde friend, like I expected her to be.She's sitting with a guy.The way he's looking at her tells me that they aren't friends.His beady eyes roam up and down her body, lingering on her hips and breasts.
She's not dressed for drinks with a friend, either.She's dressed for a date.A lilac dress held up by skinny straps encases her curves.It scoops down below her clavicles, leaving her neck and shoulders bare.It falls just below her knees, but the silky material clings to her, showing off her figure.
She's even switched out her purse to a small black one that matches her high heels.She dressed to impress, and it's working.My fingers clench as I imagine ripping out the eyes of every man who's looked at her tonight.
When she tilts her head and twirls her finger around her hair, my teeth grit.She's fucking flirting with him.I force myself to let go of my glass before it shatters in my hand.
Clearly, my little bird still doesn't understand who she belongs to.I gave her a week's reprieve, thinking she'd be lonely without my presence.No, not thinking, knowing.I watched her from corners and shadows, keeping quiet and hidden.She didn't know I was there, but I’m certain she wanted me to be.
No matter how hard she tries to deny it, I see her desire.I watched it pull at her, twisting up her insides.Every night, that desire flooded her mind, creating an opening for me to haunt her dreams.Every morning, she startled awake, panting and sweating.
The first time, I thought she'd had a nightmare.But when she opened the drawer of her bedside table and brushed her fingers along the notes I left for her, I knew what she had really dreamt about.She pushed her t-shirt up to her breasts, trailing her fingers over her stomach.They caressed and teased until lines of goosebumps formed on her soft skin.I watched with rapt attention as her hand snaked downward, slipping into her panties.She moved her fingertips in small circles around her clit until she cried her release into her pillow.
