1. Reaper #2
If Zane were here, he’d want to run a blood test to confirm her identity.
But it’s more fun to go hunting for a girl with a gash in her arm.
Or side. Leg? I sit down on her pillows and pop a grape into my mouth as I imagine every place she could be sliced open.
It’s likely her forearm or her calf. Maybe her thigh?
I picture a girl in a pleated mini skirt lifting herself off the floor and slipping through the window in the same way that she’s slipping through my fingers.
Then I pull a lighter from my boot and light the taper candle, passing my fingers through its flame once it’s lit.
Her blood fills the grooves of my fingerprints and sizzles in the heat.
Will she return for her belongings and brave meeting a stranger, or will she flee and return in the morning for them?
My phone vibrates in my pocket—an incessant vrrrrm that means my brother is getting impatient.
We do this every year—it’s not like my antics are new or his precious routine is in jeopardy.
I’ll get my fuck on, as is tradition, and he’ll bury our latest victim in a fresh grave so that they won’t rot alone.
Sighing, I send him a pin with my location and wait for his arrival. More importantly, I wait for hers.
I wait and wait and wait.
Picturing the bow of her lips.
The tender flush on her cheeks.
The fearful sparkle in her eyes, like a diamond cast in shadow.
Among her forgotten belongings is a worn duffel bag, and inside that bag is a set of matches with a curved M on the box, an antique wine opener, a trifold wallet decorated with silver crescent moons, an untouched sketchbook filled with empty pages, and a thick bundle of fabric wrapped carefully around a tiny, polished wooden box.
Just as my brother Zane steps through the doorway with his usual scowl aimed directly at my heart, I attempt to pry open the lock with my bare hands.
It’s a tiny, golden box missing its key.
If the lock were plastic, I could smash it against the stone wall to crack it open.
But the little metal locket gleams in the candlelight, taunting me.
“Planning a date?” Zane snags the second pillow from beneath my knees and plops down across from me on the blanket. “That’s unlike you.”
“I met someone,” I muse, flipping the lock up and down with my fingertip.
Knowing that it won’t open, I set the box down atop the fabric it came wrapped in—a scarf, I think, or some kind of shawl.
Soft but not made of wool. Something nicer.
I bring the open bottle of wine to my lips and down a few swallows.
Did he just insult me? My ego swells. “I can wine and dine with the best of them. All the bitches love me.”
“All the bitches fuck you,” Zane clarifies, snagging the wine and squinting at the label. “They don’t love you. Which is why a date is a waste of time.”
“Dick,” I hiss, kicking his leg. But he’s right, I don’t date. I fuck. Hard. “I didn’t plan this. A girl left it. A siren. ” Licking my lips, I play back her voice in my head, but without enough time to hear her song, it fades rapidly from memory.
Zane flips open her wallet with feigned interest. “Well, this girl—” He tilts her ID towards the light to read her name.
“What the fuck kind of name is—her parents must hate her.” Sighing, he flicks the wallet shut again.
“She clearly isn’t interested in having sex with you, so leave her shit where you found it, and let’s go.
” He tosses the wallet into my lap and stands.
“Forty-three isn’t getting any fresher.”
My jaw clenches at the number. It always bugs the shit out of me when Zane turns people into projects.
“He has a name,” I rumble, slipping the girl’s wallet into my pocket as I stand.
“ Alejandro. ” One of our youngest kills and undoubtedly one of the most exciting.
He really had a thing for Zane—much to my brother’s horror.
I’m pretty sure Alejandro only slept with me as a consolation prize for not getting into my brother’s pants.
But that’s the thing about Zane—he doesn’t know how to let loose and have fun. I’m not even sure the last time he let anyone touch his dick—male or female. Hell, I don’t even know when he last choked his chicken.
He is way overdue for some stimulation. I bet his spunk is backed up for days . Weeks. Jesus . When he finally blows, he’ll spew like a goddamn fire hydrant all over the poor, unsuspecting bastard expecting a normal lay.
May God have mercy on their throats if they have to swallow that mega-load.
Zane ignores me, which is par for the course when he’s irritated. As we walk through rows of headstones towards Alejandro’s awaiting corpse, I squeeze the siren’s wallet in my palm. It should have more than just her name. Her address. Her picture.
A shiver runs down my spine as I slip it into my front pocket for safekeeping.
I won’t look yet—I want to savor every detail once I’m alone in my bedroom and Zane’s prying eyes aren’t throwing judgmental daggers at my back.
The prick needs to chill the fuck out and loosen the fuck up.
Just because I met—or will meet—a mystery girl doesn’t mean that I have to fuck her or kill her.
I’ll just have a little fun with her. Catch and release.
Easy.