Chapter 5 Fink
Fink
Fink would never call himself a gentle lover.
However, this was something completely different.
He had never been this feral before. He blamed the blood covering him.
The copper scent always drove him crazy.
This had been the first occasion he’d had a willing partner to take his cock immediately after a murder, with the body in the room.
Smirking to himself, he held the base of the condom and eased himself out of the red clown lady’s cunt. It tasted sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted and clamped down on him like a vise. He could’ve fucked her for eternity if given the opportunity.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the time. He’d already been in the office longer than he would’ve liked. Getting out of there was his highest priority.
Carefully, he slid the condom, full of his DNA, off his dick and knotted the end.
His gaze found the glistening red swollen lips of her well-fucked pussy, and his mouth watered. Taking another taste wouldn’t be bad, would it?
Yes.
It absolutely would.
He had to get out of there.
Bending down, he reached for his trousers and tugged them back up his legs. Stashing the used condom in his pocket, he watched hungrily as the woman rolled over on the couch and lounged as if they had all night to revel in their post-coital bliss.
He had to leave twenty minutes ago. Buttoning his fly, he planned his exit.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We?” he repeated as he slid his belt through the buckle. She kept using that word. Why? There wasn’t a “we” in any of this.
“Yeah.” She sat up. “After this, we’re sort of a team, aren’t we?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Because we fucked?” Or because they’d shared a kill? Spilling blood together was commonly a bonding ritual. He needed clarification.
She scoffed. “No.”
Good, because he wasn’t looking for a relationship right at the moment, but that begged the question. What the hell did she mean? Also, why did he care? He had to go.
She glanced toward the body on the ground. The spray of his blood covered her white blouse. “Did you forget?”
He turned and studied Grant. He was thoroughly dead. Mission accomplished.
“We’re co-killers,” she said with pride.
She wasn’t wrong. Fink would never know if it was his blows to the head or her stabbing him in the throat that had been the nail in the coffin. He frowned. Would he be able to count this as one of his kills? Had she stolen it from him?
“So what do we do now?” she repeated her earlier question.
Not that he’d forgotten; he’d recently had his blood flow diverted and hadn’t been thinking clearly.
Turning his focus back to her, he studied the woman in the cheap red wig covered in blood splatter as she tugged the white-and-black plaid shorts up her legs. She was a problem—his problem.
He couldn’t leave her there to take the fall.
Not only had she witnessed him beating Grant, ushering him toward death, but she had participated in it. He worked alone. Involving people in his occupation was a liability.
What the fuck was he supposed to do with her?
As she fastened the clips of her ridiculous suspenders, he considered the obvious. He could just shoot her. He had a gun and everything. That was what it was for, but he hated taking the easy way out. Not to be dramatic or anything, but he preferred his kills to have a bit more flair.
The golf trophy came to mind. He cocked his head to the side. He supposed he could use that on her as well. Anyone investigating this would assume they were fucking before they died.
His expression soured. No. He didn’t want Grant to get credit for the orgasm he’d given her. That belonged to him. She was his.
Knitting his brows together, he fumbled through a few more nonviable options.
“Either way,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. “I don’t think we should stick around any longer. Eventually, Nancy is going to get nosy and come and investigate.”
He nodded and reached for her.
“Oh.” She startled when he gripped her elbow.
Fink wasn’t in his right mind. Tonight had gone off the rails. He needed time to mull all of this over.
Normally, after he’d done a job, he snatched a trinket. A little token to remind him of his victory. He supposed this woman dressed like a clown would do.
The blood spatter on her face complemented the red lines she’d drawn to exaggerate her smile. She was cute and fucked like a champ. There were worse trophies to take.
She stumbled as he dragged her through the hall. “Act natural,” he barked.
He might have cut the security cameras, but there were people watching. They needed to look like a couple infatuated with each other while leaving a party and not like two people who had something to hide.
“Slow down and I will,” she said.
Shouldn’t she be fighting him? If he were being kidnapped by a killer, he definitely wouldn’t be going along willingly.
She wriggled her arm. Ah. There it is. She couldn’t have understood.
“If you want me to be natural, we should hold hands,” she whispered.
As she slid from his grip, she snaked her fingers along his arm.
Fireworks popped in their wake. Apparently, he wasn’t done enjoying her.
Either that or the high from having killed Grant continued to surge through him.
This feeling could possibly be that he’d recently gotten laid.
All of it was equally probable and the cause of his clouded judgment.
Interlacing their fingers, she pressed against him affectionately as they strolled out of the office party toward the elevators.
He didn’t have the luxury of being this careless. Fink was a professional, goddammit. What was he doing?