Rhett 35 #2
Shifting on the couch, Paulie rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to work something loose. “What?”
“Something’s … off.” His buddy rubs his temple, blinking hard.
“Fuck, my mouth’s dry.” Paulie’s eyes go unfocused, like the room has slipped a few inches to the left. He lifts the whiskey to his lips and tosses the remainder back. That’s it, keep drinking, boys.
Palms braced on his knees, Marcus leans forward.
His eyes squint, trying to bring the room back into line.
“You think …?” He doesn’t finish the thought, movements slow as he sets his glass down a little too hard, his hand missing the edge of the table.
Their heads dip again, like gravity’s gotten heavier all at once.
“Time to meet your maker, boys.” I exit the bathroom without finesse, not giving two fucking shits if they can see me approach.
Marcus doesn’t notice at first. He’s slumped forward, breathing like his lungs are working through syrup.
Paulie does, though. His head jerks up, eyes struggling to focus, pupils blown wide like he’s already halfway gone.
I don’t speak right away. I let them look at me. Let the fear finish assembling itself piece by piece. Confusion first, then the instinctive sense that this isn’t a hallucination. This is real. This is the end.
Marcus swallows hard. “Who the fuck—” His voice gives out on the last word.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
Paulie’s eyes find me. His mouth opens, then closes. His chest stutters as he fights to form words.
“I think it’s time for a little chat.” Unbuttoning my jacket with deliberate care, I take a seat on the couch across from them, “Rough night?”
Marcus makes a sound—somewhere between a grunt and a question. His tongue is too thick in his mouth now. Good. Let it swell.
“How does it feel to lose your faculties?” I question with a raised brow, propping one ankle over my knee. “Do you know you’re about thirty seconds from losing motor control? After that, the real fun starts.”
Paulie lurches forward, but it’s pathetic—like a puppet with tangled strings.
“Careful.” I smirk, allowing my menacing tone to dance through the air. “That coffee table’s real glass. Hate for you to split your head open before we’ve had our little chat.”
Marcus’s breathing hitches, and Paulie tries again. “Who the fuck are you?”
I chuckle. “Your worst fucking nightmare.” Leaning forward, my eyes darken as the thrill of watching them suffer rushes through my veins. “Here’s a question for you, Paulie. When you stuck your dick into a drugged-up girl on her wedding night, who the fuck did you think you were?”
He goes pale. “Fucccck you.”
“No thanks. Unlike you, I prefer my sexual partners to be coherent.” I pause, running my tongue across my lower lip, thoroughly enjoying watching them struggle to stay upright.
“You’re dying.” My voice drops to a casual tone, like I’m commenting on the weather.
“Figured I’d clear that up, since your brain’s already lagging.
” I watch their faces as panic lands, trying—and failing—to organize itself.
“Xylazine,” I continue. “Ring a bell? Probably not. It’s not for people.
” A corner of my mouth lifts. “It’s for animals.
Big ones. Horses. Cattle. The kind that don’t go down easy.
” I gesture lazily at the tray. “Shows up in coke all the time now. Looks the same. Smells the same. Dealers cut it in because it’s cheap and it stretches the product.
” I lean forward, voice dropping. “And because idiots like you don’t notice until your body starts forgetting how to function. ”
Paulie swallows hard. Marcus blinks too slowly.
“See, the coke keeps your heart racing just long enough to mask the sedative,” I explain.
“Makes you feel alert and confident, like nothing’s wrong.
That’s the trap, though.” I tap my temple.
“Xylazine works the opposite way. It slows your nervous system, drops your heart rate, and pulls the brakes on your muscle function.” My gaze tracks the twitch in Marcus’s hand.
“That’s why your fingers feel like they don’t belong to you anymore. ”
I sit back, relaxed and comfortable. “Now add Rohypnol,” I go on.
“That’s what I put in your drink, by the way.
It knocks out coordination, wipes your short-term memory, and makes it hard to yell or move or do anything useful.
” A quiet laugh slips out of me. “Stack all that together? You get a real interesting concoction.” Their breathing is already getting shallower.
“Your body can’t decide which signal to listen to.
One drug’s telling it to go, while the other’s telling it to stop.
” I shrug. “And eventually … all things must come to an end.”
Paulie’s chest stutters, fear brimming in his gaze. Good.
“That thick-tongue feeling? That’s your brain losing control.
” I tilt my head and lean in just enough for them to see my eyes.
“The cocaine keeps you awake for the scary part.” A dark chuckle forms on my lips.
“The Rohypnol keeps you calm enough not to fight it.” Panic widens Marcus’s eyes.
“And the best fuckin’ part?” I grin, savoring the fear terrorizing their eyes.
“You won’t black out right away,” my smile widens to a calculated smirk.
“You’ll have just enough awareness to know you’re suffocating to death while I watch. ”
A whimper groans past Paulie’s discolored lips.
It’s pathetic, and fuck me for saying this, I love it.
“You’re probably wondering why you can still feel your tongue, huh?
That’s the Rohypnol. Counteracts the panic.
Makes it all floaty. Dreamlike.” I glance at the decanter.
“Maybe now you’ll understand even a sliver of how she felt that night. ”
Barely able to hold his head up, Marcus slumps.
I turn to him. “You thought this was a gift.” I motion to the coke, the whiskey, the whole obscene display.
“From your buddy. Another fun night to ensure your silence.” I lean in closer.
“But it wasn’t a gift. It was a grave. Dug by me for touching something that didn’t belong to you. ”
Paulie wheezes, panic fluttering in his chest. He’s trying to form words, but his mouth isn’t keeping up. I watch his lips move, slack and useless. “You wanna beg me to make it stop?” I offer, mock-sincerity lacing my words. “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”
He whimpers something unintelligible, but all I do is laugh. “I think the word you’re looking for is please? Maybe stop?” I taunt. “You stole her voice. Now you don’t get to fuckin’ scream either.”
A sharp and ugly gag gurgles from Marcus, like his body’s trying to cough up something that isn’t there. His hands twitch against the couch cushions, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s forgotten how they’re supposed to work.
I tilt my head, watching him with open fascination. “That’s the diaphragm starting to give out,” I inform him pleasantly. “Feels like choking without anything in your throat, right?”
His eyes bulge. A wet sound bubbles up, then dies.
Slumping sideways, Paulie barely holds himself upright, sweat pouring down his temple.
His lips are blue at the edges. He looks fucking wrecked.
I lean into the couch, spreading my arms across the back like I’m settling in for a show.
“Jesus, you boys are disappointing. All that bravado earlier. All that big talk. And now look at you.” He shakes his head in an attempt at what I assume would be frantic, if he wasn’t barely conscious.
“P-please—”
“There it is,” I croon. “That’s the word.
Say it again. I wanna know if you actually mean it.
” His mouth opens, but nothing comes out other than his tongue lolling uselessly.
I toss my head back, a laugh erupting past my lips.
“Oh, that’s just cruel,” I tease. “You finally find your manners and your body won’t cooperate. ”
Marcus lets out a thin, broken sound—half sob, half breath. His head drops forward, chin hitting his chest, then rolls back as his eyes flutter.
“Stay with me,” I taunt him. “Don’t check out yet.
You’re going to miss the best part.” I stand and pace slowly in front of them, boots quiet against the carpet, like a predator circling wounded prey.
“You know what I love most about this?” I ask casually.
“You’re alert enough to understand what’s happening and helpless enough to do fuck all about it. ” Paulie’s chest stutters again.
“That panic you’re feeling”—I pause for dramatic effect—“that tight, crawling pressure in your ribs? That’s your body screaming for oxygen while your lungs sit there like useless sacks of meat.
” I stop directly in front of him. “Breathe, Paulie.” Raising a mocking brow, I push him further.
“Go on. Take a big one.” He tries but fails, and I grin wider.
Marcus’s head lolls toward me. His eyes barely focus. “We— We shouldn’t have—”
“Too fucking late to apologize now,” I snap, venom coating every syllable.
“That moment passed weeks ago.” Crouching slightly, I bring myself to their level, and my voice drops into something intimate yet obscene.
“You thought you were untouchable. Thought money and friendships and silence would keep you safe.” I straighten again.
“Turns out, you just picked the wrong woman. My woman.”
Paulie starts to convulse, not full seizures—just enough jerking to be disturbing. His feet scrape weakly against the floor.
“Ah! There it is. Loss of voluntary movement.” I glance at Marcus. “You’re next.”
He tries to speak, jaw trembling, but no words come.
Pleading eyes roll back in Paulie’s head, glassy and unfocused, mouth slack.
His chest rises once. Twice. Then stutters.
I step closer, looming now, making damn sure they see me.
“This is the part where you realize no one’s coming,” I tell them calmly.
“No last-minute rescue. No second chance.” His chest gives one last weak heave. Then nothing.
The other fucker lets out a thin, keening sound. I lean in close, my voice vicious, meant only for him. “You get to die knowing she lives.” His eyes lock on mine—terror, fury, understanding, all tangled together. “Time to say goodbye,” I taunt.
Following in his friend’s footsteps, life drains from his face and silence floods the room. I straighten slowly, rolling my shoulders, adrenaline humming through my veins. Finally, I pull one more surprise out of my pocket and drop it on the table. “Rot in hell, boys.”
With that last statement, I turn on my heel and walk out, pulse humming. Not with adrenaline, but pure satisfaction. “Kade. You there?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me by the bar.”
“Copy.”
The main floor is just as obscene as it was when I left it—money, bodies, indulgence, the illusion of power. I slip back into it like I belong there, as if I didn’t just watch two men choke the life out of themselves a floor above.
Kade’s already waiting, drink in hand that he hasn’t touched. “Good job, brother. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”
In silent agreement, we move together toward the exit.
That’s when we almost collide with Bradley.
He’s coming from the bar, crystal glass in his hand, eyes glassy with expectation.
He barely glances at us as we pass, but I slow just enough to turn my head in his direction.
Our eyes lock briefly, but there’s no way he recognizes me with my beard gone and the mask still firmly in place.
“Have a good night,” I greet pleasantly, fully aware that I’m coming for him next.
A few minutes later, we’re back in the hotel room.
Two laptop screens on the desk are open, showing the VIP suite exactly as I left it.
Bradley comes into frame a minute later.
He steps inside, humming under his breath.
He doesn’t turn on the lights, just crosses the room, and heads toward the couches.
“Already passed out?” he grunts, amused. “Fuckin’ amateurs.” He sets his glass down on the side table, then halts. We see the exact second it hits him—the shift in his posture, the way his shoulders stiffen. His head tilts, eyes narrowing as he takes in the room. The bodies. The stillness.
“Paulie?” he calls out. Nothing. He steps closer, shaking his shoulder once before cursing under his breath and moving to the next corpse.
“Marcus?” The lamp clicks on and the room floods with light.
Bradley stumbles back like he’s been hit.
His face drains of color, mouth opening, then snapping shut as panic claws up his throat.
His eyes dart between them. “Holy shit.” He backs away, hand shaking as he scrubs it over his mouth.
Then his gaze drops to the coffee table, to the little gift I left for him to find.
Bradley snatches it up, fingers trembling, and his eyes flick wildly around the room before he lowers his gaze to the card stock. The same one he placed on my bed the night of the wedding, only I’ve made some adjustments. I crossed everything out—everything except the final line.
Eeny meeny miney moe.
Cowboy let his starlet go.
Did she squeal …?
Maybe so.
That’s a secret you’d hate to know.
I win.
Knowing that I’m coming for him next, he does exactly what I hoped he would. He runs.
It’s a shame he’s too fuckin’ flustered with his need to escape, that he totally misses one major detail—when the cops show up, it will be his DNA and fingerprints all over the room.