Chapter Eight
I’m late. My head echoes this thought repeatedly as I slink onto the property. I don’t know why it fucking matters what time I show up, but tonight is the night. Last night, my fingers were covered with Sara’s cum, but tonight? It’ll be blood. And I want all the time I need to get it done.
The first time I killed, on Ben Grenado”s orders, was tough. I spent an hour retching until my stomach was empty, not so much from pulling the trigger, but from the grim task of disposing of the body afterward, leaving no trace. But I got it done. After that, it got easier.
Almost exhilarating.
My heart pounds with anticipation at what’s to come. Even taking long, deep breaths, it doesn’t ease up. This is the night that I’m going to make everything right again for Sara. She’s going to be mine, and I’m going to get her out of this hellhole.
Aiming for the pool house, I slip through the backyard. The light isn’t on, and I hope that means the fucker is passed out. But we’ll see. I like the idea of waking him up and seeing the look of shock on his face. I also like the idea of startling an awake Ron, too. All I know is that I’m the Grim Reaper tonight. Silent. Purposeful. Deadly.
My boots make no sound on the pavement outside. There’s only one door into the small pool house, which is both a blessing and a curse. I can slip out of a window, but the place is so small, it wouldn’t matter. I’d have to kill whoever stumbled in on us.
Which is fine with me.
I try the knob of the front door and let out a silent chuckle. The pervy dipshit has left the door unlocked. Who the fuck does that? I push the door in and listen. The TV has been left on. I wonder if he’s up this late watching it or if it’s how the man manages to sleep with his conscience. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve done some fucked up shit. But prey on children?
No. This man deserves to burn in hell.
And I’m sending him there tonight.
I step inside, sliding across the tile floor. It reeks of stale smoke and booze, which is unsurprising for a man like Ron. His brother is cut from a similar cloth and is also a wife beater, but Ron is on a whole other level—and the loyalty Will shows the man is sickening. The closer I get to the single bedroom, a mere twenty feet away, the more I think about how good it’s going to feel when his guts are splattered across the white walls.
“Will?” Ron’s voice cuts through the silence. “You come to talk about what happened tonight? I-I-I’m telling you…” His voice trails off in a slur.
This motherfucker is drunk.
That’s going to ruin some of the fun. However, it doesn’t change the fact that the job still has to be done tonight. I won’t wait anymore. I can’t. I need Sara for myself. My lip tightens, my heart rattles against my ribcage, and the impending death is different than all the others I’ve caused.
“Will? I told ya, your wife baited me. She’s a damned whore.” He bursts into a hearty laugh that makes my skin crawl—and that’s saying something. It takes a really weird fuck to make me feel this way.
I follow the voice, staying silent. I hold my sawed-off shotgun by my side. I know Ron usually has a pistol in his nightstand, but he won’t find it there tonight. It’s tucked safely in my waistband. I creep through the darkness until I make it to his cracked-open bedroom door.
“Who’s there?” This time, his voice doesn’t sound nearly as confident as before, and I smile to myself. He’s unnerved, and it’s about God damned time.
I use my boot to kick the door the rest of the way open, and Ron’s eyes go wide as saucers.
“How you been?”
His Adam’s apple bobs at my voice. “What’re you doing back in town, Aiden?” He’s surprisingly terrified of me, and I hope like hell that he pisses his pants. “I haven’t—”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t care what you have or haven’t done. You exist, and that’s a fucking problem to me.”
His eyes drop to the gun in my hand, and I watch as the perv lunges for his nightstand drawer. A grin remains etched on my face as he rips it open—only to discover that it’s empty.
“Something missing?” I taunt him as the fat fuck sits up straight in his bed. The only light comes from the TV, but I can still see that the guy is missing his shirt, showing off his grossly hairy and round body. The stale smell of unwashed sweat and dirt assaults my senses, making my stomach churn in disgust.
“Y-you…” He stumbles over his words.
“Yeah, I know. I thought it through this time, Ron,” I tell him, casually leaning against the dresser adjacent to where he sits. His eyes bounce to the door. “Don’t even think about it. You won’t be able to get your fat ass to the door before your brains are painting the walls.”
“If-if you kill me, my brother will come for you.”
I scoff. “Oh man, really? With all due disrespect, I disagree.”
He swallows hard at the sarcasm in my voice. “You’ll go to jail.”
“No,” I laugh. “I won’t go to jail. Why would I go to jail for you killing yourself? That seems rather unfair, don’t you think?”
Ron’s eyes turn to slits. “I ain’t killing myself.”
“Oh yes,” I sigh. “Yes, you are. We both know you belong in hell with all the rest of the sick perverts like you.”
“You still hung up over that stupid bitch?” Ron’s lips curl in disgust. “You know she ain’t shit to me. Never touched her.”
“Only because you never had the chance to, and then she aged out,” I bark, my hands beginning to shake. My mind fills with images of destroying this man—of mutilating his genitals in a way that would make even the sickest of people cringe. I want him to have the most painful death, begging for mercy…
But I’m also no fool.
I don’t want the law coming after me—or worse—Sara. It wouldn’t take much digging to know that this is a fucked-up household. “I need to move this along,” I say, taking a step toward him.
He cowers, his body trembling. “I ain’t gonna kill myself.”
“Yeah, yeah you are.” I pull out his pistol from my waistband. “There’s one bullet in this chamber, and you’re going to take care of this yourself.”
“You can’t make me.”
“You sound like a child. No wonder you’re attracted to them,” I cackle, racking the pistol. I’ve got a lot of practice with this, having used the tactic before. The shotgun rests against my hip, pointed at him, and the pistol is in my other hand. It’s also pointed at him.
It takes coordination to pull this off.
But it works every time.
“You turn this gun on me, and I’ll blow a hole in you.” I’m surprised the guy isn’t running. Part of me thinks he’s accepting his fate—and that kind of pisses me off. I want him to fucking cry for me to change my mind. I want him to beg. Instead, he’s sitting there in shock.
Coward.
I’m at the edge of the bed, and I can’t help but notice again the scent of his body odor. This guy smells putrid and acidic. My eyes burn as I get closer, but I force myself to anyway.
Lifting the shotgun from my hip, I shove it into his bare chest. He wails like a fucking baby, and I laugh. His hand flies up to the barrel, but I hold it steady. He’s not moving it. He’s got flabby, weak arms.
“Open your mouth,” I growl, coming at him with the pistol. I’d like to pistol whip him, but I can’t afford the evidence. That’s the fucked-up part of this. If anger gets the best of me and there’s any evidence that might lead someone to think I did it, then I’m fucked. It has to look as if he killed himself.
“I-I-I ain’t gonna—”
“I’ll break your fucking teeth,” I bark, startling him when I shove it through his parted lips. He gags, and I find myself laughing all over again. What a fucking loser. I shove the muzzle all the way to the back of his throat and cackle as he retches. He doesn’t vomit, but now he’s crying.
Finally.
He mutters unintelligible words, and I don’t fucking care to understand what he’s trying to say.
“Ready to die?” I shove the shotgun into his chest.
He whimpers, now sobbing uncontrollably. It’s about fucking time, but I need him to fight. I dig the muzzle into the back of his throat again, and he gags. Finally, his hand flies up to mine in protest, trying to push the pistol out of his mouth. The moment his touch brushes my index finger, I pull the trigger and instantly release the gun.
A muffled sound fills the guesthouse. Blood splatters like red paint across the headboard and walls. I feel a burst of relief and excitement thrum through my chest. It was too easy. He made it too easy, but in return, it keeps things clean for me. I doublecheck the placement of the gun, ensuring that it’s in the proper place for suicide. I’ve done my due diligence in research. If it turns into a murder investigation, there’s no doubt it’ll lead to me.
And it’s hard to be a good husband when you’re in prison.
I stand there for a few moments, taking in the gruesome sight of Ron, lying limp on the bed. There’s blood soaking the pillows around his head, and the gun lays right beside him on the bed. Even in death, he looks pathetic. Disgusting. Will should be shocked when he finds him. At least, I hope so.
My shotgun stays at my side as I ease out of the room. It’s a backup plan—just in case someone tries to stop Sara from leaving with me. I’ll kill anyone for her. Well, except kids. No one should ever hurt kids. I take one last look at Ron, wishing I could take a picture of the glorious moment, but I don’t. That would be hard to explain.
Which is why I don’t even have my phone on me.
It’s back at the house. My head continues to spin with anticipation as I exit the pool house, leaving the door unlocked just like before. There’s a part of me that wants to lock it, but that might be out of character for Ron—and then in return it would be suspicious. I’m worrying too much. But I can’t risk doing anything to lose Sara.
Hands trembling, I cut across the yard to her window. I peer in and see her lying on top of her covers. I furrow my brow at the sight. It’s almost as if she knew I was coming—except the door to the bedroom is open. She’s propped up on her pillows, her body angled toward the door.
Interesting. I go to jimmy the window, and I instantly realize that it’s locked. I let out a sigh and jiggle it a little harder. Thankfully, the levers on the window are trash, and I’m able to get it open with minimal effort. Still holding the shotgun, I slide through the window and slip across the room in silence, closing the bedroom door.
She’s too close to the others to have it open. I can’t risk her having a knee-jerk reaction. I don’t want to commit mass murder if I can avoid it. I turn back to look at Sara, and she’s still sleeping peacefully.
It’s time to come home now.