Chapter 17
Seventeen
Ellie
The red dress itches.
It’s too tight in the chest, too short to sit in without tugging, too bright for a place like this. But that’s the point,
isn’t it? To stand out. To lure. I sit in the corner booth of a dive bar on Amsterdam, surrounded by flickering neon signs
and the stale stench of spilled beer and old secrets. The vinyl beneath me sticks to the backs of my thighs. I cross and uncross
my legs, pretending I belong here, pretending this is just another night.
Then he walks in.
The Surgeon General.
He’s exactly what I expected and somehow worse—slicked-back hair with too much gel, a cheap suit trying to look expensive,
and the kind of smug smile that makes your skin crawl. He’s scanning the room like he’s already claimed everything in it,
and when his eyes land on me, I feel it in my spine.
“You here for me?” he says as he slides into the booth without asking. His voice is smooth like oil—thick, slick, dangerous.
I smile. Just a little. “Sure am.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t care. He flags the waitress with a lazy wave. “Whiskey. Neat.” Then to me, “What do you want?”
“Soda.”
That makes him laugh. Loud, grating. “A sober one, huh? That’s unusual. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I stare at him, unblinking. He thinks I’m playing a part. That’s fine. Let him. “Julie.”
“Sweet. I like that. You from the city?” he asks, leaning in, elbows on the sticky table. He smells like old sweat and too
much aftershave.
“No.” I slide my black cardigan off. His eyes roam up and down my form with interest.
“Didn’t think so. You’ve got that lost-little-girl thing. Shame, really. Never lasts long in this business.”
His hand moves under the table, bold and slow, landing on my thigh like it has a right to be there. I don’t flinch. I reach
down and remove it, calm as anything, like swatting a fly.
He laughs again, but there’s something sharp under it now. “Seriously? Most prudish hooker they’ve ever sent me.”
I tilt my head, forcing a smile. “They?”
“Yeah, your boss. Handler. Pimp. Whatever the hell you call him.” He lifts his glass, downs the whiskey in one swallow. “He promised me something special. Said you were new. Said you were good.”
The words curdle in my stomach.
“How many girls have there been before me?” I ask quietly, mostly to myself. He doesn’t hear the threat under my voice. He
hears an opportunity.
“Enough to know what I like. And what I don’t.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone. “Want me to call him? Tell him his girl’s not performing? Get you replaced with someone who knows how to do the damn job?”
He still thinks I’m something he purchased. Something disposable. But beneath my fear, there’s something else rising—something
molten and ancient and cold at the same time.
Who does he think I work for?
He slurs something about how girls these days have no respect, no gratitude, no spine. He’s not even looking at me now—just
talking, rambling, proud of himself.
And I’m watching him like a scientist studies a specimen.
“I’ve got a room upstairs,” he says suddenly, slamming the empty glass on the table. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me drag
you.”
My stomach flips. My skin crawls. Every nerve in my body screams for me to run.
But I don’t move. I breathe. I stand slowly, the dress riding high as I slide out of the booth. He grabs at my waist like
I’m already his, and I let him—for a moment.
Just long enough.
Let him think I’m weak. Let him think I’m scared.
Let him think I’m just another name in his phone, just another body he gets to ruin and forget.
He doesn’t know.
He has no idea who I really am.
And he’ll never see what’s coming.
I follow him through a shabby door behind the bar and up the stairs, each creaking step a countdown. The hallway smells like
mildew and cheap floor polish. His cologne hangs in the air like a chokehold, musky and arrogant, clouding my lungs. He’s
muttering something about how “this better be worth it,” and I pretend to be too nervous to talk. I guess I am.
The room is exactly what I expected—stained rug, sagging twin bed, one dim lamp casting long shadows across the walls like watching eyes. He shuts the door with a flick of his wrist and turns to me, that smarmy smile curling across his face.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he slurs, reaching for my waist again.
I let him. Let him pull me close and mash his mouth against mine. His lips are wet, forceful, and taste like whiskey and rot.
I kiss him back with all the tenderness of a corpse, letting him paw at my hips, my breasts, my ass. His hands are everywhere,
greedy and uncoordinated. My stomach coils tighter with every touch.
I pull away just enough to breathe and flash him a coy smile. “You want me to be good, don’t you?”
“Damn right,” he pants, stumbling backward toward the bed. “Get on your knees and suck me off.”
I take a step closer, eyes wide, voice light. “Not yet. Let’s have a little fun first.”
He flops onto the bed with a grunt, spreading his legs like he’s king of the world. His fly is already halfway down. I crawl
onto the mattress slowly, straddling him with practiced grace, dragging my fingers down his chest as my heartbeat hammers
in my ears.
“Tease,” he groans, eyelids fluttering as I start undoing the buttons on his shirt. One. Two. Three. My hands tremble, not
from nerves, but from the force it takes not to drive my knuckles into his throat.
“You like slow, don’t you?” I whisper, licking the sweat from his collarbone. He grunts approval.
He’s drunk enough not to notice when I slide his sleeves down just to his elbows, not fully off his arms, then tie the wrists
around the bed’s iron headboard. I knot them together gently, playfully, like a game. He’s at my mercy now.
“Whoa now,” he chuckles, “getting kinky, huh?”
I giggle, soft and breathy. “Don’t move.”
He won’t. Not yet. He thinks this is foreplay.
I kiss my way down his stomach, the flesh loose and greasy beneath my mouth. I can feel the bile rising in my throat, but
I push it down. I only think of Julie. The real Julie. It probably wasn’t even her real name. I don’t need to know her name to know what he did to her though.
His pants are around his ankles now. He moans, his head lolling back. “That’s it, baby. That’s what I—”
He doesn’t finish.
Because when I rise up, it’s not with my mouth.
It’s with the knife.
Small, sharp, the same matte black as my boot heel, and sheathed in a small leather case to avoid cutting my skin. I’d tucked
it in at the last moment before I left my apartment. My fingers curl around the hilt, my heart as cold as steel.
He blinks, confused. “Wha—?”
I straddle his chest, lean in so close I can smell the panic starting to seep through his sweat. I smile.
“This one’s for Julie,” I whisper.
And I start to carve.
He screams the moment the blade bites into skin. I shove a balled-up corner of the dingy blanket into his mouth to stifle
the noise. I drag the knife slow, deliberate, from his collarbone down to the start of his gut. The J is messy. He’s thrashing.
The U gets cleaner. By the L, I’m soaked in blood. I work through his cries, through the begging moans, the muffled shrieks
that bounce off the walls and seem to crawl back into him.
Julie. In thick, screaming red.
He bucks, trying to break free, but the shirt sleeves hold. His face is mottled, panicked, soaked with tears now. Good.
I lean in again, voice calm. “May you never forget.”
Then I bite.
His earlobe splits between my teeth, and I feel his blood gush hot down my chin. He screams harder.
I wipe the blade on his chest and slip it back into my boot. I climb off, straighten my dress, sticky and soaked now with
his blood. The red fabric hides the truth beautifully but I slide my black cardigan over my shoulders anyway.
I don’t look back.
I walk downstairs slowly, each step measured. In the bar no one glances at me. No one notices.
I push open the front door and step out into the night.
Amsterdam Avenue hums with taxis, sirens, and drunken laughter.
My dress clings to me, wet and dark.
The perfect camouflage.
Crimson justice. And no one the wiser.
My cell buzzes with an incoming text message then. I fish it out of my clutch and find another message from an anonymous number.
I wonder how your husband would feel if he knew the truth.