Page 88 of Love Her

“Who—who are you?” he sputtered, flailing. “There’s cash in my car man—and drugs—and a girl!”

And parts of my soul that I didn’t think could get any colder did. “You piece of shit motherfucker.” I tossed his gun aside and stepped back. “Nicholas Samson sends his regards,” I said, giving him just enough room to think that he could run for it.

He bolted—and I cracked the back of his bald head with the tire iron.

He went down, hard, falling to his knees, before then crashing to his face—and this way I’d kept all of the incoming spatter off of my rental x5, which due to the gradient of the parking structure was ever so slightly uphill.

“One down,” I told Sable. “The other,” I said, glancing over at the woman still slumped inside his car. “I’m not so sure about.”

“Want me to hit go?” she asked, ready to pull Zane’s strings.

“Yeah. I’ll figure out something.” I put the tire iron carefully atop Bix, all perpendicular, so it wouldn’t smear him with his own blood and make anybody ask questions, then I reparked the beemer far enough away that it looked like it wasn’t part of the scene. I grabbed my duffle bag out of the back, and ran back with it, pulling out a roll of duct tape, as I crept up on Bix’s car.

I opened the passenger door—and the girl almost fell out. I shoved her back inside. She was barely breathing, nodded out hard, and I took a picture of her face to send to Sable. “Who is this?” I asked her, the second it was sent.

“Gimme a second,” she said, and I put a gloved finger to the woman’s carotid, just in case. Her heartbeat was slow but steady—then I went and pulled an eyelid up. Her pupils were wide as hell—she was definitely in wonderland.

Sable hissed in my ear. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“That’s Ramona Samson.”

I groaned. “Fuck me.”

“You can’t just leave her at a crime scene, Rhaim.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Zane St. Clair will be here in fifteen.”

“Great,” I said, though it was anything but.

Then I had a truly shitty idea.

Not that the idea itself was bad, but that the contents of it were the kind I probably needed bleach or a priest to get out.

“Text Zane. Tell him he’s gonna want to see my new car—and that I’ve got a present inside for him.”

“You’re fucked—that’s fucked—” Sable said.

“I know,” I said, and hopped into the Charger’s driver’s seat.

It only tooka little repositioning to get Bix’s car so that his corpse was in its own shadow—and then I went around the front and opened up Ramona’s side again, positioning her like a sad Barbie doll, with her legs out the door, her body slumped against the center console and into the driver’s seat.

Then I pulled on a baggy hoodie over my body armor, and a ball cap too, and waited.

“What are you going to do if she wakes up?” Sable asked in my ear.

“That’s a great fucking question,” I muttered. I’d considered taping her mouth shut, but I was too scared she’d puke inside and drown—so I’d downgraded to just taping her wrists together instead.

And then I’d gotten all cute and moved back around outside to tape her ankles together, making something on top like a little silver bow, all while Sable clucked in my ear, telling me where Zane was, and judging me in turns.

“So fucked,” she said, for possibly the twelfth time, as I settled back into the driver’s seat.

“You told him he was gonna get stuff stronger than K and faster then G, right? So what’s a drug deal for a new drug withouta party?” A party that one person hadn’t known they were invited to—and that the other’s reputation wouldn’t survive?

“Yeah, but, human bait? He’s three away.”

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