Page 9 of Toxic B!tch
With a swirling motion, I carefully place the liquor down and eagerly observe as he drinks the remaining contents. “Drink up, sugar. I’m ready to take you home with me.” He licks his lips.
“Well, let’s go then.” I stand, grab my clutch, and take his hand, letting him lead me from the bar.
By the time we get to the parking lot and are crossing to his car, the drug has kicked in. After stumbling a few steps, Ramon stops abruptly and gazes around, looking disoriented.
“Whaaa ssss wrong ith me?” he slurs.
“Shh. Shh. Shh,” I whisper, gently cupping his face in my hands. “You just drank too much. I got you.”
I guide him to his car, forcefully push him into the passenger seat, and hastily settle into the driver’s seat. With a swift movement, I reach over and retrieve the keys from Ramon’s pocket, feeling the cool touch of the metal against my skin.
In just ten minutes, we reach the house, and I gently wrap my arm around him, guiding him. When we get inside, I push him against the framed wall and tie him up.
In a bare-bones house, finding a way for him to remain upright and easily reachable is a challenge.
Now, I need my tools and to get rid of his car. Rushing back to the car, I drive to his street and park in front of his house.
Hurriedly, I grab the bleach wipes from my purse and start wiping down the steering wheel, the gearshift, the door handle—every surface my fingers touched. Each swipe erases any trace of me.
Satisfied, I pause to glance around, making sure no one's watching. I step out and close the door with my sleeve, scanning the quiet street. I walk a block, maybe two, before pulling out my phone and ordering an Uber. The driver arrives in minutes, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a silence I’m grateful for. He doesn’t try to make small talk, just focuses on the road. The hum of the engine and the muted glow of streetlights are my only companions.
The ride to the bar is quiet, the streets lights blurring past. Once I’m dropped off, I straddle the seat of my bike and put my helmet on, feeling the familiar hum of the engine beneath me. Now I'm ready to make Ramon pay for touching what’s not his.
CHAPTER SEVEN
INDIGO
The house is quiet when I get back. Too quiet, which tells me Ramon is still out cold. I'd kinda hoped he'd be awake, filled with fear, ready for what’s coming. But no, the dose I gave him—just enough to knock him out—has kept him in dreamland a bit longer than I anticipated. Doesn’t matter. He’ll wake up soon enough. They always do.
Grabbing my art kit and the little bottle of bleach from my bike, I head inside, ready to set up and wait. On a makeshift table made of two sawhorses, I lay out my tools and bleach on a piece of plywood. I grab a tarp from the other room, dragging it across the dusty floor and laying it down with deliberate precision. I steal a glance at Ramon, still tied up with extension cords, sprawled out like an offering. Soon.
A groan escapes his lips. I watch as his eyelids flutter, confusion clouding his face as he slowly becomes aware of his surroundings.
“What’s going on? Where am I?” His voice cracks, fear lacing every syllable. He tugs at the cords around his wrists, his muscles straining against the bindings, eyes wide and wild.
“What the hell?”
I smile—a slow, calculated smile—my fingers brushing over the tools laid out like an artist preparing to create a masterpiece. “Can’t have you getting away now, can I?”
“Untie me!” he shouts. “You’re fucking crazy!”
I snap my head toward him, eyes narrowing. “I’m not crazy.” My voice drops low, venomous. “I’meccentric.”
His breathing quickens, and I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He tries to switch tactics, smoothing his tone, and leaning into what he thinks will work. It won’t. Not with me.
“Sugar. Don’t be like that. We could still have some fun together. Just free my hands and I’ll make you feel so good.”
A laugh bursts from my throat. “That’s gonna be a no for me. You really don’t remember me, do you?” I step closer, enjoying the flicker of confusion that crosses his face. Of course, he doesn’t remember. Men like him never do.
“No. Should I?”
“We met before. In the back of that club. You felt me up, thought I was some easy mark. I head-butted you, kicked you in the nuts, and my bouncer tossed you out like trash.”
His jaw drops, his mouth hanging open as the memory slams into him. “Oh, shit.”
“There it is. Long time no see, Ramon. It’s nice to meet youofficiallythis time. Welcome to my art show. Or, well... I guess you’re the piece.”
He fights against the two-by-fours and cords holding him in place and I throw my head back, laughing as I grab the first tool from my kit. A shish kabob skewer, long and sharp. His eyes widen as I approach, but his words catch in his throat, nothingbut whimpers escaping as I grab his pants and yank them down to his ankles.
