Page 5 of Wicked Spite
But tonight, business comes first. And Reagan Smith won’t see tomorrow. She’ll just be another college junkie.
Utterly unremarkable.
I grab the neck of my beer bottle and tilt it up and toward her in a silent, one-man show of congratulations.
I wait for another hour until finally last call echoes through the room, and she starts cleaning up with the other bartender. I chuckle to myself because “Last call” sounds almost poetic.
The clock ticks, dragging on like the epilogue nobody asked for. Finally, Reagan and the guy, Devon, wrap things up. I toss some bills onto the table, adjust my hat so the bill covers my face, and slip out of the bar amidst a group of tipsy, stumbling coeds. Their laughter and slurred conversations fill the air, and instead draw any attention that might have come my way.
“See you around, beautiful!” one of them slurs, waving drunkenly at Reagan. She just rolls her eyes and goes back to wiping down the counter. Bitches like that ain’t worth her time, and she knows it.
I lean into the alley across from the bar, making sure I’ve got a clear view of the door. The smell of stale beer, urine and vomit fills my nostrils—disgusting but familiar. The sharp, acrid scents soothe me, taking me back to when I lived and breathed only them for weeks. Until Robert got exactly what he wanted.
Pulling myself away from a demon of my past, I lean against the brick wall and let my heartbeat and breath sync up until they are moving as one. Quietly and efficient as my eyes track everything in front of me.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours untilfinally, she emerges with Devon. They split up, and she strides left, confidence oozing from every step. I let her get a bit ahead before stumbling out of the alley, mimicking the staggering gait of a drunk. It’s almost too easy.
Reagan doesn’t glance back; she never does. That’s my girl—no, scratch that—she’s no one’s girl, least of all mine. But for tonight, she’s the star of my little fucked up show.
She heads toward campus, and I follow at a safe distance. Then, just as we near the edge of the college grounds, a pair of frat boys stumble into her path, blocking her way.
“Hey, sweetheart,” one slurs, leaning in a little too close.
“Fuck off,” Reagan snaps, not breaking stride.
“Aw, come on,” the other jeers, reaching out to grab her arm.
Before I can even think of stepping in, Reagan moves. Quick as a viper, she grabs the first guy by the balls and gives them a vicious twist. He drops to his knees, a high-pitched whine escaping his lips.
“Jesus Christ!” his buddy yelps, hands up in surrender. “We didn’t mean any harm!”
“Then back the fuck off,” Reagan growls, releasing her grip. The guy crumples, clutching himself in agony while his friend helps him hobble away.
My grin stretches wide, wicked. There’s something about a woman who can handle her business that gets me all sorts of hot and bothered.
We finally reach the small, run-down apartment building on the edge of campus. Reagan doesn’t even glance back as she pushes open the creaky door and heads inside. I watch her disappear up the dimly lit staircase, my eyes narrowing on the numbers 4D painted in peeling black paint on the door she enters. Kismet, indeed. Four’s my lucky number,and D... well, that’s the only D she’ll be getting since I have tobehave.
I wait ten minutes, counting off each minute like a child on the playground getting ready to play hide and seek. Then, with a quick glance around to make sure no one’s around, I approach the door. Picking locks is child’s play when you’ve got fingers gifted for sin and a family legacy that’s less white-picket fence, more barbed-wire rope.
I crack the door and hear the faint sound of running water. Perfect, she’s in the shower. I slip inside, closing the door softly behind me.
The place reeks of her—something light and airy. I take a moment to breathe it in, my eyes darting over the room. Her studio apartment screams grunge chic—posters of old rock bands, worn-out furniture, and clothes strewn everywhere. It’s chaotic, just like her.
Her fucking place is in disarray, and I didn’t think anyone could be worse than me.
I start picking things up from her dresser, fingers tracing over band t-shirts, mismatched jewelry, and half-used bottles of perfume. Lipsticks roll like loose bullets among scrawled notes and crumpled receipts.
I move toward the bathroom; the door left slightly ajar. Steam billows out, carrying the scent of her shampoo. It smells minty and now I want to feel her minty hair wrapped around my dick. I can hear her humming softly, a tune I don’t recognize but she doesn’t have a half bad harmony. At least she doesn’t sound like Iris when she’s singing, and it sounds like a wildebeest is mating. I lean against the doorframe, peeking through the crack.
Knock, knock. I think, almost laughing at the absurdity. Who’s there? Just your friendly neighborhood psycho here todrug you and kill you. Leaving your body for someone to find after it’s been bed rotting for a few days most likely. What a shame for that face. I wonder if the funeral home will be able to reconstruct it enough for an open casket.
My mind races with dark jokes, each one more twisted than the last. But they all boil down to the same thing: the endgame. My hand slips into my pocket, fingers brushing against the cool metal of Naomi and the syringe full of fentanyl.
Just a little slip of death.
I know it’s only a matter of time before she steps out of that shower, before she realizes she’s not alone. The anticipation builds, a sick sort of thrill that tightens my chest and narrows my focus. I need to catch her as soon as she steps out, before she can make any sound or put up any kind of fight.
Night night, little hellfire.
