What Lies Beneath The Flowerbed

by D. M. Thornton

  What Lies

  Beneath

  The Flowerbed

  D.M. Thornton

  What Lies Beneath the Flowerbed is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Copyright © 2015 by D.M. Thornton

  All rights reserved

  Editing: Brieanna Robertson

  Cover Art: Monika MacFarlane

  WARNING...

  Not Meant For

  Anyone under the age of eighteen.

  Do Not Proceed

  If you are easily offended by strong language and explicit detail of sex and violence. This book is not for the faint of heart, the timid, or the prudish.

  Continue Only

  If you enjoy a good laugh, dirty sex scenes, and good ol’ raunchy sailor tongue. Having a demented sense of humor is a plus, but not required.

  Welcome to the World of

  The Toxic Trio

  Where the friendship is unbreakable, the men are dispensable, and the flowers are painstakingly beautiful.

  The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls... Edgar Allan Poe

  For my biatches...the real life Andi and Jaz.

  For without you two yahoos, this book wouldn’t have been nearly as entertaining.

  Total paranoia is just total awareness.

  -Charles Manson

  Prologue

  I’m typically not nervous before a kill, but tonight is something special. Tonight, my biatches and I are upping the ante, taking a risk...raising the bar. For tonight, we’re going to take down Lloyd Dawson, a repeat offender of petty crimes. However, those petty crimes have evolved over the years into something more...deadly. And once someone becomes deadly, they’re put on my open season checklist.

  Now, when you hear the name Lloyd Dawson, would you think—criminal? Maybe. Maybe not. You probably think his name doesn’t sound intimidating, but don’t let that fool you. With someone like Lloyd Dawson, you have to be on your tiptoes every second of the game, because you never know when the beast will rear its ugly head. A name, a look—it can all be deceiving—I should know. I’m an expert at hiding in plain view. And when it comes to doing what I do best, someone like Lloyd never sees me coming. See, I beat them at their own game, and tonight, Lloyd is the loser. He just doesn’t know it yet.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Jaz snaps at me from across the table. She takes a sip of her water and glares at me with beady eyes from over her glass.

  I wave my perfectly polished red middle finger at her, then go back to fiddling with my bracelet. I swear, I’m never nervous, but fuck, Lloyd is a little—okay, a lot—bigger than I was anticipating. And I don’t mean fat. Lloyd Dawson is a total steroid meathead.

  “He’s getting up,” Andi whispers.

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Yeah, I can see,” I tease. “All right, ladies, you ready for some fun?”

  Andi and Jaz nod with a smirk and flash me a thumbs up.

  I get up first, leading the way to the front door with Andi and Jaz in tow and follow a stumbling Lloyd outside the bar. He appears to be drunk, which could either be a good or bad thing. You never know how one responds to alcohol. Will Lloyd be a sloppy drunk who will pass out, or will he have some ridonkulous He-Man strength? Well, we shall find out.

  I slow my pace, letting Lloyd take a moment lead ahead of us, before I follow him around the cement wall that’s dividing the bar’s parking lot. Lloyd’s made it to his car, but he’s fumbling with the keys, and when he’s doing a better job of scratching the hell out of his door with his key than opening it, I sneak up behind him. But before I can stab him in the neck with my syringe, he catches my reflection in his car window and swings his elbow back, nailing me right in the shoulder. The blow knocks me off kilter, but I manage to quickly gain my footing and attempt my own punch. He catches my wrist in mid-air, twisting it down and up again until I’m spun around with my arm behind my back.

  Ah shit.

  Lloyd’s big, muscled arm snakes around my neck and begins to constrict my airway. I toss the syringe over my head and try to shimmy us to the side, hoping that Andi or Jaz will have enough room to come up behind him.

  Jesus, where my girls at? I’m fucking dying here...like, literally. My eyes are specking with little white stars and bulging from their sockets, and my head feels as if it’s going to pop right off my shoulders. But just as I think the darkness is going to take me, I fall to my knees, gasping for breath, while Lloyd’s sleeping body collapses face down in the dirt beside me.

  “Fucking hell,” I say, my voice already raspy. “Took you long enough.”

  Andi helps me up while Jaz grins. “I bet that’s the first time your eyes ever rolled back in your head, uh, brat?”

  We burst with laughter.

  “You’re such a bitch,” I say, flipping her off one more time.

  “Yep, and that’s why you love me.”

  Rubbing at my throat, I sigh. “That I do, brat. That I do.”

  Chapter 1

  Gray

  Have you ever wondered what it would be like to kill someone? To watch their face be drained of their last breath, and to hear that last puff of air escape their lungs before their heart takes its last beat. All done by your very hands. Have you ever driven along a road that seems endless, with scenery that goes as far as the eye can see, and wonder, I bet that would be a perfect place to hide a dead body, right over there, past the dunes and ditches of the desert, behind a group of cacti? Seriously, I could dump a body just about anywhere. Although, I do have a favorite spot, but we’ll get to that later. The thing that you have to take into consideration is how much foot traffic there is. Cornfields are good, or the floorboards of an old abandoned barn out in the middle of nowhere—both inconspicuous. The key is to bury that sucker good enough that no one finds it.

  I bet you’re thinking that I’m a little off my rocker, a nut job, a psycho. And I bet at this moment you are denying ever thinking of such horrific things, but be honest, to me and to yourself. Everyone has thought about killing someone at least once in their life. Am I wrong?

  Didn’t think so.

  Don’t worry, this doesn’t make you crazy or a murderer or a sociopath, or anything else for that matter. It makes you human. Now, I bet you’re wondering if I have ever taken someone’s life. Well, yes, yes, I have. But it’s not what you think, I swear.

  Men are dogs. Okay, not all of them, but the ones I’ve come in contact with are dirty pigs that want only one thing from a woman, and there are many women who frivolously just hand it over expecting the world in return and are stupidly surprised when they’re told they can’t sleep over or aren’t given a Bentley. The problem with this is that for every woman that blatantly just gives it away for free, the men taking it think that every woman is a cheap whore and will want to take it from any woman at any time. See, my philosophy is this—we don’t need these slime balls. So, I gladly remove them from this planet so they stop taking up precious oxygen.

  This is where you thank me.

  What? This seems wrong? Immoral? The work of the devil? Well, hell, someone has to do it, so why not me? If you haven’t done it, you never will, and if you think you might, you’ll just chicken out anyway. That’s why I’m perfect for the
job. I don’t care. That’s right, I don’t give a flying fuck about these egomaniac losers who only want to hump you after they’ve had too much to drink at the local dive bar.

  Bitter much? Yes, I am. So what? Maybe I once was one of those women who just gave up my pussy like it was a doughnut on free doughnut day. Men lined up around the block for this free pussy. Any man would. Besides, I’m a catch. It may not seem like it now, with how I’m talking about killing people and all, but really, I’m like God’s gift to humanity. Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating just a tad, but at one point in my miserable life, I did give it away like dollars in a strip club.

  Anyway, so yeah, I was a tad promiscuous, but I’m the sob story child with a druggie, hooker mother and an absentee father, unless you count the random pricks that were in and out of my mother’s house when I was growing up. I was molested by most of those assholes that my bitch of a mother brought home. Some were pimps, some were dealers, and some were just plain moochers who thought they’d get more than a blowjob and a shot of heroin.

  Me and my baby brother, Blue—yes, that’s right, like the fucking color—tried to stay hidden or out of the house as much as possible, which meant that we kept to the streets. I, myself, have never done drugs.

  The God’s honest truth.

  I saw what it did to my old lady, and I told myself I would never poison my body with drugs. So, I haven’t…ever. Though I have an occasional drink, I have never been drunk.

  See, I’m a saint.

  Since I don’t do drugs or get shitfaced drunk, that leaves sex, and I’ve had a lot of it in my time—a lot that I never wanted, but I’ll be honest, a lot that I did. I haven’t always been proud of whom I blessed with my pussy, but when a girl’s gotta get laid, she lowers her standards by a few notches. And if I’m being real, I used sex to try to heal the gaping wound in my soul. And no, it’s never worked, if that’s what you’re wondering.

  I’m Gray, by the way. Yes, like the fucking color. Can you see the pattern? My mother was high as a kite when she had Blue and me, and I’m certain that she never wanted us to begin with, which led to names that make you think of Eeyore on a stormy day. Blue is twenty months younger than me. It’s been years since I’ve seen him. Let’s just say that the last time I saw him was the day I washed my hands of drugs and the devastation it creates. He got sucked into the world I so desperately wanted to get far away from. Yep, you guessed it, my mother died of a heroin overdose a few years ago. And Blue has been on the same path since he was fifteen. I have given up hope trying to save his life. So, I have spent a lot of my time trying to get what revenge I can, whacking low-life scumbags who sell you dreams in a tiny li’ bag, promising you the greatest high of your life, or who steal what’s not given to them and stab you in the arm so they can get you high enough to sell your body on the street.

  I guess you can picture me as the female version of Dexter. You know, the TV show? Only I’m a high school teacher. A high school teacher who saves the better population from the true murderers, sociopaths, and psychos. I’m the one lurking in the shadows watching the sleaze ball try to roofie your drink, but before he does, I slip between you two so he goes home with me instead of raping you. I just saved your life, see, that’s why you should thank me, because while you are home sleeping nice and snug in your bed, I’ve just slit the throat of the man that was going to steal your soul.

  Chapter 2

  Gray

  I remember my first kill like it was yesterday. The way his blood coated my hands, thick and sticky, as if I slipped my hands through a jar of oil. The tin smell of the goo left a tang in the back of my throat for days. No, I didn’t drink it. What do you think I am… a fucking vampire? You must think murdering men is all I do. It’s not entirely true. There are not enough hours in the day for all the assholes that need to be whacked. Besides, if I just went around town slashing people, I’d get caught because, eventually, I’d get sloppy, and we can’t have that, now can we? On top of that, I have a job, so my time isn’t spent all day and all night hunting lowlifes. I’m a respected teacher and need to keep a low profile for my side job. I must say, I’m pretty good at what I do—at both my jobs, really. And yes, I consider killing men a job. It’s hard work, I promise.

  I’m sure you’re chuckling at this moment. “A school teacher?” you must be saying to yourself? But let me tell you, it’s the best disguise because no one would ever expect a sweet, caring ninth grade teacher to be a murderer. And I have an eye…an eye that can pick out the assholes from miles away. Oh, and the Internet. That’s a huge help too. I always do research on my victims, just to make sure my suspicions are correct. And they always are. I can even tell which of my students are going to be good-for-nothing lady predators that just take, take, take and never want to give even the smallest bit of themselves. Yeah, I have a keen sense when it comes to boys that will turn into the men that I despise. However, I do not take the lives of children. I never have and I never will. I do draw the line somewhere, even if I know for sure they will waste our taxpayer money doing time behind bars. Now, that’s not saying I won’t kill them when they’re older, but until then, they’re off limits.

  I once had a student who I ran into at a bar after he turned of age. Nice looking kid, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I watched as he slipped a little somethin’ somethin’ in a poor girl’s drink. I probably came across a bit rude by storming over to them, grabbing the drink from her lips, and tossing it straight over the other side of the bar. She gasped as I hollered, “You lousy asshole! Is this the broad you’ve been bangin’ behind my back?” Needless to say, that poor girl scurried out of the bar like a rat looking for some cheese, and little Johnny was left with a gaping mouth, staring back at his junior high school teacher. He got excited when I flashed him a smile and asked if he wanted to go home with me. He didn’t hesitate, and he followed directions a lot better than when he was a pimply-faced teenager.

  I slipped my address in the pocket of his jacket and told him to find another pretty girl to buy a clean drink for. He eyed me, embarrassed that I caught him slipping drugs into someone’s drink. I got close to his ear and whispered, “There’s no need to drug an innocent girl when you have a willing participant right here. After you have a drink with that girl over there,” I said, pointing to the corner of the bar, “you leave alone and come straight to my place. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Poor sucker had no idea what was waiting for him. He thought being tied up and gagged was part of the role play. I suppose he thought my room was lined with cotton material to keep everything clean from our bodily fluids. Oops. Said fluids being blood, of course. He squealed a little bit like the dying pig he was when I slowly pushed my scalpel into the left side of his belly. I may have an unhealthy obsession with Egyptian Mummification. What can I say? It’s my thang. Anyway, after I sliced open his side, I removed his internal organs then re-stuffed his chest cavity with all his extremities. I like to add a bit of wine and spices, also some petals from the flowers in the garden, just so it hides the smell of the decomposing body.

  I bet you’re wondering a few things, like how do I manage to not get caught, or where do I dump the bodies? It’s fairly simple really. I live in fucking Kansas, and even though my modest two-bedroom, one-bathroom house is in a lovely neighborhood with people that walk their dogs, and kids that run outside and play, I bought a big piece of property out in the middle of nowhere. I created a three-bedroom house out of shipping containers that sits behind a forest of trees. It’s like my very own compound. In fact, that’s what I call it...the compound.

  My garden in the backyard is probably the most beautiful flower garden you have ever seen. You want to guess why? Yep, that’s where I dispose of the bodies. To any person stopping by for a visit, I am Martha fucking Stewart with the best green thumb in town. I have yet to get caught because I use only a few different instruments, I make sure my work space is organized, sterile and properly set up...yes, I know how that sounds,
but it’s better than calling it my mummification station, though that does have a fun ring to it. Anyway, I have a room that has a drain so it’s easy to hose down, and I typically line my table with cotton materials, like towels, blankets, bed sheets. They burn easy, and since Kansas is a state that allows you to burn trash, I make sure to do my killing when I can burn my trash the next day. I then take the ash and mix it into the soil. Not really sure if that’s the best thing for the planet, but my garden sure loves it.

  I keep a low profile, which helps with my disguise. To the outside world, I am Ms. Knight. Go ahead, laugh it up. Gray Knight...let me remind you that my mother was a fucking junkie. I am a soft-spoken ninth grade school teacher who’s good at her job and highly respected by students, parents, and faculty. No one in a million years would suspect li’l ol’ me to be a serial killer. But wait...there’s more! I’m not the only one. Nope. I have two besties that like to get in on the action. Andrea and Jazmine. We’re like the Three Musketeers, Destiny’s Child, Charlie’s fucking Angels. We’re the Toxic Trio. Three drop dead gorgeous women. And men seriously drop at our feet. It’s almost too easy to lure these idiots into our house of doom. Andrea—aka, Andi—is a goddess with jet-black hair and charcoal eyes to match. Her lips are plump and perfectly pink, and her body is smokin’ hot with an hourglass shape. Jazmine—or as we like to call her, Jaz—is tall and slender with long golden curls that pair perfectly with her green eyes, and a body that could cause a twenty-car pile-up. And her crude, foul tongue goes hand in hand with her sassy attitude—well, we all sort of have sharp tongues.

  Then there’s me. With the name Gray, you might have an idea of what I look like already, but I’m almost positive that you are completely wrong. I have pale skin, shoulder length, fiery red hair, and grayish-blue eyes, with light freckles across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. I’m on the shorter side, but I’m not overweight...I’m curvy.