What Lies Beneath The Flowerbed

by D. M. Thornton

  “Wow, I didn’t quite peg you as a shootin’ back kinda girl, Ms. Knight,” Jefferson says, taking a dainty sip of his whiskey.

  Nope, not going to suggest he calls me by my first name, if that’s what you’re thinking. He can keep calling me Ms. Knight, because this thing is strictly professional.

  Motherfucker.

  Here I am tossing that whiskey back like it’s my saving grace of getting out of this little shindig with Mr. Jefferson Baker, not once thinking that maybe ol’ Sneaky Pete over here might have slipped something into my drink. If I could scrape my tongue with my tiny cocktail napkin I would, though it wouldn’t do me an ounce of good considering I clearly just digested that bitter liquid, let alone it might bring question to my unsightly table manners.

  “Oh, well, I didn’t realize you’re supposed to sip whiskey.”

  Jefferson laughs.

  There’s a long pause as we stare at each other in awkward silence. I have nothing to say to this man, and the longer I sit here, the more anxious I become. Since this morning, I’ve had the worst nagging feeling deep within my gut, and now that I’m here with Mr. Numbnuts, the feeling is creeping up my chest, threatening to close off my supply of oxygen.

  I damn near fall off my seat when Jefferson pushes back from the table and removes himself from his chair, only to take the one next to mine. The sleeve of his shirt brushes my skin and the toes of his shoe bumps into the outside of my foot.

  “I have to admit, I’m not at all sorry that no one else showed up. I’ve been wanting to get you alone.”

  WHOA there, horsey, back the fuck up. The needle on my creep-dar just screamed to the right, right at Jefferson, who’s reaching for my hand.

  Gah! No.

  I tuck my hands in my lap and attempt a smile, which mostly comes out looking like I’m shittin’ my drawers.

  When I don’t respond, Jefferson grazes his fingers across my shoulder and adds, “You know, you’re not alone in your sorrow, Ms. Knight. I’m here if you need someone to lean on.”

  I fight the urge to hurl up my whiskey all over the front of his appalling green shirt.

  My tone is clipped, but I manage to grit out an, “I’m good, thanks.”

  His fingers stop rubbing my shoulder, but now he’s trailing the tip of his index finger down the length of my arm, stopping at my clasped hands in my lap.

  What. The. Fuck?

  His hands are in my motherfucking lap! Don’t slap him, don’t slap him, don’t slap him. Now’s not the time to overact, but I’m tellin’ you, if I had a scalpel in my hand, I’d slash his throat wide open so his blood shoots out like a geyser all over the table.

  “I can help you, Ms. Knight,” he whispers in my ear while his finger makes circles on the top of my hand.

  “I’m seeing someone,” I reply matter-of-factly.

  Holy shitballs. Where did that come from? Though I am, right? I mean, it would be safe to say that Jett and I are kinda sorta a couple? Oh hellz bellz, I have no clue, but I’m rollin’ with it.

  “That’s all right, doll, I can give you something he can’t. Let me help you.”

  All the fine baby hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t want to know how he can help me, but then again, if he says anything remotely close to what I think he’s going to say, it will justify my actions later on. For cyrin’ out loud, the dude just called me doll, and doesn’t care one iota that I said I’m seeing someone. That alone should earn him a slice under the ribs.

  “And how is it that you can help me, Jefferson?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

  A wicked smile creeps across his face, and he presses his lips against my ear. “I can make you come so hard you won’t be able to think about anything other than my big, fat dick.”

  Oh my God, don’t laugh.

  “And if I say no?”

  He kisses my ear, making the noise of his smacking lips vibrate down my ear canal. “You won’t say no. All you’ll be saying is...yes, yes, yes!”

  I choke back my gag reflex when his wet tongue licks the inside of my ear.

  Dear Lord, have mercy. Is this a sign? Are you telling me this asshat no longer needs to be wasting perfectly good space and oxygen? Because if that’s what you’re sayin’, then I’m all over it. I can’t. I just...wow. I seriously have no words at the moment.

  Well, there’s only one thing left for me to do, and it would be a shame to waste an opportunity like this. True, Mr. Jefferson Baker doesn’t fit the typical qualifications of my playboy picks, but it’s been too long since my last kill, and tonight is a beautiful night to not fulfill an order sent from the voices above. And we’ll just say that if I were to tell Jefferson a big fat NO, he’d force himself on me anyway. So, in all reality, I’m doing women everywhere a service by taking him back to my compound and disposing of him like the fertilizer that he is.

  I turn my head to give Jefferson a smoldering look, and with a sultry smile, I say, “I have the perfect place where we can go. Not a single soul will be able to hear me scream...yes, yes, yes!” I take his hand. “Come with me.”

  Can I just say how gullible you men are? Dangle a pussy in front of your face and you melt into putty at our feet. Sheesh, have you no pride? Jefferson hopped in my car like he was offered a puppy with a big blue bow around its neck, and now we’re on our way to the compound. Now, I might be egging the fucker on with letting him rub my leg, but honestly, this guy is a douchebag, and I’m sure if I were to dig deep into his past, I bet I could find something juicy that would give me a legit reason to whack him. At this point, I’m going through with it because I plain as day don’t like him. Any man that would chase a woman who’s taken is scum on the bottom of a shit-lined shoe, and he deserves what’s coming to him. So what if I’m goading him? Even if I wasn’t, he’d be pushing himself on me anyway.

  It’s almost too easy, and I hate to admit, I’m actually getting rather bored with the same scenario. Yep, I do believe I prefer the Brian Harvartis of the world; the ones who fight back add a bit more excitement than the ones who blindly walk right into my needle. No joke, Jefferson seriously just ran smack-dab into my needle. Before I got into the car, at the bar, I removed the needle from my purse and placed it in my jacket pocket so it would be easy to get to. It’s been cradled in my hand this whole time, and after Jefferson closed the door behind him, he graciously helped me remove my coat. It just so happened that, in doing so, my hand swung around and stabbed him in the neck.

  What? That’s not considered walking into it? Well, oopsy-doopsy-poopsy, shame on me. The motherfucker is out cold, though, right at my dainty li’l feet, and I’m not even panting or sweating. I’m telling you, from here on out, I need to find men that have some spark in them. Some that want to fight to the death to survive. Geez, this has gotten way too easy. However, there is something that I need to consider when I venture on my own. I tend to forget that I don’t have the same ox like strength as Jaz, and getting this hairy beast of a man on to my table is ridonkulous. I wasn’t sweating and panting before, but I’m sure as shit dripping and gasping now.

  Seriously, though, this man is a hairy motherfucker. I have him stripped down to his skivvies, because, quite honestly, I have no urge to see his sasquatch of a sac—his chest is bad enough the way it is, I don’t need the dick and balls to go along with it. There’s only one cock and nuts I want to see and those are Jett’s.

  Tonight, I’m changing it up, baby. The same ol’ humdrum routine needs a little pick-me-up, and I know exactly what to do to spruce it up. Yeah, yeah, I know. Changing up my routine is not typical Gray behavior, but you know what...fuck it. I’m already knees deep in a pile of mushy, stinky shit, might as well go all in. I turn my music on and turn the volume to a comfortable decibel. Sorry, classical piano, we need music that will get this party started, and tonight we’re going old school. There was a time, at the beginning of my killing career, that I had one song that pumped me up. This song was my “Eye of the Tiger.” My “We Will Rock
You.” This one particular song was meant for me—my anthem. Awolnation’s “Sail” blares through the speakers. From the first note, my skin prickles with goosebumps and sends shivers down my spine.

  Fuck, I love this song.

  “Well, buddy, I am a different breed, and you’re about to find out just how different I am,” I say out loud as I saunter through my room, letting my fingers brush my implements on the tray, then along the table. My gloved index and middle fingers tip-toe up Jefferson’s leg, up his side where I triple check the restraints, then stop at the dip in his throat. It’s the perfect indentation to sharply jab my fingers into, causing Jefferson’s eyes to spring open and him to gasp for breath.

  When he stops dry heaving, I lean forward so my nose is ever so lightly touching his. “You said you had something to help me, Mr. Baker. By golly, I think you’re right.”

  It takes his eyes a minute to scan the room. I think it’s sinking in that he’s in a wee bit of danger, especially when he realizes that he’s incapacitated. He starts to yank and struggle against the restraints, twisting and pulling to no avail.

  “What is this?” he sputters.

  Oh, how fear seems to snap you back into reality.

  “This is you helping me,” I boast. I reach over Jefferson and pick up a beautiful, shiny scalpel from the tray and twirl it between my fingers. “It’s mighty pretty, isn’t it?” I grin.

  “Wha-what’s that’s for?”

  “This, my dear, is to slice you open like a fileted fish.”

  Terror fills his wide eyes while his head attempts to shake frantically from side to side beneath the head strap. A breathy, “No,” escapes his gaped lips. “Please, Ms. Knight,” he pants. “Whatever did I do to deserve this?”

  I scratch my head with the pinky of the hand that’s holding the scalpel and scrunch my face as if I’m in deep thought as to why a man of his caliber would be stretched out and restrained to my table. “Hm, well, in retrospect, I suppose nothing you did deserves being strapped down to a table with a blade held at your side.” I let my hand fall to the outline of his ribs and place the blade against his skin. “However, Mr. Baker, not only did you try to seduce me, you so casually tried to do so after I told you I was taken. Tsk, tsk, Mr. Baker. You’re a bad boy, Jefferson, and bad boys need to be disciplined.”

  “Is-is this-is this some kind of kinky role play thing?” Jefferson stutters. “I’m down for kinky role play.”

  A smile tugs at my lips. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Baker. How are you feeling right now? Are you turned on? Scared, perhaps? How about frisky? Are you feeling frisky, Mr. Baker?”

  His eyes dart around in circles as he takes a moment to think about how he’s going to answer. “I’m, well, I’m actually pretty scared, to tell you the truth.”

  “Well, there you go. Good job,” I say. “You know, you should always listen to your intuition because this here is not some kinky fetish role play, you naughty boy. Nope, quite the contrary, actually. See, this is me wipin’ out one scumbag at a time.”

  Jefferson opens his mouth to bark, “Wha–” but it’s too late.

  With a quick thrust of my hand, the scalpel punctures Jefferson’s skin with ease, forcing him to cry out in pain. I shiver from the blissful sound. His wails are sweet music to my ears, causing my eyes to roll back in my head. I slide the blade down his side, opening him up like a piece of meat ready to be stuffed with delicious dressing, and I lick my lips. The smell of his blood, tangy and musky, coats the inside of my nose, which sends a metallic taste to the back of my tongue. The sensation makes me moan with pleasure.

  Holy shitcakes, this is my drug.

  Killing is my drug, and slicing, smelling and feeling blood, too. It makes me high, sends me flying euphorically to the clouds, giving me an out of body experience like none I’ve ever felt before. This is it...this is my orgasm. Why have I never noticed it before? Sure, I felt the tingles and buzzing coursing through my body every time I watch the life drain from my victims, but this is something new. This is my crack.

  Another shiver passes over me, making my body wiggle with excitement. “Oh God, this is so fun, isn’t it, Jefferson?” I squeal. I realize it’s not the most appropriate time, but I can’t contain my giddiness, especially when my hand pushes into to the slit in Jefferson’s side.

  He gurgles and an alarming screech exits his mouth as if he’s possessed by some devil spirit. His body twitches against the restraints when I dive my hand further into his stomach cavity.

  I giggle. “I’ve always wondered what it feels like from the inside,” I say, looking down into Jefferson’s hazed over eyes with a wide grin. “Tell me, Mr. Baker, how does it feel?”

  He opens his mouth, but he only groans and gags. He can’t form a coherent word to save his life.

  My hand encompasses an organ, which has me moaning out loud. “I can’t wait to see which beautiful organ I have in my hand. It’s like a surprise box, you never know what you’re going to get first,” I chime. “Are you ready?”

  Jefferson’s body torques, but the restraints are so tight that he has no room to move. He gulps back a gurgling breath, then shrieks, “I’m bait!” He’s crying and gasping while he repeats, “Bait. I’m bait.”

  My fist is clenching his organ, but I remain still as I let the words soak into my brain.

  Bait.

  I close my eyes and use Jefferson’s organ as a stress ball, applying pressure, then loosening my grip. Squeezing it, so I can feel the squishiness between my fingers. It fits perfectly in my hand...slick and silky.

  “What do you mean...bait?” I ask, tightening my hold.

  Jefferson coughs, causing a splatter of blood to spurt from his gaping mouth. “It was...a...trick. I...we...baited...you,” he stutters.

  “Who?” I ask, knowing damn well the answer to my own question.

  A small part of me wants to hear Jefferson say it. To say his name. But there’s a much larger part deep in my soul that wants to believe Jett isn’t behind this.

  Please don’t tell me Jett played me. Please.

  I shouldn’t be surprised, I shouldn’t, but fuck. The idea of Jett using Baker as bait...to get me to this spot, so he can catch me red handed...literally, has my belly aching and my chest cracking open. The idea of what Jett and I have shared not being true is making me sick to my stomach. Why did I let it go this far? How did I go from obsessive, careful Gray to derailing and skidding off the track Gray? There’s a mix of anger and sadness swirling through me, at least that’s what I think this is...sadness. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna cry, that’s for sure. And since I have nothing to lose at this point, and I’ve already opened Jefferson up, there’s no turning back now.

  Goddammit, don’t you fucking cry!

  I rest the scalpel on Jefferson’s stomach. I glare down at his twisted face through damp eyes and sing, “So sorry,” as I ram my other hand inside Jefferson’s stomach, fill my hands full of all I can grab, then rip my hands from his belly. His torso goes taut and his arms and legs stiffen like steel rods. Blood and whatever organs don’t fit in my palm splash to the floor with a wet thump, sending red splatter up the legs of my clothes. I guffaw, crumpling at the waist in sheer glee.

  The best I know how to describe what’s going through my head right now is this—imagine you’re on a high speed roller coast, butterflies fluttering through your body in anticipation. With every dip, your tummy bounces up to your throat then plummets to your feet. The speed has your vision and your head spinning in somersaults, and your whole body is bouncing in your seat. It’s exciting...thrilling, and you can’t help but laugh or scream, or even cry. For some, it’s scary, but for the rest of us, it’s sheer joy being overcome by the G-force.

  I’m that person that enjoys riding the roller coaster. The stomach-clenching highs and lows, the sudden sharp movements, the lightheadedness...every bit of it brings me to a place of peace. When I’m here at the compound, in my room, with someone on my table, I feel like I’m float
ing into outer space. The anticipation courses through my veins as I wait for my victims to wake. My tummy flip-flops as my scalpel hits it mark, and when I finally get to pry the organs from their bodies, I’m in full spins...elated and drunk off watching them cry and contort in pain. For me, what I do...taking a life, it’s who I am. I don’t have to pretend here, I can be myself, and it’s the only time that I don’t feel like I have a dark cloud following me wherever I go. There’s no blending in here, no hiding.

  I’m free.

  My back straightens and my breath catches in my throat. I shiver again, but this time, it’s because “Ride” by SoMo comes through the speakers.

  Oh lawdy, I love this song. It’s sexy and it makes my heart go pitter-patter. It puts a smile on my face.

  “Gray?”

  Whoa, I swear I just heard my name. Did you hear that? I think I’m imagining things in my deep state of rapture.

  I stand perfectly still for a long moment...waiting, but all there is is the song that has synced it’s tempo to my pounding heart.

  “Gray.”

  Speaking of my heart, I think it just stopped. I’m not kidding. I hear my name again, but this time, it’s louder and clearer.

  I spin around, my hands still filled with Jefferson’s organs, as he lays on the table gurgling and choking on his last breath until all that’s left is a hissing wheeze, and standing at the door to my room is Jett, his gun drawn and aiming straight at my head.

  Ruh Roh.

  Chapter 39

  Gray

  Busted!

  “Jett?” I ask.

  Duh, you moron, of course it’s Jett. He’s standing right in front of you, numskull.

  “Drop your weapon,” he orders.

  I glance down at my hands, bloody with globs of human parts. Without thought, I flop my hands over, freeing the organs, letting them splat at my feet. “It’s not what it looks like,” I say.

  Jett’s brows pull together, shifting his weight to his other foot. “I beg to differ.”