What he didn't like was they way she and her story had taken precedence over his. She was the one on the front page of the morning paper, a professional photo from her hospital in Atlanta, apparently because she refused to allow the news reporters to photograph her. She hadn't given any interviews either. And now she was gone. Back to Atlanta, somewhere. He was mad at her. Mad at Claire-Bear, too.
The police chief hadn't figured out that it wasn't Jillian's crazy husband who had hit Ty Addison on the head, knocked him out, dragged him behind the cottage. Claire had let the reporters say it was the ex-husband cop. She hadn't figured out it was him. Hadn't figured out what a crazy coincidence had been happening that night. Two men after the same woman. How stupid was Claire-Bear that she didn't know it was him?
The Bloodsucker frowned and stuck a fry in his mouth. His gaze shifted to the lunch counter, and a young woman caught his eye. She was drinking from a paper cup. Pretty. Blonde.
He chewed thoughtfully. He had an ache inside him. An ache that he had intended to fill with Jillian's blood, but now he knew he would have to lay low for a few days. Be patient. With the whole Albany Beach police force stirred up like bees in a hive, he would have to be careful. He would have to watch out for the queen bee, his own Claire-Bear.
He could almost hear her buzzing in his ear the way he heard Granny sometimes. He pushed thoughts of both of them aside.
He knew he'd made some mistakes with Jillian, but they were mistakes he could learn from. Had learned from. He watched the blonde walk up to the cash register, her hips swinging as she went.
It was the first of August, the busiest week for the tourist trade in Albany Beach. And there were so many blond-haired, blue-eyed women. He had only to choose who would be next....
The End
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Want more from Hunter Morgan?
Here's an excerpt from
SHE'LL NEVER LIVE
The Albany Beach Murders
Book Three
~
He sat on the bar stool, smiled and listened attentively as the blonde twirled a strand of over-processed hair around her finger. She lowered her head next to his so that he could hear her above the blasting music of the Sunday night bar crowd. "I'm really better without him."
He nodded. He liked to go to bars, watch women. Let them watch him. But, tonight, he'd had no ulterior motives in coming; he just wanted to relax. He hadn't been looking for Brandy; he usually put more planning into it. He liked to watch his would-be guests, learn their habits, get to know them. But Brandy had approached him. Divine providence?
She'd now been talking about her ex-boyfriend nonstop for forty-five minutes and she was getting on his nerves. He was beginning to get antsy.
She was still talking. He nodded, his eyes full of feigned understanding. He'd seen the "concerned boyfriend" or "concerned husband" look on the faces of men in made-for-TV movies and he'd practiced the expression in the mirror until he had it just right.
He sipped his club soda on the rocks with a twist of lime, and flexed the fingers of one hand. He was getting impatient, now that he could see options opening up to him. He swallowed, trying to ease the constriction in his throat. In his groin. He stood up.
"Where you going, John?" Brandy pulled a tube of lip gloss from her purse and ran it over her lips. "Little boys' room?"
"It's getting late." Suppressing the urge to chuckle over the fact that he'd been clever enough to give a false name when he met her, he checked his watch. "I have to work tomorrow."
"Right, but you don't have to go yet, do you?" She rose off the stool, but the minute her high heels hit the floor, she swayed and grabbed onto him to keep from falling. "It's early, baby."
He tensed the moment her hand touched him. His first impulse was to slap her. Punch her. Dig her blue eyes out of their sockets with something handy. A toothpick from the bar, maybe?
His jaw tightened. She was drunk and it was not flattering. Not for any woman, but certainly not a pretty blonde like her.
Granny said his mother had been a drunk.
He forced himself to relax and stepped toward the bar to pay his tab. "It was great to meet you, Brandy. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."
"Right." She backed against the bar stool to keep her balance. "Guess I will. Once I get a phone, maybe you can give me a call?"
"I'd like that." He smiled.
She waved. Giggled. "'Night."
With a casual nod, he weaved his way through the loud, crowded bar and out the door into the humid night air where he could breathe better. Away from the crowd.
Outside, he got into his car, parked as far from any light as possible, and pushed the driver's seat back to get comfortable. Now all he had to do was wait.
And he didn't even have to wait too long. Half an hour later, Brandy stumbled out of the bar.
What was wrong with young women? Didn't they know the dangers of getting drunk, alone, in a bar? Didn't they realize how unsafe it was?
He licked his dry lips. Flexed his hands. He already had the latex gloves on the seat beside him. Already had the baggie with the chloroform-soaked gauze he would need to subdue her. In the trunk were the other items he would need: tape, rope, the plastic sheeting. Even though he hadn't come here tonight for a guest, he was prepared. He took pride in the fact that he was a man who was always prepared.
"Come on," he urged under his breath.
She was headed straight for him.
He popped the lever on his trunk, then opened his door, reaching for the latex gloves.
Timing; it was all about timing.
One quick look to see that there was no one in the parking lot and then he called to her in his best "nice guy" voice. "Hey, Brandy, you okay?"
~
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She'll Never Live
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Hunter Morgan has been writing and publishing books under various pseudonyms, in different genres for thirty years. With more than 130 books in print, she's written romance, mysteries, suspense and women's fiction and has been published world-wide and in multiple languages.
You can email Hunter through her publisher at
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