But that damn text message Sara sent to her roommate did him in, and then Maggie came forward and said he’d done the same to her and the old fart of a judge caved.
Lying bitch.
Two years and four months. In prison. He couldn’t finish his last semester and now was back in college to get his degree even though he was twenty-five and should be working for his dad’s brokerage house and making his own money, rather than living off his meager trust. All because little hot Sara thing didn’t want her friends to know she was a slut.
Brad glanced at his watch again. Eight-fifteen. “Shit, where is she?” If she’d gotten cold feet, he’d be livid. She’d already changed the place on him at the last minute, and because he sensed she was a flake, he’d checked his email right before he came and she hadn’t contacted him again to cancel or say she was running late.
Bitch.
The bartender approached and gestured toward his empty beer mug. Brad nodded and said, “And a shot of JD.” He needed it after being stood up.
“Bad news?”
“The hot chick I’m supposed to meet is late,” Brad complained.
The bartender poured the shot. “The one you met online?”
Brad had forgotten he’d talked to the guy earlier, when he’d been excited about Tanya—so excited he’d arrived early. “You should have read the messages she sent me. And the photos—if she’s half as horny in person, it’s going to be a wild night.”
Tanya hadn’t sent him photos, except the one head shot. And she wasn’t explicit in her messages, but Brad could read between the lines. Why else would she meet him if she didn’t want to get laid? That’s how these online games were played. Dance around it, but when the girl agreed to meet face-to-face, that meant getting down-and-dirty.
“Hope she makes it, dude.”
She’d better.
Brad looked around the room. Lots of couples and groups. Groups of guys, groups of girls. He’d just have to wait. The time would come.
He reached into his pocket and fingered the plastic vial with his special homemade Liquid X. Just to loosen her up. Girls liked to play this coy game. Two dates, three dates, leading him on, jerking him around. Get hot and heavy, then say no when he slipped his hand down her pants. They always said yes by the third date, but why should he have to wait that long? He was so tired of it, and after prison he was through with playing stupid games.
Brad drained the shot of JD, savoring the burn as the whiskey slid down his throat. He watched the crowd. A couple was bickering near the door. As he watched, the guy yelled at his date—Brad couldn’t make out what they were saying—then left. The girl—a blonde, possibly twenty-one or she had a fake ID—stared after her boyfriend in shock. As Brad watched, she drained the drink in her hand, turned on her glittery heels, and strode purposefully over to the bar, standing next to Brad. She smiled at the bartender and put the glass down. “Another, pretty please?”
Brad might not even need the Liquid X to loosed up this babe. “Hey,” he said.
She glanced at him in blatant appraisal, but acted nonchalant. “Hi.” She scanned the crowd and sighed.
“Your boyfriend leave?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”
“His loss.”
“Exactly.” She nodded her head to emphasize the point.
Her name was Ashley; she went to GWU, majoring in public administration. Boring. They chatted a bit, and Brad sensed immediately she wanted to fuck him. He saw it in her dark eyes, the way her tongue licked her lips, the way her nipples felt when he brushed against her thin black sweater.
Someone bumped Ashley from behind and she pressed her full body against Brad. She smiled, a bit nervous. Brad was experienced enough to know that she’d have to be real drunk to come home with him without a little urging. College girls thought they appeared less slutty if they had to be talked into spreading their legs. I never do this. I never sleep with a guy on the first date. I never …
It was all bullshit.
Brad would simply speed up the inevitable. He’d paid a hooker the day after he got out of prison, but he wasn’t doing that again. He’d been counting on Tanya to show, and he would have his turn with her soon. She’d regret standing him up.
He’d had a lot of experience slipping drugs into his dates’ drinks. It had become harder as some bartenders watched with eagle eyes, but in a bar this crowded he could manage, no problem.
She said something, and he pretended he couldn’t hear over the noise. She leaned closer. “Are you at GWU, too?”
He shook his head. “American U.”
“Grad school?”
He should be in grad school by now. All because of those lying bitches, he’d had two years of his life stolen. He lied and said, “Law school.”
She was impressed. “Wow. I’m only third year. Still don’t know what I want to do, but there are a lot of options in D.C. with a public admin degree, don’t you think?”
While she was talking, he brought his own drink to his lips, sipped, then as he brought it down he used a finger to squeeze the teeny vial of Liquid X that he’d pressed against the side of his glass. Several drops fell into her margarita, which she held at chest level. Even if she was watching his hand, she wouldn’t have been able to see anything. If she saw the drops hit her drink, she might assume it was condensation from his glass.
“You have plenty of time,” he said. “You should have fun. It’s college.”
She smiled and took a long swallow of margarita. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Do you want to go outside?”
“It’s freezing.”
“They have heaters on the back patio. It’s hot in here.”
“Sure,” she said and smiled brightly, sipping her drink.
“Want another?” Brad asked.
“I’m good—I don’t want to get too drunk!” she giggled.
Too late for that.
Brad led her out back, his hand rubbing her shoulder.
It was fucking cold outside, but the snow had stopped and the heat lamps took the chill off. Ashley slipped on her coat, however, and said, “Are you sure you’re not cold?”
“Naw,” he lied. He wasn’t planning on staying here long.
There were a few other people outside, but not many—mostly people coming out for a quick smoke before heading right back in. Brad watched the blonde finish her drink, hiding his smile. She staggered a bit, and he put his arm around her waist.
“Whoopsie,” she said and giggled.
He kissed her hard on the lips, and she froze. He didn’t let her first reaction stop him, because he knew women. They always played these fucking games. He reached up her shirt and squeezed her breast—dear God, it felt incredible. He wanted her, he wanted her now, but he’d get her back to his apartment. Or at least to his car. No, dammit, he had the Porsche tonight. She could give him a blow job, then he’d take her home for a good fuck.
His cock was already hard, but at the thought of her mouth on him he groaned and pressed his body firmly against Ashley’s so she’d know exactly what he had in mind. She could say no, right now, and he’d walk. He smirked as he bit her lip. She wouldn’t say no. He could practically feel the drugs coursing through her body. She was hot, she’d do anything. He was ready for anything.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She hesitated. “I don’t know—it’s so fast—”
“Come on. Just a blow job. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”
She didn’t say anything, her face confused, and he took her hand and led her out the back gate of the club into the alley. He’d parked half a block from the rear exit, and in five minutes her tongue would be doing anything he wanted …
“Ashley!”
Brad hesitated, then kept walking. He didn’t want to get into a confrontation, but dammit, he wasn’t letting the bitch just go back to her boyfriend when she was all primed to be fucked.
“Ashley, dammit!”
“My boyfriend,” she said, slurring her words.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He stopped and turned around.
The prick who’d walked out on the blonde nearly an hour ago didn’t take his eyes off him, but said, “Ashley? What’s going on?”
“Go away,” she said.
Brad quickly assessed the boyfriend as harmless. He said, “You left; she wants to come with me.”
“Not anymore, buddy,” the prick said.
Brad’s jaw tightened, and he said to Ashley, “You want to go with him?”
“No.”
“I don’t want trouble,” Brad told the guy, “but the princess doesn’t want to go with you.”
“Ashley,” the guy said, his voice stern, “you come with me right now or I’ll tell your dad about your fake ID.”
“Excuse me?” Brad said.
“She’s seventeen.”
“No way.” He dropped his arm from around the girl and stared at her. No way she was seventeen. But … he wasn’t certain. He didn’t care how old she was—she was definitely old enough to screw—but now the situation was fucked. Her boyfriend could identify him.
“Ashley?” he questioned.
She pouted, but didn’t say anything.
Brad wanted to strangle her. “You can have her.” He pushed the bitch toward her boyfriend. “Fucking tease.”
“Jerk,” Ashley said, but Brad didn’t know if she was talking to him or her boyfriend, and he didn’t care. He wanted a warm body to screw, to do exactly what he told her to do, and he was going to have to find a hooker, because no way he was going to jerk off.
He barely heard Ashley arguing with her boyfriend as he walked down the alley toward his car. Damn fucking jailbait tease.
SEVEN
I am the teacher. The master. The keeper of truth, justice, and the American way.
Silently, my laugh cuts into the night as I wait, watching the dark house. Superman? Yes, I am a superhero. I do what no man has the balls to do.
I educate females, as much as the stupid, vacuous, weak creatures can be taught.
Females disgust me.
Foul, pathetic things, they lie as easily as they breathe. Their hair is rarely the shade God intended. The false colors embellishing their faces are a physical testament to their continuing lies. The jewelry on their necks, in their ears, on their fingers—diamonds and sapphires and gold—catches the light and shines, but none of those baubles can compare to the simple unadorned beauty of a perfect gem.
The mask that females wear is a lie. When they look in the mirror, they lie, even to themselves. When they look at me, they lie. With their eyes, their mouth, their hands.
They lie with their bodies. They lie with their words, their fingers, their thoughts. Women think they are invincible, that they can do whatever they please, that they can lure men in with their falsities and gimmicks and then enslave us. We’re always giving, giving, giving … money, a house, a car, jewelry. They take, take, take, and the lies pile up.
I am the keeper of the truth. I expose deception, one by one by one, until they accept the truth. Until they get on their knees and obey.
They die so I can live. The ultimate sacrifice for love. The punishment for betrayal.
I watch and wait because I am patient. The house is dark again. I arrived late tonight, but now I have time to wait. Watch. Wait. Tick. Tock. Time passing. My time wasted. Months of my valuable time wasted! And why?
My anger grows, a real, living being that taunts me. Fills me with heat that is both fearsome and welcome.
She thinks you’re nothing.
I consider leaving the anonymity of my car, walking into her yard, and waiting for her. When she comes home, I will slit her throat.
My vision darkens and for a moment I see nothing. I want her to understand that her actions have consequences. I can’t teach her if she is dead.
Lights cut a swath in the foggy night, blurry and indistinct. The car slows, stops.
Lucy Kincaid is home.
My heart pounds in my chest, then it skips a beat. She is not alone.
She is with a man.
The female who deceived me, is sitting in her driveway with a man.
She is a tricky bitch. But no one has my patience. No one has my skill.
Lucy Kincaid will be my next pupil.
If my one transgression taught me anything, it is to never again act on impulse. I will not take her now.
I am a careful planner, every detail practiced, improved, perfect. For years, such organization has served me well. It is a testament to my fortitude that I have been tricked only once by the lying gender into acting too soon.
She plays a dangerous game, catching my attention with her lying, whoring ways and setting me up. But I am far smarter than a mere female.
I watch the man get out of the car, open her door, and walk her to the entrance.
I want to kill them both, though she lied to him as certainly as she lied to me, the whore.
But I do not have the luxury to make a mistake. I must control this powerful impulse. I breathe in the cold January night while my hands clench the steering wheel. Peace settles on my soul.
I see the truth. I am the keeper of the truth.
The man leaves, and I consider again going inside to confront her.
But I must prepare for the whore. And that means taking care of unfinished business.
I leave Georgetown and drive the forty minutes to my house. Or what would take forty minutes but for this weather. The longer it takes, the more frustrated I become. Because my student is waiting for me.
Finally, I am home.
I walk across the new-fallen snow and unlock the front door of the old house I love. The familiar smells make me smile. The plastic of the runners that line the floors to protect them. The lingering scent of bacon from this morning. The lavender from the dried flowers Grandmother hung everywhere. The flowers are gone, but the smell remains.
My home. My sanctuary.
I walk across the floor, the old boards creaking with each step, comforting. I open the door to the basement and turn on the light. Mice scurry across the dirt floor, faint, light movements that also comfort me in their familiarity. The female cries out, whether from the mice or the light I do not care.
The stairs are new. I had to rebuild them when two planks split the week I returned, after being gone for so long. Very little has changed in this house. The stairs. The basement. And of course, the cage.
She sits in the corner of the large pen, arms hugging her legs, chin on her knees. She can’t stand in the cage, but she can sit up, which I think is quite generous of me. And there is room to crawl and even stretch out—it is eight feet square, four feet tall.
She looks at me with large, fearful eyes. Fear, not defiance, the way it should be.
“I am ready for my lesson, Teacher,” she says.
Too bad she must die to make way for the new student. It took her only three days to learn the proper way to greet me in the morning. She has been with me for twenty-seven days, and I have—had—high hopes for her.
Maybe I can keep her awhile longer. A day? Two days?
I take out my key ring and insert the small key into the master lock. She flinches when the lock clicks, but doesn’t move until I say, “You may come out now.”
She crawls to the opening but waits until I open it, reminding me that I will miss this one. She would have lasted longer than so many of the others. I picked well, this female. So obedient. So eager to please.
“Stand,” I command.
She rises, her legs shaky, but I do not help her. She has lost weight with me, but she was too fat to begin with. A woman of her size—five feet four inches—should be between one hundred twelve and one hundred twenty pounds. She had been much more than that.
“Go,” I tell her, and she starts up the stairs. I am behind her. At the top she waits for me, as she has been taught. She is looking at the kitchen table.
/> “Aren’t we—”
I backhand her. She falls to the floor and lies there, her hand on her mouth.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak, Female,” I say. “Get up.”
I have been gone since breakfast. It is now after midnight. I know she is hungry, but I do not care.
The female rises and stands. I say, “Go,” and motion her toward the living room.
She walks and I follow. I open the closet door in the entry and remove my long coat. I take my shotgun from the rack above the door. “We’re going to walk,” I say. “Open the door.”
She turns the knob. A gust of icy cold blows in and she shivers. She opens her mouth, but no words come out because she knows better.
She knows better than to ask for a coat or shoes.
I let her squirm for a moment, wondering if she’ll break a rule and ask. She doesn’t. I say, “Retrieve your house slippers and your coat.”
The female turns to the closet and does as told.
“Good girl,” I say. When she is dressed, I command, “Go.”
She obeys me, and I smile. I am a wonderful teacher; my students learn what others would say is impossible to teach. But this proves what I have always known: a woman’s place is to be obedient to man.
She walks through the fresh snow, her hands rubbing her arms through the thin coat she wears. She glances at me but dares not speak. Her face reddens from the cold; her lips become tinged with blue. We do not walk far, only to the empty barn less than fifty yards from the house. Not even the length of half a football field. But I acknowledge that it is cold and she is surpassing my expectations by not complaining.
I am right to keep her alive for a few more days.
I take another key and unlock the large padlock on the barn door. I push up the metal latch and the wind blows the door inward. We step in and I close it behind us, latching it from the inside. It is still cold, but not windy, and my female says, “Thank you.”
“Thank you” is the only phrase she’s allowed to say without permission.
Mortal Sin Page 6
