He set the six pack of Corona along with his other bags on the table and kicked off his shoes. The beers were well past hot by now, but it couldn’t be helped. It had been a long night. His small apartment over the garage smelled of sweat and old pizza. He hadn’t cleaned it in over a week. His mother would be appalled. Thankfully, she lived three thousand miles away in a small town in California. Otherwise, he’d have to suffer through her nagging.
He flipped the TV on and powered up his laptop. He needed to check a few things. The biggest story on the news right now was the Boston madman, as they’d taken to calling him. He chuckled. Madman. He was a madman because he didn’t follow a pattern. It drove the police and the FBI more than a little crazy, which suited him just fine.
The image displayed on the screen confirmed his suspicions. The angel in the alleyway had gotten a good look at him. His face was displayed in all its digital glory for everyone to see. Not that it would do any of them a bit of damn good. He’d erased his real name from public records many years ago and stayed off the grid. His family would recognize him, of course, but they never bothered to watch a television. He wasn’t concerned.
He walked to the kitchen and took out a saucepot. He dumped a cold can of soup into it. He was starved after his night of investigation.
And the police thought they were the only ones who knew how to track down leads. He smirked as he found a clean bowl. That FBI agent in particular rubbed him the wrong way. He seemed to like to strut for the cameras, even though he had no real answers to give.
Manners. The man needed manners. One didn’t speak unless one had something of worth to say. It was the first thing he should have been taught.
The image of the redhead popped up on the TV screen, and he paused, studying her. He’d already researched her. It was easy enough. Her name was listed on the bar’s website. After that, he’d simply hacked the necessary servers and dug up everything there was to know about Angelique Lemoraux. Stripper turned bartender. The DMV had given him her address, and he’d gone over to her apartment to inspect it.
She was a student at Boston University, working toward a business degree. From the proposal on her laptop, it looked like she wanted to open her own bar. Sadly, those plans would be left unfulfilled. He had plans of his own for the beautiful angel who had fallen right into his lap. Getting her away from Agent Pretty Boy might take some doing, though. Especially since they’d moved her to some big high-rise downtown. Not that he wouldn’t; it would just take a little more planning on the logistics side of things.
The soup bubbled up, and he poured it into the bowl, replacing the pot on the blazing stove eye with a teapot before heading to his favorite La-Z-Boy recliner propped to the right of the TV. Damn, but his feet hurt tonight. The aromatic tomato soup tickled his nose as he drank from the bowl. The hot liquid slid down his throat much the same way a good shot of liquor would. The burn was delicious.
He turned the volume of the TV down and relished the quiet of the countryside. After being in the city for so long tonight, he needed to relax and let the solitude calm him. He closed his eyes, replaying the utter shock on her face. There wasn’t any fear that he saw, only shock. None of his girls looked at him like that. They were always terrified, but not Angel. She was exactly what he’d been searching for. His pièce de résistance.
Not that terror wasn’t pleasant. It was usually the way he liked his women staring up at him.
But he had to admit to himself he’d been caught off guard by the bartender. She’d been bold. No running, no screaming, just a steady gaze. It fascinated him. More so than any of the others. She would be his coup de grace here in Boston. Once he finished with this city, he’d go vacation somewhere warm. Maybe Barbados. It was always wonderful this time of year.
He finished his soup and put the bowl in the scarred farmer’s sink. The teapot hadn’t squalled yet, so he put the beer in the fridge and collected his shopping bags. Making his way down the hall to the bathroom, he yawned. The small room blazed to life with a flick of the switch, bathing the room in harsh yellow light.
The cracked mirror showed him the same face he’d seen every day for the last sixteen years. One tiny scar marred the image. His true face had come into focus on the day he received that scar sixteen years ago. She’d been thirteen, his first. The sound of her screams echoed in his head every minute of every day. He’d never looked at himself the same since.
He studied the face others saw. He understood the appeal, even appreciated it. Charming, some called it. His grandmother told him it was a face that would take him places. He snorted at the thought. It wasn’t his face that afforded him creature comforts. It was his hacking skills. They paid for his lifestyle, his secular pursuits, and his deviant side.
His face had now become a liability, thanks to his new fascination.
Fucking women. They just didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut.
Shaking his head, he turned on the hot water and pulled out his pocketknife. It was sharp, precise, and one of his favorite tools. Light danced off the silver blade as he twisted it back and forth. It amazed him how one simple little item could carve out great works of beauty, inflict pain, and solve so many problems all in one fell swoop. Knives were cool.
He tested the water with his pinkie. Satisfied, he wet a washcloth and ran it over his face. Dark blue eyes squinted at him from the mirror. They were fathomless, blank, empty. He’d often read you could see a person’s soul through their eyes. Staring into his own, he didn’t believe it. It was bullshit. His empty gaze mocked him as he tried to laugh off the thought.
Did he have a soul anymore? He wasn’t sure, really, but he liked to think somewhere in there he did. He loved his mother, his father, his sister. At least as much as he could. That had to count for something, didn’t it?
His cold expression questioned those beliefs. He was fucked, and his inner demons knew it.
Fear prickled the corners of his mind. He wouldn’t let his own insecurities debilitate him. He lifted the knife without thinking and sliced a long, jagged line from beneath his eye to the edge of his left earlobe. The pain was swift, sharp. He savored it. Small pinpricks of blood appeared then bubbled over, taking a stroll down his cheek. He slashed his chin then moved to his forehead. Another long gash raced from his hairline to his left eyebrow.
He watched impassively as blood began to make chaotic paths down and across his face. He opened one of his bags and took out the bleaching kit. His dark brown locks would soon be platinum, including his eyebrows. Blue eyes would soon become brown. He had a plethora of contact lenses, all different colors.
A drop of blood dripped into his eye and he blinked, clearing it away. The squall of the teapot sounded from the other room. He smiled and turned back toward the kitchen, not bothering to wipe away the blood on his face. He picked up the hot kettle and made his way down the hall to the second bedroom. Knocking, he opened it and stood there a moment, admiring the view.
A young woman lay naked and tied to the bed, her red hair spread out around her on the pillow. Large brown eyes met his then skated to the steaming pot in his hands. He smiled reassuringly at her and walked into the room, placing the pot on the nightstand.
“Please…” she whispered, her voice hoarse. He cupped her cheek and rubbed his thumb across her soft skin in a soothing manner.
“Hush, now.” His eyes raked over her body. Supple, firm. So very beautiful. A work of art all on its own. He could smell the terror wafting off her. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, cherishing the scent.
“Why are you doing this?”
Because you look like my bartender. He needed someone to fill his last girl’s place. The need was getting stronger and stronger. He’d known his time in Boston was coming to an end by the sense of urgency that drove him. His needs were climaxing, and Angel would be his last canvas.
His fingers left her cheek and he stroked her neck, weaving down her body, cupping her breast. She whimpered when he pinched the soft, pink nipple. It puckered and hardened. “You like this, do you, pet?” He tugged on it. Dark crimson flooded her body, a blush. She was embarrassed. Endearing, really. “I’ll remember that.”
“Let me go, please. I won’t say anything…I promise…”
He put a finger to her very enticing lips. “They all say that, pet. You’re not going anywhere. We’re going to have so much fun together. You’ll discover how beautiful your body can truly be.”
He picked up the teapot and pressed down a little, opening the spout’s nozzle enough for a small stream to pour out. Scooting down the bed until he was even with her belly button, he leaned down and kissed it, his tongue darting in quickly, tasting the fear-soaked sweat pooling there.
When he rose, her frightened eyes pleaded with him.
He tipped the teapot and let a small spray of water splash the perfectly unmarred flesh of her stomach.
Her scream was instant, but he ignored it as he watched the water spread out and roll across her abdomen and down her sides. No matter how many times he did this, the water never took the same path. The chaos theory. He’d tested it many, many times, and it never failed him.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it, now?” he crooned as he stroked the blisters on her belly. “See how your skin puckers up for the heat, embraces it?”
Her breasts captured his attention. The small, rosy buds were standing erect, begging for some attention. He took one in his mouth and sucked on it gently, encouraged by the sound of her tears. Oh, yes, they were going to have so much fun.
Another predatory grin broke out on his face as he set to work.
So much fun.