Page 7 of Trig

“Okay. I love you. I trust you. I’ll stay.” She pauses. “If, before you go, you do that little thing I like,” she says.

I stare down at my watch and then back up to her, calculating the time I have until this flight.

“Open your legs…wider… and don’t move,” I gently command.

I’m prepared to deliver soul-snatching, stay the fuck right her type sex this morning, and the way she’s looking at me right now means trouble. I reach into my back pocket and pull out my knife. I whip the sharp blade out and run it slowly and carefully up her right outer thigh. The cold steel makes her moan. I gently push her left leg down and rest my head on one of her thighs while eating her out. My head is cocked to the side, tongue devouring her, while I gently run the blade up and down her right inner thigh now. Her chest heaves in excitement, maybe even a little fear. The sensation…turns her on. Her reaction…turns me on. I put the knife down next to her and rise up on my knees, ripping off my tie. She sits up and then flips me over to where she’s on top of me. She picks up the knife and puts it to my neck as she unzips my pants, pulls my dick out, and then slowly slides herself down on me. I grab her wrist that’s still holding the knife and bring it up to my tongue gently licking the flat side of the blade. She moans while watching and then begins to slow-ride me. I yank the knife away from her and toss it to the floor. I then flip her over to where I’m on top. This dangerous game of foreplay has got to be every hitman’s fantasy.

I quickly stare down at my watch one last time. I’ll definitely be missing my flight. Fuck it. Vegas can wait. When I’m done with her, I guarantee she won’t want to leave this bed, and even if she does, she won’t be walking right.

***

I can already feel the flames as I touch down in hell, I mean, Vegas. I’m now en route, bee-lining this bitch, ready to close out another contract. One that honestly could have been given to anyone else, but it seems my brother Hunter’s death is the gift that keeps on giving. I let out a long breath and remind myself what is at stake here. In doing that, I begin to lose focus, distracted by my thoughts of Nine. I can’t fight it. My mouth still vaguely tastes like her and her scent is lingering all over me. I grip down on the steering wheel, forcing myself to refocus, but there is something in the air today. My brain wanders off toward her again. This time it’s not sexual. It’s my conscience reminding me that I’ve been dishonest. I tell myself to just shut the fuck up and drive. Being a killer was easy when she wasn’t with me. I had no one to answer to, nothing to live for, but things have changed. I can’t keep dodging her questions or making up lies just to be gone for days. She’s getting suspicious. She’s a smart girl. It’s only a matter of time before this bomb explodes and the building that is my life comes crashing down on me. I can’t think about this shit. I need a clear head. I have thirty perfect minutes to execute this murder, and honestly, I only need five to do it, if all slides into place.

“Put your head in the game, Trig,” I mumble.

It’s dark by the time I pull up to the spot. I turn off my headlights, park across the street and start to survey the area. It’s a commercial building with dim lighting and a vacant parking lot. I pick up my phone and start skimming through the encrypted contract file of the target. There is no room for error. I stare at his picture to embed it in my mind before scanning the rest of his information. His name is Gary Moss. Dark hair and brown eyes. Fifty years old. Height, five-foot-ten. Building Passcode 9435#. Third floor. Office, end of hall. One hundred and ninety-five pounds. He runs the largest public U.S. real estate company and they own a majority of the malls in America. Lately, he has started up a new hobby. He now dabbles in human trafficking and a little drug action, which involves the movement of cocaine from Columbia to the States. He’s been stepping on toes all over Vegas, and Carmen is not very tolerant of the way he does business. This here is a kill-the-competition type contract.

I exit the car, put on a black cap, and then slide on my black leather gloves, run up to the side of the building, and enter through the security door using his file passcode. I head up toward the third floor using the staircase. Once I reach my destination, I quietly open and close the stairwell door and then proceed down the long hallway. I can hear the distant sound of a keyboard just clicking away. I follow the noise which leads me right to him. There he is, sitting at his desk with his head bent down staring at a piece of paper. He looks up once he sees me enter his office.

“The building is closed. You’re not supposed to be in here.”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I slowly walk toward him. He sits up straight when he notices my gun. I screw on the silencer while staring at him.

“Who sent you?” he grunts out, and frowns as he removes his glasses. “What do you want?”

“I think you know,” I finally respond. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

He panics and reaches toward a drawer beside him. Typical response. Very few of these guys surprise me. The gun is always in a drawer, a nightstand, under their pillow, or under a desk. I rush him and slam the drawer shut before he gets his hand inside. There’s a brief scuffle before I quickly place my gun to his head. He freezes in place, hands up, still in his chair. The position of his body is just the right angle to make it look like a suicide.

“Stop!” he yells. “There’s money in the floorboard under this chair. Take it all. Just fucking leave. Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus won’t save you today, friend. Nor will money. This is the end of the road.”

I fire one single shot into the side of his temple. Instantly he slumps sideways in his chair. I take out a plastic bag of antidepressants from my pocket and open the drawer he previously reached for. Inside lies a gun, just as I thought. I pocket the gun and throw the bag of pills in there. I pull out a typed-up suicide note, press his fingers all over it, and then throw it on the desk. The note lists reasons why he can’t go on and how he wishes things were different. Lastly, I take the gun I killed him with and place it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it before I let it fall next to him. I quickly turn to leave the office and then exit the building the same way I came in. Once in my car, I send a quick text to Carmen to let him know the job is complete.

Me: Our cat died. I just buried him.

Instantly a reply comes through.

Carmen: I’m sorry for your loss. I send my condolences. I insist you come over tonight. I’m holding a little gathering and I think you could use the cheering up after today. I have a gift for you as well.

An agitated expression marks my face as I read his text. I need to get back to Fiji. I don’t have time or energy for his games.

Me: Thanks, but I’ll have to decline the offer. I think I’ll just stay home and grieve.

I grit my teeth as I see his name pop up on my screen.

Carmen: I said, I insist. No one should grieve alone. You have plenty of friends here. Dress to impress and don’t be late, or I’ll send my best to drag you here.

Fucking psycho. He’s not joking when he says that. His bandwagon full of nutjob workers are like mental patients on bath salts with machetes. I’ve never in my life seen people who can switch off their sadistic sides with the tip of a hat like these functional freaks can. It’s unnerving.

I yell as I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and start up the car. Something terrible is going to happen tonight. I can feel it in my bones. It always does with Carmen, but I have no choice. With full regret, I drive toward his house, which is about an hour away. His lifestyle is about as cliché as can be. He lives in a mansion, the typical drug dealer’s home. They all come equipped with oversized pools, several cocaine-snorting bathrooms, and living rooms large enough to pack in high-paid escorts. I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with plenty of these guys. Most drug dealers are overcompensating for their lack of formal education and class with the whole ‘look at all the shit I have’. Take a look at me. Big guns and big dick energy. Same shit, a different day. Whatever. I pull up, exhale, and then exit the car. Five bodyguards approach me.

“Look who finally made it. Big badass Trig. Did you come for the money or pussy tonight? Oh, wait! Did you even get permission from Nine to be here? Does she know? Of course she doesn’t. Maybe I should give her a call and say hi.” Vega chuckles, as another guy searches me.

I remain quiet. I’m not engaging this asshole. Vega is the type of man that pisses everyone off on purpose, and he loves it. He’s like a reduced-calorie version of Carmen. Fucker is probably next in line to take over. He confiscates two weapons and a knife from me. “You know the routine. You can have these back when you leave.”

“Yup,” I reply, as I attempt to walk by. Vega blocks my path just to be a dick. We’re now toe-to-toe. I tilt my head back and stare at him. The other guys here circle us. “Do we have a problem?” I ask.

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