Page 82 of Sinful Sacrifice

With a satisfied smile, I watch Herman’s death as if it’s the performance of a lifetime. He opens his mouth and unleashes a gut-wrenching scream of pain.

Over and over.

Like how you’d replay a favorite song.

I fucking love it.

When Herman’s neck starts swelling, Julian bursts into laughter.

More pained screams.

More satisfaction oozes from my bones.

Soon, Herman will hemorrhage.

His blood will clot, causing internal bleeding.

Then, his useless kidneys will fail him.

I whistle to the beat of his cries, and heat radiates through my chest.

It doesn’t take long for the venom to work.

Fifteen minutes later, Herman is as dead as AOL’s dial-up internet.

We share a moment of silence when he shuts his annoying ass up and his body collapses forward like a sack of rotten potatoes.

On the drive here, Julian and I discussed how long we wanted Herman to suffer. In the end, we settled on fast and painful.

Every week, when I visit my family’s tombstones, I vow to kill every man who played a part in their deaths. Now, I can tell them we succeeded.

We spend the next half hour silently staring at Herman’s dead body.

The foam that trickled out of his mouth has dried, crusting along his lips. The color of his skin is already starting to change.

“Let’s get him to the morgue,” I tell Julian, standing. “We’ll pick him up later and scatter his ashes at the city dump, where he belongs.”

We reverse a stolen SUV into the warehouse and roll Herman’s body inside before tossing a tarp over it, along with gas cans and other shit to avoid suspicion if we’re pulled over.

I slip the mortician two hundred dollars and leave.

I have a surprise for my dancer tonight.

28

I reread my Sexy but Stress-Free Date Night checklist on my phone.

Damien is coming home early, and I’ve planned the perfect date night for us.

His jobs have become more demanding, and each day that passes, the tension on his face deepens.

On numerous occasions, I’ve asked if he wants to talk about it. He shakes his head and changes the subject. Since he ruled out therapy sessions from Dr. Yours Truly, I discovered other ways to boost his mood—sex; introducing him to my favorite shows, which usually put him to sleep; and dancing for him.

His favorite is the third.

“I understand now,” he once told me. “When you said dancing calms you.”

“What do you mean?”

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