Page 182 of Bad for Me

When I’m satisfied, I push off the stool and stalk over to the dented rail I use as a makeshift closet. The poor thing doesn’t have much to offer me in the way of clothes, but I sort through each item as if it was new.No, no, no…yes.My fingers clutch the hangar, drawing out a pink polka-dot dress with crinoline skirts. The corner of my mouth lifts as I imagine his reaction. Will he love it?

After donning the dress, I draw silk stockings up my legs and tighten the ribbons at the top to ensure they stay in place. White Mary Janes with flowery broguing along the toecap complete the ensemble.

I do a little spin in front of the cracked full-length mirror and grin at the creepy visage looking back at me. I resemble a demonic doll with my over-rouged cheeks and perfectly drawn bowtie lips.

A little shiver of anticipation slides down my spine when I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes before he arrives. This is going to be so much fun. He’s in for the night of his life.

I slide out of the small bedroom I’ve made out of the old overseer’s office at the back of the warehouse and make my way down the rickety wooden stairs. I’m not sure what the warehouse used to be used for, but it’s been abandoned for years, along with many more like it in Arcadia City’s docklands.

On clear nights, I often gaze out over the polluted, filthy water and wonder what it must have been like over a hundred years ago when the first settlers came. Did they look at the mighty river, the expansive bay, and deeply forested hills and think they’d found paradise? Is that why they named it after the Greek version?

I scoff. If so, there’s nothing left of their utopia. Shallow graves litter the hills while predatory men stalk the streets. The sound of gunfire is so common, no one bats an eyelid. The police force is a joke, each member greedier than the last, easier to buy off than the drugged-up prostitutes forced to work the corners.

Stepping onto the main floor, I sweep my gaze across the warehouse before dragging a false wall across the width to hide my bedroom from prying eyes. I’ve sectioned the space off into little rooms, like a dollhouse. The living room is my favorite. The worn royal-blue couch with the cat scratches along the side. The threadbare oriental rug with the cigarette burns. The cracked teapot sitting in the middle of the rusted metal coffee table. It’s so pretty, so homey.

It’s amazing what people throw away. I rescued all my treasures from the landfill or the roadside. My fingers graze the top of the teapot before I turn away with a flounce of skirts and double-check all my rooms are just right for my visitor.

The little cuckoo clock I rescued from a dumpster lets out a broken wheeze, informing me the time has arrived. I dim the lights to a pale glow and stand at the door, bouncing on my toes. Anticipation hums through my veins, and my tongue darts out to wet my lips when three loud raps sound at the door. I straighten my shoulders and throw open the door, offering my visitor a welcoming smile.

“Welcome to The Dollhouse, sir. Please, come in.”

The scrawny man with salt-and-pepper hair, gray eyes, and a sallow complexion glances over his shoulder before pushing past me. I peer out into the dark night, sweeping my eyes over the empty parking lot before closing and bolting the door.

“May I take your coat?” I ask, ever the proper hostess. He shrugs out of the black trench coat and hands it over before looking over my ensemble.

“Nice,” he says, licking his thick lips. His gaze comes to rest on my chest, where my breasts threaten to spill out of the low neckline. I let out a giggle while I hang up his coat.

“Do you like?” I ask, doing a little twirl. Lust blazes in his eyes, and I offer a coy smile. Mr. Ashton, here, is a CPS agent—one of the most corrupt in Arcadia City. Young girls are his specialty. It’s a good thing I appear younger than my age, because he paid five hundred dollars for me, thinking he was going to get easy pussy.

I grab his hand and pull him into The Dollhouse, smiling at him over my shoulder. Not that he’d notice; he’s too busy looking at ass. When we reach the living room, I shove him down on the couch and hand him a chipped teacup.

“Will you have a tea party with me, Mr. Ashton?” I ask, shaking my ass. When he nods, I spin away and grab the teapot. His eyes bug out when I bend over, my breasts almost falling in his face. The fool doesn’t even notice the teapot descending toward his head.

“Oopsie,” I murmur when he falls back against the couch with a grunt. A thin line of blood trickles from a gash just above his eyebrow. I swipe it away and add it to the other stripes on the wall. Mr. Ashton makes thirteen. My lucky number.

I flick a switch, and the warehouse descends into darkness for a moment before blue lights click on, bathing the rooms with an eerie glow. Words appear on the walls, only visible when the lights come on.

Murderer. Rapist. Abuser. Pedo. Liar. Thief. Adulterer. Bigot. Racist.

Unbeknownst to the men I lure to The Dollhouse with promises of fulfilling their perverted fantasies, I created hidden tunnels inside the walls, allowing me to hunt them without being seen. I need every advantage possible when working against bigger and stronger men.

I duck into one now, hidden behind a broken grandfather clock, and peek through one of the many disguised holes to wait for him to shake off the blow to the head.Come on, you wuss. I didn’t hit you that hard.

Moments later, Mr. Ashton comes to and pushes himself to the edge of the couch. His head turns back and forth before he stands, wavering on his feet. “Dolly?” He stops short when he notices the words written on the walls before backing away.

I slide down the passageway and collect Barbie. My hands wrap lovingly around the warm wooden handle, like greeting an old friend. She winks back at me in small flashes of light glinting off the razor blades embedded around the top half of the bat.

Long ago, someone told me I had the voice of a fallen angel. I use it now, letting it rise into the air, the melancholy tones echoing through the warehouse’s excellent acoustics.

“All around the mulberry bush…”I sing the nursery rhyme in low tones, drawing out the words to add to the creep factor.“The monkey chased the weasel.”

The blue lights flicker and dim when I press a button on the wall, creating thick shadows for me to hide in. A vicious grin splits my face when Mr. Ashton stumbles over a chair and falls to the ground with a thud. I race toward him, lifting Barbie above my head.

“The monkey stopped to pull up a sock…”Barbie crashes into his lower back, knocking the breath out of him. Using my foot, I turn him over and cock my head, my grin growing even wider.

“Why are you doing this?” Mr. Ashton forces out between clenched teeth.

I pull a photo out of my pocket and thrust it in his face. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on it before they widen and his skin pales. “No, please?—”

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