Page 82 of Sunshine & Sinful

“Hold on, babe!” The song switches, and I wade through the chaos to the DJ booth on a brightly coloredstage. As I ascend the steps to shut down the noise, I find the masked DJ slumped on the floor, his back against the wall, blood pouring down his impressively muscled, bare chest into his lap, where it looks like he tried to catch it in his hands. His eyes are wide. Dead and wide. Staring straight ahead.

Stepping over his foot, I flip several switches on the soundboard to shut down the music.

“There. That’s better.” I sigh.

“I’m on my way,” Sunshine explains, and I overhear the turn signal click on in the background.

Drawing a heart in the puddle of blood with the toe of my boot, I mumble, “You need to call in an extra pair of hands.”

Sunshine turns down his music. “More people? Angel’s behind me.”

“You need to call more than Angel.”

“Sweets. What happened?”

“I made a bigger mess.” That’s the understatement of the century.

“Ah. Okay. No problem. I’ve got you, babe. See you soon.” The call ends, and I busy myself until my husband shows up to help me handle this shit show.

Pointing to the corpses, I count the number of people I murdered today out loud.

“One.” The naked man with a hairy Chewbacca ass on the floor by the bar. He has a tribal armband tattoo.

“Two. Three. Four. Five.” Businessmen, still clothed, deceased on the floor beside their chairs. Two of them spewed blood and wine in each other’s faces on their downward spiral to the afterlife.

“Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” I squeeze my eyes shut and magically wish the mess away so my husband doesn’t get stuck with my failure. It’s a cosmic Hail Mary, but it doesn’t hurt to try. Miracles can happen. If this were a Disney movie, I’d be a plant whisperer, and vines would magically show up to dispose of everything. If only real life were that easy.

Blowing out a breath, I refocus on my still gore-coated surroundings, finish counting my kills—seventeen total—and turn to the survivors.

Not wanting to spook the men and women, I approach them slowly, where they’re huddled behind a table. “We’re gonna get you out of here,” I promise, with my palms out so they know I’m not threatening.

One of the men, naked as the day he was born, steps in front of six equally nude women. He’s young. Maybe nineteen. Crossing both arms over his chest, lips set into a grim line, he flexes as if ready for a fight. I get it. They were brought here against their will. To be slaves to the rich fucks now dead on the floor. I was hired as the bartender for the evening. They were fondled and fucked and used as toys for the pleasure of others. I watched it happen.

One of the girls was strapped to a table for most of the night. Five different men ran a train on her.

Fucking disgusting.

And there I was, pasting on a smile, flirting, and serving them spirits and wine.

My wine.

Ugh. I really need to work on that recipe.

“I have friends coming to bring you someplace safe. Ipromise.” I toe the arm of a dead man out of my way and stay on the far side of the table to give everyone plenty of space to breathe.

A redhead seated on the floor sobs into her hands.

The blonde next to her pats the woman’s shoulder in support.

“What the hell happened here?” the man protecting them asks, nodding toward the floor littered with death. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. If he’s been in this world long enough, there’s no telling how much this young man has seen or been through.

“I miscalculated the wine,” I admit, choosing to go with the truth rather than some made-up lie he wouldn’t believe anyhow.

A mop of dark hair falls when he cocks his head to the side, curious. “Wine?”

Walking over to a nearby table, I lift an empty bottle of the deadly potion. “This is my wine.”

The young man thinks for a beat before he responds. “You poisoned them?”

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