Page 4 of The Trick

Temptation clouds my mind, making me want to turn around and drive to where she is. But if I abandon tonight’s assignment, not only will Cam chew me out, but I would also never be able to live with myself knowing that I let the opportunity to avenge my father’s murder slip away.

My phone vibrates, alerting me of a new message from Cam, and Ireluctantly drag myself from the rage induced trance I find myself in.

Cam Moeder: How far out are you?

Me: I’m here.

Cam Moeder: Good. Make it quick

Cam Moeder: and tidy…not like last time.

Me: Got it.

How could I possibly forget the last time Cam allowed me to bring my favorite butcher’s knife on an assignment; I got carried away, as usual, and things gotmessy. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, but I didn’t bring a tarp, like Cam suggested, and it made cleaning the blood splatter damn near impossible. Luckily this time, I remembered the tarp, because there is no way I wouldn’t want to use my favorite knife tonight. It’s sharpened and ready with Byron Campbell’s fucking name on it.

Cam Moeder: He thinks he’s going home, so make it believable.

He’ll be going home alright.

I close the text, placing my phone in my back pocket, eliminating the temptation I have to continue to track her every move. I need to focus. The quicker I kill this fucker and bring his severed head back to Cam, per her request, the quicker I get to where I’d rather be.

The closer I drive toward the entrance of the motel; I’m taken aback by the amount of weeds and overgrowth that appear to swallow the motel whole. With the worn siding and busted windows, it looks abandoned and nothing like the fancy establishment I imagined Mr. Byron “Big Bucks”Campbell would be caught dead at.

According to Cam, this has become Byron’s go to spot for when he wants to fuck anyone that isn’t his wife. It’s ironic, the discretion he uses when cheating on his wife—who he shows no respect for—yet the lives he has ruined from his corrupt schemes, he wears like abadge of honor. But all of his greedy, lying and destructive ways will end tonight.

I park in front ofroom 15H and notice the door is half open. Bringing my palm to the horn, I give it a few quick taps to let him know I’m here. A few minutes slip by and, just as I’m about to lay on the horn again, an awful high-pitched squeal sounds from the hinges of the door.

Irritation rattles my core as a disheveled Byron appears in the threshold of the doorway. He raises his hand, waving in my direction, which damn near causes him to topple over. A shrill chuckle erupts from his thin-lipped mouth as he steadies his stance, attempting to wave my way once more.

Fucking pathetic prick.

Refusing to give this douchebag any more of my attention than he deserves, I don’t return his greeting. Instead, I sit stoic and unamused, watching him move his wobbly body toward the truck so slowly it makes time feel like it’s at a stand-still.

I debate getting out and helping him get in. Not because I give a fuck if he trips and hurts himself, if anything that would make my job easier, but I need to speed this process up if I want to get to where I belong afterward…watching my final girl.

About to lift the driver side door handle to get out of the truck, I freeze when Byron's disgruntled silhouette appears outside the passenger side window. He waves once more and once again, I ignore it. Instead, I tilt my chin in the direction of the door, hoping he will get the hint and open the fucking thing himself. It takes a minute, but he finally opens the door, stumbling his way into the passenger seat. The foul stench of body odor mixed with stale bourbon and sex filling the cab of my truck makes me want to gag.

“Mad-mad,” he slurs, sounding even drunker than he smells.

I turn my head towards him, immediately noticing the queasy expression on his face. Guess it really is a good thing I bought the tarp this time in case he pukes. Which judging from the way the usually milky hue of his skin now appears translucent, it looks like that is a major possibility.

Discreetly I reach for the handle of my knife that’s stashed and ready to go in the lower compartment of the driver door. Not that I need it this second, but I want to make sure when the time comes, its positioning makes for a quick retrieval. Recently, I added leather to the handle, so it helps optimize my grip. Feeling the fresh leather secured in my hand sends a ripple of excitement through me. Especially since, tonight, I will be able to indulge myself in one of my favorite pastimes aside from anything involving my little muse, and that’s killing.

The burst of joy I feel with the knife in my grasp dissipates the moment I feel Byron’s clammy palm slither its way onto my shoulder.

“Get the fuck off me,” I rasp, jerking my shoulder to loosen the hold he has on me. My abrupt movement causes the knife to fall from my grip. I wince as it thuds against the pocket of the door, hoping Byron doesn’t hear but, thankfully, he’s too inebriated to notice.

“Aye, aye captain,” he jokes, moving his hand against his forehead, extending it in a cringe worthy salute.

For fuck’s sake, how corny. What’s next, a drunk rendition of theSpongeBobtheme song?

“Never do that again,” I bite. “Now close the fucking door so we can get you home.”

He follows my instructions but as he leans to close the door, the plastic he’s sitting on shifts, causing him to become aware of the extensive amount of clear polyethylene tarp that covers the interior of the truck.

“Wow, this is new,” he observes, running an unsteady hand over the plastic before slumping back on the passenger seat.

“Yep,” I nod. My ringed fingers tap on the locks just as I put the truck in reverse so we can get the fuck out of here and get this show moving. Thankfully, he is too intoxicated to piece togetherwhythe tarp is in the truck. I was expecting more questions, but I welcome the silence and hope it remains for the entirety of our drive to the quarry.

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