Page 55 of Love Set Free

My current plan of action was hastily plotted and swiftly launched, once I clapped eyes on Jones around town. He was much too close to Phoenix’s whereabouts. I felt the immediate need to eliminate the possibility of him being a threat but, in hindsight, I probably should’ve taken the time to purchase a knife made just for this task. This is Phoenix’s favorite fish fileting knife—he employed it just the other night while making us lemon rosemary salmon—but I doubt he’s going to want to ever use it again for food preparation purposes after this.

I’m not sure why I keep stressing this point with Jones. “Come now, you had to know this very situation was a likely outcome once you set foot in the same town as Phoenix. All you had to do was stay away. We wouldn’t have gone looking for you, and I never would’ve bothered with you if you hadn’t made the first move. But you did. And now…”

I idly rotate the knife’s handle in my grip, over and over, the smears of blood along both sides of the blade dampening the glare of the overhead light from reflecting off the smooth, polished metal.

“You can’t be surprised that this is how it all ends.”

Jones lets his eyes fall closed. A moment passes, and then his eyelids reopen and his gaze meets mine head-on. I finally see a flare of recognition in his brown eyes. Jones’ oaky eyes are so much less remarkable, less compelling, less mesmerizing than Phoenix’s deep, luxurious pools of espresso. But within Jones’ eyes, I see knowledge. I see understanding.

Those eyes are silently telling me that he sees me. He sees who I really am. He understands my very soul.

And now he knows just what lengths I’ll go to in order to get what I want.

Resting my forearms against my legs, the sharp, narrow length of the fileting knife dangles loosely between my knees. I lean closer to Jones and whisper a truth he should’ve already realized. “Phoenix is mine. Months and months ago, when y’all set yer sights on him, you might’ve thought he was yours. But he’s not. He never was. He’s mine. And he’ll stay mine for as long as I want. Forever seems like it almost might be long enough.”

Oh, yes, Jones sees me. He understands.

Doesn’t stop him from futilely shaking his head no, those brown eyes wide and pleading, as he watches me rise from the edge of the tub with a sigh.

“And it’s not about the money,” I add. “For y’all that’s all he was, right? His money? And you wanted it. Me… I could care less if he lost all of it today and we both ended up living out of a car. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. Not that we’ll need to–Phoenix’s people wouldn’t let it come to that. Naw, for me, I just want Phoenix because he’s Phoenix. He’s mine. And nobody’s gonna be takin’ away or harmin’ what’s mine. Never again.”

With Jones nicely trussed up like a Christmas goose, it’s nothing at all for me to circle around behind him. I grab a full handful of his thick brown hair, hold his head nice and still, and easily score a long, thin slice through the delicate skin and flesh at the base of his throat.

Unlike my earlier cuts, which were only for prying information from Jones on the whereabouts of Mueller and Silva, I intend for this one to go deep. I’m no longer interested in gaining truthful responses to questions about motives and plots and threatful intents. The time for playing is over; Phoenix is right, we shouldn’t be late for dinner with his parents.

Desperate gurgles force gush after gush of liquid crimson to cascade down from Jones’ neck and onto his chest. This new blood joins the dried remnants of the old, a natural paint coloring the black outlines of tattooed adornment in a rainbow of red.

Phoenix pops his head into the bathroom again to let me know that he laid out clothes for me to change into on the bed.

“Hmm. Thank you, Phee.”

“Of course, love.”

The waterfall of blood is slowing to a trickling stream and Jones’ head droops down heavily. The rise and fall of his chest comes slower and slower.

“And you said you can have full permission to borrow your friend’s boat whenever you want?” I ask Phoenix, wanting the reassurance that the next phase of my plan is well in hand.

“Not only permission, but encouragement,” Phoenix replies. “Hadley’s planning to be in London for at least another six months and he doesn’t want his boat sitting in dock, being unused for that long.” Peering at his reflection in the large mirror over the sink, Phoenix smooths down a section of hair, although, to me, his silky, jaw-length dark hair didn’t look to have a single strand out of place. “I can tell him that I took you fishing,” Phoenix says, his need to primp temporarily sated. “That way we can excuse away any accidental blood. You know...just in case.”

It sounds like a reasonable idea, except... “Didn’t you tell me once that you hate fishing?”

“Almost in direct proportion to how much I love you,” he replies.

“Which means...”

Phoenix’s answering smile looks as goofy and giddy as the one I can feel sitting on my face. “He probably won’t believe me, because Ihatefishing. Passionately, totally, fervently.”

“The way–”

“Yes, the same way I love you. Although, not as much. Because, sweetheart, my adoration for you...sometimes it feels like my body can’t even contain it all.”

Jones is finally completely still. No oxygen is going in and out of his lungs. The blood has stopped seeping from the gaping slash across his neck.

A dead body is probably not a typical accessory for a love confession but, what the hell, why not.

“You know I’ll do anything for you,” I say.

While I was trying not to be crude and outright refer to fucking, Phoenix’s gaze slips past me to the man I just casually murdered in our en suite bathroom. Which is fair, I suppose. A gift of bloodshed does convey a depth of devotion that sex or a bushel of flowers could never match.

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