Page 20 of Cry, Little Dove

I slap my forehead, dragging my palm across my face.

But God almighty, Erica was everything I dreamed of and more. She didn’t question my orders and obeyed me like a good little slut, like she waited her whole life for me to dominate her and make her mine.

I was exactly what she needed. The right man to violate her and make her feel alive. The right monster to balance her pain and pleasure on a knife’s edge. And when her pussy got even tighter with my blade at her throat—

The memory sends a surge of pleasure through my balls. My cock grows against the inside of my jeans. I ignore it and shove a hand into my pocket, fumbling with a packet of squashed cigarettes to take one out. The clack of my metal lighter and the whoosh of the flame calm me a little.

I take a long drag, exhaling a cloud of grey smoke through my nose and continue pondering my stupidity. I deserve a good ol’ session of self-flagellation.

After the most incredible sex with Erica in the motel, I had yet another fuckin’ chance to make it right. Iwasgonna make it right. I sat with her until she was almost asleep and got the sedative. Injected her. Carried her to my pickup. Drove all night to bring her here.

Routine.

And then I fucked upeven worse.

She was prepped and primed, beautifully still on the operating table like a precious porcelain doll waiting for me to break her… and I couldn’t do it. Even with my favorite scalpel in hand, I couldn’t bring myself to gut her.

Instead, Iwokeher.

“Motherfucker,” I curse and my reflection in the windowpane throws a hostile glance back at me.

In the basement, Erica was my helpless subject. My lil experiment. I savored every tiny reaction to my agonizing touch, drank in her suffering like fine wine, getting high off her torment.

God, I have to stop thinking about her or—

I storm to the dresser where I left her handbag and grab it. Heart racing, I sit on the bed and run my fingers over the peeling fake leather on the shoulder strap.

She doesn’t have many possessions. The rest of her stuff is in the walk-in closet, except for her dirty clothes taking a spin in the washing machine. I couldn’t leave her things in the motel, that would be suspicious. But with her luggage gone, the guy at the front desk will simply assume she bailed early. The place is strictly pay in advance and he already has his money.

After one last drag, I stub out my cigarette in a marble ashtray on the nightstand and pour the contents of her handbag on the mattress. Another colossal fuck up on my part because that damn curiosity about her rages like wildfire in my chest.

My other victims remained nameless. I burned their things without hesitation.

But Erica… she has my head spinning and I can’t figure out why. As much as I hate to admit it, I want to learn more about her. Everything there is to learn about her.

Why was she all alone in that god-forsaken town? What is she hiding from? Where is her car?

Her wallet is of no interest to me. I already checked it earlier, finding spare change and credit cards, no doubt maxed-out if I am to judge by her sparse diet and choice of low-end motel. Her driver’s license is in there as well, which is useful for her signature if I have to forge it. It shouldn’t be hard to copy. Her handwriting is tight and too proper, with a forced neatness to it.

Mother always said you can tell a lot about a person from their penmanship. Of course, hers was cursive and swooping, the very picture of sophistication. I bark a sharp laugh. Not sure if she was right, because none of its elegance hinted at her functional alcoholism.

I rummage through the rest of Erica’s things. She also carries a full bottle of sleeping pills, definitely not a proper prescription. A packet of tissues. A small polka-dot bag with drugstore makeup, but it’s all cheap shit. Too cheap for an extraordinary woman like her.

Thanks to Mandy, I know my way around makeup brands. That’s a perk of having a sister turned online beauty guru with millions of subscribers. Pride hums in my chest every time I think about how far she’s come.

Whenever she drops by, she offloads bags of luxury cosmetics from promotional packages in my bathroom. Then she gives me a conspiratorial smirk, waggling her brows while instructing me to gift them to mylady friends.

I have no lady friends, and I don’t want any, either, but Mandy is more concerned about me finding a wife than I am. It’s her favorite topic. She can go on and on about how I’ll end up old and grey and alone.

I never know what to do with the stuff she gives me, but throwing it away seems rude and wasteful. On a regular basis, I donate boxes full of it to women’s shelters, but it keeps piling up.

Hopefully Erica will like some of the products, even if her favorite perfume isn’t among them. I found an empty bottle of it in her weekender, and I already ordered a giftset from Mandy’s recommended beauty supply store in San Antonio. For a fee, they do same-day delivery. It’ll be here and ready for her when she wakes up.

I dig Erica’s phone out from between single-packaged pads. When I read her bucket list, I didn’t pay much attention to the model, but it’s at least a few years old with a touch button relying on fingerprint technology to unlock it.

My pulse is in my throat as I reach across the bed and take her cold hand into mine. Sparks tingle under my skin wherever we touch. I stare at her slender fingers. The size difference between our hands is startling.

When I prepared her for surgery, I didn’t allow myself to look at her for too long. A cowardly part of me knew if I did, I wouldn’t release her into death’s hold. But I was kidding myself from the start when I thought I could ever go through with selling her for parts.

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