Page 5 of Cry, Little Dove

I grab a bottle of generic pain killers from the zipper compartment. The pills stick to my dry throat as I swallow them. I suppress the urge to gag, force them down, and put the bottle back. A criminally short and tight, cherry-red dress finds its way into my hands and a black, barely-there lace thong. I toss the clothes on the bed and stumble to the bathroom.

My fist hits the light switch as I close the door behind me.

The fluorescent ceiling light flickers, illuminating my makeup scattered on the grubby counter by the sink. Catching a glance of my reflection in the broken mirror is like watching a gruesome accident. I don’t want to see the dark circles under my eyes or the sharp angles of my gaunt, pale cheeks, but I can’t look away.

I kick off my boots and undress, throwing my shirt and panties onto a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. A cockroach startles from underneath, and I jump as it rushes past me to the crack under the door.

Skin crawling from the encounter, I step into the shower and turn it on. A forceful stream of ice-cold water hits my chest. I squeal before the temperature gets burning hot—only for a few seconds though. Then it’s arctic again. Then hot. Cold. Hot.

Teeth chattering, I squeeze the last bit of shampoo from the bottle on the floor and work up a lather between my palms.

One more night to check some things off that ridiculous list. Sure, I’m going to die, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun before I do—or try to.

Fuck being a good girl.

My thumb drags across the naked woman on my phone screen. Inside my dark pickup, the device’s glow is hypnotizing. I turned the brightness up so I can make out every detail of her incredible body and every drop of my cum splashed over her skin.

A jerk runs through my cock, and I grin, the tip of my cigarette glowing red as I take a drag. I exhale the smoke slowly through my nose.

Folk wisdom says beauty is on the inside, though she has plenty of it on the outside, too. Not that I can say anything about her personality. We’ve never spoken and I don’t know her name. Not yet.

She must be around thirty years old, and the heart of a healthy woman her age sells for a small fortune. Factor in the rest of her organs, too. Eyes. Kidneys. Lungs. But it’s not about money.

As a doctor, I turn around most of my harvest myself. That way I can make sure the organs go to recipients who need them the most, those lowest on the transplant waiting lists and those deemed unimportant or expendable. Mainly poor folks.

Years spent working in hospitals and managing a chain of private clinics makes faking the documents a piece of cake. I know the system inside out.

On occasion, when I can’t find a recipient in time, I sell to the highest bidder on the dark web. It’s a waste to let the organs rot. Masked to protect my identity, I handle the exchanges personally in one of many old warehouses I own across Texas. I always reinvest the money in my favorite charities.

No, my hunts aren’t about cash.

It’s about the stalking. The total power. The relief of the kill when shiny steel slices through skin and muscle. Seeing the life drain from my victim’s fearful eyes is addictive. The ultimate drug.

A shudder runs through me. I can’t wait to do the same to my little dove.

I tear my attention from her picture, lock my phone, and throw it onto the passenger side of the bench seat. Damn, I don’t know why I took it in the first place. It’s evidence. An unnecessary risk.

I have a room at the motel, but I spent most of the day in my truck again, parked up the street on a slight incline. It’s the ideal spot to keep an eye on her.

The memories of her silken skin and wet cunt are like hallucinations floating in my mind. I can’t believe I was so fuckin’ bold. Bold and stupid.

But last night after I came back from grabbing a bite at the local diner and peeked into her window, she was already drunk. Half-naked, she jumped around with a bottle in hand while she yelled along toRiver Below, one of my favorite Billy Talent songs. The beer spilled when she carelessly put the bottle on the nightstand, dragging herself onto the bed. She just about managed to turn off the music and passed out.

Something inside me snapped, seeing her like that. Vulnerable. Defenseless. The memory is enough to make my pulse spike.

I barely bothered to check that the creep at the reception was busy watching some trashy late night talk show on TV before I found myself at her door, lockpick in hand. That guy rubs me the wrong way, always leering at her. Fuckin’ dickhead has no right to look at her.

She belongs to me.

She’s my prey and I’m the hunter. I’m in control. Then why did stepping into her room feel like walking into a trap?

A frown furrows my brow. I have a tried and tested routine for my hunts, but it took one glance at her and my strategic planning went out the window like she gripped my heart with an invisible fist and didn’t let go.

Fuck me. How can a woman I never exchanged a word with have such a hold on me?

I roll down the window. A coyote howls in the distance as I hang my arm outside, dropping the cigarette butt. The air is cooler than during the day, but it brings little relief from the waves of heat under my skin.

I hoped last night would calm my carnal urges, but sticking my fingers into her perfect pussy made things worse. My day has been plagued by random hardons and my thoughts circle around her like I’m some obsessed freak.

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