Page 110 of Exile
And that's being generous.
I was much quicker—I just took my time to make sure I was one-hundred percent certain.
After waiting for him to arrive at the bar like clockwork, I got to work, pulling up the fake Tinder profile I'd created with Theo.
Of course a good-for-nothing sleaze like him couldn't resist swiping right on a young, beautiful girl. Once a predator, always a predator.
Just how stupid must you be to believe everything you read online. In a world full of social media and catfishing, the older generation still hasn't quite grasped the fact that they are the easiest to scam. So much for their generation telling us not to talk to strangers and if something is too good to be true, it probably is.
It was easy to lure him into the open. Martin Goldsberg thinks he's meeting eighteen year old Jessi tonight. He wandered out of the bar, stumbling over his own feet at the exact time I told him too. Judging by his poor coordination, he didn't understand the instructions as to our meeting location, but given he's a pathetic excuse for a man and lack of ability to grasp consent, I'm not surprised.
Two single letters, one small word.
No.
I'm nothing if not a teacher. By the end of tonight, he'll have a firm understanding of the word. I'm already taking bets on how many times he'll mutter those words himself, desperate for them to have meaning.
The alleyway is dark, bricks wet from the earlier rain. He's stomping so heavily that he can't hear me behind him, following in the shadows.
When he finally reaches a dead end, confused and lost, I step out into the light, shiv in my hand.
"Who's the fuck are you?" he slurs, tripping over sideways as his eyes narrow on me.
"I'm your worst nightmare, pumpkin. Consider me the grim reaper, coming to collect."
Martin's flabbers are gasted, eyes widening and squinting rhythmically like he's having some kind of electrical shortage. He still has no idea I've just led him into a trap. To him, I'm a cockblock, standing in his way of meeting his next conquest.
"Move aside, son," he says, and although I know the words are nothing more than a seniority thing, it cuts deep, spilling open my own wounds.
"I wouldn't try that," I tell him, nodding my head toward his staggering frame as he attempts to move around me.
One step, two step, three step… floor. Well, ground. Martin finally loses his footing, colliding with the brick wall as he clings to it and fights to stay upright.
It's pathetic really. Part of me hoped for a decent fight rather than a mercy killing. Because even though I plan to mutilate him, itisa merciful killing. If I had it my way, I'd escort him back to Damon's house—our house—locking him downstairs in the basement. Every day I'd visit, inflicting new harm and injuries while inhaling his non-consensual pleas and begs. But Deadman ruled against me, claiming I wasn't bringing that trash into his mother's house.
And in fairness, I conceded quickly. That's the house we're going to make memories in while honoring Lily's legacy. It doesn't deserve to be tarnished. But that doesn't mean this scumbag gets to walk free.
I promised Avery in the beginning that I would hunt him down. If her father was still alive, I'd be tempted to re-enact Theo's sister's tribute in some twisted fashion. They both deserve to suffer but her father already got his karma. As much as I wished it was at my hands, I'm secretly pleased that his life was cut short by Avery. It's symbolic—trauma aside.
"I got no time for you, kid. Fuck the move away," Martin slurs again, and my nose wrinkles at the visible beer dribbled down his shirt. This is essentially a public service—a community blessing. There's no way this man needs to be alive, he's a disgrace to human beings everywhere.
At this point I realize he hasn't spotted my clearly visible shiv. It's my favorite one, barely away from me at any given time. I made it just for Avery in Lilydale, and I couldn't think of a more fitting item to end dear Martin's life with.
I step closer, resisting the urge to gag when his body odor hits me. It smells as if he hasn't showered in weeks, other than in cheap liquor.
Cars pass by on the main street, unable to see us down here but close enough that I'll have to be quick. Once again, I hate that idea. I want to draw it out and make him suffer—but beggars can't be choosers.
Finally, his eyes scan my body, stopping on the shiny blade in my hand. "What's that thing?"
I offer him a tight smile, taking a breath as I get ready to recite my hard prepared speech.
"You were an acquaintance of Joshua White," I start, pausing as I search for recognition in his hazy eyes. He's slow, but it's there, a light in the otherwise empty vessel.
"Joshie White? What 'bout him? He's dead."
"I'm aware of this fact," I comment calmly. "And you're about to join him."
Realization dawns on this flaccid goldfish, eyes darting between myself and the shiv. Instantly, he tenses up, that alcoholic rage getting ready to rear its ugly head. I'm all too familiar with it, having dealt with my fair share of lunatics—substance abusers or otherwise.
