Page 18 of Her Name in Red
Fuck.
Chapter 7
Maren
Iinch my skirt back down, smoothing the fabric over my thighs with exaggerated care. The boy at my feet looks wrecked—lips swollen, eyes wild, knees dirty from the filthy alley ground. Blood smears across his chest where my fingers have marked him. My blood. His blood. The dead man's blood. It's all the same in the end.
“You should see your face right now,” I tell him, my voice low and amused. “Like a starving man who just had his dinner yanked away.”
Riggs Rhodes—golden boy, hockey star, campus hero—stares up at me with naked hunger. His cock tents his shorts obscenely. I can see the wet spot where he's leaked through the fabric. It's almost endearing how desperate he is, how quickly he dropped to his knees for me.
I turn away from him, my attention shifting to the cooling body sprawled across the alley floor. The puddle of blood has stopped expanding, congealing now in the night air. Soon it'll start to smell.
“Well, I need to do something with Craig, Carl, Chester. Whatever the fuck his name is.” I poke the body with the tip ofmy shoe. “There's an aqueduct about half a mile from here. The current's strong enough this time of year.”
I glance back at Riggs, who's still on his knees, watching me with those pretty hazel eyes.
“You wanna help, golden boy?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Or would you rather run back to your adoring fans and pretend this never happened? We can forget all about our little run-in.” I pause, letting my gaze drift meaningfully to the body. “Well, you can try to forget, anyway.”
“You've done this before,” he says. Not a question.
I shrug, feeling the tacky pull of drying blood on my skin. “He's not the first man who couldn't take no for an answer.”
The night air is cool against my flushed skin, carrying the scent of rain and distant car exhaust.
Riggs finally climbs to his feet, his movements stiff like he's fighting against his own body.
“I've got him,” Riggs grunts, bending down to grab the dead weight under the armpits. The body's head lolls back, exposing the ragged hole in his throat. In the dim light, it looks like a second mouth, wet and gaping. Riggs doesn't flinch, just adjusts his grip, muscles in his arms and chest flexing with the effort.
I step forward to help, reaching for the legs, but Riggs shakes his head. “I said I've got it.” His voice is rough, edged with something that might be frustration or arousal or both. “Just lead the way.”
I raise an eyebrow, amused by his display of masculine strength. “Whatever you say, boss.” I give him a mock salute, then turn on my heel, feeling his eyes on me as I walk away.
I lead him through the maze of back alleys behind the warehouse district. I switch my hips with each step, making sure he gets a good view of what he almost had. My heels click against the pavement, a steady rhythm that I match with a soft hum.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary...” The nursery rhyme morphs into something darker in my throat, a melody that feels right for this moment. Blood is drying on my skin, pulling tight like a second skin. I drag my fingers through a damp patch on my arm, feeling the tackiness. “How does your garden grow…”
Behind me, I hear Riggs' labored breathing, the shuffle of his feet as he drags our little problem along. The body makes a soft scraping sound against the concrete.
“With silver bells and cockle shells...” My voice rises slightly, carrying in the still night air. I glance back over my shoulder to see Riggs watching me, his face a mask of concentration. The body's heels drag behind him, leaving faint streaks on the dirty pavement. “And pretty maids all in a row.”
I turn down another alley, this one narrower than the last. The buildings loom on either side, blocking out most of the moonlight. It's darker here, more private. The kind of place where bad things happen to people who wander in alone.
A final twist in the maze of alleys, and suddenly, the concrete path gives way to a steep, grassy embankment. Below us, the aqueduct cuts through the landscape like a dark vein, water rushing silently in the moonlight. The sound grows louder as we approach—not the gentle babble of a brook, but the hungry roar of water with purpose.
“Home sweet home,” I whisper, more to myself than to Riggs.
He grunts behind me, adjusting his grip on our deadweight. His muscles strain against the burden, veins popping along his forearms, but he hasn't complained once.
The embankment is slippery with dew, and my heels sink into the soft earth as I pick my way down. The smarter choice in footwear would have been flats, but no fucking thank you, not with this outfit.
The water rushes below us, black and hungry in the moonlight. It moves fast here, the current strong enough tosweep away secrets, to carry evidence far downstream where it becomes someone else's problem. Nature's little cleanup crew.
“Right here,” I say, stopping at a spot where the bank juts out slightly over the water. The drop is about ten feet, straight down into the rushing current. “This is the sweet spot.”
Riggs steps up beside me, the body still clutched in his arms. Blood has dried on his chest in rust-colored streaks, mixing with sweat to create abstract patterns across his skin. Street fighter turned gravedigger. The thought almost makes me smile.
“Just drop him?” he asks, voice oddly calm for someone about to dispose of a corpse.
