Page 23 of Hitch
He takes out his wallet, putting a large stack of hundreds in my hand. I blink at the money, then get my purse, my hands running over the stun gun as I grab my counterfeit pen. I check each bill, then count it again, carefully this time.
He overpaid me by forty percent.
When I look up, his eyes are glued to me, like he’s completely obsessed. And damn it, if that desire alone doesn’t make my knees quake.
Why does a man this fucked up wantme?
“You’re a hard worker, Hitch,” he says.
I don’t know if he’s mocking me or being serious, so I ignore him.
He continues: “I ought to find you a more permanent place on the farm. One where we can really use your talents.”
His dark blue eyes simmer with lust, and my gut tingles. I hate that I like the way his words make me feel, because now, Iknowhe’s being serious. Everything he just said is an actual compliment.
But there’s a question inside of his words too. Is he going to hire me for a more permanent job, working on his illegal mushrooms,oris he going to kill me and bury me here so that I can never leave?
I don’t know.
But I know I’ll find out.
Chapter8
Duane
The sun blazes above me,melting the landscape like it’s a damn oven. I hold the new napkin note up to the sky, blocking the sunlight, letting the shadow spread across my face. The faint scent of cigarettes and vanilla flutters down from the note, like my little blackmailer wrote it while she was at work.
It’s been a few days since I fucked Reggie in the spore houses, but with how heavy my balls are, you would think it’s been months. But that’s not my concern right now. I’m waiting outside of the newest seller’s trailer. Todd owns the trailer park. Must’ve been how he found this seller.
I’ve got no sympathy for someone who thinks it’s smart to go to the cops when he’s about as wrapped in this business as any of us are. He should know that’s how you get killed.
The seller’s shadow flickers from the bedroom to the living room as he slumps in front of the television. The noises of a court show echo through the thin walls, loud and angry, and flashes of color light up the curtains in the window. The seller yells at the TV, then chuckles to himself, like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s heard all year.
The front door isn’t even locked, and it’s like killing a baby deer, knowing that it’s stupid and helpless before you. But I learned a thing or two growing up on a ranch. When it’s time to put a cow down, you don’t drag out the inevitable because she was a cute calf when she was a baby; you do what you have to do to fix the problem and put the cow out of misery, before it affects the whole herd.
But killing a cow isn’t quite like killing a human. That’s why this bloodlust always trickles in my veins, yearning for more. It’s why I killed the competition for our ranch back in Florida, and why, in the end, I killed my own father to get what I deserved.
The door shifts open without a sound. The scent of loaded baked potatoes wafts through the air, as if this is a restaurant, not a mobile home. The seller’s laugh echoes through the hall, so convinced of his own safety, that I ought to put his ass out just for being this dumb. You don’t deal drugs and leave the front door unlocked.
Though I suppose he thinks he’s safe since he was planning on calling the cops anyway.
From right behind him, I take the knife and stab his cheekbone, a wound that won’t kill him—at least, not until infection sets in—and he jolts, howling so loud, my skin catches on fire with adrenaline. Spit flies through my teeth as he attacks me, and his hands wrap around my throat. I love it when they fight me. It makes the hunt that much better.
I wish he was Reggie right now.
“What the fuck, man?” he sputters, but his wounded cheek makes it nearly impossible to talk. “T-the hell is this?”
I could tell him the reason I’m killing him, but that would mean I care about justice and rules. But the truth is I don’t give a damn aboutanyside of the law. I care aboutrespect.And if you don’t respect your boss enough to keep your mouth shut or respect yourself enough to lock your fucking door, then you don’t deserve to live.
I let him choke me for a minute, blood rushing to my groin at the chase, imagining it’sher,my little Hitch, thinking she’s winning the fight, like she’s about to kill me. My dick is hard, and when the idiot notices, his jaw drops. I shove my body forward, rolling us over until I’m on top again. I stab the knife into the bastard’s throat this time, and that’s the killer hit.
His weak eyes gaze up at me, blue and solid like mine. Not an ounce of brown, like my girl’s.
My gloves crunch as I straighten my palm. Blood stains the carpet, and soon, the stink of death will overpower the stench of baked potatoes. That’s one advantage of murders on the farm; you can get your hands dirty and not worry about history flaking off of your skin, leaving evidence behind. But out here, in another person’s home, you got to be more careful, and yet, you want to leave a mark too. Make sure everyone elseknowsthat this is what happens when you mess with Duane fucking Patrick.
I text one of my other workers, one of the three that are left, telling him to take care of the mess. He’ll tell the rest, and then, they’llknow.
On the way back to the farm, I take my time, taking the back roads while I sing along with the radio. I ought to call Reggie with the way I’m feeling. My balls ache for her. Surely, she’s had enough time to process our last session.
