Page 5 of Hitch
“Exactly what I like to hear.”
He closes the door behind him, leaving me alone. I lock the door, then slide into the office chair, the hinges squeaking as I relax into it.
Unzipping my jeans, I pull myself through the hole in my boxers, playing with the head as I watch Secret enter the private room. It’s my favorite pairing today; Secret and the Mortician. He comes every other week, but he’s theonlyone she lets touch her.
Lucky son of a bitch.
The Mortician rests his open palm on his thigh. I learned his legal name once, but don’t care to remember it now. Not like I remember every detail about my Hitch. Regina ‘Reggie’ Flores, known around these parts by her stage name, Secret. Twenty-three-years-old. A young woman who recently broke it off with her sugar daddy. Information I got from the strip club owner.
Her sugar daddy was an idiot, though. Couldn’t keep my woman satisfied, it seems. And how do you let a woman like that go?
But it explains some things, like why a woman like her moves aside her panties as she lowers her sex onto the Mortician’s hand. Sliding back and forth, wet and ready for him. My bulge aches with jealousy. I roll the palm of my hand over the crown of my arousal, using my pre-cum to lubricate the shaft. It’s been six long months since I first met Reggie, and every day, I’ve rubbed myself raw, punishing myself for letting her get away. It was a stupid mistake. I should’ve killed her months ago. A witness living and breathing so close to my farm isn’t the kind of hitch you want screwing up your plans.
But she’s smart enough to know not to betray a man like me, and I’m not dumb enough to forget about her now. When she applied at this club, I took a couple of photocopies of her application. One on my desk back at the farm, and one in my wallet. I like having her info with me. The one in my wallet is creased and grainy as dirt, but it’s my piece of her, so she’s always under my thumb.
If she keeps her end of the bargain—keeping her mouth shut—then I have no reason to get closer. A woman like her is sure to claw her dainty chipped fingernails into my brain, and I don’t need a weakness like that pulling me apart from the inside out.
But I still dream of fucking her, melting her shame into pure bliss.
If I get that close again, I’m liable to get out of control. Which is why I stay back here. Behind the screen. Watching her.
On the screen, the Mortician jerks his head to the side, using his nose to get inside of her bra. His mouth opens, taking in those tender brown nipples like they’re the fountain of youth. Reggie, Secret,Hitch—whatever you want to call her—rolls her head back like she’s losing herself in ecstasy. She’s such a pleasure slut, always hungry for more, ready to take whatever is given to her.
The funny thing is that the Mortician doesn’t even get himself sucked off; he pleases her andpaysfor the privilege. My girl likes to gut the customers and suck their wallets dry, out for no one, but herself. Always has been a predator.
I like that about her.
Now that my Hitch has had her fill, she takes a break from dancing, settling on the leather sectional next to the Mortician as they drink their beer and wine. I stroke myself, her dark eyes ripping a hole in my soul. But I don’t want to come like this; I want to save it for later. I use some tissues to clean up, then text Todd, letting him know that I’m leaving the club now.
As I drive through Stockton, I find Reggie’s one-bedroom apartment on the ground floor of a cheap complex. Brown paint with white trim. Sparse bushes hacked to bits by the tired landscapers. A neighbor across the hallway waves to me, and I nod back as I let myself inside of Reggie’s home. Her neighbor must think I’m Reggie’s boyfriend, the way I come in and out all the time. Nobody cares to ask for the details around here. You live, you work, you die, and who cares if your neighbor has a big southern boy coming in all hours of the day and night, so long as he pays his bills and nobody’s screaming?
Goddamn, though. I loved hearing Reggie scream.
I suck in the scent of her living space; the remnants of a frozen meal hang in the air, dust and citrus cleaning spray mixing with it. I pry through her fridge, taking mental notes on her menu for the week. Crossing over to the bathroom, I’m drenched in synthetic vanilla fragrance, a stripper’s bread and butter when it comes to seduction. And it should be; itworks.Her real estate textbook lies open on her dresser for once; perhaps she’s actually going to register for that state required class this time.
I lean against one of her bedposts, and the damn thing creaks in annoyance. A holey zebra comforter is thrown over the mattress, probably from when she was a teenager. Pulling the cover off of her pillowcase, I jerk off,my length needy and veiny, as I imagine she’s dancing on top ofme,that she’s rubbing her slit againstmyhand, thatI’mthe one who get to suck on those pretty brown nipples like she’s going to bring me back from the dead. Images of her sleeping on that same pillow flood my vision as I think of the times Ididn’tfuck her in her sleep, but jerked off inches away from her face. She’s a heavy sleeper, so unaware of the evil she’s within arm’s reach of. A man who could strangle her to death and come from the pleasure of doing it.
I explode over her pillow, wet stains coating the fabric like drops of rain. I pull the case back over the pillow, hiding the evidence, knowing that it’ll look like a drool stain, and my woman won’t even notice it. She’s been sleeping with my come rubbed up against her cheeks for months now.
It wasn’t always like this. I had work. Everything was stable. The mushroom business was booming, and I had the corn to keep us covered from the law.
Then I killed my first victim in years, the same night I met Reggie, and everything came undone. It’s like she put a spell on me.
I’m goddamn insatiable.
I wipe my mouth and fix my belt, then pull open the top drawer of her nightstand. There it is. My gun. Right where I moved it last time. A pistol I took from my father, engraved with his lifelong motto:Life Always Ends.The bastard was too confident in his own abilities, but I still respect what he taught me. It’s how it got me to where I am today, while he’s underground.
It’s the first time Reggie hasn’t taken the pistol with her to work at the Double Take. Either she doesn’t know where I put it,orshe’s getting too confident now.
I ought to change that.
I head back to the Grainswept Fields. It’s about a thirty-minute drive from Stockton, but once my cornfields come into sight, the back of my neck tingles, and I don’t know why. Something bad is about to unfold in front of me; I can feel it. I finger my new pistol, ready to fix any unsavory problems that arise.
But nothing happens, so I drive up the gravel road to the farmhouse. It’s got three stories and enough rooms that Braden—my laboratory manager—and I don’t run into each other much. There are even secret rooms, something that could be handy in our line of work, but most of the time, I don’t remember them.
After all, working and living together, you need space. So when you get a man like Braden working for you—forging papers, growing illegal mushrooms, covering your crimes—you keep him happy, but most of all, you keep himclose,since you never know who will turn their back on you, especially after what happened with Braden’s little sweetheart. A crush, really. He barely had the nerve to talk to her. Still, things have been different since I killed her, but business comes first.
When you have an illegal business that gives you a good excuse to indulge in your violent pastime, then you make damn sure that you don’t get caught. And that means getting rid of loud mouths.
