Page 56 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

He let out a soft moan, then walked her backward and managed to kick the door closed. Slowly his fingers scaled her ribs, inching up her skin until he cupped her breasts. “Do me,” he growled, nibbling her earlobe.

“Don’t you want a drink first?”

“Later.”

“Then come into the bedroom—”

“Just do me.” It was an order, one that held a desperate edge. He pushed her head down and she slid to the floor, kneeling in front of him, the hem of her robe fanning around her. “That’s it, baby, that’s what Daddy wants.”

This and a whole lot more, she thought, slightly disappointed as he angled his hips toward her. But she wouldn’t be unhappy for long. This was part of their usual routine. First she serviced him as if she were some kind of whore and then he might take the time to spank her just until her cheeks were hot, as if she was supposed to be a young innocent, but in the end he always, without fail, became an eager, indulgent lover, someone who would satisfy her every need.

As long as his were taken care of first.

She told herself she really didn’t have any room to complain.

He treated her better than any other man she’d ever been with.

She glanced up at his handsome face and ignored the dog watching her. Making eye contact with her lover, Sugar offered him a naughty smile, licked her lips and then, slowly, oh, so slowly, her long fingernails tracing the metal teeth, she slid the tab of his zipper down.

Atropos lurked in the shadows. It was dark, still night, but dawn was threatening to the east. Soon gray light would steal across these weed-choked, dry acres and the thicket of scrub oak that provided her with cover. Her car was hidden half a mile down the road. No one knew she was here.

Watching.

Waiting.

Listening to the feral, animal grunts and moans that emanated from the trailer. Her mouth twisted with disgust. Even she needed a smoke after all the screwing that went on inside the old tin can. She checked her watch. Nearly five a.m. and Sugar Biscayne’s lover was still inside, still going at it. He was as bad as she, sneaking around at night, visiting his white-trash whore in this dump of a double-wide.

The sounds of rutting soon ceased and within minutes, the door to the mobile home opened. The lovers’ silhouettes were backlit by garish flourescent bulbs that flickered an eerie blue. His suit was wrinkled, his shirttail hanging out of his pants, and Sugar was standing barefoot, the short little robe not hiding much of what she so proudly displayed down at the Pussies In Booties, her hair mussed . . . pathetic cunt. Sugar Biscayne was a low-life whore who showed off her glistening, sweat-soaked body for a few lousy bucks. She was the worst kind of woman.

And her lover was perfect for her.

Because he was the worst kind of man. One who was caught in the trap of sex and lust she so brazenly displayed. And he bought into it. The married scumbag dropped one last kiss on her, grabbed her ass, then dashed to his expensive car and his other life. What would he tell his wife? What excuse would he make? How would he hide the smell of sex, booze and another woman? But then, the wife probably knew. And no doubt the husband wouldn’t return home until he’d stopped off at a motel somewhere, shaved and showered, ready with excuses. Either his wife didn’t want to face the truth or was afraid to admit that her man had strayed.

He was in his car now, already preparing his alibi. Headlights splashed twin beams across the thicket and Atropos froze, her heart drumming. But he didn’t see her, no, he was already making his frantic escape. The expensive car’s engine turned over, raced, and he twisted on the steering wheel, backing up quickly, gravel crunching beneath spinning tires.

Sugar stood in the doorway, her lipstick long faded, her robe gaping. She lifted a hand to wave, expecting her lover to flash his headlights or honk or roll down the window and blow a kiss. Desperate, needy cunt. Didn’t she know he was already gone, his alibi set, ready to wash away any hint of lingering scent or feel of her?

The entire situation was sickening.

But soon over.

Sugar’s days and nights of lovemaking were numbered. Atropos reached into her pocket and felt the braid within—Sugar’s life had been measured and soon would be cut. It was only a matter of days. Atropos was feeling smug, ready to slink back to her car, when she heard Sugar’s voice.

“You want to go out?”

What? Atropos felt a whisper of fear crawl up her spine.

“Well, come on . . .” Sugar opened the door wider, and the dog shot out of the trailer.

Oh, shit! Atropos didn’t move a muscle. The dog lifted its nose into the air, then looked her way. Atropos didn’t dare breathe. The animal was large, with a massive neck and shoulders. It let out a growl. Started her way.

This wasn’t in the plan. Definitely not in the plan. Reaching slowly into her pocket, Atropos’s fingers curled over the handle of her surgical scissors. They were long, the blade thin and deadly.

“Caesarina! Stop it! Get to your business.” Sugar was impatient in the doorway, holding the lapels of her robe together with one hand.

The dog glanced at Sugar, then, lowering its head, growled again and started toward the thicket.

“Quit foolin’ around!” Sugar ordered.

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