Page 3 of Wreckin' Amethyst

Chapter 2

“Well,”Charleysighs,“there’sno going back now.” She tosses the newspaper she’s been pouring over onto my extra-thin mattress and returns to fixing her make-up in the dresser mirror. I barely glance at the headline.

STANFORD & SON SLAUGHTERED IN STATELY HOME.

Below, a photograph of the assholes and their brain-dead wives standing in front of a mansion I would only believe existed in fairytales, if I hadn’t been there two nights ago. Turrets, gargoyles, hedges trimmed into archways and Greek sculptures as if the roses were competing against the hydrangeas for blossom bust of the year. That signed the Stanford’s death warrants long before I saw their crimes against art déco.

“Are you sure you didn’t leave a trace of DNA behind? What about your hair, one strand falling loose and we’re fucked,” Charley whines. I kick her stool, jogging her eyebrow pencil halfway up her forehead.

“I have a hard enough time with the rest of the world underestimating me,” I growled. A soft whimper comes from beneath the bedframe as Pig senses my souring mood. “I don’t need it at home too.” Home being wherever I kick off my shoes that day.

“I’m sorry, okay,” Charley pouts, scrubbing her head with a baby wipe. She has the wounded-puppy look mastered, her chocolate brown eyes filling with tears. But I won’t let her pull on my congealed heartstrings this time.

I’m many things - none of them being an amateur. It may have been my first intentional kill, but I made my peace with death long ago. The smell, the life draining from their eyes, the blood. None of it bothers me. If anything, the thrill of slicing a blade across Bill Stanford Sr’s throat while his wife slept pressed into his side…I can’t even think about how good it felt. How natural. Or how my fingers have been itching to grab the knife beneath my pillow and score my own finger to relive the high.

“It’s just…” Charley huffs, and my eyes snap upwards. Guided by my own desires, my hand was halfway across the bed without even realizing I was reaching. Craving.

“Just what?” I ask breathily. Heart pounding, my mind whirls with bad decisions.

“We can’t all be the crowning jewel that is Amethyst Boudreaux,” a grin breaks across her full lips as she waves a hand in my direction. “Being calm in the face of danger doesn’t come as easily to all of us.” I return her smirk, replacing the nonchalant mask in an instant as she references my stage name. Six months ago, I was Ange Bennett, and before that, someone else completely. The beauty of pulling a long con; this little nobody can dye her hair, roll her hips and be whoever she wants.

“That’s it. We’re going shopping,” I suddenly announce, jumping up off the bed. Charley hardly has time to argue before Pig has wriggled her way from beneath the bed and is jumping up at my calves.

“But…our shifts start in an hour. Art would lose his shit, and we have a no-drama policy. Do you really think it’s time to be–”

“I said, we’re going shopping,” I halt Charley’s rambling with a rough shake of her shoulders, kiss on her cheek and smack on her ass. It was that or throttle her just to get the words to stop. I realized fairly young that I have a knack for thinking several steps ahead of the average person. If Charley is just considering something, I’ve already got three alibis and an escape route all mapped out. Although, it is cute she still tries to use our two-year age gap against me.

Spinning towards our shared wardrobe, I start tugging out clothes until a pile has accumulated on my floor. When the perfect outfit presents itself, I grab it with greedy hands and change quickly. Unhooking the diamond-studded leash from the back panel of the wardrobe, I bend to link it to Pig’s matching collar.

“Get your ass moving or we’re leaving without you.” I straighten, brushing the short white hairs from my PVC leggings. A soft gray sweater I stole from Charley’s side hangs from one of my shoulders, stopping short of the tattooed sleeve spanning from my upper arm to wrist. Twisting my vibrant purple hair into a fishtail braid, the one I usually reserve for bondage night, I watch Charley scramble to shrug a denim jacket over her sunflower summer dress, brushing the length of her brunette waves out of the collar with a bitchy swoop.

“Did you not want to take some money?” She gestures to the base of the wardrobe. I roll my eyes to the loose panel hiding our duffle bag stash. Sure, I could grab a few rolls of hundreds, but nah. It’s more fun this way. I grab Charley’s wrist and tug her out of the dressing room we share, with Pig waddling by my ankle combat boots.

“You don’t need money when you look like us. Just a distracting pair of tits and the false promise of a good time,” I wink.

Walking the corridor, I frown. It wasn’t so long ago I was a novice in heels, but now, strutting in boots with a distinct lack of added platform height, feels akin to breaking the law. The obvious loss of the unheated air licking at my exposed skin, the approach of a darkened staircase without strobe lights or a backing track. All of it makes me squirm uncomfortably in the sweater. My body is my power and to hide it from the world is like admitting I have something to be ashamed of.

“Fuck it, hold this.” I push Pig’s leash into Charley’s hand. Ripping the sweater off, I dump it into the gigantic handbag Charley grabbed on the way out and sigh in relief. Boning lines the corset either side of my torso, hooked together with silver clasps at the front and disappears into the high-waist leggings. The lace over my breasts heightens the icy chill in the air, toying with my nipples deliciously. Every step is like foreplay, the life I’ve forged for myself being the ongoing climax I’ve yet to come down from.

“Do you wear that under all your clothes?” Charley narrows her dark eyes, heading up the stairs to be my look-out.

“No,” my voice calls out after her. Hoisting Pig up under my arm, because the stairs are too much for her stubby little legs, I wait for the signal to ascend and re-join her side. “Usually I wear less.”

Luckily, the club hasn’t opened yet, so it’s a ghost town. The only light source is dotted above the bar, highlighting an unpolished and sticky surface. Glints from the stripper poles call to me, the tackiness of the stage beneath my soles gripping for me to stay.Not this time, my loyal friend. Just like Santa, this bitch is coming to town.

“So, where to?” Charley opens the back door for us and I set Pig back on her feet. The sun is in our favor today, gracing us with an usual glow for the end of autumn. My favorite time of year, if only for the pumpkin-spiced lattes that should be a regular on all cafe menus. To be fair, a cheeky wink at the local barista gets me pretty much what I want, and I’m not above trading bj’s for pastries.I’ve done far worse to ensure Charley hasn’t gone hungry these past few years.

A skip in my step, I relish the goosebumps lining my exposed skin, moaning at the shudder racing down my spine. Not even the thickly rancid stench of the dumpsters or eroded batches of puke along the alleyway can dampen my spirit, as I briskly walk into the street at a pace Pig struggles to keep up with.

“Upper East Side,” I smirk. Hailing a yellow cab, I get lucky on the first try, my PVC-coated ass sliding into the back seat. Charley pauses long enough to hoist Pig onto my lap, dive in and slam the door closed as the cabbie is still moaning about some ‘no animal’ rule.

Regardless, we’re catapulted from the slums and into city traffic, where the buildings stretch higher and the price tags grow longer. The anxious young girl I once was buries her face into Pig’s scruff, using my canine’s strength to boost her own. We don’t belong here, that much is clear. But life has a way of teaching the lessons that are most important, and mine was to fake it ‘til I make it.

Twisting her head, Pig licks at my cheek, itchy tickles bringing a relaxed smile back to my face. I scratch her belly, thankful for the millionth time for the little pup I found just when I needed her. Clutched beneath the arm of a crackhead looking for her next hit, I traded her for the shoes off my very feet. They were stolen anyway, and as I trudged through the needle-ridden streets, blue flashing lights flared behind. A place to stay and free rehab - you’re fucking welcome Crack Lady, but I got the better end of this deal. My pretty Miss Piggington.

The cab pulls to a swift halt, almost slamming me into the back of the driver’s seat. He mutters about the traffic and in true city fashion, I find us gridlocked by fancy vehicles I couldn’t even afford to clean. A digital clock on the dashboard mocks me, the one and only day of freedom I’ll have this year dwindling down minute by minute.Fuck that.

Popping the door open, ignoring those rushing by to aid the fallout of a crash on the crossing, the three of us slip out of the backseat as the cabbie screams words I’m sure he means to offend me with. Unluckily for him, I’m completely comfortable with being a thieving whore bag. Gotta love myself for who I am, right?

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