Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea.
The music is loud enough to drown out my thoughts. The liquor is stiff enough to make me loose, but the low hum of my bruised covered body reminds me of what I did.
I shouldn’t have killed him. He was my husband after all, and I’d made the vow in sound mind. It hadn’t been forced on me--more like sold. I didn’t have a say in it, even though I was given that illusion. None of that matters now, since Malcolm Benard II is dead on at the foot of his bed.
Cause of death...
Bullet to the head.
Bile rises in my throat on the dance floor, so I dance harder. I let the music consume me and try to forget.
There’s no forgetting.
I didn’t want to kill him. It wasn’t on my list, but after four years of being beat within an inch of my life, I had to fight back. When I pulled the gun on Malcolm, he laughed, his beer belly jiggling, he sloppy drunk frame swaying and then he looked at me and said;
“You don’t pull that trigger, then I will bitch, and that’s a promise.”
I didn’t want to find out if the threat was idle. I put a bullet between his eyes without a word. As I watched his body fall, I felt an odd sense of freedom. It started from the top of my head and traveled to my perfectly manicured feet. I sat on top of his pathetic bed and cried with joy.
No matter how twisted that sounds, I won’t feel bad for it.
I’m happy he’s dead.
I’m happy I killed him.
Tonight is a celebration, and then tomorrow begins the marathon that I’m sure I’ll be running for the rest of my life. No matter how far I go, my dear old step-dad will find me. Then he’ll kill me or resale me, but who would want to buy a bitch who murdered her husband?
My body moves and sways to the beat of the music inside the club; its a deep techno beat that has an erotic feel to it. I’ve always loved dancing but was never given a chance to pursue that dream. Which is fine, I’m still young. Only halfway to thirty, with hopefully forty more years left on this shitty planet.
I almost jump out of my skin when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Whirling around quickly, I come face to face with a big boob bimbo, who’s all but snarling at me. She chews on a piece of gum and gives me a bored-looking once over. I’m not much to look at, but I know one thing that I have going for me, and that’s my slim waist and massive ass.
“You’re wanted in the private room, follow me.” The woman screams over the music a little too loud. She then grabs my wrist and begins pulling me forward. I don’t fight her because I can’t. My whole body feels like it just fought a gorilla, and technically, I did. Soon I’m walking, well stumbling up a flight of stairs towards a red door.
The big boobed woman knocks twice, and when the door opens, she steps aside.
“Go on in, but I will warm you," She pins me to the railing. "the pres is mine. Keep your fucking hands off,” I glare at the redhead woman as she pokes my chest with her cherry-red nails. When I don’t respond and just stare, she slowly moves her finger before jutting her head towards the open door. “Have fun bitch.”
Ignoring the woman’s last comment, I walk into the dark room and take in my surroundings.
There’s a couple fucking to my left on a couch shaped like a heart. Right next to them is a vast curve sectional with three different men sitting on it. One of them bends down and snorts a line of coke. The other two are feeling up a single woman in-between them. To the far right is a minibar, and behind it, a large curtain.
Something tells me that’s where I need to go.
Stepping forward, I head pass the bar, then behind the curtain. This room is even darker, with red light illuminating everything. There are men and women everywhere, but these aren't regular men. I can tell by the vibe and their attire, that this is an affiliation.
And sitting in the center of the room, on fucking throne, is a god. His long blonde hair stands out against the red lighting. I can’t see his eyes, but I know they are on me. His posture is relaxed with a single leg thrown over the side of his throne.
He beckons me closer with a crooked finger, and I can’t help but move. The fuzziness in my brain starts to clear for a moment, setting off alarms.
Instead, I let my feet carry me until I’m standing right in front of the god himself. I gasp when he stands and towers me. My mouth physically drops once his arm snakes along my waist, pulling me to him. I’m stunned stupid at his boldness.
When the stranger leans forward, his long-thick-blonde hair creates and shield on each side of me. I can’t see anyone but him.
He’s so close that our lips almost touch.
The alarm bells in my head have silenced, and my common sense has left me.
I continue to stare into the man’s eyes until his gaze flickers to my lips and then back up.
“You’ve been drugged, myszka,” The man says. I immediately swoon at his accent. It’s something European, and it’s thick, meaning he’s been in America for a short while, or he speaks a majority of the time in his native language. ”A gentleman followed you into the club and placed something inside of your drink.”
I don’t respond. It’s not that I don’t want to, but it’s like his words cause my body to react to the drug immediately. My body begins to tingle, and panic rises.
“You just told me I was drugged,” I say in my signature light and airy voice. The voice that my mother hated. She said I sounded like a whore on some porn hotline, but I couldn’t help. My father, on the other hand, told me I sound just like my Nana. He said she had a voice a sweet as an angel, and so did I.
Judging by the subtle shock that crosses the man’s face, he is taken back by my voice just like everyone else. As quickly as he shows the emotion, the man erases it and pulls me impossibly closer. My head is starting to feel heavy, and my tongue weighs a tone.
“I’ll help you, myszka. But I won’t help you for free; my service will cost you.”
“Cost me what?” I force myself to ask as my legs give out, and I’m swooped up into the stranger’s arms.
If the man answers me, I don’t hear it. The fog in my head quickly takes me under, and darkness consumes me.