For the Thrill Page 3

  There were easier, more subtle ways to kill a person.

  Whistling to myself, I strolled through the bank entrance without slowing down. There was a guard on one side; he didn't even glance at me. The one towards the back, he spared me a quick look. To him, I smiled politely and nodded.

  I'd been coming to this bank for years. They knew me well—or they thought they did.

  My heels clicked on the glossy floors. I made a point to step heavier here, to briefly stumble. If someone asked the bank tellers about me, I wanted them to remember me as kind, charming, and uncoordinated. Klutzes weren't dangerous. Plus, it was fun to shift gears and behave differently.

  Or maybe I just can't turn it off. If my hobbies and habits remained the same, why did I assume I was still choosing to behave like this? Wearing a costume so the bank would never guess I was more than I seemed. Now isn't the time to mull this over, I told myself firmly.

  Clearing my throat, I approached the middle teller. There was no line, just as I'd assumed. The woman there was short, her forehead shiny and her makeup too heavy. She gave me the false smile typical of customer service, and I returned it back ten-fold. “How may I help you today, Mister Fallow?”

  She remembered me; I jostled my brain to find her name. “Morning, Sarah,” I replied without a hitch. “Just making a deposit.” Lifting the envelope, I slid it under the plastic window. Another precaution; bullet proof.

  Sarah took it, peeling back the edge and sliding out the tightly wrapped piles of bills. “You're so organized,” she chuckled, fingering the paper. I was pleased she'd noted how I'd made sure every twenty-dollar bill was face up. “Let me run these through the machine and we'll get a slip for you.”

  Winking, I slid my hands into my pockets. “Take your time.”

  Pinkness flooded her cheeks. Clearing her throat, Sarah inserted the money into the automatic counter. The sound of the bills fluttering was like a frantic moth, slamming into the same hot bulb over and over.

  The woman sat, straight backed and smiling at me over her glasses. She was comfortable with me. That was more dangerous than if I'd walked in here with a gun. There were so many ways I could have snuffed her out—if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't.

  The way she'd grabbed the money, she'd never expect it to be the source of her doom. Again, it wasn't. Let me make that clear. I had no reason to want to murder a random bank teller. She was doing me more good than anything else, at the moment.

  But people trust money. She handled it every single day. Coating the paper in a toxic powder would have been enough to poison her over a week. It wouldn't take much, just dust it on the edges. When she'd grazed the money like it was a flip-book, she'd have ensured the particles got into the air and into her lungs.

  After that, I'd just need to insist I'd made a mistake—and could she pass me back that particular stack? I only wanted to deposit some of the money... and that would be all. No evidence, who could finger me for her death days later? Even if they somehow discovered the poison in her lungs, if it hadn't metabolized by then, why would I be a culprit?

  See? Easy.

  Sarah—happy, unpoisoned Sarah—handed me a slip of paper. “Depositing all of it into your checking account, Mister Fallow?”

  Taking the pen, I signed my name in languid curves. “Oh yes. All of it, please.”

  She typed into her computer, handing me a copy of the transaction. “If that's all, then have a good day, Mister Fallow. Hope we'll see you soon!”

  They would—if not her, than another teller. I made the same deposit every Wednesday, every month. It was always five thousand dollars. And no, it wasn't money from any of the kill contracts. How foolish that would be.

  Thanks to the internet—seriously, it's an amazing tool—any transactions done between a buyer of our 'skills' was anonymous. Ever heard of the deep web? It's okay if you haven't. It just means you aren't the type to buy illegal services. The number of folks who wanted someone dead, and were willing to pay for it, was astronomical.

  I'd made sure our contact form was entirely impossible to track. Payments were encrypted currency, transferred to an offshore bank account. All we would receive was the name of the target, a few photos, and information to help us track them down. After we were paid, all they got from us was a news update about their desired victim.

  No one ever saw our faces—not beyond our first contract, rather. That one didn't matter anymore, though. The girl was dead, and not by our hands. I had checked in on her, three months after the first hit. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't planning to off her. Kite had brought it up to me, saying that now that people could find our website thanks to word of mouth, shouldn't we erase the woman who could tie us to our gateway murder?

  I'd agreed.

  But as often is the case for working girls, she'd overdosed on her own. A shame, in a way—I know, I said I'd planned to kill her. It was still tragic. We'd taken care of her and her fellow group's pimp. He'd been beating them, going too far and making them miserable. They'd pooled their money to have him killed. I'd overheard them discussing it, and sensing the opportunity, I'd cornered Daisy—poor now dead Daisy—when she was taking a lonely smoke break. I'd told her I knew a guy.

  That had been the start.

  Back then, we'd been bouncers for a filthy, shady strip club. We couldn't have guessed at our future as hitmen, but the reality was... it suited us. We were naturals.

  Anyway, we weren't traceable. The money I'd deposited at the bank was all genuine income from the Corner Velvet. The hardest part of all of this was making ourselves wait, enduring interest on the loan we owed the bank for our bar. I could have paid it off several times over, by now. But that would be reckless, and I was not in the business of being reckless.

  So I dutifully made a reasonable deposit every month. It kept Kite and I safe. Under the radar.

  And that was what mattered most.

  ****

  I made a brief stop at the bar. There was a delivery of kegs, I needed to sign for them. Looking over the clipboard, I motioned for the men to load the barrels inside. The building had a cellar, it was spacious enough to fit the seasonal brews that were so 'in' these days.

  Marking down the list, I signed my name with the same arching curves as I had at the bank. The pen twirled in my fingers. Glancing up, I stared at the big metal barrels. My mind wandered, recalling how useful the containers were. The time Kite had messed up a hit, leaving too much of his own skin under the clawing nails of the victim.

  Beer kegs can fit a body nicely, if you bend it right. The material also held up when you needed to dissolve flesh and bone over a series of days.

  Don't worry, we didn't use the barrel for alcohol after that.

  Eyeing the time, I waited for the workers to finish up. I would have to organize the brews later, but not right now. I was feeling antsy for a more visceral workout. The driver shut the loading dock, so I grabbed my duffel bag and left out the front. The gym I was a member at was walking distance; my car would be fine in my private alley spot.

  Fiddling with my keys, I turned on the street and peered at the sky. I was looking to see if it was raining. As my chin went up, I caught something across the street. The hairs on my neck prickled, warning me.

  All of the neurons in my brain that thrived on preservation, they forced me to snap my head down and scan the area. The sidewalk was busy, it was always busy. For a second, I spotted what I thought was a pair of wide brown eyes, rich dark hair.

  But then it—she—was gone. Uneasily, I stood a full minute, just watching the other side of the street. Whoever had been there, they'd escaped. I knew she'd been looking at me, but I couldn't be sure it had meant anything. This was New York, people stared all the damn time.

  Frowning, I ducked my head and kept going. My adrenalin was up, helping me take note of if anyone was stalking me. I breathed easier once I reached the gym. If anyone had been following, I'd have spotted them.

  Shaking the weird feeling off, I step
ped into the building and scanned my card. Now, more than before, I needed to sweat until my nerves stopped throbbing.

  - Chapter Three -

  Kite

  Holy hell, my skull would not stop screaming. It was like a herd of horses had decided to attempt cabaret in my brain. Also? They were not very good.

  Rolling over, my foot touched something warm. With great effort, I cracked my eyes open. The woman whose name I didn't remember was stretched next to me. She had nothing on but a necklace. Stained makeup ran down one cheek, all I could see of her face. Unlike me, she looked pretty good.

  Seriously. I felt like shit.

  Grunting, I sat up—then instantly regretted it. Shit, I laughed mentally. Did I drink the bottles or smash them into my head? Sighing, I gingerly slid out of the blankets. The girl didn't stir an inch.

  Stumbling into my bathroom, I saw myself in the mirror. Thick clumps of hair stood at odd angles. Under my eyes, I had grooves so deep you could hang signs off of them. Tiny signs that read, 'mother of all fuck ups' or 'should have stopped after the thirtieth drink' or 'blackouts are getting to be old news.'

  Yes. That last one would work.

  Covering my mouth, I managed not to vomit into my toilet. My face was drained of color, I looked—and felt—older than I was. Night after night had started melting into each other. I'd been spending over half a year in a progressive downward spiral. It was only getting worse, but honestly? I couldn't say I cared. Opening my jaw, I made a face in the mirror. Nope, no concerns down there. Just leftover Jack and cokes.

  Brushing my teeth didn't change much about my mood. Neither did a shower. But, I appeared a little more human.

  That counted for something.

  Wandering into the living room with a towel around my waist, I scrounged around for something to eat. I was amazed to find fresh milk. Cereal for breakfast, I thought, sugary-flakes rattling into a bowl. Peeking at the clock, I realized it was already after one pm. Cereal for lunch, I corrected myself.

  The bowl was down to the dregs before I remembered the woman in my bed. Carrying the container into the bedroom, I spotted the back of her naked body. Her blonde hair was a giant, frazzled mess; I couldn't see her face. For that matter, I can't tell if she's even breathing. It was a morbid thought, but the longer I stared at her, the more I fidgeted. So much of last night was a clunky, grey-mush of memory.

  “Hey,” I said urgently. I reached out to give her hip a gentle shake. It wasn't the possibility that she was a corpse that made me nervous, it was the idea that I'd been the one responsible and didn't recall it. Was this the next step for me? Murdering unconsciously during a blackout? Her body rippled from my poke. I gripped her shoulder, shook harder. “Hey. Hey! Wake up, can you hear me?”

  When she rolled her eyes towards me, I nearly dropped the bowl of milk. Lipstick was all over, ghoulishly red. There was a yellow tinge to her eyes, like jaundice. She was ragged as hell. As close to death as she looked, she was obviously alive. “Ugh, what time is it, Kite?” she muttered.

  She knew my name. I did not know hers. “Time to wake up,” I said. Offering the bowl, I flashed a relieved smile. “Want some lunch?”

  “If I eat, I'll barf.” Groaning, she held her forehead and sat up. The blanket fell away, displaying her soft breasts, their dark nipples pointing angrily at me. I didn't remember those, either. “Can I have some water?”

  “Sure, sure.” Backing away, I escaped to the kitchen to get her a glass. I wanted her out, and despite morning after morning of faceless women in my bed, I was no better at this part. Abandoning my cereal bowl in the sink, I brought the water to her.

  She'd wrapped up in the blanket to hide herself when I entered, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were closed. I had a second where I thought she'd fallen back to sleep, perched there. Instead, she looked up at me and offered a blobby-lipstick grin. “Thanks.”

  Letting her have the drink, I studied how her throat twitched when she guzzled it down. I bet she'd finished off her drinks last night the same way. Well, who was I to talk. “If you don't want breakfast,” I said slowly, “I can uh, walk you to the elevator.”

  Lowering the glass, she stared at me incredulously. “You're kicking me out?”

  I opened my mouth, closed it. “The day is getting away. I have things to do.” I didn't, not really. I wondered if there was a service I could hire to let girls out the next day for me. That'd be fantastic.

  Scowling, the woman jumped to her feet. The blankets fell, but she didn't care. “You piece of shit! Is this how you treat girls? Fuck them, then push them out the door?”

  “I'm not exactly pushing you out—” I started to say.

  Curling her lip back, she bent down and grabbed up a dress from the floor. It hit me across the face, shutting me up. “You're a real dick, Kite! Did you know that?” She found her shoes in the corner, snatching them before stomping past me.

  Following her, I held the towel tight at my waist. “Come on, I'm just saying that it's getting late!”

  “Right, super busy guy that you are!” Pointing, she stood by the front door. I held my hands up like she had a gun. “You told me last night that you do whatever you feel like, you live the fucking high life! So what do you have to do today that is suddenly so fucking important?”

  I didn't recall saying... any of that. This blackout drinking was getting the better of me. I saw she was waiting for an answer. I held my breath, counted the seconds to see if she would give up and just leave.

  Nope.

  Sighing through my nose, I gave her an apologetic smile. “Uh. Grocery shopping?”

  She yanked the door open, so hard it banged the wall behind it; I winced. “Screw you, Kite!” On bare feet, heels hooked on her fingers, she looked back at me. Fire flashed in her eyes—they were a pretty green, I bet I'd complimented her on them last night. “And don't you dare call me!” The second 'wham' of the door was louder than the first.

  Filling my chest with air, I smoothed my forehead. “That last part won't be a problem,” I said to the empty room. “I still don't know your name.”

  She wasn't the first to leave like that.

  Probably not the last.

  ****

  The air outside was crisp. It cleared my head, shredded my throat. In long shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, I didn't just jog through the streets. I sprinted.

  After the girl had left, I'd almost called Jacob. I'd gone as far as the phone in my hand, thumb poised over his name on the screen. I was sure he'd be at the gym by now doing some MMA crap, if his schedule was as tight as it had historically been.

  A heavy guilt had settled in. Dropping my arm, I let the phone return to my pocket. Anything I told him would have been a burden. So instead, I pushed my muscles past the point of delicious numbness. It didn't feel like spring was so far away, the sky more blue than cloudy. The grass was still faded and brown, but otherwise... the park looked exactly the same.

  Especially the spot I'd unconsciously approached.

  Had it been unconscious?

  Heaving, I grabbed the tops of my thighs and hunched over. My chest argued with me, acting like breathing was not what it wanted to do. I ignored it, staring straight at the spot on the ground just yards away. There was nothing to signify that the body had been there. But I knew. I had been thinking about it constantly.

  Since the day I'd pulled the trigger and killed Frank... I couldn’t let it go.

  Rubbing perspiration from my face, I stood straighter. The park was sparse, nothing like the packed day in June. Someone was walking a dog; I heard it bark. It reminded me of the gun blast.

  Curling my hand at my hip, I felt the invisible weapon. The idea of it made me itch, boiling in my tendons. I wanted to crush the handle, feel the weight. I knew, as I turned and jogged from the park, that I would go home and clean my gun.

  You were supposed to do it every thousand shots. Barring that, general maintenance insured the gun fired reliably.

  I'd been
handling it every night that I wasn't wasted on booze.

  You need to stop this, I told myself flatly. This can't be healthy. Exploring the murder scene, drinking too much and being fucking reckless. Telling myself this wasn't new. I'd tried to hammer it into my skull for months. I had debated seeing a therapist, but imagining the conversation had been enough.

  Yes, that's right. I'm visiting the spot where I murdered a man. Oh, no. Not the first man I ever killed—just the last. The guilt doesn't bother me. I don't feel guilty at all. I just miss it. Yeah. Oh? You're going to need to call the cops? Well, thanks for your time!

  I was too burnt to run the miles back to my place. This time, I flagged down a taxi. Watching the city creep by through the foggy window, I felt—was lonely the word? Detached. That was better. When I was younger, I'd felt like this. Back then, I'd had reasons to withdraw into myself. I imagine all kids cope with rough shit that way.

  After Jacob arrived in my tiny world... I hadn't felt like I was floating on a breeze. He'd weighted me down, and our blood oath had given me gravity. He was still there—here. Jacob, of all people, was at my side and ready to talk. That wasn't the problem, I wasn't craving human interaction. Though there's debate on if either of us are really human, I mused.

  What I was lacking these days was something more encompassing.

  Now that I wasn't a contract killer...

  I didn't have a purpose.

  Paying the driver, I shut the door and headed into the apartment. I took the stairs, long strides that skipped a step at a time. I wanted to get away from my depressing realization. Alcohol didn't do it, sex didn't do it, and literal running was futile.

  But I still tried.

  Inside, I threw my sweater onto the couch. My shoes left wet smudges on the wood floor; I ignored them. Almost possessed, I entered my bedroom. There was a pair of black panties by the side of the bed, I just kicked them aside. The woman they belonged to wouldn't come back for them.

  Tracing my fingers down the side panel of my bed's headboard, I found the indent an inch up from the shaggy rug. A little pressure, and the secret cover popped off. Inside the hollow bed frame, I stored a number of things. The Ruger Mark Two was what I retrieved first.