Page 101 of Whispers and Wildfire
The risk would be worth the reward, especially once I had the one I really wanted.
These would be my rehearsals. My training.
Someday, I’d tell Melanie all about them. All the work I’d done to prepare for her. My lips curled in a smile, imagining how impressed she’d be with the lengths I’d gone to for her.
I took another sip of my drink, watching the scene beforeme. No one was going to live up to my standards, be a true replacement. Like the whore in that forgotten town, she’d be a poor substitute. But I still wanted someone similar, so I could lay her on the mattress in the basement, chain her to the wall, and watch. Imagine that it was her.
A shudder of anticipation ran down my spine just thinking about it.
Glancing around the bar again, my gaze lingered on a woman sitting by herself, drinking heavily. She was about the right age with brown hair. Too thin, but I didn’t plan on using her body to sate my lust, so what did it matter if her hips weren’t right or her tits were too small? She could still be my first rehearsal.
I considered whether she was the one. Drunk would work to my advantage. I didn’t expect Melanie to be intoxicated when I took her, but this was my first attempt. And the more I watched her, the more I wanted to take her. Prove to myself that I could.
She signaled the bartender. He came over, but from the look of it, he was refusing to serve her any more alcohol. I couldn’t hear everything she was saying, but it was clear she was arguing. The bartender didn’t seem swayed. He shook his head and walked away.
The woman got off her stool. She had to hold on to the bar for a few seconds to steady herself. I wondered if she’d fall over, but she kept her feet. A moment later, she headed for the door.
“You’re walking home, right?” the bartender called out.
She waved her arm at him without turning around. “Yeah, yeah. Walking.”
Excitement seized me, a rush of adrenaline flowing through my veins. It was time.
Casually, I left, confident no one noticed me. I was plain, invisible, not worth anyone’s attention.
My heart beat faster as I emerged into the night air. Thewoman stumbled and paused, as if she wasn’t sure which direction was home.
I moved in behind her and gently touched her elbow. “Let me help.”
She jerked her arm away. “I’m fine.”
I didn’t need to keep hold of her to guide her where I wanted her to go—closer to my car. Turning slightly, I angled her so she was walking into the parking lot instead of toward the sidewalk.
“It’s okay, I’m a friend. Just trying to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“All right.” We were close enough to my car and outside the glare of the streetlight. My heart pounded as I pressed the remote to pop the trunk and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Don’t be scared. Everything is going to be okay.”
“I’m not—”
Stepping behind her, I wound my arm around her neck, cutting off her words, and the blood to her brain. A blood choke only took about ten seconds if you knew what you were doing. And I did. She struggled a little, but she was too weak—and too drunk—to do anything to me. Her body went limp, and I carefully lowered her to the ground.
The advantage to a blood choke was speed. The disadvantage was duration. She’d only be out for ten or twenty seconds. Maybe longer because of the alcohol.
Reaching for the needle in my pocket, I paused for a second. The sedative would react with the alcohol in her system, but I didn’t have time to figure out how to adjust the dosage. I jabbed the needle into her upper arm and injected some of it. I’d have half an hour, possibly more, before she woke up. Plenty of time.
I picked her up, eased her into the trunk, and shut it, then glanced around. No one was there. She hadn’t seen my face. And she wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let her.
It was a shame. She’d never know who I was. I’d be invisible to her, like I was to everyone else.
A jolt of anger rippled through me as I got in my car. Invisible. Unnoticed. Unwanted. This one wouldn’t see my face—wouldn’t know who had control of her. As necessary as it was, I hated it.
It made me hate her, the second-rate substitute in my trunk. I hated everything about her. I’d use her for my rehearsal—practice would make perfect.
And she’d be good for me. I’d make her be good for me.
And if she didn’t, I’d make her pay.
