Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
A rock slips and tumbles six stories down to the sidewalk below.
Fuck, that was close. I bite back a laugh. What a beautiful night to fall to my death. The breeze, the stars, the stink of the city. It’s nice up here in the cool air as car horns and voices drift up from the world below. I ease the window further open and slip inside.
I take a moment for my eyes to adjust.
The apartment is nicely furnished. Splashes of color, paintings and art on the walls. Lots of soft, feminine touches. Though there are a few ugly eyesores: sports memorabilia is shoved onto a shelf, prominently displayed. Mets stuff mostly, a few signed bats, some graded cards in plastic cases. Nothing makes me roll my eyes harder than a god damn collectible. What’s the purpose of this shit hanging around? Some kind of replacement for an actual personality?
Anyone who collects cards is a cretin.
I prowl into the apartment, pausing to run my fingers over the soft back of the couch. I lift up a pillow and sniff it, trying to smell her. My dick twitches when I catch a whiff of her shampoo. Ah, that’s my fucking girl. I pick up one long hair, her color, and run it over my tongue.
I’m about the biggest sicko cretin of them all.
But I’m not here for Regan.
I search methodically, starting in the living room. Under cushions, in drawers, behind the TV. I run my fingers around the baseboards and knock the floor searching for anything hollow. Under couches, chairs, behind pillows, anywhere that might reasonably hide a thumb drive.
Kitchen comes next. Clean, almost obsessively. I have a feeling that’s the product of my sweet girl. Though the cabinets are empty and the refrigerator is depression: takeout cartons, protein powder, frozen chicken breasts, and whole milk. She hasn’t been gone that long, but already the place is turning to shit. I swear to the sweet holy Lord, Kieren is the modern American Psycho, except so much more boring. I almost wish he’d kill people in here. At least then it’d be interesting. Why she stuck around, I’ll never understand it.
Home office-slash-gym is next. I don’t find anything useful. Photos of the two of them on the desk, one knocked over face-down. The weights look well-used.
Lastly, I slip into the bedroom.
Ah, fuck, Regan’s inner sanctum. Where it all happened. Years of them together, falling into a rhythm, learning how to share a life, then all that tosses away for one stupid fuck.
I shiver, trying to control myself. I want to tear the place apart, but I’m trying to take a soft touch, in case she decides to come home. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother pretending.
Not like Kieren isn’t aware we’re on to him.
Or maybe he really is that stupid.
Doesn’t matter. I drift to the bed and pause. I bend down to sniff the pillow on the left and almost moan from pleasure. It’s her side, all right, and it still reeks like her.
I bury my face in the sheets and groan.
Fuck, what is wrong with me? I have to shove myself back, panting hard. I see myself with her, in this bed, wrapped in the blankets, tangling our bodies together, fucking her deep and making her scream as sweat pours down between her tits. I see myself ruining her, breaking her, making her drool and spit and swallow, making her come so hard her ribs crack in half.
Bliss, god damn it, fucking bliss.
Get it together. I step back from the bed, trembling, and count to twenty in my head. One murdered Kieren, two murdered Kieren, three murdered Kieren, up until I’m thinking straight.
Back to work.
I comb the place meticulously. There’s nothing hidden. The drawers still have some of her clothes and I shove a pair of her old underwear in my pocket as a prize. I’ll likely wrap it around my neck and jerk off later. Or I’ll toss it in the garbage if I’m smart. I rifle through Kieren’s side and turn up old condoms, a porno magazine which is hilariously retro, but nothing worthwhile.
The bathroom’s the same.
I pause back in the hallway, thinking hard. If I were that bastard, what would I have done with what I took? But frankly, in this day and age, he probably has it stored digitally in some email address we don’t know about.
Or it’s already with the Baranovs.
I don’t want to leave. I’m tempted to spend the night in here, but who knows when Kieren’s going to come home. Besides, it won’t be good for my mental health, surrounding myself with Regan’s things and breathing in her smell like a fucking addict.
I stroll back out into the hallway, whistling to myself. A neighbor’s unlocking his door nearby and shoots me a puzzled scowl. I wink and wave casually as I leave, down the steps, which sure as fuck beats trying to scale the wall, and out into the night.