Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) (16 page)

Trent adjusted his flaccid cock before cleaning the sticky residue on the bed spread. A flutter of pink caught his attention. Picking up the feather, he rubbed the silkiness between his thumb and forefinger. Should he?

Bending over, he plucked the padded handcuffs off the floor. Thanks to the wine she’d drunk during dinner, she should be out for a couple of hours.

Long enough for him to do what he’d came for.

He spun the closed loop around his finger. Still... Bending forward, he grabbed her hand, snapped the cuff around her wrist and secured it to the headboard. He kicked the whip aside and picked up another set of handcuffs. For a moment, he caressed the leather.

Maybe he should consider seeing her beyond the morning. She’d be good for a few more screws before she got demanding, whiny. After securing her other hand, he yanked out the ankle restraints from between the footboard and the mattress. He made short work of the buckles then surveyed his handiwork. A naked woman, bound and spread-eagle on a bed, was a beautiful sight.

He could do what he wanted, when he wanted.

His dick stirred to life. He absently stroked it while eying the red bite, slap, and pinch marks. He’d already fucked her on the Beemer, on the stairs and on the dining room table. He’d stuck toys in every orifice she possessed in each of the upstairs bedrooms. She’d been dominated and liberated.

And still they weren’t through her entire list.

Trent’s thumb circled the bulbous head of his stiffening penis. His gaze traveled up the red patches covering her inner thighs to her shaved mound. He could fuck her now, while she slept. His erection throbbed in agreement and he smeared the precum on his shaft.

Nah. She was much tighter when her body tensed waiting for the next dose of pain. Much tighter. He’d remember that on the next bitch he screwed. Of course, it might take time to work out how much GHB allowed the sluts to be out but alert enough to feel pain.

He’d try it on a couple of fat chicks first. They were always grateful for a screw. Trent’s balls drew up tight against his body. Women should always shut their trap and do as they were told.

Just like in his personal photograph collection.

He quickly squeezed the base of his cock before he ejaculated. Turning away from the bed, he forced his lungs to work in measured increments. The array of mirrors reflected her open body. He squeezed his eyes shut.

There’d be time later.

Right now, he had a bitch to kill.

Opening his eyes, he grabbed the whore’s empty wine glass off the dresser and faced the bedroom door.

With his stiff cock bobbing like a dowsing rod, he strode out of the bedroom.

First, he had to get his murder kit.

Whistling, Trent strolled past the spare bedrooms and descended the carpeted stairs two at a time. Detouring into the kitchen, he grabbed the doctored wine bottle and his still full glass off the granite bar. He kicked aside her rolled up tank top on his way to the stainless steel sink under the window. Smacking the tap, he cranked it to hot. As soon as steam misted the closed vertical blinds, he emptied the bottle and glasses.

Red wine swirled in the water before it plunged into the drain. He rinsed each item three times then set the glasses on the rack and chucked the bottle into the recycle bin. His fingers sunk into the plush maroon hand towel as his distorted reflection stared back at him from the stainless steel refrigerator freezer.

After draping the towel over the handle of the matching double ovens, Trent crossed to the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. Cold seeped through the pads of his feet as he stepped onto the painted cement. He picked up a bottle of peppermint lube off the Beemer’s hood and returned it to its place in the empty cabinet on the side wall.

Belinda had been prepared for tonight’s sex marathon. Had she done it before? She’d claimed this was a first.

But women lied.

That’s why they had to be punished.

That’s why the bitch had to die.

Rolling his shoulders, he crossed to his Jag and yanked open the door. He grabbed the black duffle and the unopened bottle of wine. Trent eyed the interior door before focusing on the garage ceiling. Ears strained to pick out noises in the silence.

Nothing.

He eased the Jag’s door closed before heading into the house. Tossing the duffle on the chocolate leather sofa, he stripped the foil off the wine, twisted off the cap then dumped a third of it down the sink. He held the bottle up to the recessed halogen lights. “That seems about right.”

Trent set the bottle between foil rounds containing their half-eaten take-out. Rubbing his hands together, he took a deep breath. Time for the main event. His stomach growled in protest. He ran his hand down his flat belly then plucked the untouched breadstick off her pile of fettuccini Alfredo.

Ripping off a bite, he chewed the cold garlic and stiff cheese and unzipped the bag. The hangman’s noose stared back at him. He caressed the slick polyester rope while stuffing the rest of the bread into his mouth. The bitch had asked for all his climbing gear in the divorce. And the judge had given it to her.

Knowing his ex, she’d probably screwed him to get her way.

Her spitefulness would work in his favor, and he’d laugh at the irony as she strangled to death.

Trent pushed the braided rope to the side and fished out the clean room suit. The blue material unfolded and the flat legs slapped the marble floor. After running his greasy fingers through the hair on his thigh, he grasped the tab and unzipped the metal zipper. The polypropylene fabric shuddered as he shook open the bunny suit then stepped inside.

Stiff fabric scratched his bare skin. Shielding his privates, he closed the suit then adjusted the attached hood, making sure all his hair was safely inside. He wouldn’t leave any trace behind like those dip shits who got caught. Rooting around the bag, he pulled out a pair of canvas sneakers and slipped them on. He quickly added the blue surgical mask, nitrile gloves, and a pair of black sunglasses.

Spinning on his heel, he checked his appearance in the stand-alone mirror the slut had used to watch herself being sodomized. He smiled. His reflection did not.

Good. Maybe he’d scare the crap out of his ex before he killed her.

The bitch deserved it.

Just as she deserved to know that he killed her, like she’d allowed his kids to die. Maybe, when she gasped for her last breath, he would reveal his face. Heat flashed through him and his muscles tensed. He sniffed the air—a predator on the hunt. Securing his bag, he picked it up, turned off the lights and walked out the arcadia door.

Night pressed against him, followed quickly by the stench of rot. Trent opened his mouth, tasted the putrefying vegetables and decomposing meat. After months of interrupted service, he should have been used to the stench by now. Should have, but wasn’t. That’s what happened when women were in charge.

Rats swarmed the pile of uncollected garbage, until the mass teemed with pale slithering tails, the flash of teeth and the rasp of gnawing. Holding his hand over his mask, he stormed across the cool deck and opened the wrought iron and wooden gate.

A brisk wind carried away the hinge’s whisper. Trent bit back the urge to laugh. He couldn’t have planned this any better. Stepping into the riparian area connecting all the houses of the development, he looked for movement. Rats, rats, and more rats darted through the overgrown brush.

He was the only predator out tonight.

Gravel crunched under foot and thorns from the creosote trees clawed the bunny suit as he pushed through the foliage toward the cement path winding through the common area. Not far to go. His old house sat just around the corner.

Sticking to the shadows, Trent glanced right then left. Many of the homes had been abandoned in the mortgage crunch. More had been emptied by the Redaction. On the drive through the gated community, he’d counted only three occupied homes.

None were located by his ex.

His feet picked up the pace and his heart kept time. After tonight, he’d have his house back and no alimony payments, along with the added bonus of a cool million in insurance money.

The stupid bitch hadn’t bothered to change the beneficiary.

Sure, the money might raise some eyebrows in the inept police department. But even if some cop did question the suicide, the masochistic slut would swear he was with her the entire time.

It was the perfect murder.

And it was all his.

Swinging the bag, Trent marched up the embankment to his ex’s house. He jiggled the handle and pushed the gate open. The hinges creaked. He eyed the light on in the upper story. The master bedroom. His room, where the bitch had fucked their neighbor and God knew who else, while their children had died of the Redaction. He cracked his knuckles.

Maybe he’d strangle her a little, before he threw her body over the loft.

She deserved to suffer.

He pinched the back door key and shoe covers from his bag then tossed it over his shoulder. And suffer she would. Tonight. Keeping to the stepping stones, he crossed the graveled yard. His sneakers snicked on the patio before he reached the double French doors. Seconds after he stuck the key into the lock, he was inside and slipping on his shoe covers.

Closing his eyes, he waited. One. Two. He detected orange blossoms and ginger from the expensive perfume he’d bought her in Paris two months before she’d ripped out his heart with her manicured nails. On his right, the kitchen tap dripped. The refrigerator clicked then began humming. In the open great room, the red light glowed softly from his fifty-five inch LED TV. He smiled and the surgical mask shifted. It would be nice to have a TV other than that pathetic thirty-two incher she’d left him with.

Tucking the key back into his duffle, he glanced around the room. Same fake black bear rug, black leather loveseats, and glass accent tables. He ran his gloved fingers over the glass dining room table— his before their marriage. And soon, it would be returned to him. Crossing the marble tile, he reached the Art Deco desk shoved in a niche.

His fingers dug into the padded seat of the modern office chair. Wheels scratched at the slate floor before he lifted it. They spun silently as he carried it under the loft. Glancing up, he eyed the wrought iron banister edging the upper floor. He’d hang the bitch right in the middle; she’d always liked being the center of attention.

Bending, Trent lowered the chair on its side to the floor. There, that would make it look like she’d knocked it over. He shrugged off the duffle and reached into the side pocket. The vellum felt crisp despite the gloves. Crossing the room to the double-sided fireplace, he removed one of the red painted rocks on the hearth and propped up the suicide note on the black mantle.

For a moment, he traced his name on the envelope. She’d come off better than she deserved in the note. Much better. The bitch wasn’t the least bit sorry for the death of their children, for leaving him, or for taking his house and TV.

But she should have been.

Trent pinched the metal tab over his nose and rolled his shoulders. Maybe he’d even shed a little tear for the cops when they gave it to him. Nah. She wasn’t worth the salt.

Strolling back to his duffel, he removed a plastic baggy. Underneath the wadded up terrycloth towel, clear liquid rolled along the bottom.

Tomorrow he’d return to the university to visit one of his women. He’d ditch the ether-soaked towel in the university’s dumpster before getting her final signature on her life insurance policy. Hell, maybe he’d even screw the horse-faced skank again. After all, she had helped him kill the bitch.

That deserved a reward.

So he’d screw her and pretend she was her teaching assistant. One woman looked the same as another from behind. Trent tossed the bag a little into the air before catching it again. His suit, shoes and paraphernalia would be consigned to the biohazard bins then poof; there’d be no trace to tie him to the bitch’s death.

None.

It was perfect.

Because he was brilliant. Stooping, he latched onto the noose and hooked it around his shoulders. Killing time. He climbed the stairs. Light seeped out from under the master bedroom’s door. A nearly full moon shone through the picture window, tingeing everything in silver.

Boxes lined the loft. Pink ears emerged from the one closest to him. Stopping, he pulled back the flap. Shiny black eyes stared back at him.

“Son of a...” He’d given the pink bunny to his daughter for her fifth birthday. Cardboard bent in his grip. The bitch hadn’t even waited six weeks to pack up their daughter’s belongings. Was their son’s in here too?

Striding across the white carpet, he tugged open the nearest box. A Diamondback’s baseball cap lay atop a pile of clothes. Trent sucked cold air through his teeth. Had she given away the signed baseball? She’d never even asked if he wanted it. Never gave a shit about anyone but herself. He rooted through the clothes for a moment before stopping. No need to look for it now. Soon it would be all his anyway.

He ripped open the baggie. His nose twitched from the sweet scent of ether. Turning his head, he blinked the sting from his eyes. Once his vision cleared, he stormed the short distance to the master bedroom, cranked the knob and shoved open the door. It banged against the drywall.

Sprawled on the king-sized bed, the bitch snorted but didn’t stir. A soft snore accompanied the drool coming out of her mouth. A glass lay on the plush carpet next to an upturned carafe and prescription bottle. Not a drop of wine or a single tablet stained the white carpet.

“Figures.” Losers couldn’t face their failures. Liquid oozed between his fingers and the stench of ether burned his eyes and nose. He held his breath. His chest burned and pressure built up behind his eyes as he sealed the baggie.

Finished, Trent gasped for breath. What a waste. The bitch had done the ether’s job for him. Anger simmered in his belly, radiating heat to his fingers and toes. She probably wouldn’t have the decency to wake up when he killed her. Dropping the baggie, he uncoiled the noose and stalked closer.