Reading Online Novel

Ghostface Killer(9)



So, I absorbed every word over the years as Benny became so many things to me. A mentor, a father figure, a protector. And I was his loyal pupil. His protégé. His disciple.

I loved him in a multitude of ways.

But that was then, this is now.

Those sparkly Converse still hang in my bedroom. Benny insisted that I keep them as a reminder. Of him, and my past. Of who I once was, and who I was to become.

I emerge from the alleyway and walk several blocks west before catching a cab. It's a cool, late October night in the city, and the streets are bustling as usual in midtown. Hordes of pedestrians are crowding the crosswalks, causing congestion near 42nd Street.

Ugh, why did this idiot take all the main roads? I'm itching to get out of the city. I have a strong dislike for Manhattan, even though it's where I spend the majority of my time. This place is riddled with bad memories and gallons of bloodshed.

The cabbie finally drops me at my destination. Pier 79. I hand him a fifty and climb out of the car. I stashed some cash in the pocket of my jeans. The entire night has been premeditated.

Swiping my Waterway card, I meander out to the pier and watch eagerly as the next ferry glides through the Hudson, sparkling under the full moon. This mode of transportation

always calms me. The skating of the boat over the calm water, the light rocking, the quiet. I can almost hear myself think.

The ride to Jersey takes less than twenty minutes. Benny bitched when I told him I was moving out of New York. But he was the one who told me I couldn't live under his roof forever. That I needed to get my own place and integrate into society.

I only did what he told me to do. I rented an apartment and got a job as a waitress in a café. I even made a friend.

Waiting for me in the commuter lot is Claudia. I spot her little silver Civic as soon as I get off the ferry.

I hop in the passenger side as she applies her fire engine red lipstick in the vanity mirror.

"Waiting long?"

"No." She blots her lips. "I just got here, actually." She flips the visor up and looks over at me. "Ugh, Stevie." She points at a piece of my hair. "Please tell me you were going for red highlights." 

"What?" I pull down the visor to see what the hell she's talking about. "Fucker!" Several strands of my platinum hair are covered in blood. I must not have wiped the blade as clean as I thought. "It was dark in that goddamn room. I couldn't see shit." I brush the dried blood out of my hair with my fingertips.

"I'm sure no one noticed."

"No one except you. And probably everyone else who looked at me." Fuck.

"Even if they did notice, I'm sure cold-blooded killer isn't the first thing that came to mind."

"Let's fucking hope not." I bristle.

Claudia is the only person on this Earth who knows who I truly am. What I truly am. And astonishingly doesn't judge me for it. Although, it's not like she's little miss perfect; the sultry Puerto Rican has a few skeletons in her closet, too, but none as heinous as mine.

"Are you ready to go get your booty shake on, chiquitina?" She throws the car into drive.

"That and then some." I relax in my seat.

"Vamonos, then." She slams on the gas and peels out of the parking spot.

"Jesus Christ, woman." I grab the oh shit handle as I'm tossed around the front seat. "You drive like a friggin' mad man."

"I know." She giggles as she guns it down the road.

"Did you make the call?" I ask as she merges into traffic in the direction of Jersey City. It's her stomping ground. Where she was born and raised, and where she likes to party. And ever since I met her, where I like to party, too.

"Yesss," Claudia hisses conspiratorially. "My aunt made all the arrangements. Valentino will meet you at the club. I hear he's gorgeous, too."

"Perfect. Although, I probably won't be looking at his face while we do it."

"Stevie, I don't get you sometimes. You're smart, funny, and a total badass. Why pay for sex? There's guys throwing themselves at you every time we go out. I sort of fucking hate you."

"Claudia, we've been through this. It's . . . cleaner." It's the best way I can describe it. There's no strings or expectations or icky emotions. Or explanations.

"It's a cop-out, if you ask me."

"No one asked you." I look out the window and fiddle agitatedly with the thin gold band around my index finger.

The last thing I need is an attachment. Physical, emotional, or any other kind. There's a hole in my chest the size of Jupiter, and the only thing that fills the void is killing. Of avenging the death of the man who raised me.

Who saved me.

Watching that blood spill tonight was like carving another notch on my bedpost. Another enemy down. Another eye for the all-seeing eye.