Lover Mine(72)

Five minutes later, they pulled up to the farmhouse and parked close to the front door.

"No one else is here," she said. "We the first ones?"

"Yeah." He reached forward to turn off the engine. "Let's--"

The clicking sound next to his ear had him freezing.

The prostitute's voice was no longer fuzzy. "Get out of the car, motherfucker."

Lash swiveled his head around, and all but French-kissed the muzzle of a nine-millimeter. On the other end of the weapon, the whore's hands were stone steady and her eyes burned with the kind of canny smarts he had to respect.

Surprise, surprise, he thought.

"Get. Out," she snapped.

He smiled slowly. "You ever shot that thing before?"

"Loads." She didn't blink. "And I don't have a problem with blood."

"Ah. Well, good for you."

"Get out--"

"So what's the plan here. Order me from the car. Shoot me in the head and leave me for dead. Take the Mercedes, my watch, and my wallet?"

"And what's in your trunk."

"You need a spare tire? You know, you can buy one at any Firestone or Goodyear outlet. Just FYI."

"You think I don't know who you are?"

Oh, he was quite fucking sure she hadn't a clue. "Why don't you tell me."

"I've seen this car. I've seen you. I've bought your drugs."

"A customer. How sweet."

"Get. Out."

When he didn't move, she shifted the gun an inch to the side and pulled the trigger. As the bullet blew out the window behind him, he got pissed. It was one thing to play around. Another to cause property damage.

As she shifted the business end of the nine back between his eyes, he dematerialized.

Taking form around the other side of the car, he watched as she flipped out in her seat, looking all around, her frizzy hair flying this way and that.

Ready to teach her a thing or two about plans, he ripped open her door, and dragged her out by the arm. Getting control of the gun and her was the work of a moment, just a snatch and grab. And then he was tucking the nine into his belt at the small of his back and cranking her into a choke hold against his chest.

"What . . . what--"

"You told me to get out of the car," he said into her ear. "So I did." Her slender body was all kinds of leaf-in-the-wind weak, nothing but a shimmer in her cheapo whore clothes. Compared to the physical battles with Xhex, this was a single breath versus a hurricane gale. What a bore.

"Let's go inside," he murmured, lowering his mouth to her throat and running a fang up her jugular. "The other partygoer should be waiting for us."

As she shrank away from him, her face turned around and he smiled, flashing his hardware. Her scream flushed an owl from its perch overhead, and to make sure she cut the Hitchcocking, he slapped his free palm over her piehole and forced her to the front door.

Inside, the place smelled like death, thanks to the induction the night before and all the blood in the buckets. There was an advantage to the residual, however. As he willed the lights on and the chick got a look-see at the dining room, she went rigid with terror and then passed the fuck out.

Damn good of her. Made getting her on the table and tied up splayed wide easy.

After catching his breath, he took the buckets into the kitchen, rinsed them out in the sink, cleaned up the knives, and wished like hell Mr. D was still around to take care of the shit work.

He was just putting the spray nozzle back where it belonged when it dawned on him the lesser they'd done the night before was nowhere to be seen.

Taking the buckets into the dining room, he set them out under the whore's wrists and ankles and then did a quick double-check of the downstairs. When all he got was a whole lot of not-there, he jogged up to the second floor.

The closet door in the bedroom was open and there was a hanger on the bed like a shirt had been macked. Shower in the bath had fresh water dripping down its side walls.

What the fuck?

How in the hell did that guy take off? There hadn't been a car, so the only other option was walking out the lane. And then hitching a ride. Or hot-wiring one of these farmers' trucks.

Lash went downstairs and found that the whore had come around and was fighting against the gag in her mouth, her eyes bugging as she writhed on the table.

"Won't be long," he told her, glancing down at her spindly legs. She had tattoos on both, but they were a hot mess with no theme at all, just random blotches--some of which you could maybe identify, others of which were ruined either by bad reinking or scars.

Lot of butterflies done in neon, he supposed. Maybe that had been the plan at first.

He paced around, going out to the kitchen and then coming back through the dining room and heading down the hall again. The sharp sound of stilettos knocking against the table and the squeak of bare skin faded into the distance as he wondered where the hell the new recruit was and why his father was late.