“If you'd waited for me to call, you'd have the answer to your question, Mrs. Braxton.” Clarice fidgets, her blue eyes darting from Audra's face to mine and back again. I can tell she knows she's made a horrible, horrible mistake. I don't like to be disobeyed, and Clarice knows it. When my clients disobey, bad things happen. Under normal circumstances, I'd simply spin on my heel, climb in the car, and drive away. Today, I don't have that luxury. I can only hope that Audra Holiday is willing to play along. Beneath my fingers, her arm twitches, bicep tightening as she realizes what a firm grip I have on her – and doesn't like it.
“Let me go, Lucas,” Audra snaps, jerking her arm back. I relax my grip and let her go, shaking my head at Mrs. Braxton with a sigh, like this is just a little inconvenience instead of the complete and utter fuck up that it truly is. I lean into Audra, capturing her ear with my mouth and enjoying the goose bumps that spring up along her skin. She's so goddamn pale that her flesh is nearly translucent, showing the flush of blue veins that beat along with her angry pulse. I swear, I can almost see the monster under her skin fighting to get out.
“Play along with me?” Audra pulls back and glares at me, but I can tell she knows she doesn't have a choice. The man she killed is in the trunk of my car. Now is not the moment for a well-timed rebellion. She bares her teeth but doesn't speak. Neither of us looks at Mrs. Braxton. I can hear her blabbering in the background – something about her friend's husband getting drunk and falling through the window – but I don't care. To us, she's inconsequential. I let my gaze zone in on Audra, finding how easy it is to get swept up in her energy. Interesting.
I pull the condom away from my cock and stuff it in my pants. Just the idea that there's a dirty condom in my slacks makes me queasy, but there's not much I can do about it in the moment. I zip myself up and extract a wet wipe from my other pocket. After I clean my fingers off, I tuck that away, too. Audra waits patiently for me to speak, looking at me like she trusts I've got some sort of plan up my sleeve.
I don't.
But I'm rapidly trying to put one together.
It's not easy to dig a hole big enough to hide a body, especially not alone. Besides, Audra has a sexy, slender quality to her arms and calves that says she doesn't do much working out. She's going to need my help to get Mark buried. Besides, I don't trust her to do it right. One little screw up here could bring the whole house of cards crashing down.
“Well,” I drawl, searching my brain for the right words. You pathetic idiot. Can't you follow a simple set of instructions? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Clarice disobeyed me, but I am disappointed. “I was going to allow you to touch Audra.” I glance over at Mrs. Braxton. She enjoys the occasional threesome, and has an insatiable thirst for redheads, so I know she'd probably enjoy Audra in her bed. “However,” I continue, leaning away from Audra before she can bite my face off. She looks twice as deadly as Lauren Houssard right now. I move Audra up my list of dangerous clients, second only to Margarite Simmons. “Since you disobeyed me,” I sigh and turn to face her full on, watching her shrink in my angry gaze, “I'm only going to allow you to watch.”
“Watch?” Mrs. Braxton croaks, adjusting a fur stole around her slender throat. It looks ridiculous plastered against her tanned skin, the pure white of the garment only enhancing the slight orange sheen of her shoulders. Paired with the pink tube dress she's wearing? Dear God, I can't help myself. The corner of my lip curls in disgust.
“Yes, watch,” I snarl, moving towards her and hooking my fingers beneath her chin. Mrs. Braxton melts into me, touching my chest with her fingers. Even through the fabric of my shirt, her touch disgusts me. Despicable. I'm supposed to choose when and where and who and how. This doesn't feel much like a choice. The beast inside of me roars, and I have to flex my biceps to keep from wrapping my hand around Clarice's throat. Hell, she'd probably like it. “Now go change your fucking clothes. How many times have you told you to dress for the occasion. You look like a cheap prostitute.” Clarice takes a stumbling step back, and I worry for a moment that I've gone too far. Maybe she really can feel the ire in my voice? But no. Like the pathetic, brainless trophy wife she is, she nods meekly and starts to turn away. When I first met her, I wondered how she suffered the inexcusably poor company of her fat fuck of a husband, but now I get it. Their IQs are both so pathetically low that they're practically made for one another. I scowl.
“Should I come back out here?” she asks suddenly, looking at me over her shoulder. I blink away flecks of red rage in my vision.