were numbered. He’d started pulling away from me, and if I didn’t act first, I knew that one night there’d be a bullet in my head.
I crushed a couple Viagra tablets into his preferred drink. I wanted him horny. I came to his bed wearing his favorite of my nighties, a white satin sheath. I apologized for talking to the wrong person, for damaging his reputation. No tears, because he’d know I was faking. Just a simple apology. Told him I didn’t want to leave, that I loved him, but if he wanted me to go I’d go quietly. I was contrite the entire speech, even though inside my heart raced with anticipation and danger.
He said he didn’t know if he could trust me anymore. That’s when I showed a little emotion, just a hint of deep remorse. He patted the bed beside him.
When I sat on the silk sheets and Herve squeezed my breast, when I felt his erection against my thigh and saw the sweat bead on his forehead from his drug-induced excitement, there was no turning back. I didn’t want to die, but nothing worth having means anything if there isn’t a risk. Daddy always told me I had to take risks, be bold, be smart. And that night, I was all that.
Herve had always liked my sexual energy. My red hair and translucent skin. My voice when I moaned and gasped his name. I loved the theatrics of sex and the way I turned men into desperate, lustful creatures. I let Herve fuck me hard and made sure he enjoyed it. Never had I peaked so high, so long, so intensely as the night I last made love to Herve, knowing he would soon be dead.
After his first orgasm he was still hard, thanks to the drugs. I rolled him over so I was on top and grabbed the headboard to steady myself. Then I rode him hard, playing into his fantasy of a wild woman who couldn’t get enough of her man.
Earlier, I’d taped a knife to the backside of the headboard-after Herve’s security goon swept the room with a metal detector. I’d stolen the blade from an associate of Herve’s he had been suspicious about, and set it up so the schmuck had no alibi.
I gripped the handle as I arched my back so Herve could get a face full of my breasts. He licked greedily, slobbering. It would have been a turn-off if I wasn’t so jazzed about my plans.
Herve wasn’t stupid, so I didn’t hesitate. As soon as I had the knife in hand, I pressed my thighs down and tightened my body around him, knowing it was the best way to get him off. He closed his eyes, his mouth open and drooling, his face flushed. He called my name.
I slit his throat.
I had killed before, but never in such a raw, primal way. I cut him deep, without hesitation, because I knew I’d have only one chance.
He grabbed my hand, but had little control. I jumped off his body and watched as he died. There was so much blood-more than I expected.
But I could work with that.
I used the sheet that had fallen to the floor during sex and wiped the handle of the knife. I then cut my arms as if I were holding them up to my face to protect me. They might scar, but I didn’t care-they would remind me of victory.
I cut one breast, my stomach, the back of my legs. My heart was racing, and I felt light-headed and wondered if I was losing too much blood. I tossed the knife out of the window, made sure there was blood on the windowsill, and screamed so loud my head ached. Then I hit myself with one of Herve’s blue-and-white Chinese vases he said he bought for a hundred thousand dollars. Ridiculous to pay so much for something so impractical.
Blood flowed down my face into my eyes. I fell to my knees and crawled toward the bed. I was dizzy, and I looked down and saw that the cut in my stomach was still bleeding. I hadn’t realized I had cut so deep. I found the sheet again and pressed it to my stomach as my vision faded. I grabbed the phone and dialed for help, but didn’t know if the call went through. Everything was a blur.
I heard people rush in. Shouts. And then nothing.
I woke hours later in the hospital, and the police detective told me Herve had been murdered and I was lucky to be alive. The two uniformed officers at my door asked me if I saw who attacked us.
I cried when I said yes, and begged them to protect me.
Herve’s right-hand man heard me, and by the time the police found Julio Gomez, he was dead.
The war had begun, and I walked away scot free.
That was six years ago. I followed that victory with another. I knocked Paul off his high horse and put his ass in prison.
And now I was the Royal Queen.
I heard someone say my name, and remembered where I was.
“It’s fucking cold out here, Bobbie,” Ian said. He actually sounded irritated with me.
I turned to face him. He was huddled in a thick coat, the collar turned up past his ears, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets. I hadn’t realized, until we’d arrived in Spruce Lake, that Ian was somewhat of a wimp.
“I was just admiring my kingdom,” I said. “And remembering how hard I worked for it.”
Ricky Swain waited in the Callahans’ garage for two hours before Jon Callahan returned from the bar. He’d parked by the lake so no one would see his car, then trekked through the back of Joe Hendrickson’s property until he reached the Callahans’. At midnight, all but the porch light went off in the house. He huddled in his coat, pacing to keep warm, and hoped he wasn’t making a fatal mistake.
But he had no other ideas. Asking Jon Callahan for help was his last hope to get out of this mess.
At nearly two in the morning, Ricky saw headlights turn onto the drive, pass the house, and stop in front of the detached garage. Jon didn’t open the door, but started toward the house.
Ricky ran out of the garage. “Mr. Callahan!”
Jon jumped and reached into his pocket. Ricky put up his hands. “It’s me, Rick Swain.”
At first Jon looked confused, then angry. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I have no place to go.” Ricky’s teeth were chattering and he bounced on his feet.
“You can’t be here.” Jon glanced around, as if worried someone was watching.
“I walked around. There’s no one here. The lights went off at midnight.” Ricky bit his lip. “Can I come in?”
Jon hesitated, then nodded and walked briskly toward the house. Ricky followed him through the back door into a toasty warm kitchen. Ricky’s skin tingled in the heat.
“Thank-”
“Shh. Wait here.”
Jon left the room and Ricky heard him close doors, then walk around upstairs. Ricky walked closer to the fireplace where wood still smoldered in the stove inset. By the time Jon returned, Ricky almost felt normal.
“Why are you here?” Jon asked.
“Before my mother died, she told me you were the only person I could trust in an emergency.”
“Things have changed.”
“I wouldn’t have come if I had any other choice. I’m scared.” There, he’d said it. Before he’d seen his Aunt Bobbie, he was worried-but now he was downright terrified. With Jimmy dead, there was nothing stopping her from going after him. Ricky had never known why his aunt stayed away, but his mother said as long as Jimmy was around, Bobbie didn’t dare return to Spruce Lake.
Jon walked over to the counter and poured whiskey into a glass. He drained it in one gulp, then put his hands on the counter and stared intently at the tiles.
