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“What… the fuck…” His voice is garbled, slow and thick, like congealed blood trying to force its way through a sieve.
I laugh. Oh, he sounds so awful. What a great start.
“I’m surprised you’re able to talk. The dosage I gave you, you should be out like a light.”
It’s an inconvenience that he’s awake right now, but not an unwelcome one.
“Fuck…”
He slumps forward on his stool.
“Yes, you are fucked,” I say. My voice is warm, as close to happy as it’s been in so long. It’s so warm that I pause for a second, surprised at the upwelling of emotions, wondering if this act that I’ve wanted with such dark despair will be the thing that finally makes me happy again. Finally lets me move on. Healing through murder, what a concept. “In a bit, you’re going to slip unconscious. That’s because I’ve drugged you. When you pass out, I’m going to put you in my car, and I’m going to take you back to my apartment, and then, when I’m done with you, I’m going to kill you. I’ll cut off your hands, your feet, and your head. I’ll remove your teeth, burn off your fingerprints, and dispose of your body parts all up and down the coast. For all intents and purposes, you will disappear.”
I continue nattering at him as I finish my closing duties, wiping down everything that might bear his fingerprints. Can’t leave evidence behind.
“Wow… you know…. A lot…”
“Yeah, I listened to a lot of true crime podcasts to get ready for this. Those things are super educational. The good ones are like a masterclass in murder. My favorite was The Serial Killer Serial. The hosts had fantastic chemistry. Oh, and they’d have excellent guests — sometimes they’d even get in detectives or FBI agents who had worked on these cases. They had a great sense of humor, too; they did a whole series on the ‘Cornflakes Killer,’ who was this guy who got caught because he’d make himself breakfast in the homes of his victims. They found his fingerprint on a box of cornflakes. So the hosts changed the hours of their show to come out in the morning and they called it ‘The Serial Killer Serial over Cereal,’” I say. I’m probably way too into the show. “You don’t care, do you?”
“Interest…”
I smile while I finish wiping down the counter, which is one of the last things I have to do before I leave. He might be trying to say ‘interesting.’ Maybe he likes it. Maybe he’s not as awful as he seems. But it doesn’t matter because I’m still going to kill him. Which is a shame because he’s a lot more attractive than I thought he’d be. Nobody I spoke with to get his description told me he was handsome, but then, the main person I talked to was my brother’s best friend, Mateo, and he’d never describe another man as attractive because he’s the type to see doing so as a threat to his masculinity. And I’m pretty sure he has a crush on me.
“It really was,” I say. “Anyway, I learned a lot from them. Especially how not to get caught. But that’s neither here nor there, cause, either way, you’re going to die. So, you just sit tight while I get the dolly.”
Turning away, I head into the back room where we keep the dolly for transporting the kegs. Dixon’s big, and while I could probably drag him, the dolly is just easier. As I slip my hands around the handles of the dolly, there’s a sound that makes me freeze. The door.
Followed by another sound, which nearly makes me scream.
“Alex, you OK? Why the hell is there some guy still here?”
It’s the bouncer. Scott. Back when he should be gone. A surge of fear races through me, turning my blood cold.
This could ruin everything.
Chapter Four
Alexandra
What the fuck is Scott doing back here?
My mind scrambles, hunting for a story, an excuse, anything. Scott and I are on friendly terms, but we’re not at the deep level of friendship where he’d help me with a murder.
I force myself to breathe, then wheel the dolly out of the back room with what I hope is a cool, composed look on my face.
“Hi, Scott. What are you doing back? I thought you left.”
“Forgot my phone charger in the back room. What the fuck’s going on with this guy? You know Dave doesn’t like us to have customers in past closing time.”
“I know. Don’t tell him. Please. I’m handling it. This guy looked fine earlier. I gave him one last drink, and he just passed out. I don’t want to get in trouble with Dave or have him think I over-served anyone. I really need this job, Scott.”
Dixon mutters from his slumped-over spot against the bar, and each word feels like nails grating on my spine.
“Help… murder…”
“Murder?” Scott says, eyes widening. “What’s he talking about?”
My heart jumps, and I look from Dixon to Scott. Sweat beads on my back, and it takes all my effort to force myself to breathe normally and not scream.
