If I Should Die_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [74]
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