The 7: Sloth Read online

  I contemplated running when we first pulled in—heading straight into the cashier to scream kidnap. But where would that land me when they found Terry’s dead body in the trunk? Like it or not, I’m accomplice to his murder, and this girl isn’t cut out for prison.

  “When do I find out your name?” I ask. “You know mine.” For some reason, knowing what to call him seems like a logical way to soften this monster into a man. If he has a name, a back-story, a life I could learn about, he loses that evil monster in the dark vibe he has going on.

  “You want my name?” Finally, he looks across at me. “What do you think it is?”

  Jesus—he’s one of those people. “I don’t like guessing games.”

  “But you like abusive fuckers that want to stab you?”

  His criticism cuts worse than Terry’s knife ever could. “I didn’t like him.”

  “You let him control you,” he points out. “Why, if you didn’t like him?”

  “I was scared.” Surely he can understand that? “I didn’t know how to get away.”

  “You got away tonight.”

  “Yeah,” I scoff. “Because you shot him.”

  The fruit-loop grins. “Awesome, hey?”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  He glances over at me, all humor gone from his eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” He chuckles bitterly. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why did you even date the douche if he was so horrible?”

  “You think I met him, and he was like that from the start?” I snap. “Fucking wise up, asshole. Abusers are good at hiding the truth.”

  “Maybe he did, but I’d say you’re probably a poor judge of character too.”

  “Is that so?” He doesn’t know me.

  “You’re in my car, aren’t you?”

  Maybe he does … “You didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

  He pointedly flicks his gaze to where the knife I retrieved from the road is tucked at my feet. “Ready to stab me then?”

  “Want me to?” I challenge, one eyebrow raised.

  “Why, April,” he says sweetly. “Are you coming on to me?”

  The guy is crazy, but for some reason he also makes me smile. “You find that a turn on?”

  “Maybe.” He smirks, looking over from the corner of his eye. “Dallas,” he says simply. “My name is Dallas.”

  “I want to go home, Dallas.” I watch his reaction, wait for the frustration; the snap where he decides that maybe it’s easier to kill me too, after all.

  It never comes.

  “Okay.” He slows for a red light. “Which way is it?”

  “Okay?” It can’t be this easy. “You’re really going to take me home?”

  “Be less suspicious if your neighbors see you walk in like nothing went down, don’t you think?”

  I guess … still. “Why are you so fucking relaxed about all of this?” The light goes green. “Turn right.”

  He changes lanes and glides the car around the corner, careful enough that Terry’s body doesn’t move in the trunk at all. Not like the first corner he took.

  “Why are you so wound up about everything?” he challenges. “I thought you’d be happy the asshole is gone.”

  “I am. I mean … shit. You killed a guy,” I whisper. “How can that not bother you?”

  “Because I do it all the time.” Dallas shrugs. “Which way now?”

  “Left, and then take your right onto seventy-second.” I glance across at the man and frown. He’s too friendly to be a serial killer. But isn’t that what people said about all the greats? “How often is ‘all the time’?”

  He swings his gaze my way as we cruise down the straight road. “Do you honestly want the answer to that, April?”

  I stare out the window at the houses as they pass. “I guess not.” Light rain peppers the glass; a mid-summer shower that’ll leave my skin tacky and hot. “What happens when you get me home?”

  “What do you usually do?”

  His answering questions with a question habit seriously grates on my nerves. “On a normal evening, I wouldn’t be dropped off by an unhinged hitman, so I think the point is moot, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps.” He reaches the last turn off and then looks across expectantly.

  I guide him down the street and into a park outside the shitty apartment complex that Terry and I share … shared. A couple of lights are still on, but most of our neighbors are the elderly and destitute—the kind who turn in early or watch reruns of Wheel of Fortune in the dark.

  “You know what I could kill for right now?” Dallas announces.

  “I think you already did the killing part,” I deadpan.

  He shrugs. “You have a point. But a coffee. I could murder a coffee right now. You have any?”

  “What about the drinks?” I point to the bag between my feet.

  “For later when I need a pick-me-up. Digging a hole can take it out of you.”

  What the fuck do I say to that? “You’re going to bury him?”

  Dallas chuckles, pulling the keys from the ignition. “As if. I’m too lazy for that. I’ll probably just burn him.”

  I don’t get a chance to respond; the car rocks as he gets out and leaves me in this silent coffin outside my so-called home. I wrench the door open, in desperate need of fresh air. Dallas already waits on the stoop, eyeballing the names on the buzzers.

  I hesitate in the rain, struck by what an ordinary picture he cuts: a young, attractive guy—large in the shoulders, and thick in the thighs. His dark hair hangs in his eyes, dampened by the rain. My gaze fixates on his pouty lips as he seemingly mutters to himself while he reads.

  “Um, what about …” I thumb at the trunk, snapping myself from this fucked-up stupor.

  “He’ll be fine out here.” Dallas straightens, hands in his pockets. “I don’t think he’ll get far. Do you?”

  “I guess not.” Still … my gaze keeps returning to the car as I make my way up to the chipped and faded door.

  Dallas moves aside, barely leaving enough room for me to stand on the stoop too without pressing against him. I push my wet hair out of my face, find the buzzer for Mrs. Warsaw, and then tap my fingers on the panel while I wait.

  “Who is it?” she calls through the crackly line.

  Dallas lifts an eyebrow.

  “It’s April,” I call back. “I left my key with Terry by mistake. Could you let me in?”

  “I could go get them,” Dallas whispers over my shoulder, his warm breath tickling my ear.

  I shake my head and shunt the door open after Mrs. Warsaw buzzes us in. “I lied. I threw it at him when I said I’d had enough, and he never picked it up.” I catch Dallas’ cool stare as he follows me up the stairs. “I didn’t think I’d be coming back here again,” I explain.

  “Fair enough.” He trails behind as I lead us up the two flights to my door, and then leans on the wall opposite after I stop outside my apartment. “How do we get in now?”

  I shoot him a wink, and then with well-practiced flair, press on the door just right with my shoulder to bow it enough that I can lift the latch off the lock. The deadbolt is so damn sloppy that on the odd occasion a heavy truck passing by has rattled it open.

  The joys of living in run-down buildings.

  “Impressive,” he says with a twist of his lips as he steps forward.

  “Dangerous,” I counter. An ill-fitted lock doesn’t exactly evoke a sense of safety when you hear somebody having the living daylights kicked out of him or her in the stairwell at three AM.

  Dallas’ shoulder catches me as he pushes past and invites himself in our simple, cramped home. He hesitates and then steps right toward our bathroom while I shut the door.

  Come on in, why don’t you?

  “I guess this one is the cleanest?” he asks, re-emerging with the towel off the rack. “You’ve got quite the mountain of laundry going on in there.”

  “Can’t afford the Laundromat again this week.”

&
nbsp; He merely nods and then gets to toweling off his hair with my fluffy pink bath sheet. It would be comical if he didn’t kill the other occupant of this apartment less than an hour ago. I walk past him and stop before the window, tipping my head to check on his car parked at the curb.

  “Worried?” Dallas asks. His hand rests gently in the small of my back, soft and unexpected.

  I shake him off and back away. “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “What happens, happens, April. You can’t change fate now.”

  “Why do you care so little about anything?” My back finds the wall, my gaze locked on his. I want to see compassion, understanding, and yet … there’s nothing.

  He steps forward, closing the space between us, and slowly lifts the towel as though not to startle me. Confusion reigns as he gently rubs the soft cotton over my head, working his way down the lengths to concentrate on the ends.

  This man—this killer—is drying my hair.

  And the whole time his eyes never leave mine, his stare so intense that I can feel the intrusion right in the depths of my soul. He doesn’t utter a word, and neither do I, yet it feels as though he gets all the answers to the questions he’s yet to ask.

  I’m a shell: a false projection of strength that hides the terrified and vulnerable creature below.

  I’ve given up believing that anybody in this world genuinely cares for another. I’ve given up on the idea of happily ever after. There is no happiness in forever, only the fleeting satisfaction you get from surviving another day.

  “Thank you.”

  Dallas’ hands still, the towel still draped on my shoulders.

  I pale under his scrutiny, unsure if I’ve finally tipped the balance inside that delicate mind of his. “What?”

  “You never said thank you when I killed Terry, but now …”

  “Is that wrong?” Thank you hardly seemed appropriate when we were wrapping Terry’s body before somebody happened across our scene. It’s fair to say my thoughts were still preoccupied with what went down.

  “No, it’s not wrong,” he murmurs with a frown. “It’s just …” The towel hits the floor, yet his hands stay cupped around my neck.

  I shiver as his thumb traces a slow, torturous path along my jaw. As wrong as it is, I want him to do it. I want him to kiss me. I want to know what danger tastes like.

  “How do you feel now?” His gaze fixes on my injry. “Is your head clear?”

  “I feel fine.” My hands hover mere inches from his hips, burning to pull him closer.

  Yet he’s in control—he always was.

  “I own you,” he murmurs as his hands flex against my throat. “I own you, so I get what I want from you, understand?”

  Do I understand? Pfft. He realizes whom he’s saying this to, right? He realizes that owned is all I was with Terry. I’ve never known what it’s like to be anything other than a possession.

  I nod, daring him to follow through with what his hooded eyes promise. “You own me.”

  He smiles, the slow curve of his lips pure sin as he lets out an amused “Huh.” His gaze drops to my mouth, the grin sliding off his face as he juts his chin out and looks down with hooded eyes. Dallas runs his thumbs along my jaw, his grip tight as he applies the barest pressure to urge me closer.

  Danger tastes like cigarettes and sin.

  My hands find a home on his waist as he tilts my head with the firm grip on my neck and seals his lips over mine. His hungered kiss pushes deeper; his teeth graze my lips, and his fingers bruise my neck.

  I can’t breathe—metaphorically and physically.

  His grip tightens to the point of pain, my windpipe crushed under his thumbs. I scramble my hands to his wrists, urging him to stop as I let my mouth go lax.

  Danger also tastes like panic and regret.

  Dallas’ hands drop away, and he takes a step back, confusion painting his features as he looks down at his hands. “I’m …”

  My throat burns as I gasp for air. Say it: sorry. Show you care.

  His frown fades, and I lose any hope of redemption. “Where’s that coffee you promised me?” Dallas’ whole demeanor shifts, the honesty lost behind the cocky façade when he struts over to the kitchenette as though he didn’t almost kill me too.

  “Cabinet by the fridge.” I croak as I rub my tender throat.

  He doesn’t care. He choked me, and he doesn’t care. What’s even more fucked up though, is I don’t want him to leave. Part of me knows what he did was inexcusable, but the stronger part wants to see if he might yet show regret. If given time he might show remorse for what he just put me through.

  I’m beyond broken—I’m hopeless.

  I square my shoulders and join Dallas, pulling two clean mugs from the back of the counter. The open cabinet door hides his face, yet he stays frozen on the spot, his hand rested atop the coffee jar on the benchtop.

  I circle behind him to the fridge and retrieve the creamer. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m not the kind of guy you say thank you to, April. I think I proved that, don’t you?”

  “Then I won’t say it again.” I set the creamer down beside the mugs. “Simple.”

  The cabinet closes with a slam, his brow hard and his eyes burning a hole right through to the silly girl inside of me who realizes she’s just fucked up. He didn’t even look this angry when he shot Terry.

  “Fuck, you’re a stupid bitch.”

  “Pardon?” I physically reel at the bluntness of his words, steadying myself with a hand to the counter.

  “You met me while running from your abusive boyfriend, and here you are, making me a goddamn coffee after I choked the fucking daylights out of you.”

  He’s right. So right, it hurts. “So I’m stupid,” I snap. “But if you know that, doesn’t that make you worse for taking advantage of it?”

  “Taking advantage of what? The fact you’ve got some sick masochistic tendency to seek out guys that will hurt you?” His arm shoots out; a strong hand wrapped once more around my still-tender throat. “What’s next, April? What do you want me to do now?”

  My heart thunders as I grip his forearm, twisting my hands around his flesh to urge him to ease up. The bruised flesh sears, shooting lightning bolts of pain down into my chest with each slight movement.

  “What’s next?” Dallas repeats, shunting me along the counter by the grip on my neck until I hit the wall at the end.

  He flexes his hand, allowing me to suck in one precious lungful of air before he cuts my supply off again. What is next? Is this it? The end I was so sure would come tonight?

  “What happens when you pass out, April?” His head tilts as he watches me fade. “What do you hope I’ll do then?”

  I can’t focus on his face—his handsome face. I can’t hear anything anymore except the rush of my blood as it pulses in my ears.

  Dallas lets go, dropping my limp body to the floor. I kneel at his feet, hands to my throat as I pull lungful after burning lungful of air into my chest.

  “I’ll tell you what would have come next,” he says as he squats down before me. Gentle fingers stroke my hair from my face. “See, I’m not a nice guy, but you already know that. And not-so-nice guys like me? They don’t stop when a girl passes out.” He places his fingers around my chin and jerks my head up to face him. “They. Don’t. Stop.” His dark eyes search mine. “But I think you already know that, too. Don’t you, April?”

  My ragged breaths still come short and hard as he leans down and places a chaste kiss to my lips. “You don’t need to worry about a thing, baby. I’ll take care of it all.” He lets go of my chin, straightening to his full height. “And you know why?”

  “Because you own me,” I rasp through my tears.

  “Good girl.”

  THREE

  The faint hues of daylight creep on the horizon as I sit huddled in the one armchair Terry and I own, watching Dallas as he talks on his phone. His right leg is kicked up, rested on the opposite knee, and his arm lies slung over the ba
ck of the dining chair that he took as his own.

  He’s cool, calm, and collected—everything I’m not.

  “I’ve got a few things I need to tie up from last night, but I’ll be home this afternoon.” His dark eyes hold mine captive. “Yeah. Love you too.”

  What the fuck?

  “Who was that?” I ask as he disconnects.

  A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, his gaze focused on the phone in his hand. “Jealous?”

  “Hardly.” I huff out a breath that lifts the hair from my face and stare out at the dawn.

  “Then it doesn’t matter.” He rises, stretching both arms over his head and exposing the flat, tanned flesh at his hips.

  Daylight brings clarity, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.

  “Weather app says it’s supposed to be 96 out today, so unless you’ve got an iron stomach, we better get lover-boy out of the trunk.”

  “We?” I assumed after the way he dressed me down last night he’d take what he wanted and then leave me here to vanish without a trace.

  “Yeah. We.” His eyes narrow, slight lines appearing at the sides. One of which pulls at the scar over his jaw. “He’s your boyfriend.”

  “Was,” I correct, stretching my legs out. “Not that you’d care.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” He purposefully withheld any details about the person he spoke with to fuck with my head—it worked. I want to know if the caller was a girlfriend or a wife like I need my next breath.

  And after having my windpipe cut off twice last night, that’s pretty bad.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask as I head for the kitchenette.

  “Told you—we burn him.”

  “Have access to a human-sized incinerator, do you?” I pull a granola bar from the small stash of dry food in the pantry and turn to find him smiling.

  “No. But I have access to a mortician.”

  My fingers still on the wrapper. “You want to let somebody else know what you did?”

  “Did you forget that I said I do this all the time?” He folds his arms, watching me carefully.

  I stick the bar between my lips and bite. His tongue peeks out, wetting his own as I chew.

  “You want one?” I ask before taking my next bite.