He entered the room with a burst of adrenaline, and stopped just inside the doorway, his eyes moving everywhere at once. This apartment was one giant open space, something he didn’t expect. His eyes flitted quickly over a galley kitchen, one lone recliner, and a bedroom area—sparse and ordinary—a dark purple comforter and pillows tossed messily over a mattress and box spring on the floor. Novels were stacked everywhere: around the bed and lining the walls of the room. He turned, looking to the left side of the apartment, and blinked, the strange sight foreign to his eyes.
Movement caught my eye. Movement never occurs in my apartment. I sat up, confused, and saw him, or rather the back of him. A strong body, tall. Great ass. Then he turned and our eyes met.
The UPS man was handsome. I noticed it right away, in the width of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, the short black hair, tan skin, and strong features. Whatever warped vision of good looks I had seen in the peephole, this view was infinitely better. Handsome might be too tame of a word. Hot would be a better descriptor. He looked thirty, or somewhere in that range, and stood in a fighter’s stance, his legs slightly spread and hands clenched at his sides, face flushed and panicked, eyes flitting everywhere, before locking on me.
Brightness. His eyes squinted at the light, then adjusted, his mind trying to understand the scene before him. It was like entering another dimension—a Barbie World Boogie Nights mash up. The walls on this side were a pale shade of white, almost pink in tone, and covered with posters, framed photos, and a wall calendar—filled with notes, arrows, and hearts. The bed, a white four-poster queen, was covered in a pink bedspread, pink pillows, and ruffles. The bed matched a small bedside table, which held a hot pink lamp and notebook. It was like a teenage girl had been given free reign at Bed, Bath & Beyond and had gone wild with her mother’s credit card. The bedroom was illuminated in bright, blinding light coming from four giant stands, each holding professional-grade spotlights. Cords ran around the room, thin Ethernet ones, large power strip ropes, and silver-mesh strands that seemed to power and orchestrate the whole ensemble. There were computers, monitors, and cameras everywhere, all focused on the area, all portable and easily maneuvered. She was in the center of the bed, and everything else suddenly disappeared.
She knelt upright, her dark hair disheveled, her eyes locked with his. She was naked, her br**sts heaving, pink ni**les stiff, her pale skin flushed and glowing. Her brown eyes sharpened on his, and flashed with something he instantly recognized as anger. Oh shit. He tried not to stare at her skin, her br**sts, or the shaved mound between her thighs. He moved his mouth, tried to speak, but nothing came out. Then she stood.
I was instantly furious at the thought that he would come into my space; the invasiveness of it all was incredible. But I was also electrified, power ripping through every vein, muscle and pore of my body. I stood; my bare feet planted on the bed, my senses on high alert, I stared with hunger at my prey. It was like God had delivered him, on a silver platter, and the proof of it all was loosely grasped in his hand. Box Cutters. My pu**y clenched, instantly aching, a drop of my liquid collecting and running down my inner thigh, proof of my excitement. This was my time.
He was shocked that she didn’t move to cover herself, didn’t have any shame in her nakedness. A change had come over her, and she straightened to her full height on the bed, her muscles tight, a strange smile on her lips. It was like she was both furious and excited at the same time. Her eyes dropped to his hand, to his ‘weapon,’ and he instinctively dropped it, realizing she was on defense, probably thinking he was there to hurt her. He raised his arms. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t answer. I thought you were in danger. I’m sorry.” He ducked his head, pulling his reluctant eyes from her tight body and took a step sideways, toward the door. A sound, like a strangled, but joyous, battle cry erupted from her mouth, and he froze. She launched herself off the bed, her naked body extending, and landed on both feet. Her eyes were bright with pleasure, her mouth curved into what could only be described as a grin. She looked … crazy, and for the first time, he realized that she could be mentally ill. Her eyes were locked on something, not him, and he followed her gaze to his box cutters, which lay on the ground at his feet. He crouched, picking them up, and flipped the blade down, bringing his hand up to put them in his pocket. There was a blur of nudity, and her body collided with his, her hands greedy and reaching, her weight catching him off balance. They fell together, onto the floor, her hand yanking the cutters from his. She fumbled with them briefly, then flipped the blade out, and straddled his body, bringing both hands together above her head, wild joy in her eyes. She brought her hands down together, in one quick motion, the sharp point descending toward his neck.
His hand shot out in defense, his mind sluggish, confused by this clusterfuck of a situation. His strong palm caught the edge of the cutter, the sharp blade slicing his skin. He swore, the pain quickly bringing reality to the situation. Suddenly, his mind was clear, and he backhanded her, the blow knocking her sideways, her hands splaying out, the cutters still tight in one hand. She blinked, her eyes opening. She scrambled to her feet, launching at him again, his feet slipping on the floor as he tried to stand. She was on him, the blade swiping in perfect precision through the air, as he tried to shove her away and get some traction, tried to get off the damn ground. The blade caught his shoulder, slicing the fabric and dipping into his skin, hot pain searing his subconscious for a brief moment. His hand found her arm and he gripped it tightly, holding her in place, her face close to his, panting, eyes intense and full of hatred.
I was furious, my anger mounting as I wrestled with the man. This wasn’t supposed to be how it happened; it didn’t fit the daydreams that I savored like manna from heaven. Last time it had been different. Last time had been easy—my victim distracted, caught in an unprotected moment. The thought suddenly occurred to me that I might suck at killing; my first experience only a deadly fluke. I had always envisioned myself as a killing machine, finely tuned in all things deadly. I had massively overestimated my abilities. The realization devastated me, and in that one, weak moment of self-awareness, he flipped me, straddling my body and throwing the box-cutters, my prize, across the room.
Jeremy exhaled. The weapon was gone, and they stared at each other; his body on top of hers, naked skin between his legs, and her small br**sts rising and falling with her panting breaths. She was beautiful, her eyes intelligent and large, her nose slightly imperfect, lips full and parted, high cheekbones framing her face. Dark hair surrounding her like a halo, she was exquisite in her madness. And that’s what he had to remember. She was obviously crazy.