We ate sushi.
He sat across from me smiling strikingly as he recounted an old story from his childhood. I paid less attention to him talking and focused more on the lack of sincerity in his eyes. He was a liar. It was one of the details fed to me three nights prior, but even without the tip, I could smell his sinister stink of falsification from across the table.
“Not a word of his can be trusted,” the brunette confessed from her obviously cliché disguise of a long brown trench coat and black sunglasses.
We stood beneath the fire escape struggling to be lit by the only street lamp in the narrow alleyway. The scene wouldn’t have looked so sketchy had it not been for the rain or the glow of the moon casting gloomy shadows of our bodies.
“He’ll tell you touching stories from his past to give off his sentimental side, but they are all fake,” she continued. A rustle from the dumpster standing not but three feet from us caused her to clutch at her purse. I could sense the fear behind the dark concave circles covering her eyes.
“Are you sure you want this done?” I asked her. “There is no going back once the job is finished.”
She hesitated only for a second before nodding her head with assurance. Reaching swiftly into her black leather purse, she pulled out an engorged, white envelope practically bursting with payment and shoved it towards me.
“So, where are you from?,” he inquired with a look of fabricated interest that any other woman gullible to his modelesque looks would swoon over.
“Chicago,” I responded with a smile as I dipped my salmon skin roll into a bowl of low sodium soy sauce. I popped the delicacy between my lips and savored the taste of the ocean washing along my taste buds like the waves during a high tide. Sounds of satisfaction crept from my mouth, a devilish smile overtaking my face.
“And let me tell you,” I started after washing down the bite-sized nirvana with a swig of Pinot Grigio, “they don’t have sushi this good in Chicago.”
That made him smile.
The time was drawing near to the end of our date which meant less than three hours remained to finish the job. We walked back to his apartment, located just a few blocks away from where we had dined. It wasn’t hard for me to get him to invite me up, after all, it was apart of the plan. He forced his key into the knob and gave an aggressive turn. His body language had become more assertive, as if his strength was building the closer we came to entering his comfort zone.
The inside of his apartment was very Patrick Bateman; not one item out-of-place. He waltzed over to his stereo where a tribute of Huey Luis and the News blasted from the surround sound. I laughed inwardly at the irony of the situation.
“Nice place,” I managed to spurt, removing my leather jacket. The cold air wrapped around my arms, goosebumps covering the tops of my breasts in the low-cut corset I sported. His eyes danced on my curves, mentally unlatching the hooks holding my nudity hostage.
“Would you mind providing me with a drink?” I interrupted as I slid onto the black sofa and stretched my legs outwards removing my long black knee-high boots.
“Red or white?.” he offered slowly retreating backwards, his eyes focusing on each delicate movement of my thighs.
Lifting only my eyes to meet his, I told him to surprise me and suggestively bit my bottom lip.
He returned with two glasses of a red wine, dawning a smirk so menacing that I felt myself become a little aroused. He handed me a glass of the burgundy gold, and took a seat beside me. I took a large sip and held it slyly in my mouth. After I sat the wine down on the table beside me, I stood up and took a straddling position atop his eager lap. His elation responded to the warmth of my body and he let his eyes close. The wine still in my mouth, I leaned his head back and kissed him deeply, drowning his tongue with the contents between my cheeks. He swallowed harshly, a look of fury and worry formed across his brow. He pushed me backwards and jumped up, as a result pushing me to the floor.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted angrily, a fog slowly pouring over his sea green irises.
“Just a little goodbye kiss,” I said in my best seductive voice. Rising to my feet, I stood in front of him, his balance non-existent as he wobbled to and fro. A look of vertigo spread across his GQ destined face, a sign I took as the cue to push him backwards onto the sofa. His body sagged over itself unaware of the karma about to be implemented.
The next morning, the headlines across the globe carried a relieving undertone.
“Serial rapist and murderer found dead in the same river said to be where he had dumped all of his victims. Police say it had been a long hunt trying to track down the ‘Red Wine Killer,’ his trademark of luring women back to his apartment where he would drug them, rape them, and proceed in gruesomely murdering them. His body was found floating with a note detailing evidence of each murder, providing closure to dozens of families across the tri-state area.”
The news anchor’s voice faded into the background. The brunette woman smiled, a single tear slid across her cheekbone as she hugged a photo of a young brown-haired girl. Her phone vibrated across the room. She received a text from the woman she had hired a few days prior.