Rev It Up (Black Knights Inc. #3)(70)

“You wanna try that again?” he asked.

“Th-they’re at the hos-hospital,” she managed to garble even though he was squeezing her jaw so hard she could barely form the words. A bright drop of blood leaked from one corner of her mouth, and he knew he’d managed to cut her cheek on her teeth when he slapped her.

He loosened his grip. Not to lessen her pain—he liked seeing her in pain—but to hurry up this little interview. “What are they doing there?”

“Franklin h-had an appendicitis. He…he had surgery. Please,” she begged, “you’re hurting me.”

Oh, you haven’t begun to experience pain. But you will. Soon…

The thought made his erection throb hard against the fly of his jeans, and one corner of his mouth quirked in anticipation.

“And when will they be coming home?”

Lisa’s eyes slid to the side, one frantic glance at the purple, sequined purse lying on the bistro-sized kitchen table. He followed the direction of her gaze and wondered what she could possibly think she had hidden in there that might save her.

Cell phone? Mace? Maybe a little handgun?

Of course, all of those required hands to operate…

“It’s too late for that.” Resting his gloved palms on the high back of her chair, he leaned in close to her face. So close he could smell her fear, all musky and sour.

Some of the sweetest perfume on the planet…

“You’re not getting out of here until I let you,” he hissed in her ear, loving the feel of her trembling breath against his cheek. “And I won’t let you until you answer all my questions. “Now,” he pulled back and smiled, “when will Michelle and her son be coming home?”

Lisa swallowed, running her plump pink tongue over her dusky lips. He eyed the movement with some remorse.

The woman had a mouth made for sin. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to use it.

“Franklin’s being released tomorrow evening,” she whispered. “Now, please,” two fat tears spilled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin, “let me go.”

Johnny winked, then reached up with his knife and slit her slim throat.

He delighted in the surprise that flashed through her eyes. People were always shocked to realize they were actually going to die, which never ceased to amaze him. Especially during times like this.

But hope springs eternal, he supposed.

Reaching into her throat, past the sticky blood that pumped steadily from the fatal wound, he grabbed that pretty pink tongue he’d admired earlier and pulled it down through the torn flesh.

You won’t be using those pipes now, will ya?

And, yeah, it was sort of a shame to have ruined that lovely face, and it was certainly a travesty to have destroyed her wonderful tongue, but what could he do? Colombian neckties happened to be his specialty, and he wasn’t one to screw with a good thing.

Standing back, he tilted his head as he observed the macabre picture little Lisa presented, eyes wide and dull, blood still flowing freely down her chest, mouth open in a silent tongueless scream.

There was always that moment. After the kill. When the adrenaline wore off. A brief second when he tried to feel something. Anything. A small pause when he searched his conscience for a kernel of remorse. But, just like always, his hunt turned up…nothing.

Oh well.

Shaking himself into action, he washed off his gloves in her kitchen sink before carefully opening her front door to peek out into the hall and down the stairwell. When he found everything quiet, he closed the door behind himself and quickly raced down the stairs.

The instant his loafers touched the sidewalk outside, a contented smile curved his lips.

Now on to Michelle…

***

“How’d it go?” Vanessa asked, lowering a pair of optics and turning away from her perch by the window.

Just the sight of her pretty face and dark, inquisitive eyes was enough to have the fatigue Rock was carrying lift away like dandelion seeds on a stiff breeze. It was also enough to have the brainless wonder in his pants raising its little head expectantly.

Amazing.

When he’d passed Candy of the Ridiculous Red Hair in the lobby and she dropped her top in order to give him a look at the goods, he hadn’t been able to manage even a modicum of enthusiasm—and that was saying something, considering her plastic surgeon had been more artist than doctor. But one look at Vanessa, sitting there in her ridiculous street-walker getup, her hair pulled back in a sleek, prim bun, and her face washed clean of make-up—one part tramp and two parts lady—and suddenly he could barely manage to wrangle the beast caged behind his zipper.

Correction. Christian’s zipper…

Zut!

He threw his key on the rickety, plywood nightstand and toed out of Christian’s too-big, too-fancy, too-expensive shoes. Sinking down on the lumpy mattress, he ran a hand through his hair.

And noticed his fingers were shaking…

Damnit. They always did this after he’d been required to pry open somebody’s mind.

“Ya know how they say you should never judge a book by its cover?” he mumbled, fisting his hands before shaking them in order to try to stop their quaking.

It didn’t help. It never did…

“Yeah?”

“Well, they were talking about Joe Bob Bartlett.”