pink. She’d had to wait over a week for her face to stop being such a show stopper. She’d waited impatiently, afraid Letton would be released from the hospital before she could take care of him permanently—the bastard had had the nerve to survive!—but apparently she’d hurt him pretty damn bad because he was still languishing there.
Good.
She’d used the time to recover herself. She kinda hurt all over. The seat belt had left a deep bruise and it was a little tricky to take a deep breath.
But with each tick of the clock she’d grown stronger. And now that she’d purchased actual rose-colored glasses, her magenta-filled eye looked damn near normal. If she went to Letton’s room in the early evening, maybe around dinnertime when there was more hustle and bustle and confusion around the hospital, she might not be noticed as much. But she would have to be careful. Find a way to disguise herself.
She cocked her head and considered. One more day? Two?
If Letton were released that would compound her problems. She needed to wrap her hands around the man’s throat and choke the life from him. Or smother him with a hospital pillow. There would be sweet irony in having his place of healing turn into his place of death.
Her temple throbbed and she pressed fingers hard against it, as if pushing the pain back inside.
And then she was hit by a wave of something like lust. Not her own. A sample of what Letton had felt when he was eyeing prepubescent girls. It left Lucky feeling sick, spent and bent over, hacking, on the verge of throwing up. Saliva ran from her mouth; the precursor to vomiting. She wiped it away and drew several breaths, straightening with an effort, staring at her reflection in the mirror. This wasn’t the first time she’d been able to sense—physically sense—what someone felt. It was a kind of psychic ability she neither understood nor wanted, but it was something she’d been born with and it had sent her on this quest. This mission.
She visualized Letton, saw the hot need in his eyes.
“I’m going to kill you, you bastard,” she whispered harshly.
Edward Letton woke with a snort and a gasp. Demons were running around inside his head. They were spinning. Chortling. Poking fingers at him and laughing like hyenas. He was in hell. He was dead. Or dying. Suffocating.
Slowly he opened his eyes. His mouth was slack and desert dry. There was a tube running from his nose. No. Into his nose. Oxygen. He was being given oxygen because he was…in a hospital…and he could feel pain, though he was oddly dissociated from it. Drugs. Demerol, maybe, or something like it.
What happened?
He couldn’t piece it together. It was too much. He’d been at work but that was on Friday. And then there was—
A soccer game.
He drew a quaking breath of fear and tried to look around. Did they know? He’d been in the van. Oh, God. The van.
Fuzziness ruled his head. The damned drugs. He was in a hospital bed but he couldn’t remember why. How long had he been out? Had he said anything? Did they know?
He struggled to move but his body screamed at even the slightest twitch. He was breathing hard, though he’d scarcely done more than squeeze his eyes closed, sucking up the oxygen, in some kind of real mess here.
What had he done? What happened? How had he ended up in a hospital?
Faintly, as if viewing it from a long, long distance, he saw the young girl with the slim legs and blue shorts. She was so beautiful. He wanted to rub against that firm, nubile flesh. But he knew she wouldn’t allow it. That’s why he’d brought the van.
The van. He’d worked so hard on the van. Long hours, away from Mandy. Hiding out in the garage, listening with active ears in case she should enter the garage uninvited, surprising him. The sweet danger of that had given him almost a constant erection. If she caught him fitting out the van, what would he say? Would she believe him? Would he have to take her as his first victim, just to keep her quiet? He despised her. Her big tits and fat, cellulite-filled ass. But she was a necessary part of the equation. His cover. His loving wife.
But she never came in the garage. Couldn’t be torn away from her reality TV shows. That one where a bunch of shrieking women went after the rich guy really turned her on. She about wet her pants when those guys gave the girls roses. If she’d had an ounce of sexuality herself, she might have given herself a rub and tickle, it turned her on so much. Unfortunately, that would never happen. Mandy liked chocolates, and an occasional gift, though he could never afford the diamonds and furs she salivated over. Maybe if he could, she might have tried to at least enjoy their monthly hump and bump, but she pretty much just waited for it to be over. Just closed her eyes and waited while Ed did his thing. One time, by God, she’d started softly snoring. Out cold. That was about the last time he’d been able to even get it up for her.
She was too round.
Too old.
But girls…they were beautiful. Lovely, lovely thighs and ankles and flat chests with skin drum-taut, and narrow little wrists.
It was a sickness; he knew that. He didn’t care. Ed had waited all his life for something for himself. When was it Eddie’s turn, huh? And he wasn’t going to wait anymore. He was going to take what he wanted. What he needed. What he deserved!
But…what had happened? He was in deep shit, here, he could tell, and there was a murky memory of something bad…
Damn drugs. He was sinking under them, but at least that would mean the pain would go away. He was hurt. He needed to heal.
He could see that lovely, lovely girl reaching for the soccer ball…
In his dream he reached back.
Lovely…
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