His & Hers(10)

Most of all, I enjoyed the look in her pretty blue eyes just before I killed her. It was an expression I had never seen her face wear before—fear—and it suited her very well. It was as though she already knew that something very bad was about to happen.





Him



Tuesday 07:00



This is very bad.

If anyone ever finds out, they’re going to think it was me, but I’m reasonably confident nobody knew about our little arrangement. Every time I see the victim’s body lying in the dirt today, I think about being inside her last night.

Sometimes it felt like I was watching her do the things she did to me from a distance, as if she were doing them to someone else. I often struggled to believe our affair was real, as though this beautiful woman being interested in me was too good to be true. I guess now, given what has happened, it was. She got into the car, then unzipped my fly without a word and went down on me. After that, she let me do whatever I wanted, and I did, enjoying the little sounds that came out of that perfect mouth.

I had imagined doing those things to her for a very long time.

She was so far out of my league—I suppose deep down I knew it would have to end one day—but from the moment our late-night liaisons began a few months ago, she let me do anything to her. It made little sense to me given how beautiful she was, but I stopped questioning our incompatibility after a while. She was like a drug: the more of her I had, the more I needed in order to get high.

When a woman like that grabs your attention, they rarely give it back. She came and went like the tide, and I knew sooner or later she’d leave me washed up, but I enjoyed the ride while it lasted.

We both got what we wanted out of the arrangement—sex without the strings. It didn’t mean anything and I think that’s why it worked. No dinners, no dates, no unnecessary complications. She told me she got divorced a few months earlier, said he cheated on her. The man was clearly a fool, but then so was I, kidding myself that I was anything more than someone she used in order to feel better about herself. I didn’t mind knowing that was all I was to her. She had a reputation for looking good but being bad; beautiful people do tend to get away with far more than the rest of us. Most of the time. I thought if nobody knew about what we were doing, then nobody could get hurt. I was wrong.

“Say my name” was the only thing she ever said during sex, so I did.

Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.



* * *



“You all right, sir?”

Priya is staring at me, and I wonder if I’ve been talking to myself again. Even worse, she appears to be looking at the scratch on my face, where Rachel left her mark. I’ve never understood why women do that during sex, scratching with their fingernails like feral cats. Hers were always the same: long and pink with fake-looking white tips. I didn’t mind marks on my back that nobody could see, but she caught me on the face last night. I stare down at Rachel’s fingers again now, the nails roughly cut to the quick, and the two words painted on them: TWO FACED. Then I look back at Priya. Seeing my colleague staring at the faint pink scar on my cheek makes me want to run, but I turn away instead.

“I’m fine,” I mumble.

I make my excuses and sit in my car for a while, pretending to make calls while trying to warm up and calm down. I turn and stare at the backseat, quickly double-check the floor, but there are no visual signs of Rachel being in here, even though her prints must be everywhere. I lost count of the times and ways we did it in this car. Frankly, it’s as filthy as we were. I’ll get it cleaned later, inside and out, when a suitable time presents itself.

I don’t know what I was thinking getting involved with a woman like her. I knew she was trouble, but perhaps that’s why I couldn’t say no. I guess I was flattered. Meeting up with Rachel was always preferable to going home; there was nothing much there to look forward to after a long day at work. But if people found out, I could lose everything.

It’s still raining. The constant pitter-patter on the windshield sounds like drums inside my ears. I have a headache at the base of my skull, the kind that can only be cured with nicotine. I’d kill for a cigarette right now, but I gave up smoking a couple of years ago, for the child, not wanting to inflict my poor life choices on an innocent human being. A nice glass of red would make the pain go away too, but drinking before lunchtime is something else I gave up. I consider my options and realize that I have none—best to stick to the plan.

Priya knocks on the window. I contemplate ignoring her, but think better of it and get out of the car, back to cold and wet reality.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir. Were you talking to someone?”

Just myself.

“No.”

“The big boss said he couldn’t get through on your phone,” she says.

If she meant the words to sound like an accusation, she was successful. I take out my mobile and see eight missed calls from the deputy chief constable.

“Nothing showing. Either he’s calling the wrong number or I’ve got a bad signal,” I lie, slipping it straight back inside my pocket. Lying is something I’m pretty good at, to myself as well as others; I’ve had plenty of practice. “If he calls back just tell him everything is under control, and I’ll update him later.” Having some hotshot superior officer, who is half my age, shit all over my show is the last thing I need right now.