Several feminine screams came from behind me, but they were lost in my own personal disgust at the blood and tissue that sprayed back at me. I hated close range shots like this – as if that actor dude hadn’t been bad enough. At least I had the manhole cover as a shield then. I hadn’t thought enough about this one to avoid the mess, and I hated the mess. I needed to kill someone from a distance again. All this up close and personal shit didn’t settle well with me.
I tore off the bottom of his shirt as I let him fall to the ground and used a bit of it to wipe off my face. It was better than nothing, but only barely. I threw the torn cloth to the side, skipped back around the puddle, and headed out of the alley past the hysterical whores.
One of them grabbed at me like she was going to be able to do something to stop what had already happened. I looked her in the eye, and she stepped back away quickly. Running around to the other side of the car, I jumped into the driver’s seat and sped off without another word.
B
ridgett was still lying on her side in my bed when I returned. Our eyes met, and I knew she had been crying. I didn’t understand that, though. I didn’t understand why she would cry for that shithead of a pimp.
I glanced down at my blood-covered hands and shirt.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I said quietly.
Her eyes watched me, but she said nothing. I took off my bloody clothing and dropped it on the bathroom floor before stepping into the shower. I hoped it would clear my head a little, but it didn’t work. I was just as tense as I had been before, and my head was full of…of…what was this?
Confusion?
My stomach was uneasy, and not from the blood that washed down the drain. There was a bizarre feeling of near-guilt, but that wasn’t quite right either. I didn’t regret killing that asshole. I never regretted anything, so I didn’t know what this feeling was.
I guess that made it confusion.
Since Bridgett still had my robe, I walked over to the dresser naked, pulled on a clean pair of boxers, and then climbed into bed beside her. She didn’t move to look at me when I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her against my chest, but she didn’t resist, either. I lay my head just above hers on the pillow, inhaled the scent of her hair, and pressed my lips to her temple.
“You killed him,” Bridgett whispered, “didn’t you?”
My fingers trailed up her arm, over her shoulder, and to her lips. I didn’t press down because of the cut there, but still made the point.
“Shh,” I replied.
She turned then, and her red-rimmed, black-and-blue eyes turned to mine.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you kill him?”
I raised an eyebrow at her. I wasn’t going to answer a question when I had already refused to admit there was anything she could ask about anyway.
“What am I going to do?” Bridgett’s voice cracked as her hand moved to cover her mouth. “I can’t be on the street with no protection!”
“Carry a gun,” I suggested.
“I’ve never even fired one!” she exclaimed.
“Then find another pimp,” I said. It occurred to me that I could teach her to shoot, but making this about more than the sex had already caused an issue once. I didn’t want to do that again. “That isn’t the only street corner in the city, you know. You probably don’t even have to go anywhere – some other dude will come up and take over the girls there.”
“What about the other girls?”
“I don’t really give a shit about the other girls,” I said.
She glared at me.
“What if the new guy is one of the ones from across town?” she asked quietly. “The ones over by the warehouses.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You don’t work for the fucking competition,” I snarled.