The chair rocks slightly as King uses it to shove himself up. “Man, that was an uncomfortable way to hold someone down. I think I pulled a muscle.”
I ignore King.
Some killings leave me feeling riled. Or restless. But not this one. Right now… Right now, I feel content.
Until I notice a warmth seeping into my pants, and I jump up.
“The fuck?!” I spin around, looking at the dead man on the floor and the large wet spot where he pissed all over himself. And how I was fucking sitting in it.
“Are you kidding me?!” I swing a foot out and kick Arthur’s body in the side.
“What?” King stops, trying to stretch out his neck.
“This motherfucker peed on me!”
King barks out a laugh.
“You fucking fuck!” I kick Arthur again, before undoing my belt.
“What are you doing?” King asks between laughs.
“Go find what we need,” I snap, as I step into the small bathroom I spied sitting opposite the kitchen.
Cursing the whole time, I take my pants and boxer briefs off. Both of them soaked through with that asshole’s piss.
The towel on the edge of the sink looks as dirty as the fucking floor. But I find a roll of paper towels under the sink and I rip off a handful, lathering them up with some water and hand soap before scrubbing at my ass.
I want to scrub my whole body clean but stepping out of my pants in my socks was bad enough. You couldn’t pay me enough to shower in this house.
Payton had to.
Payton had to live in this hellhole.
Leaving the water running, I pull the ring out of my pocket and scrub it clean.
I wasn’t planning on taking it. I didn’t even know about it. But looking at it now, I know I’ll find a way to give it to Payton. Hopefully giving her the closure she deserves.
The scent of alcohol and chemicals fill my nostrils when I step back into the living room.
I drop my pants and underwear onto Arthur, before picking up a half-full bottle of whiskey and emptying it over them.
“Uh, you forgetting something?” King raises his brows, like maybe I didn’t know I was standing in just socks and shoes with my dick out.
“Yeah, give me your pants.”
All the humor leaves his face. “You’re joking.”
“Even if this prick had clean clothes, they wouldn’t fit me.” I gesture to his lower half. “So, give me your pants. Unless you’d prefer to stare at my junk, for the next several hours, until we land back in Minneapolis.”
I watch King’s fists clench as he strides toward Arthur’s body and administers his own set of kicks. “You stupid bastard.”
King unzips his fly, then steps up and kicks the corpse one more time. “Fuck you, man.”
Grumbling, King braces a shoulder against the wall as he steps in and out of his shoes, pulling his pant legs off, then putting his feet back into his shoes, without ever touching his socks to the floor.
Finished, King throws the pants at me, and I make sure not to say anything about his red silk boxers. Because as much as I want to laugh, there’s a good chance King would get pissy enough to take his pants back and make me fly home with my balls stuck to the pilot’s seat.
“I get to light the match,” King snaps when I’ve threaded my belt through my new pants.
“Fine by me.”
We step over the trail of whiskey and junk mail that King laid out between the chair and the front door. The paper won’t do much, but the more to burn, the better.
It’s gonna look like murder. Arthur’s not worth the effort of disposing properly. But the fire will obscure traces of DNA we may have left behind. And there’s nothing about this scene, or this man, that ties back to me.
Except, of course, Payton.
