At least this one is attractive. I think as I swirl my finger around the inside of my wine glass filled with a 20-year-old merlot. It wasn’t even close to the most expensive wine on the list. He’ll be paying for a better one later.
The dark color of the wine is only slightly lighter than the color of the lips that belong to the man sitting in front of me. I approached him much like I do all my prey. Bumping into him in a restaurant at lunch time, I spilled a bit of my drink onto his suit. You have to make sure it’s a black suit that the stain won’t show up on otherwise they might be too angry to make a move. I apologized profusely and left him my number so that I could pay for his dry cleaning bill.
As soon as I saw his eyes running down the neckline of my v-cut, I knew I had him. Men are so easy. I’ve tried to work a woman once or twice, but they’re harder to read. Too hard to read sometimes, and that makes it dangerous. Besides there are many more wealthy men out there than women.
Mr. Papillon’s complexion is almost perfect. Flawlessly olive, it is only slightly marred by a darkened scar just below his left cheekbone. It had taken him less time than most to call me back, which didn’t surprise me. Attractive men are always looking for a little more. “How is your wine?”
“Delicious,” I say and run my tongue briefly along my top lip.
“Thank you very much, perhaps I can make it up to you later.” Once you get a man out to dinner there’s no point in playing coy.
“Perhaps,” he says winking at me and sipping deeply from his own glass. His plate sits empty in front of him. He only ordered an appetizer, making the comment that he wanted to save room for later. Ha. How witty.
I push my mostly finished meal away from me, letting him know that I’m ready to move on. I’m want to get this over with and start cashing in. Marriages just aren’t lasting as long these days, and without the marriage, there isn’t much threat to adultery. And that’s the most important object in my line of work: a wedding band. Can’t make a mark without one. A short video is all it takes to keep a wealthy business man like Mr. Papillon filling my pockets for years, or at least until his marriage collapses due to someone or something else.
“So what would you like to do now?” He asks giving me a wide smile.
“Oh, I think I’ll leave that up to you. After all I do owe you.”
“Indeed. That was a very expensive jacket.”
I say nothing, but rise from my seat and take his hand in mine, to let him lead me from the table to the front door of the restaurant. “We’ll take my car if you don’t mind,” he says, arm sliding around my waist.
“Not at all,” I say and let him hand the valet his ticket.
I stand there with him in silence waiting for the valet to pull up. Mr. Papillon, in the act of a gentleman I suppose, drapes his jacket around my shoulders to stop some of the chilled air from biting me. I often wonder how polite these men would be if they knew they were going to seal the deal regardless. It only takes a moment for a blue Mercedes SLK to pull up.
The car’s leather interior is cold from the night air causing me to shiver as soon as I get in. Mr. Papillon promptly turns the heater on full. He’s been so caring over the course of the night that I almost feel bad about taking his money. But that’s why I refer to them all by last names. Can’t form too much of an attachment or I’d never be able to do my job.
The moonlight is especially clear tonight. The light it shines through the window gives me a clear view of the makeup stain on his collar. Some complexions aren’t flawless naturally. To each his own. It’s a bit weird though, he seemed too manly for that.
The drive is filled with me running my fingers lightly over his exposed skin. A slight groan escapes his lips. I’m good at what I do. He parks his own car at a hotel three blocks away and takes me in through the back entrance.
“Don’t we need to check in?” I ask.
“I already got the key. Discreet right?” He says pointing to the ring around his finger.
“Right,” I agree smiling. It’s always nice to have a paper trail to back me up, but the video will provide plenty of proof of our evening together. That’s the second most important thing in my line of work. I had my designer purse slightly altered to accommodate the video camera I keep in it.
We take the stairs up to the fourth floor, which is annoying, because my feet are killing me from these heels. I keep quiet; however, and quickly follow him into room 439. I’m barely in the door when he flips over the deadlock on it and turns to me. So I’m not the only one in a hurry tonight.
I let the straps of my dress fall down onto my arms and lean in close to kiss Mr. Papillon. The night air has made his lips cool, although they’re still amazingly smooth. After a few seconds I break free. “Do you mind if I go freshen up?”
“Not at all. I’ll just make myself comfortable.”
I make my way into the bathroom and open the purse. The camera is already set for night vision so that all I have to do is press the record button. I quickly do that and then slip out of my dress and heels. Most of my marks prefer to remove the rest. I check my breath quickly before re-entering the bedroom.
I set the purse down on the table making sure that it has a clear view of the bed which Mr. Papillon is sitting on. A tissue covered in dark makeup sits next to him. It’s hard to tell in the dark room, but his skin looks much lighter in tone. “I hope you don’t mind that I took off my cover up. It gives my skin a greasy feel.”
“That’s alright. We all have our vanities.”
Mr. Papillon lets out a slight chuckle and says, “Oh, it has nothing to do with vanity my dear.”
“Sure. So are you ready?”
“That’s a nice camera you have there.”
Oh shit. How can I work this? I work some blush into my cheeks. “I’m so embarrassed. It’s just this thing I have. A fetish I guess you would call it. I’m sorry, I just didn’t think you’d understand.” I slide back quickly to retrieve the purse. I can’t see Mr. Papillon, but his silence leads me to believe that he’s not buying my story.
Before my fingers can grip it, the purse is thrown across the room by an arm moving too fast for me to comprehend. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” comes a whisper in my right ear.
I turn quickly throwing my elbow out in an estimate of where his head should be. And hit nothing but air. Laughter again, coming from the bed where Mr. Papillon is still sitting. Or sitting again. What was that?
“Look, no harm, no foul right? I’ll just grab my stuff and get going.” The laughter keeps echoing, deep maniacal laughter.
“I’m afraid that would be a “foul” as you call it. I’m rather hungry.”
“Well maybe you should have had some more to eat instead of making your stupid innuendo.” I’m almost to my purse where I keep a snub nosed revolver. A girl can never be too careful. A foot slices across my hand as it reaches for the gun. A sickening crunch results and brings forth a scream from me. It never gets past my lips, where a bitter cold hand is now clasped.
“Normally I like to play first, but I suppose I can do that after I eat. You seem a bit too feisty to let me have my way.” The metal of his ring cuts into my lips. How did this psycho ever get married?
“It’s just a ring. I move around far too much to be tied to anyone. I do need to be discreet. You understand.”
I’m still trying to scream but the sound that’s coming out is too muffled to make it out of the room, even if the door was open. No one knows I’m here. No one knows anything. I’m going to die.
Mr. Papillon laughs again. That horrible inhuman laughter. “Yes…you are.”