Suicide Lounge (Selena Book 3)

by Greg Barth

  I was on my way to kill a man I didn’t even know.

  My ID and travel bag were in the back of Lyman’s car. He’d pick me up in a couple of hours—the normal duration of Miles’ sexual activities. Choke had insisted he be there as well. They’d fly me home on a private jet Lyman owned.

  Lyman didn’t go into detail regarding his Vegas partners. It was clear to me that Lyman was, at best, a medium fish in a small pond. But he was a hungry fish, and he was intelligent. And Vegas was no longer run by the mafia, it seemed. More like an R-rated, plastic Disneyland for grown-ups. It felt very corporate.

  Lyman was smart. I just hoped he was smart about me.

  The limo driver took a narrow street between two hotels. He took us around back of one of them and pulled into a fenced-in delivery area. A man approached the car. He didn’t look like a bellhop. More like a secret service agent. The driver powered down the window and spoke to the man. The guy touched the Bluetooth device on his ear and spoke into the air. A mechanical garage bay door opened up in front of us. I hadn’t even noticed the door being there before. It just looked like a bare wall until it started moving.

  Clever.

  The man waved his arm and the driver pulled into the open doorway. And we were in a private parking garage under the hotel. The lighting inside cast a yellowish glow over everything, exaggerated by the tinted glass on the car. The inside of the garage was immaculate, the concrete surface smooth and clean like gray glass. The few cars parked inside were sleek, black, and silver. A lot of Italian cars in there.

  He drove up to what I could only think of as the VIP check-in desk. It was a large room with glass walls. There were leather chairs and sofas inside. A man in uniform stood behind a desk.

  So this is how the uppity-ups check in.

  The driver parked. He left the engine running, got out of the car, came back, and opened my door. He extended a hand. “Miss,” he said.

  Imagine that. They call working girls “Miss” in this town. Fucking Vegas.

  I took his hand and stepped out of the car.

  He escorted me to the door and opened it for me.

  I looked back at him. “Don’t I get a kiss good night?”

  He chuckled. “You have a good time, Miss.”

  I stepped inside the check-in station. I popped my gum as I approached the desk. The man behind the desk was middle-aged and heavyset. He had a shaved head and a big smile. A brass tag on his jacket read “Jimarcus.”

  “Welcome to the VIP access. You are here to see...?”

  “I have an appointment with Miles,” I said.

  “Mister Miles it is. I’ll need you to sign in. I’ll have to badge you in to get access to his floor. He’s at the top.”

  I signed a fake name in the book.

  “Now, I’ll just need to take your purse,” he said.

  I pressed it tight up against my stomach. “Oh no. I need to take this with me.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t let you take it up. It’ll be safe here. Nobody will mess with it. I promise it will be fine.”

  “They didn’t tell me at the agency that this would be the arrangement.”

  “Miles’ new rules. All personal belongings have to stay here. And I gotta listen to him, you understand.”

  “Can I just get something out first?”

  He shook his head. “Trust me. He’s got anything you could possibly need up there. And the very best. You’ll be fine without.”

  I frowned. I sure hoped he’d have what I’d need up there. In slow, jerky movements, I relinquished my purse.

  Jimarcus tucked my purse under the counter next to his desk phone. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  I followed him to the elevator. He had to scan a card to open the doors. We stepped inside. Mirrors lined the back wall of the elevator. I checked my hair and lipstick.

  He noticed me primping. “You look real nice,” he said. “I like that hair color you got.”

  “Thank you. It needs a touch-up.”

  He pressed the button for the highest floor. A recorded woman’s voice said, “Scan please.” He waved the card in front of a sensor. The voice said, “Access approved.” The elevator started climbing. My ears popped halfway up.

  “You know anything about Mister Miles?” the man said.

  “Not much,” I said.

  “Well, I hear he can be rough. That being said, everybody that’s gone up has come down with...minimal signs of rough treatment.”

  “What do you mean exactly?” I said.

  “You know, running mascara, maybe a bloody nose, fat lip. That kind of thing.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “But you’re going to be fine. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “That long?”

  “That’s the usual for Miles.”

  The elevator stopped. The door opened. He held the door for me.

  “Aren’t you going to show me the way?”

  “Naw,” he said. “Door down at the end of the hall is the one you want.”

  “Wait, how do I get back down?”

  “Miles will call me. I’ll come back up and escort you down.”

  I swallowed. None of this was going according to plan.

  “You getting out or not?”

  I stepped out. I looked back over my shoulder and watched Jimarcus disappear behind the closing elevator doors.

  I was on my own, and I was unarmed.

  And I had to kill a man.

  SEVENTEEN

  Selena

  I WANTED TO blow a couple of rails before going in. I craved the rush, the edge that the extra adrenaline would give me, but I had nothing but the skimpy clothes I was wearing. I approached the door and took my gum out, looked around for a place to toss it. Finding nothing, I put it back in my mouth. I cleared my throat, walked up to the door, and pressed the doorbell button. The chime sounded inside.

  The floor creaked as someone inside walked up to answer. There was a brief hesitation, then the door opened.

  The man standing inside only had a couple of inches on me, but he was massive. Completely bald, his shoulders wide and round, his round cheeks and fat neck made his head look like a bullet. His red silk robe was tied closed around his prominent belly. He had piercing black eyes.

  “Miles?” I said.

  “You go out looking like that?” he said. He had a throaty voice that rattled with phlegm. He breathed through his mouth, his breasts rising and falling with each breath.

  Oh fuck. That type. This was going to suck.

  “But I’m growing up, Daddy,” I said in an exaggerated girlish way.

  “You get in here,” he said. “I’m going to make that dark, whore makeup run down your cheeks.”

  I stepped through the door. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Are you displeased?” I’d play along until I had a chance to get a look around and figure out how to pull this off.

  He slapped me hard across the cheek. I didn’t expect it. The tears that welled up in my eyes were genuine. The look of surprise on my face couldn’t have been more sincere.

  Okay, fuck playing along.

  “You fat fucking bastard,” I said. I put my hand up and wiped at my eye. “You knocked my goddamn contact loose.”

  “Let’s go,” he said. He took me by the arm and dragged me into the front room. The lighting was dim. I could make out hardwood flooring, drab walls with artsy prints of nude women. There was a sofa, recliner, and a glass topped coffee table. He shoved me away from him. I turned to face him.

  “Do not fucking touch me again,” I said. I pulled at my lower eyelid and tried to get the contact to line up.

  A long grin sliced across his fat face. He stepped forward and raised his hand to slap me again.

  I planted my foot, pivoted my hip, and punched him hard in the gut. He gasped and leaned forward. I followed through with a hard kick to his shin.

  I blinked rapidly, hoping the contact lens would fall out.

  He looked up a
t me, rage bubbled up in his reddening face. His upper lip peeled back, revealing crooked teeth. He snarled, and deep lines formed across his narrow forehead. “You little bitch,” he said. He brought his hand up and punched me hard in the mouth.

  I fell backward, my ass hitting the coffee table hard. The glass shattered under me and I was flat on the floor, the top of my head against the sofa. There was a metallic taste in my mouth.

  Miles loomed over me. He stepped forward, straddled me, sat down hard on my stomach. The man had to weigh 350 pounds. The air was forced out of my lungs from the crushing weight. My face flushed with heat as the blood was forced out of my center and into my extremities. My head felt like it was going to explode. There was a sharp pain in my side, like something was tearing inside me.

  He looked down at me, grabbed me by the chin, my cheeks pulled tight under his fingers. I felt bubbles of blood form around my lips, as they were forced open. A sick grin stretched across his wormlike lips. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said. “Then I’m going to kill you. And then I’m going to dismember you. And then I’m going to erase any trace of your putrid little existence you dumbass whore. You never lived.”

  I couldn’t breathe. I felt around the wooden floor with my fingers, trying to find something I could use against him. Broken shards of glass from the coffee table covered the floor. I found a large sliver and grasped it between my fingers. The glass sliced open the tip of my ring finger. The way he was sitting on me didn’t allow me to move much. I turned my hand as much as I could and brought the glass up hard. I was hoping to get one of his kidneys, but the best I could do was stab him in the hip.

  “Oh!” He released my face.

  I withdrew the glass and stabbed him again. I tried to push the glass in as deep as I could. Warm blood spread over the palm of my hand, but I didn’t know if it was his or mine. I don’t think the glass even pierced the thick layer of fat he had around his middle.

  “Ah,” he said. He grabbed my wrist and pushed it way so I couldn’t stab him again. He scooted back off me.

  “You’re going to fucking pay for that, you cunt.”

  I took in a deep, gasping lungful of air and sat up as far as I could. My side was on fire. He had squashed or ripped something inside me when he sat on me. I rubbed my side with my hand, smeared the blood over my white blouse and skin.

  I looked around for another sliver of glass. I saw a fifth of scotch on its side on the floor and grabbed it by the neck. I pushed myself back, my ass sliding over the broken glass, so I was propped against the couch. I held my aching side with my left hand and the scotch bottle in my right. I took deep breaths. My knees were up, my skirt riding high. I watched as he pulled the sliver of glass out of his hip.

  He turned to me. He crawled over like some homicidal hippo. I let him get up close. He came up between my legs. I stretched them apart so he could get in closer. He put his hand out to grab me by the throat. I brought up the bottle and struck him as hard as I could on the head with it. It made a thunk.

  It only pissed him off more. His face reddened, his lips curled back from his teeth and spit flew from his mouth.

  I brought the bottle up and hit him again. This time I caught him on the eye. He jerked back and covered his eye with his hand.

  I pushed myself from the edge of the couch, hit him with the bottle over the top of his head. The bottle smashed, the scotch running over his bald head. He started to fall against me. I pushed him back. His fat body slumped sideways to the floor.

  I crawled up to his side. He was dazed but not out. I held the bottleneck in my hand; it had broken off, leaving a jagged point about three inches long. I put it up to his neck. He covered himself with his hands.

  I backed away.

  His silk robe had ridden up, exposing his fat thighs and his private area.

  The femoral.

  I put one hand on his knee, opened his legs, and thrust the sharp shard of glass into the part of his groin right between his inner thigh and his balls. He screamed. He sat up almost upright from the floor.

  I jiggled the neck of the bottle savagely, trying to find the artery. I pulled it out and thrust it in again. He screamed louder. He brought his hands down and grabbed my wrist. He pulled my hand away. The shard of glass came out. I felt the forceful pumps of hot blood on my wrist as it spurted from his artery.

  I lay back on the floor.

  “You’re going to die now you fat fucker,” I said.

  ***

  My side was killing me. I’d been on it catching my breath for too long. I had to get moving.

  I rolled over on the floor onto my stomach, pushed myself up until I was on all fours. I winced at the pain. Glass bit into my knees, but the worst was my side.

  I slowly got up to my knees. I looked over at Miles. He lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, eyes unblinking. One bloody hand still pressed against the wound to his groin. Blood was smeared over his penis, spread out in a large pool between his legs.

  I hadn’t been here long enough, but I was anxious to leave. I felt panic closing in.

  I got to my feet, looked down at my legs. Red spots and lines dotted them from the cuts inflicted by the broken glass. I took a step and fresh pain tore through my side.

  I was getting the fuck out of that apartment.

  I took another look at Miles’ body on the floor at my feet. His eyes were unfocused. His chest didn’t move. I didn’t need a coroner’s report to know that he was dead.

  I stepped over him and made my way to the door. A waist-high table in the foyer held a set of keys. Lying next to the keys was a magnetic card that looked like the one Jimarcus used to access the elevator. I took it.

  I limped down the hall to the elevator and pushed the down button. The sounds that came from behind the door as the machinery responded comforted me. I guess you don’t need the card to call the elevator up. Within a few seconds, the doors opened and I stepped into the elevator. I pushed the button for the lowest floor. The woman’s electronic voice asked me to scan my card. I did, and the elevator started moving.

  When the doors opened, I stepped out the elevator and limped up to the desk, clutching my side.

  Jimarcus looked up from a book he was reading as I came around the corner. “Hey...” he said.

  “Finished early,” I grunted. I came around behind the desk and grabbed my purse.

  “What happened to you?” he said.

  “Daddy’s girl was bad,” I said.

  “You want me to call—”

  “No,” I said and made for the door.

  “Hold on now,” Jimarcus said.

  I ignored him and pushed my way through the door. No one was waiting for me in the garage. It was much too early. I was supposed to wait in the apartment long enough to make this appear to be a normal encounter. I’d fucked that up.

  There was a door off to the side with a red exit light above it. I limped as fast as I could toward it. When I got close to the door, I looked back and saw Jimarcus on the phone.

  Fuck.

  The door opened to a stairwell. I climbed to the ground floor and went out the exit door. Traffic sounds came from nearby. The night air was stifling hot. I looked around. I was in a small parking lot, a sidewalk to the back of it. I walked that way.

  By the time I made the sidewalk, my side was killing me. I couldn’t go much farther.

  Someone was speaking behind me. I looked over my shoulder. Jimarcus was standing outside the door with two men at his side. He was pointing at me. The men started walking in my direction.

  I limped faster, jerking my stiff right leg as I walked. Headlights shone on the street. A car was approaching. I clawed open my purse and fumbled for the knife. A packet of baby wipes fell out onto the sidewalk followed by a three-pack of foil-wrapped condoms. I opened the compartment at the bottom and withdrew the tanto-blade knife. I put the purse in my left hand and held the knife with my right.

  The sound of footsteps was close behind me. The car’s he
adlights were blinding.

  “Miss,” someone said over my shoulder.

  I ignored him.

  “Hold up, Miss.” So polite.

  I tried to walk faster. Tears streamed down my cheeks from the pain in my side.

  The car stopped. A door opened.

  A hand gripped my shoulder hard. I turned. The man’s eyes were glassy in the headlight beams. I lunged with the knife. It was a weak thrust, but the blade slipped into his gut with ease. I felt the hilt catch on the fabric of his sports jacket. I withdrew and thrust again.

  “Ungh...” he said and doubled over.

  The other man was pointing something at me, his arm extended toward my face. He held a pistol in his hand.

  The deafening sound of a gunshot rang out. My body jerked at the loud noise, tearing my side again in the process.

  The man with the pistol collapsed to the ground. The guy I stabbed fell back on his ass. There was another gunshot and he went limp.

  “Amanda, get in,” a muffled voice said. My eardrums hadn’t recovered from the shock of the gunshots.

  I turned. Lyman was standing next to the car. He held a gun in his hand, pointing it back at the doorway where Jimarcus still stood. “Get in,” he said again.

  I lurched and jerked my way up to the car, climbed in the backseat. Choke got in next to me. Lyman slipped into the front, then we were zooming at high speed down the city street. Lyman ignored the streetlights. He wove around any vehicles in the way.

  “You get him?” Lyman said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I got him. Holy fuck, I’m in pain.”

  “We would have been there to pick you up, but it wasn’t time. I’m sorry.”

  “It didn’t go according to plan. But Miles is dead.” I put the knife back in my purse. A fresh jolt of pain shot through my side. The worst one yet. “Ah, fuck,” I said.

  “You okay?” Choke said.

  I gritted my teeth together, pressed my eyes shut tight, and rocked back and forth as the pain squeezed me.

  “Amanda?” Lyman said.

  “No. I’m not okay. A bad muscle pull, I think. Son of a bitch sat his fat ass on me.”