Takedown: An Enemies to Lovers Dark Romance

by Lana Hartley

  Stupid, really, that a gun threatens him when I’m making him walk out an open window, forty-two stories up in a high-rise office building. Still, it has worked before and it works today. These billionaire types fear pain, and they fear a loss of control. Walking out of a building is such an elegant way for them to feel like they’re in control, when really if they refused and I had to shove them or shoot them, I could be at real risk of getting caught.

  Lorenzo plummets to his death, his undignified screeching barely penetrating my thoughts.

  A surge of power courses through me.

  Normally after a kill, I’d go fuck some stranger in a bar.

  Yes, if you’ve had a one night stand with a charming, wealthy bachelor in this city or several others I like to visit, you’ve probably fucked me. A serial killer doesn’t wear a sign around his neck that says “I’m fucking you because I’m horny after committing a murder.” The only sign I have is the throbbing erection that tents my trousers after I’m finished.

  Still, I already know that despite my cock’s insistence, I won’t be charming and bedding any random stranger tonight.

  I sigh. Another billionaire “suicide” I’ve facilitated. It will make the headlines, but no one will be bothered to truly care that this asshole is dead.

  I can’t complete the next step of my post-kill ritual. All I can think about is how I want to fuck the innocent beauty, Carrie Winters. I want to consume her. Not kill her, but have her… and that’s going to require a long game approach versus a simple seduction over cocktails.

  She gives me another set of kills to complete.

  Carrie

  The gaudy gold stripes on my bedroom wall feel like bars on a cage. I despise this wallpaper, the over-the-top crown moulding and everything else my mother insisted on. At least white was in this season, because the delicate and feminine end tables are the one stylistic refuge in this tacky bedroom. I keep all my valuables — my journal, the book I’m currently reading — on the table, trapped in this world as much as I am.

  I look to the TV for some further refuge. I want to be anywhere but here. I flick on the morning news to distract me.

  I touch the simple white gown I’m wearing for graduation today. I want look pretty, but the more I rehearse my lines for my valedictorian speech, the more Mother’s disappointed look presses back into my memory.

  “We are all starting new steps toward our future.” I pause. How can I get my own words wrong? “We are all taking new steps toward our future today.” I start again and then I just sigh. All my peers care about is getting to the bonfire party on the beach tonight, and all my mother cares about is that I’m not going to look like her idea of pretty.

  I hear Mother’s heels clicking down the hallway and she bursts in the door.

  “That can’t possibly be your makeup!” she shrieks. “You have to do something else with your hair, that’s so boring.” I can tell that’s trying to make me feel sorry for her with her pouty face.

  No, of course my high school graduation and my valedictorian speech, they aren’t about me.

  “What would you like, Mother?” I ask, making my tone even despite the fact that I don’t care what she wants. Why should I care? I could burst into and she’d bitch about how my eyes were getting puffy. When I picked out this dress, I liked how simple it was. White, elegant even. I felt like I was taking a step toward my future when I tried it on, just like my cheesy speech today. I felt like I got to have one thing that was me.

  My mother pulls out a trunk of makeup and hair products and widens her eyes at me like I’m exhausting her. She comes at me with makeup brush after makeup brush, sprays at least three different things in my hair, and I sit there, tuning out the headlines mostly.

  I hear something about a billionaire committing suicide. “…In a rising trend of wealthy men who, despite having everything, chose to give it all up…”

  I’d say that you can have it all and still not be happy, which is stale and tacky, but mostly I see how my parents clamor for fame and treat money as their god, and I wonder… what else is there? What do I want? Why must the first steps I take toward my future be about what dress to wear? I’m an adult now. I did well in school, I’ve been accepted to several colleges and yet I feel devoid of anything to care about. But you can’t get far by only deciding what you don’t want. Getting anywhere in life has got to involve going after what do you do want, and I still don’t know what that is.

  “Turn that off, the news is so depressing,” Mother says.

  Something we actually agree on. I turn off the TV.

  “Don’t move your face. I’m contouring here, you want your face to have cheekbones, not be a round blob, right?” Mother asks.

  I try not to laugh. How did women deal with having faces before they drew lines all over them? It must have been so terrible. But I do actually like the way my face looks when she blends the shades. “That looks great, Mother. Thank you,” I say, moving my face as little as possible.

  “I’ve tried to teach you this. You could do it yourself if you pay attention to the things I try to teach you.”

  Mother’s eyes narrow when she looks at my speech. She’s not proud I’m valedictorian. “At least you can go to that party tonight and try to make some friends. You need to build a network of important people, you can’t keep your nose in a book. Get a boyfriend. Get girlfriends. Make your life matter!” Mother starts to attack me with a very large makeup brush with white powder all over its tips. I try not to cough at the dust clouding the air around us. “Give me that,” she says, and she crumbles up my speech and tosses it across the room. “No one cares about your speech.”

  Mother is probably right. Even I don’t care much about it.

  “These shoes have to go. Heels, why is it so difficult to get you to wear heels. Wear flats when you’re sixty, don’t waste a tight young ass.”

  I bend and remove my shoes.

  Mother produces some incredibly high heels from the pile of things she’d tossed on my bed. “These,” she says, thrusting them forward.

  I take them and try not to tremble, standing into them. I feel so small, wearing these towering shoes.

  “You don’t have to look like a social failure,” Mother says. I’m pretty sure those words are meant to be uplifting. “Join us in the car.”

  I follow her. My father is on the phone and doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all. That’s typical of our interactions, they’re non-existent. I won’t have to be around my parents when I go to college, though. I’ll be glad to be away from them both. I doubt they will miss me, and I know I won’t miss them.

  Jeremy

  I’m going to kill again, but all I think about is Carrie.

  No one has ever stirred me the way she does. I barely saw her, barely talked to her, but I want her more than I’ve wanted anything. Crave her more than any kill.

  I plan to kill Carrie’s classmates. Part of it for me is about the kill.

  But more than that? This is about Carrie. I don’t want these girls to tease her, mock her, treat her like she’s inferior.

  Even a cursory glance into that graduating class revealed just how little these brats will be missed. My private investigator, Firmin, hands me large manila packets holding all the criminal activity they’ve done without being formally charged, or those charges sticking. “Privileged brats with possible DUIs swept under the rug because of who their parents are and the balance in their bank accounts.” He drops another file stack and opens them to various pages, pointing out the similarities. “Assault charges never filed, or the charges were dropped and settled with large sums of money.” Firmin rings out his hands, and his tension permeates the air. I know he despises seeing the sort of activities that privileged individuals are able to get away with and I know that’s why he went into private investigation. He doesn’t punish like I do. Firmin doesn’t even ask questions about what I do.

  “Excellent work. Thank you, Firmin.” I wave my hand at the whiskey
decanter. “A drink?” I ask. Rarely does he partake, but I always offer. Firmin and I rarely share more than files, much less conversation. But his weighted tension in the air has not evaporated.

  “I think I’d like that drink, yes. Double, neat,” Firmin says, sitting in one of my leather high-back chairs like he’s resting the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  I don’t fumble, despite this odd moment where I’m feeling off balance. I don’t enjoy the company of many people, but I do actually like Firmin. I don’t completely understand his emotions. The Lorenzo Sirvio discoveries disgusted him; most people find acts against children particularly heinous. But he’s not my conscience. I’m not certain I have one, at least not more than Carter. I think ultimately, it’s Firmin’s professionalism that I appreciate. He’s not broaching any gentlemanly protocol by accepting offered whiskey, and I make us both a drink. I had him his highball, and sit down in the chair facing his.

  “You seem… distracted,” Firmin says, treading lightly. Firmin must have a strong idea of what I do. He never asks. I don’t suppose that he wants to know, but I can tell that he wants to say something. “I don’t suppose that with this many files, that your procurement could be a team effort? Is that what is distracting you?” Firmin takes a longer swig of his whiskey. He wonders if he’s crossed a line, asked too much with that word ‘procurement' when he means that I murder.

  I find it enchanting. My affections for Carrie have distracted me so much that my stoic private investigator seems almost concerned. I grant him a smile, and while I know I am charming, I wonder if he sees this as genuine.

  I’ll let him suffer. I like Firmin, but I’m not exactly a congenial man and I take more pleasure out of his minute pain than a thousand professional or even friendly interactions I might have with him.

  “I am distracted, yes. But not so much that I won’t be able to complete my work.” I take a lingering sip of my drink. “The procurement, and this operation, will be alone.” Maybe I should bring Carter in on such a big plan. There’s a lot of students to kill at this bonfire party, but I don’t want to share Carrie just yet, don’t want to share this plan. It is my gift to her. My method of acquiring her. I will separate her from anything, anyone that prevents her from being mine.

  Carrie isn’t ready to understand why she’ll like my present, but I’m preparing myself to help her understand. My hands are shaking just thinking about it, about her. The soft curls in her hair, the gentle ivory of her skin, and those eyes. Her eyes that are haunting in their purity and the mystery that lies beneath.

  I retrace my conversation and look to Firmin polishing off his drink. “I see,” he says, gripping the highball glass a little too tightly. “Apologies for my intrusion—”

  “Nonsense, Firmin, I enjoy your lively company.” A wicked grin spreads across my face. My smirk is cruel, and I decide to assuage his fears further when he trembles at putting his glass down. I press my hand to his shoulder, letting him know that this is not a domineering touch but a kind one. “I would never harm you, Firmin. Your invaluable services and your professionalism make your company quite enjoyable.” It feels strange to compliment someone with so little ulterior motives. I only want him to feel comfortable, and not in the way I would with a victim before I slice into their side and watch them gasp.

  Hmm.

  “Good evening,” I say to him, removing my hand from him.

  He gathers his coat and briefcase, nodding and leaving my study.

  I don’t follow him out. I see the wheels in his mind turning. Is it good to be liked by someone like me? He’s asking himself.

  There are certain advantages to the working relationship Firmin and I have.

  What about Carrie and her perhaps perilous attraction to me, and my possibly fatal affections for her?

  My throat tightens at the thought. I have stronger emotions toward her than I’ve ever had for someone. Even stronger than the urges to kill. I know I would never harm her – an odd declaration for a person that so enjoys harming others.

  But I don’t want to hurt Carrie.

  I want to have her.

  Carrie

  Ashley almost trips over a branch. Her free hand reaches out for mine, her beer sloshing. “Shit, sorry!” she says, and then she sees me. I used to think Ashley was not as terrible as the rest of the Westwick Prep graduates, until I saw her making a foreign exchange student her slave last year. I don’t feel bad bristling at her pink claws against my skin. I almost pull back and let her fall over, but I don’t want to be as cold as these people.

  “Watch your step,” I say matter-of-factly.

  Ashley rolls her eyes and takes a big gulp of her drink. “Why are you even here? I mean, you can’t be having fun.”

  “No, I absolutely hate this party and everything like it.” I shake my head and start to walk away.

  “Take a beer, damn. If you’re gonna be here, you don’t have to be a buzzkill.” Ashley waves over someone who’s carrying two cans.

  I don’t really have a reason not to drink the beer. I’ve tried alcohol before. My parents offer me wine with just about every meal. I smile when I see it, Pabst Blue Ribbon. I assume this means we’re drinking the cheap stuff, ironically, and I can’t decide if that’s amusing or not. I pop open the tab.

  “Thanks.” I nod to Ashley and the guy. Perry, I think his name is? I mean, in their own backhanded way, they’re trying to involve me. Even if I’m just a buzzkill. I take a big swig of the beer.

  It tastes fucking awful, but the more I drink the less I mind. It’s chilled and has a little kick after every drink. I walk towards the water, pulling off my shoes and tossing them near where everyone else has theirs. I watch the water and listen to all the sounds around me fade out to nothing.

  I’ve just graduated high school. I’m starting college in the fall. I should be excited. But after the sounds creep back into my consciousness, I just feel annoyed all over again. I wonder for a second what it would be like to not feel so displeased.

  Laurel laughs, sputtering out some of her beer when Perry lifts up her towel and shows everyone Jonie’s hairy legs. “Jonie, please, who are you kidding with not shaving your legs? No one thinks that’s empowered, that’s your first visible step in giving up on yourself!”

  “Shaving is a huge waste of time,” Jonie says, her eyes cast downward. She tries to snatch her towel back from Perry.

  Jonie is mousy and has a surprisingly squeaky voice. Two things that already didn’t help her fit in at Westwick Prep, and she wanted to fit in. It’s made her time at school painful to witness. Laurel and her crew invite her to everything, bully her, and then treat her like their personal whipping girl. I used to feel bad for Jonie until she took personal advantage of her rung on the ladder being a few steps up from the bottom. She took every opportunity to pick on Tabitha until she transferred schools.

  I despise being around these putrid people. I realize now that I’m clenching the can of beer that I’ve totally finished, and I have to pee.

  Laurel’s father’s beach house is open, so I traipse up there to pee. I can’t believe how quickly one beer went through me, and how I’m already starting to feel a little sloppy on my feet. I’m careful to swerve past the line of sight of my fellow graduates, easier now that the sun has gone down and the bonfire isn’t getting all that well tended to. Everyone else has had way more than a single can, I’d wager. Yet they aren’t going to be pee… at least I’ll get to be away from everyone for a moment.

  I start to feel much soberer after I empty my bladder. It was only the slightest buzz, anyway. But something is different. I’m not sure what I’m seeing until I get closer to the fire.

  Bodies.

  Bleeding, lifeless bodies across the shore. Panic should set in now, but I just feel a cold need to know if they’re dead now…or will be. Where does this eerie harshness come from? I reach down and press my ear to the hearts of one of the bodies before me. No heartbeat. No breath. I look at my dress and se
e blood on the white fabric.

  I hear one screaming voice, someone still alive.

  I recognize them.

  Laurel.

  And I feel…I don’t know what that pang in my stomach is, but I look in the direction I hear Laurel’s voice coming from. It’s getting closer to me. I look down at the blood crossing through the water. I think I forget to breathe.

  Why do I know it’s him?

  I step closer. Jeremy is dragging Laurel’s body across the beach. I see him stab her. Drop her.

  Come towards me.

  I pick up my phone and start calling 911. I am barely listening to the dispatcher, though. I alternate between looking at my toes in the bloody sand, wave lapping over it and mixing everything in the moonlight and the dying firelight, and toward Jeremy. He is walking toward me now, Laurel discarded. I keep up with answering the dispatcher’s questions but I’m barely paying attention.

  I look right in Jeremy’s piercing green eyes and lie on the phone. No, I didn’t see anyone.

  Why would I lie?

  Why do I want to touch him?

  Jeremy

  “So much blood,” Carrie says, her voice nearly drowned out by ocean and the wind.

  Darkness cloaks us both, the fire flickering down to almost nothing. The teenagers hadn’t been tending to that fire as well as their booze. I barely needed the mask I wore tonight. I’ve cut them all down but Laurel, and of course, Carrie.

  Laurel screams. I barely hear her cry out, her voice seeming distant even though she’s in my grasp. Hers is the final body strewn along the beach tonight. I sink my blade into Laurel’s side several more times, cutting and twisting her insides, but my eyes are on Carrie.

  I watch her pick up her phone.

  She’s called 911, like a good little girl.

  The logical thing to do would be to finish off Laurel and leave. Instead, I toss the shivering shell of Laurel, quickly losing blood, into the water and walk towards Carrie. Her white gown is covered in blood, water, sand. Her bare feet I see, just barely against the moonlight, sinking into the sand, mixing with the blood on the shore that the waves keep lapping up.