by LP Lovell
You look like a whore. Like a dirty little sinner. They will see that, Evelyn.
I inhale just as one officer flashes his badge. "I'm Lieutenant Prescott. This is officer Keith. Are you Evelyn Wright?"
I try to judge the expression on his face because it's not anger. It's not one of accusation. And my heart sinks to the pit of my sinful little stomach. Swallowing, I wet my dry mouth so I can form words. "Yes," I whisper.
"We need you to come down to the station with us."
"Why?" All I hear is the loud pounding of my heart.
"Is your sister Hannah Wright?"
I nod slowly, and his expressionless face becomes full of sympathy. “I'm sorry, Miss Wright" he steps closer to me and places a hand on my shoulder, "but we believe Hannah is dead.” It feels like a rusted knife is jabbing into my chest. I can't breathe. I can't move. “I’m so sorry," he says with his hand still on my shoulder. "Due to circumstances surrounding the death, we need you to come and identify the body.”
A coldness jolts down my spine and my body shakes. I nod, and the officer moves his hand to the middle of my back, guiding me back onto the street.
I know she is dead. I feel it.
I never believed they really had family members come to a morgue to identify a body. I thought that was dramatic effect in crime shows and movies. But here I stand, staring at that black, zip-up bag. Officer Prescott stands beside me, one hand on my shoulder as the coroner unzips the bag. Her skin is grey and wet, her dark hair matted to her head, her glassy eyes fixed toward the heavens. I only look for a moment before my eyes slam shut. Bile rises in my throat and I swallow time and time again to force it away.
I step toward the metal table. The officer follows behind me; afraid I'm going to hit the concrete floor at any moment. Little does he know I've probably seen more dead bodies than he has, but this... this affects me in ways none of those other bodies could. This lifeless mound of flesh is my sister. Those lips have shared secrets with me, those arms have comforted me. She is the only other person who understands the hell I've experienced. She lived through it; she escaped it with me, and now she is gone. The only person I have ever loved. The only person who cares—cared for me. Tears swim in my eyes as another lump of acid burns up my throat. I stare at her, everything blurring as memories flood my mind.
Hannah clings to me, her entire frame shaking as she cries.
"It's okay," I whisper.
"He's going to hurt me." Her fingers dig into my arm, and I wince.
"It will be okay. You have to let him hurt you so you can be forgiven."
His footsteps are right outside of the closet, and we both freeze. We know we must be beaten to be freed from our sins, but we still fear the pain, the punishment.
"Please don't let him hurt me, Evelyn. Please." She cries, burying her face into my neck, her wet tears rolling down my throat.
The door yanks open and Zachariah stands with a long rod in his hand. "Hannah, come."
She holds so tight to me I can't breathe.
I look at him, swallowing before I speak. "Let me take her punishment." I feel her grip on me tighten. "Zachariah. Punish me. Let me bear her sins."
A broad smile twists over his face as he reaches for me and jerks me to my feet with Hannah still clinging to my side. "As you wish," he says. And the punishment I receive for that is nearly unbearable, and to punish Hannah, he makes her watch.
I step closer and notice gash marks along Hannah's collarbone. Tiny cuts long cuts, crisscross patterns. I can't ignore the bloody mess they're trying to keep covered. Before anyone can stop me, I grab the bag, ripping the zipper open farther. The officer pulls me away; the coroner rushes to zip the bag closed, but they are too late. I lean over my knees, bile spewing from my mouth and splattering onto the officer’s shiny black shoes.
I close my eyes. I scream. I attempt to shake that image from my mind, but I'm afraid it is now forever etched into my memory. I don't know that I will ever be able to think of my sister again without seeing her mutilated body, every inch of her covered in knife wounds. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. Part of me feels responsible. I was the first one to realize posing as a whore gave me easy access to filthy men. I was the one who killed the first man and realized that I could rid the world of sinners, that I could protect other women from men like Zachariah. And I told her. I prayed with her about it. I went with her the first time she killed a man. She wanted to help me do this work. Had I never told her, she wouldn't be dead right now.
No, Evelyn. It was a job that had to be done. Her purpose was fulfilled, and you must carry on until you achieve your purpose.
She was all I had.
"Forgive me for the thoughts I cannot control..." my voice catches in the back of my throat. All I want to do is crawl into one of the wooden pews and cry. I want to mourn the loss of my sister. I have no one to confide in, no one to trust. I have no one to help me carry out this work now. Evelyn, you have work to do. Nothing can come between you and the work you must do. I lay down on the steps of the altar, scratching my nails over the rough carpet. My mind becomes a cyclical pattern of guilt and despair and fear. "Forgive Hannah." The image of her mutilated body pops to mind, and I only hope that the beating she had taken before she drew her last breath was enough to cleanse her from her sins. "...enable me to forgive those who have treated me poorly in the past..."
I notice I'm sweating and inhale, pushing myself up from the floor. I don't want to forgive them which means I am lying. Lying is a sin.
"…help me be an instrument..." I open my eyes, my hands still clasped tightly together. "Please let me find the man who hurt my sister so I can kill him. Amen."
I leave the church, taking the subway to the side of town club Sin is on. That club was where my sister worked. She found the men she killed there, but the person she wanted to kill more than anyone else was her pimp, Ezra James. She said he was the devil.
I shift my legs, and the cold fiberglass seat touches my skin. I sit, losing myself in my grief until the train screeches to a stop at the next exit. Grabbing my belongings, I rush out of the doors and hurry up the stairs, the chill in the wind biting at my bare skin when I exit the station. Garbage litters the sidewalk. Everywhere I look I see broken beer bottles, used condoms, needles. There's a homeless man slumped against a doorway to an abandoned shop, dead or drunk, I don't know, but no one pays him any attention as they go about their evening. Turning the corner, I focus my attention on the neon light flashing "Sin" into the dark sky. It's like a beacon.
"Fucking whore!" I hear a man growl from the alleyway, and then I hear a loud bang followed by a shrill scream. "You are worthless. Fifty bucks and you can't even get my goddamn dick hard." A loud smack bounces from the brickwork. I turn to my left and see a man looming over a woman who is on her knees in front of him. She's holding her face where he hit her. Kill him! He could have done the same thing to Hannah. He would do the same thing to you, Evelyn. I walk away, my heels clicking on the pavement as I will that voice to quiet. Kill him. Kill that worthless little sinner. Take his life.
I shake my head as I whisper to that little demon, "It's not planned. It's a sin." It must be planned, or it's a sin.
It was a sin to allow your sister to defile her body like that. You are a walking sin right now, look at your short skirt! Kill him.
But I must plan this out. It has to be precise. He has to be forgiven. I must have control...
The shouting continues to boom down the alleyway, and I stop, leaning against the tinted window of Sin. I can feel the bass from inside rumble through the pane, and I attempt to focus on that, but the moment I see the woman run past me, her lip bleeding and her eye swelling my control slips. That demon screeches, clawing its way up my chest. The man follows shortly behind her and his gaze drags over my body, coating me with a slimy film of sin. He opens the door to the club, and the song "Highway to Hell" pours out from inside. And I know what I must do.
My heart clangs agains
t my ribs as I follow him inside. It's dark and crowded. The entire place reeks of sweat and sex. Sinners litter the dance floor, and I scan each face for that man from the alleyway. I find him at the bar slamming back a drink. Swallowing, I press my shoulders back and sway my hips as I approach the counter. I squeeze myself between him and the overweight man beside him. The man glances down at me, a smirk playing over his disgusting, thin lips. "Aren't you a pretty little thing?" he slurs before guzzling half a mug of beer.
I bat my eyelashes and fuck him with my eyes as I bite down on my bottom lip. I pop the top to the poison ring on my right hand before I swipe his drink.
"May I?" I purr, and he nods.
I take a quick swig and tilt my hand over the top of his glass. My eyes remain locked on his to ensure he doesn't notice the white powder now dissolving in his drink. I will kill him because he's a bad man. I will kill him because he sins. And since this wasn't planned, I will beg for forgiveness later. I need this to mourn Hannah, and he needs to see how wicked beauty really is.
We walk back to the club, Jonty whistling "Knocking on Heaven's Door" the entire time. He's a big fucker, six and a half feet tall, with a long scar across one cheek, a reminder that the Russian mafia is a nasty little bastard. Some people cross the street in a bid to get away from us as we walk toward them, whilst others all but press themselves into the side of buildings as we pass. Jonty and I seem to have developed a reputation around here.
A woman stands beneath one of the street lamps, puffing on a cigarette. My gaze skims over her long, bare legs exposed by leather hot pants. Smoke billows around her face and her blonde hair hangs down her back in waves. She turns at our approach and flashes Jonty a sexy smile. Mel. She's one of my best earners on the streets, but she's also fucking Jonty. He's a scary bastard, but women can't get enough of him. Must be the dark and dangerous thing. She takes one step forward before I stop her.
"Get back to work, Mel." I snap the order at her without stopping. She scowls at me but doesn't argue.
"Harsh," Jonty quips.
"You using her pussy doesn't earn me money, but that guy..." I point to the scummy man making his way across the street to her, a perverse grin on his face. "When he puts his dick in her, I earn money. You see how that works?"
"Whatever," Jonty grumbles. "You're a cock block, Ez."
"I just hope you triple bag that shit, mate."
"Look, just because you surround yourself with pussy, yet somehow have this unholy fucking restraint, don't judge the rest of us mere mortals."
"They're hookers, Jonty."
He grins. "Hot hookers."
"No one wants to fuck ugly girls."
"Amen to that." He chuckles, and then goes back to whistling.
We're almost right outside Sin when I hear a muffled noise from the alleyway to our left. We both glance into the dark side street. I listen again. There's a low groan and a 'fuck yeah', followed by ‘suck me.’
Motherfucking whores are doing their shit on the fucking street. How many times do I have to tell them? Take the clients upstairs or to the bloody hotel across the road. They're going to have the cops on my arse. I signal Jonty to wait for me, and he rolls his eyes, pulling out a cigarette and leaning against the wall at the mouth of the alley.
A low moan comes from behind the dumpster. I round it, expecting to see SJ fucking the shit out of some guy because never has a girl been more suited to spreading her legs for a living. I'm constantly bollocking her for blowing some John in the toilets at the club, or in an alleyway.
The dim street light casts enough light that I can tell this girl isn't SJ, but whoever she is, she's on her knees in front of a guy I recognize as one of the Johns. His head is thrown back against the wall, his hands in her hair. He thrusts into her face, and she moans as if she loves every second of it. Anyone else would walk away, but sex is how I make my living, and this shit is bad for business. His groans suddenly silence and his hands tighten in her hair as he hisses, “What the fuck?”
He yanks her away and shoves her to the side. She falls, sprawling out across the pavement, laughing under her breath. I guess she bites. He staggers a few steps before leaning against the wall. She stands up and watches as the guy slowly slumps down the wall. Her heels echo off the walls as she makes her way toward him and drops to a crouch, her black dress riding up her toned thighs. She whispers something into his ear, and his eyes pop wide before his labored breaths stop, and a deafening silence rings through the dirty alleyway.
"Damn, that must have been some blow job," I say, clapping my hands.
She gasps, standing and whirling around to face me. Her eyes are wide, and for a second I’m pretty sure she’s going to bolt, but instead she pushes her shoulders back, steeling herself.
"He took something. He's just passed out." She lies easily, and I almost want to laugh because if she’s going to lie she really should work on her acting skills. She attempts to brush past me, her high heels clicking against the concrete.
Sighing, I reach out, wrapping a hand around her small arm. "Firstly, he's dead." I glance at the body on the ground before looking at her. Now that I can see her properly I see just how beautiful she is. Stunning. If I died with those lips wrapped around my dick, I'd die a happy man. She looks like a porcelain doll with dark hair and pale skin, and eyes so big and blue they almost don't seem real. The show stopper though is those lips, which even after just blowing some guy are still flawlessly painted in slut red lipstick. Her eyes lock with mine, watching me check her out.
She’s completely calm. If a guy just overdosed and dropped dead at her feet, she should be panicking which means she was expecting it. I shouldn't find that shit hot. Fuck, I should find it disturbing, but my rock hard dick is proof of just how screwed up I am. She tries to move past me again, and I sigh as I grab her jaw, pulling her face towards mine. I catch the light glint from a small silver crucifix hung around her delicate neck, and I smirk. "Secondly, you're on my turf sweetheart, and dead or not, if you're blowing him it means my girls aren't. So indirectly, you're taking money out of my pocket."
"Some guys don't want to pay for it. And last time I checked this alley was the property of New York City, not whoever the hell you are." Her voice is shaking. She's trying to mask her fear, and it makes me smile.
I jerk her forward, yanking her body against mine. "A whore that doesn't charge? Well, now that's just tragic, sweetheart. I know men who would pay a pretty penny for you." She glares at me, her eyes spitting fire. I do love a fighter. "As for New York City... I own these fucking streets. I run these streets. You want to test me on that?" I let go of her and step back, spreading my arms wide. "Be my guest."
"Are you threatening me?"
I laugh and move back into her personal space, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "I don't threaten. Ever. If you knew who I am, little girl, you would have run the second you saw me." Her breath hitches and her body goes rigid. Skimming my nose along her throat, I inhale the scent of her perfume. "Now, you just killed one of my clients, who incidentally, really did like to pay. It pisses me off—"
"I didn't kill him, check his pulse," she interrupts me.
I keep a good hold around her waist, smirking as I pull the gun from the back of my jeans. "Really?" I aim at the slumped body and empty the clip into him. She thrashes in my hold, screaming, but her cries are drowned out by the gunshots echoing off the walls of the alleyway. "Now he's fucking dead." I wink at her.
That confident air she carried a few seconds ago vanishes. Her face goes white, her lips trembling. "Please, let me go..." she begs.
I cock an eyebrow at her and laugh. "Oh, now you want to go."
She starts screaming again, looking around desperately for help that will never come. Damn, the woman sounds like a fucking banshee. I place the barrel of the gun under her chin, pushing until she tilts her head back, and slams her lips shut.
"That's really fucking annoying," I say through gritted teeth. "Now, if you scream, no one w
ill come. Same as no one came when I put six fucking bullets in your friend there." She's shaking, gasping for air likes she's hyperventilating. "I told you, I own these streets and everyone on them, so do me a favour and shut the fuck up."
Those doll-like features make her look so fucking innocent, and even though she's clearly a whore, I really want to fuck every last shred of innocence out of her.
I drag my fingers over her trembling lips. Now her lipstick is smudged all over her face. I pull her body closer to mine, then grab onto the back of her neck, digging my fingers into her warm skin. She whimpers as her eyes slam shut.
"Now you and I need to have a little chat." She shakes her head silently, trying to rip free of my grip. I sigh and again tighten my grip on her. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way." I drag my eyes over those long legs of hers showcased by her short, tight dress. "I'm sure my customers would appreciate the view if I have to throw you over my shoulder."
She drops her gaze to the ground, and her shoulders sag in defeat. I let go of her neck, and pull out my phone to call the cleaners. "Pick up. The alley beside Sin." I hang up and put the phone back in my pocket. I grab a couple of bags full of rubbish and throw them over the body to hide it before leading her back into the club.
I push the door shut. When I turn around, I catch Dave trying to shove his nose up her skirt. She's frozen, not moving a muscle, her eyes locked on the dog.