Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
He simply just stares back at me, his lips twisting into a scowl. “You made a mistake coming here, girl,” he says, quickly recovering from his shock of seeing me in the middle of his holey warehouse as he begins to stalk me, taking one large stride after the other. “Let me be very clear. I’m going to kill you now.”
I simply stare back at him. “Do you really eat people?”
He falters for just a second, the question throwing him off. “I . . . What? No,” he yells, quickly getting angry. “I don’t do that.”
“I don’t know,” I muse. “You don’t get a name like The Boston Maneater for nothing. I mean I know all you serial killers have weird and wonderful little quirks. But eating your victims? That’s just taking it a little too far, don’t you think?”
His jaw clenches, and as the fan continues to spin behind me and he gets closer, my shadow begins to flicker across his face.
“Tell me, oh wise ankle biter,” I continue. “Is there a difference in taste between a man and a woman? I take it a woman is a little more . . . tender.”
His face turns red, his hands balling into fists at his sides, and when he reaches for one of his many knives, a deep thrill pulses through me. “I DON’T FUCKING EAT PEOPLE!” He roars so loudly that even in the dark, holey warehouse, I see the spittle flying from his mouth, and then in a flash, he breaks into a sprint toward me.
His knife is clutched tightly, ready to decapitate me, but I simply watch him, timing his every step, and just when he gets close enough, I whip my body around, my foot coming out in a beautiful spinning kick that meets his temple with the force of an eighteen-wheeler.
His momentum keeps him moving forward, and I simply take a step to the side, watching him fall right to the ground. The harsh crack of his nose breaking against the concrete gives me goosebumps.
I suck in a breath through my teeth. I hadn’t really intended for him to break his nose, but sometimes these things are unavoidable. It’s not as though I can foresee the outcome of every ridiculous situation I get myself into, but I won’t lie, I’m not mad about it.
My little love tap to the temple wasn’t quite enough to knock him out completely, and as he groans in agony, I shove my foot into his shoulder and roll him onto his back. A pang of disappointment hits me when I see his own damn knife plunged through his chest. “Ahhh shit, Mr. Liver Lover, that’s unfortunate. I was so looking forward to the two of us spending some good quality time together.”
“You’re a”—gasp—“bitch.”
I simply smile, and as I step toward him, his eyes widen in fear.
“It seems you’ve gotten yourself into a little bit of a pickle,” I tell him, crouching beside him and looking over the mess he’s made as blood spouts from his broken nose. I reach forward, wrapping my hand around the hilt of the knife that’s currently plunged six inches into his chest. “Here’s the situation,” I explain. “This blade is currently keeping you from bleeding out, it’s also keeping your right lung from collapsing, but unfortunately for you, I don’t really care very much. I’m going to pull it out, and you’re going to slowly die right here on the ground. It’s probably going to be very painful.”
“But . . . No,” he breathes. “I don’t want to die. I—”
“Shhhhhhh,” I say, gripping the hilt tighter and tearing it free from his chest.
The Boston Maneater cries out in agony, and just as I expected, he quickly begins to bleed out, and from the sound of his gurgling, I can only assume his right lung is also beginning to fill with blood. “Now,” I say, meeting his graying stare. “I’m assuming your ID is in your pocket?”
He doesn’t respond, but at this point, I don’t really expect him to. Instead, I just offer a sugary sweet smile, and as he grows sweaty and tries to cough up the blood in his collapsed lung, I fish his wallet out of his pocket, spilling out the rest of his weapons in the process.
I sit down next to him, giving myself enough space so that I don’t get any of his blood on my outfit, and rifle through his wallet, grinning as I find not only his ID, but those of the three kills he claimed last night.
Stone. Grim. And Blade.
I officially possess four IDs, and at this stage of the competition, I’m currently in the lead.
The Boston Maneater slowly begins to die beside me, and I let out a breath, having hoped it would happen just a little bit quicker. I can’t leave until I know he’s well and truly gone because if he survives and makes it to the end without me knowing, both of us would be eliminated because of a technicality.