Blood Brothers by Keith Latch

as
exactly and efficiently as if he were simply inputting code into a
computer.
    With one arm, Jerry rolled Carrie over onto
her back. She didn’t wake. That was fine. She soon would. Her
breasts rose and fell with each breath. Not much, but the slight
motion was noticeable. He took one arm and swiftly secured it to
the headboard’s post with the twine. Once that extremity was snug,
he repeated the process with the other.
    Still, Carrie Vaughn slept.
    With her lying on her back, her face towards
the ceiling, Jerry drew back his right hand and swung hard. His
open palm connected with the girl’s cheek, the smack resounded
within the room. Immediately, her eyes flew open as her head was
rocked to the side. She opened her mouth to scream but Jerry
stuffed her wadded up panties into her mouth. He jabbed them in
quickly to avoid being bit.
    “Now, the fun can start,” Jerry said, knowing
it was going to be an extremely long night.
     
     
Seven
     
    The interview had gone remarkably well.
Michael had never given many interviews, just a few to local
papers, but he had the ability to talk a good game, and that was a
necessity in such a situation. He’d won over the seasoned
journalist and had even discovered that, according to plan, he
would be the feature story of the issue.
    He made ten million dollars at four-thirty
this afternoon. At that time he and the pharmaceutical company reps
had met at the nearby First Bank of Tennessee, where the loan was
being handled, and they’d signed the contract. And since his
company was the seller, not him personally, after taxes he’d still
have a king’s ransom coming his way.
    The reception downstairs had been very nice.
Ice sculptures, live music, the whole shebang. The food had been
catered by the Brazilian steakhouse next door and, for once at a
thing like this the food had been good, if not excellent.
    But here he was, the evening still young,
pacing in his hotel room, the bowtie of his tux loosened, dialing
on his cell. He should be overjoyed. He should be exuberant. He
should be…something besides the way he was.
    He was frustrated. He was anxious. And he was
slowly nearing anger.
    He dialed the number of Carrie’s house. And
her cell. Sent her both an email and text message.
    She had responded to none of his
attempts.
    She would pay for this. Carrie was the reason
he had booked the suite for the weekend. Considering this week’s
profit the cost wasn’t anything to cry about, but he could be home,
sleeping in his own bed, instead of here, a lonely man in a rented
room. This kind of thing happened to other men, less fortunate men,
but certainly not him. Well, at least it hadn’t before. And god
damn it, it wouldn’t happen again.
    Despite himself, he quickly went through a
mental checklist of the cash he’d squandered on that no good slut.
Vacations, paid for her entire year’s lease up front, jewelry,
meals, clothing—and not the cheap variety at that—shopping sprees,
the list went on and on. And all for what? So he could sit here
with his crank in his hand, searching her down like he was some
jealous zit-faced teenager?
    He stood, moved to the micro-fridge and
pulled out a beer. A Corona. He found the bottle opener in a side
drawer, ripped the cap off quickly and downed a third of the
bottle’s contents in one long, greedy gulp.
    After the beer was drained, it took him less
than five minutes to strip the tuxedo away and dress, again in his
grey slacks and black shirt. A minute after that he was out in the
hallway and closing in on the elevator.
    A short walk from the parking lot of the
Peabody and a left, took him to Beale Street. The strip was alive
with faces and forms, ablaze with lights of incandescence and neon,
thrumming with music and laughter. Michael felt better already.
There was such a good vibe in the air it was infectious.
    Five bucks bought him another beer from a
street vendor. Tall and cold, it was almost a two-hand job to carry
it. Walking up and