Cut and Run by Matt Hilton Page B

wasted, Luke Rickard thought.
    ‘See me,’ he said again.
    Following his telephone conversation with Joe Hunter, he’d sat on the foot of the bed staring into the vanity mirror. Phasing his vision in and out proved ineffective as he peered into the reflective surface, trying to delve beyond his blurred image to what lay beneath. He could feel the serpent coiling in his innards, but he caught no sign of the slithering thing. Only women had the ability to look upon his true essence.
    He finally stood up and looked down on the woman lying on the bed. The drug he’d shot into her had ensured that she remained unconscious while he’d bundled her into the FedEx truck and brought her back to her house. Slumped in his arms, he’d carried her here to her bedroom and laid her out on top of the comforter. That was more than two hours ago; by now the drug should have worn off.
    ‘See me, Imogen,’ he said.
    The day was overcast, precipitation threatening again, so the room was in shadow. Imogen’s face was a pale oval beneath her cap of dark hair, her chin tilted on her left shoulder. He could hear her breathing, slow and long exhalations. To all intents and purposes she looked like she was sleeping, but he knew otherwise. Her eyelids were too taut, as though she was holding them closed, and there was no movement beneath them as there would be if she was lost in dreamland.
    He leaned in close to her, blowing on her ear. Imogen didn’t stir as a sleeping person would have.
    ‘I know you are awake. Open your eyes and look at me.’
    Imogen didn’t respond, except for the faintest flutter of her lashes.
    ‘I said open your eyes .’
    Rickard grasped Imogen’s chin in one hand, pinching hard. White blotches surrounded his fingertips but still Imogen didn’t respond. Rickard grunted out a laugh.
    Releasing her jaw, he trailed his hand down her chest and stomach. She was still in the sweats that she’d worn for her run; damp from the rain. He dipped his hand under the hem of her top and ran his fingers over the warmth of her abdomen. He felt her shudder involuntarily, but to her credit she still feigned unconsciousness. He finger-crawled higher, touching the swell of one breast. She was wearing a plain sports bra, unlike the lace and ribbons and bows that he preferred, but her breasts felt full and firm the way he liked them. Not as full and firm as Alisha’s, but in her defence this woman was fifteen years older and silicone-free. He pawed her, then took a breast in his hand and squeezed. He’d have liked to have felt her respond but there was no hardening of the nub beneath his palm.
    Maybe the bitch was still under the influence of the tranquilliser.
    He slipped his hand from beneath her top, worming his fingers into the waistband of her trousers.
    Fucking cotton panties.
    He cupped the mound of her pubis. Pushed with his fingers, trying to insert a finger under the elastic.
    Imogen came awake like an alley cat.
    Shrieking and clawing, she tore at his hand, tore at his face.
    Rickard reared away from her, his laughter ringing loud.
    ‘I knew you were awake,’ he said.
    Imogen tried to bolt from the bed. Rickard grabbed her by an ankle, and she went down chest first on the floor. She kicked and squirmed, and he dragged her back on to the bed, threw her down, her face pushing into the pillows to smother her screams.
    Rickard rolled her over, avoiding her nails as they raked at his eyes. He slapped her arms away, then lashed her across the face with his palm. Then he climbed on top of her, bracing his knees either side of her ribs, holding a wrist in each of his hands and forcing them above her head.
    ‘Are you like this when you’re with Hunter?’
    ‘Get off me. Get off! Get off!’
    ‘I can see why he likes you, Imogen. Quite the spirited little thing, aren’t you?’
    Imogen screamed again, words lost in her terror.
    Rickard smiled, liking her response. ‘I even made myself look like him for you. Though, I must