Excerpt from short story “The Price of Sand”

I knew we were getting sloppy, which is why this was going to be the last one.

A discussion we've had on more occasions than I can remember, to be honest, but he swore it this time. Steven - who was, unlike usual, sober as the day he was born - had held my face between his hands and promised me that this would be it.

But now, I'm standing over another woman's body for the first time. The blood seeping through the left side of her security uniform is turning the carpet beneath her a sickening copper color, and her eyes, wide as a doe's, are looking past me to the room behind us.

We were planning to get out of this place, you see. On top of the weather being insufferable lately, (I'd like to go someplace warm for a while, and I think Steven's mostly on board with the idea) the unwanted attention is starting to get to us. We've targeted too many men from the same areas. We started feeling too comfortable, and I started feeling too confident. Mostly, though, (dear Lord would I never say this to him) Steven's aggression has evolved into something unmatched. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that it had started with nothing but the switchblade in his back pocket. The first few men were asleep, even; laying naked next to me in their bed. Steven would come in through the unlocked door without a sound, tilt their heads back with two fingers placed under their chin, and simply slit their throats from ear to ear. I would always watch, back then. Sometimes Steven would even make love to me afterwards, with them laying heavy in the mattress beside us, their blood seeping into the sheets and pooling in my hair.

But lately Steven seems to have lost track of our goal. It was only about the money and belongings at first - nothing personal; we dreamed of retiring young. Most of these men were older; most of them had more money than they knew what to do with. We wanted to get as much as we could and leave as quickly as we could. But it's been much longer than planned now and we haven't saved the money like we should have; we didn't leave when we should have. And now, Steven practically begs me to go out and get one – and I can't say there isn't a thrill in it for me, too. But I get nervous. And with the scenes Steven has been leaving behind lately, I know we're going to make a mistake. He always wants to hurt them now. He uses his knife, his hands; hell, sometimes he'll just use whatever he can find around the house. Lately, when we're leaving, I don't even recognize the man who had invited me in to his home in the first place. Sometimes it seems that there's nothing left but blood and meat on the floor.

So, when he asked me for this final one, I put on my best gown (my only one, picked out one warm summer evening with Steven at my side. I loved that night.) and went to the nicest bar that would let me in. It was a fancy one, but regardless, most people are there to buy drinks and get laid. And damn if I'm not good at finding the right person for the job every time. Steven tells me it's a special talent, and who am I to argue?

I remember every one of them. Maybe not the names, but the numbers at least. This one was to be the eleventh (not a nice, rounded number to end it on, sure, but neither of us were too broken up about it). His name was Chris. He wasn't married, and he had just moved into town on a promotion. I didn't ask his age, but I never do. He seemed lonely.

Over the next two weeks, I saw him three more times. I learned about his impressive career, and that he lived alone. I learned that the front door's buzzer never worked properly (despite how much he paid in condo fees, he would often remind me), and through observation, I learned there was no doorman and no cameras in the halls and doorways. Noticing these things had become second nature.

Sometimes we would carry on longer than this, sometimes we would try to get a better grasp on the situation. But Steven was persistent. So was I. I had never wanted to get it over with so quickly. I could already feel the sand between my toes somewhere far from here, and the waves in my hair as Steven lay me down on the beach, lips against mine.

So on our fourth night together, I asked Chris to bring me home with him before we had even gone for dinner. I made sure to leave the door unlocked, as per routine. I didn't have to do much, (pour us each a shot of whiskey, run my fingers down the buttons on the front of his shirt) before he was sliding his hand up my skirt and we were stumbling towards the bed together, his full weight pressing me down in to the sheets. Steven and I didn't communicate in any way during this time; but he never once showed up too early or too late. I would tell him that it's because of the connection he and I share, it wasn't like any other and it's why we worked so well together. He'd always laugh, but I could tell by the look he'd give me that he felt the same.

Chris was still on top of me, both hands wrapped tight around my tits and grunting, when I heard the crack and saw his eyes roll back into his head until there was nothing but white. Usually Steven would wait until we were done – sometimes he'd even watch. I pressed myself down into the bed and didn't say a word as Chris was ripped off of me and thrown like a bag of sand to the bedroom floor. Steven hardly even acknowledged that I was there, except to tell me to start gathering up the stuff.

I made my way to the living room and grabbed the duffel bag Steven had left near the front door, beginning the task of tossing in anything around that looked valuable, when I heard Chris coming to from somewhere behind me. I mostly ignored this part nowadays, but sometimes curiosity got the better of me – this is one of the times I wish it hadn't. The look he was giving me, from his position face down on the carpet in his own home, was one of concern at first – like he truly thought that this was a random act of violence. Like he thought that I was in danger, too; like Steven would be coming for me, next. And then, when Steven dropped to his knees next to him, and his knife began to plunge down in to Chris' shoulder blades – not once, or twice, but more times than I cared to count – upon noticing that I wasn't making a move to stop it, the look turned to one of pure betrayal. I wanted to reflect on this, on how someone who barely knew me thought he had trusted me enough in the first place to even feel betrayed, but the only thought in my mind was - too loud.

There was blood on the floor, and the doorway, and on Steven's hands and arms and chest (he would have to wear some of Chris' clean clothes on the way out); but Chris was crying out, and Steven was cursing at him – so by the time I heard the knocking at the front door, I figured the person had to have been there for longer than we'd have liked.

That was when her meek voice drifted in through the wood.

“Mister Palmer? It's Ellie, from security. I have some papers here for you to sign regarding... I'm sorry, but, is everything alright in there?”

Steven had his hand pressed around Chris' mouth, looking up at me with expectation. I could think of nothing to do but stand there, the half-full bag hanging heavy in my hands.

She tried the door handle.

“Sir, if you don't respond, I'm afraid I'll have to call the authorities... I believe I heard sounds of distress.”

She sounded nervous.

My feet felt like they had been encased in cement as I took the few steps towards the door, placing the bag down and smoothing my skirt with my palms out of nervous habit. Maybe I could flash her a smile, tell her that those weren't sounds of distress at all, give her a wink. She sounded young; maybe she'd blush, thrust the papers into my hands, and walk away. Maybe, when the police found Chris' body later, she wouldn't have even looked into my face long enough to give them a decent description.

There was a feeling of dread, knowing for certain now that this had gone on too long. I knew we should have retired long before this, had Steven only listened to me. And such a simple mistake. How did I not know that they would have security here?

So I opened the door, and we caught each others' eyes, but before I could get two words out Steven was pushing me aside and wrapping an arm around the back of her neck. She didn't even yell out; there was a gasp, maybe, and then Steven had already gotten his switchblade into her side twice before I had shut the door behind them. He threw her down to the ground and there was a firm thud as her forehead hit the carpet. He stormed back to the other room. He was mad.

...