A Y O M I D E J O H N S O N

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Jack’s hand tightened on the blade he carried, and he had begun to step out onto the dance floor towards his victim, when a girl broke away from the mass of dancers and began walking toward him. He stared at her.

She was beautiful, for a girl—long hair nearly the precise color of black ink, brown eyes, Body-con white gown.
Lace sleeves belled out around her slim arms. Around her neck was a thick silver chain, on which hung a dark red pendant the size of a baby’s fist. He only had to narrow his eyes to know that it was real—real and precious.

She smiled, passing him, beckoning with her eyes. He turned to follow her. He always had it easy with girls.
It was always easy.

He could already feel the power of her pleasured screams coursing through his veins like fire. Girls were so stupid. They had something so precious, and they barely safeguarded it at all. They threw it away for money, fashion, gadgets, for a stranger’s charming smile, Jack thought to himself.

She reached the wall and turned, bunching her gown up in her hands, lifting it as she grinned at him. Under the gown, she was wearing thigh-high boots.

Jack walked up to her, his skin prickling with her nearness. Up close she wasn’t so perfect: He could see the mascara smudged under her eyes, the sweat sticking her hair to her neck. He could smell her. Got you, he thought.

A cool smile curled her lips. She moved to the side, and he could see that she was leaning against a closed door. “RESTROOM” was scrawled across it in red paint. She reached behind her for the knob, turned it, slid inside.

He glanced behind him—no one was looking. So much the better if she wanted privacy.

He slipped into the room after her, unaware that he was being followed….

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