“They’re pathetic, every last one of them.” Siren kept her voice level, as unthreatening as possible. She let her hand slide, fingers brushing her new friend’s top. She didn’t know if it was this or her words that drew the smile from those thin, cracked lips.
“I know.” The girl took a swig from her bottle. “But I really thought he was different. I thought the bastard actually cared.”
Siren smiled, leaning in close so that she could drop her voice lower and still be heard over the thumping music. The club was getting busy, which suited her just fine—a mass of mindless bodies getting slowly wasted.
“He conned you, girl. They always do.”
“He said he’d change.” There was a horrible whine in the girl’s voice now. Elle, was that her name? It would do. Not as strong a name as Siren, but still.
She snorted, pulling away and rough-handling Elle around so that they faced each other. Siren stared into those bloodshot eyes. Any more crying, and her eye-liner would streak down her face. Not a good look.
“And you believe that? After what he did? Come on! Wake up, woman. Men like him—men in general—are incapable of change.” She smiled, saw it echoed on Elle’s face. “And that’s why we have to do something. If we can’t change him, we can make him pay. Right?”
There was a flicker of doubt in Elle’s eyes, so Siren grabbed her chin and held her face steady. “Right?”
Her lip quivered, and then she nodded.
“If we don’t do something, he’ll only screw over someone else.”
The nod was more definite this time.
“This isn’t about you. It’s about all of us. We can’t get to them all, but getting one is better than none. For him, it ends tonight. Right now.”
Siren drew away and looked across the semi-dark room. Lights flashed, ultraviolet stabs as people flickered like pathetic fish.
“So, you point him out, and we’ll get to work.”
* * *
It was all too easy. A few subtle innuendos, contact after a semi-drunken stagger, the top pulled down just enough to give him an eyeful. Then his surprise as Elle came over, looking like a goddess—at least, that was the idea. She should look good, the amount of time they’d spent doing her up.
Of course he was up for a bit of fun with both of them. He asked if Elle was wasted, and she giggled. There was a moment of hesitation, but a non-existent push from someone else forced Siren into his arms, and she felt his excitement through his trousers.
So pathetically predictable. It was like men were machines made for one thing only. How the hell did they ever get to be the dominant sex?
And now, he was in heaven. Flesh on flesh, and all he had to do was lay back as Siren and Elle got to work. Especially Elle. This went beyond acting.
And Siren could hardly blame her. The weasel had a good body, so why shouldn’t Elle enjoy herself. Why shouldn’t she use him for a change?
As Elle moaned, bucking astride him, Siren slipped to one side, pulling the knife from the sole of her boot. His words—Elle’s name, things he probably thought sounded sexy—turned into grunts.
Siren waited, timing the moment to perfection. He quivered, and his final grunt became a cry of pain. His eyes shot open, staring up at an equally shocked-looking Elle. And Siren pushed the blade in deeper, slicing up towards his armpit. Crimson streaked across Elle, and she cried out, sliding to the floor.
He tried to move, so Siren snapped his arm—easy when you knew how—and threatened him with more. Then she passed the knife to Elle.
“Make him pay.”
The metal shook in the girl’s hand. She gripped the hilt in a fist, the point hovering over his chest, but now her head was shaking. And he was yelling at her, cursing her, calling her every name under the sun.
A single tear fell from the corner of her eye.
But Siren had anticipated this. She moved behind Elle, grabbed her hands, then thrust their combined weight forward, driving the knife deep in the scumbag’s chest. Elle’s scream was almost as loud—and as high-pitched—as his, and it carried on for longer.
When she rolled off the man, her chest and belly were smeared with his blood. The knife stood upright in his motionless body.
“Now we clear up.”
But Elle didn’t move beyond her constant shaking. The words she muttered were unintelligible.
“Hey!” Siren slapped her, the sound sharp, cutting off her mumbling for only a moment. “This is what we agreed. We make him pay. He’s scum. He doesn’t deserve to live.”
Elle wrapped her arms round her knees and buried her shaking head.
Siren sighed, and did what had to be done.
And when Elle lay on the floor, her head at an impossible angle and her unseeing eyes still open, Siren stood, hands on her hips.
Men, women—too many were pathetic and weak. They never took responsibility for their actions. They never finished what they started.
She went to the en-suite and washed, then changed. The two lumps of flesh lay there still, stinking the place up. They lay where they had died, and there was a moment when Siren considered doing more damage. But there was no point. They were gone. Two more pathetic, inconsequential lives brought to an end.
Siren left the room, feeling alive.
The Illusion Of Control
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