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By David M. Bachman

Copyright 2012 David M. Bachman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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He was halfway through his second drink when he decided that he could kill her and get away with it. Sitting there at the bar with this odd little vixen, an apparent runaway bride of the gothic sort, he listened to her speak but was not hearing her words so much as he was trying to decide how best to dispose of her.

He didn’t need to really listen to her to know what she was prattling on about in her intoxicated state. Her fiancé was one of those psychotic, abusive, deadbeat scumbags that cheated on her constantly while constantly accusing her of trying to hook up with other men. She had finally had enough of his stupidity – her blackened left eye was the latest bit of evidence that she hid behind oversized sunglasses – and she had apparently decided to go ahead and make good on his accusations.

This punky-goth girl went by the name of Bella, though it surely wasn’t her real name – she looked more like a Lisa or a Liz or something else starting with an “L.” That was okay, since he’d lied when he had told her his name was Robert. In fact, he was doing more to hide things about himself than she was in wearing the long sleeves and sunglasses to hide her bruises. He was sporting colored contact lenses, eyeglasses he’d stolen from the display of an eyeglass store, a backwards baseball cap, and sports-jock clothes that were totally not his personal style. This was his hunting outfit. Bella’s outfit was not so much for hunting as for hiding, but she could not hide from him. He saw in her something that even she could not: an opportunity to indulge.

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