Bryan Smith: The Killing Kind

Zoe’s face reddened. “Um…I, uh…”

Emily’s breath was warm against her ear as she laughed softly again. “Just think about it. No pressure.” She patted Zoe’s knee. “If nothing else, you and I could get together at some point over the week.”

Zoe’s blush deepened as she stared at Emily’s hand, which hadn’t moved from her knee. This was pretty weird. She and Emily made out now and then. But it was usually when they were high, and Zoe just thought of it as harmless playing around. Still, given that history, this blatant proposition shouldn’t come as such a shock.

Yet it did.

She made herself swallow and said, “Yeah…I’ll…think about it.”

Emily patted her knee again. “You do that. It’d be fucking fun as hell.” She climbed off the table and stretched. Then she put on her dark sunglasses and smiled at Zoe. “You’re gonna be so much better off without that piece of shit in your life.”

Zoe started to say something, but Emily turned away from her and started back up the hill toward the van.

Annalisa snapped her phone shut and made a shrill sound of frustration. “Motherfucker! Can you believe that fucking motherfucker!”

Zoe turned to face Annalisa. “I can’t believe it. The nerve of that fucker. Um…what are you talking about?”

Annalisa rolled her eyes. “Sean’s fucking mother.”

“Sean’s mother is a motherfucker?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay.”

Annalisa shook her head. “Nothing’s ever good enough for that cunt, I swear. I mean, I’m hot, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“And smart, right?”

“Your GPA is four-point-oh. You’re the smartest foul-mouthed bitch on the planet.”

Annalisa nodded. “No shit, right? So what mother in her right fucking mind wouldn’t want her son dating a girl who looks like me and has a brilliant fucking future ahead of her?”

Zoe squinted at her. “She’s…I don’t know…jealous?”

“Of course she is!” She unleashed a shrill screech of frustration and exhaled heavily. “Okay, change of fucking subject. I saw Emily whispering in your ear. What was that about?”

“Um…it was sort of…private.”

Annalisa lifted an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Too private to tell your best friend?”

“Um…”

Annalisa reached into her purse for a pack of Marlboros and lit one up. “Oh, that’s right. I’m only your second-best friend. Emily is your actual best friend. The one you tell the really important shit. I see how it is.”

Zoe frowned. She hated the idea of Annalisa seeing things that way. But what really sharpened the sting was recognizing that she’d only spoken the truth. “We were talking about me and Chuck.”

“Yeah?”

Zoe nodded. “I’m breaking up with him after this trip is over.”

“Good.”

Zoe laughed. “Good?”

“Yeah. Chuck sucks. Fuck him.”

“Christ, does everybody hate my boyfriend?”

“Everybody with half a brain. Personally, I’d like to throw him off a fucking cliff.”

Zoe laughed again. “I don’t want to kill him. I just want him out of my life.”

“Well, it’s the smartest move you’ve made in a long time. But I think you’re lying to me. Or half-lying. That’s not all you and Emily were talking about. Was it?”

“Christ, you are so suspicious.” Zoe climbed off the table. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom again. And I’m not fucking lying to you.”

She turned and started toward the rest area’s main building.

Annalisa called after her in a singsong voice. “Liar, liar, pants on fire…”

Zoe quickened her pace as her face turned red again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Diary of a Mixed-up Girl blog entry, dated March 10

There’s this one guy. Talked about his lame ass before. Asshole makes me want to vomit every time I think of him. Swear to fucking God, he needs a lobotomy so bad. I’d love to stick a needle in that frontal lobe of his and give it a good twirl. This guy, though, most people would never know he’d been lobotomized because he’s kind of a drooling vegetable already.

Fucking MORON.

I think about killing him sometimes Seriously. I think about getting him somewhere nice and private. Someplace where he could scream and scream and nobody would ever hear him. Then I’d get him drunk enough to pass the fuck out. He’s a lightweight, so that’d be pretty damn easy. Next I’d restrain him. Tie him to a bed or something. Then the real fun would start. I actually think about this a fuck of a lot because this dude seriously needs to fucking die, and there’s this one funny image I keep thinking of that I’m desperate to make real. This guy tied to a bed. Body spread-eagled. His dick cut off. Not the balls. Just the dick. Every time I think of that, just those useless balls sitting there without a dick attached, I crack the fuck up. I’m cracking the fuck up RIGHT NOW. HAHAHAHA.

Seriously, he’s a douche bag and I want to make him dead.

But I sort of want to fuck him first.

LOL. If I were a guy, it wouldn’t matter what order I did it in. I could kill him and then fuck his corpse with my big, throbbing dick.

OH SHIT! Look at the time! Homework!

3 comments

lord_ruthven: The only way I know you’re not talking about me is the constant references to this guy’s stupidity. But you are one twisted bitch.

Mixedupgirl: Aw…that’s sweet. But I do want to kill you. I want to stick red-hot needles in your eyes and watch them liquefy. I want to cut off your head and FedEx it to your parents. LOL. I totally don’t get why anybody would call me “twisted.” Oh, and thanks for the flowers. Kisses.

darkest_rogue: I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. You are awesome. But you probably know that already.

CHAPTER EIGHT

March 22

Rob kept glancing at the Galaxie’s slightly askew rearview mirror with the expectation of seeing a column of police cruisers with blue lights flashing bearing down on them. They were some forty miles down the road from the scene of the roadside massacre by now, and he couldn’t understand how it was they’d driven away from something as spectacularly horrible as that with, thus far, no repercussions or complications and no hint of pursuit by law enforcement.

Okay, that bit about no repercussions was sort of bullshit. His psyche had been dealt a serious blow. If through some miracle he managed to survive this ordeal and was able to resume his normal life, he was certain he would have to deal with some level of posttraumatic stress the rest of his days. He foresaw years and years of costly therapy just to be able to function.

“Pull off at the next exit.”

Roxie pointed at a blue road sign coming up on their right. It was the kind with icons indicating local motels, restaurants, and gas stations. A green road sign a little farther down the road indicated the exit was one mile away.

Rob frowned as he glanced at the Galaxie’s gas gauge, which showed its tank as still more than three-quarters full. “Um…why?”

She stared at him in silence for a moment, her eyes unreadable behind dark sunglasses. “Because I said so, that’s why.”

Rob nodded. “Right.”

It had been stupid to even ask. He’d already learned the uselessness of arguing with her. She was unpredictable. Unstable. These were understatements of epic proportion. She was dangerously deranged. He had to be careful. A person like Roxie, anything could set her off. A wrong word. A wrong look. Or something he had no control over, some quirk of her fucked-up brain chemistry causing her to lash out for no reason. Rob realized there was no way he-or anyone, for that matter-could successfully navigate this crazy chick’s moods for long.

The exit came up fast. He put the Galaxie’s blinker on and applied steady pressure to the brake pedal as they neared the ramp.