He was always a light sleeper.

“I like this hotel better than the last, the curtains compliment the carpet. Very few of the rooms we’ve been in have been able to accomplish that.”

Lust attempted to make conversation since she had already woken him up, but he seemed already distracted by the fact that she was completely naked. Engulfed in only the patterns of smoke flowing upward from her cigarette, she poured some rum into a glass.

He grabbed his sketch pad and murmured, “You’d make a great corpse” as he scratched the surface of the paper with his worn out HB pencil.

“You’d make a great man whore. Oh wait, you already are.” she replied as she laid in front of him smirking.

He put down his sketch pad.

“I want a massage, I had to lift a cadaver earlier and I strained my back. Be a doll and get to it.”

She laughed at him and began to put her clothes on.

He grabbed her arm, and held her down firmly.

Her pupils dilated and the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.

She nearly wanted him once more.

“You’re the only broad I’ve ever met who needs to be told twice. Does it entertain you when I put you in your place? I believe it does, because you constantly provoke my authority.”

She downed the glass of rum and told him what he needed to hear.

“You creatures, males as they call you, are creatures of habit. You hunt, catch, and devour. Well, I’m the antelope who makes you run your little lion heart twice over. My speed, different from the rest, attracts you. Although you could catch another, much easier to subdue kind of prey, you want the one you can’t have. You are right. I provoke you. I challenge you. And I damn right make you put me in my place because by doing that I remind you that you are the roaring lion, and I am the graceful antelope. Yet sweet confusion, does the question then not arise? Am I the one keeping you in your place or are you putting me in mine? Is the man the head and does the woman turn the neck every which way she pleases, or does the head move the neck only when needed? You can answer that Thursday. We’ll meet back here, I like their curtains.”

She grabbed her holster and slammed the door on her way out.

He looked toward his lab coat and sighed, there were three more days until Thursday.

“Levator Labii Superiorus. Don’t tempt me, you know we’re on the clock.”

She brushed her hand up against her gun and was reminded of the tasks at hand.

The lights flickered as she watched his shadow disappear and reappear.

He flowed as he worked, like a king in his throne, he was right where he needed to be.

The perfect temptation.

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

She remembered seeing that on one of her victims mugs one time.

She began to recite this, but he interrupted:

“Don’t speak.”

Like a doe in the forest, her eyes spoke of caution, her body swayed only slightly.

“You speak of your cages, yet you provoke the lion in his den. Do you not see that your beauty is your only protector? If it were me out there playing cats and dogs, in an instant the games would cease. With you, it’s flawless. It’s unexpected. They look at you and see magazine covers, not realizing that you hold army knives in your garters. It’s a psycho-potential mockery of every male out there who’s life you end. Yet you sit here, provoking the very man who cleans up your messes.”

Lust is red with fury, her fists itch and her spine rattles.

“What if I decide to no longer colaborate with you? Just one day, up and decide that I’m no longer your anatomical janitor. Hm? What then sweet princess?”

She grabs her duffel bag and an extra pack of ammunition.

“You’ll get a psycho-potential mocking and a goodbye kiss like the rest of them, sweet prince.”

“Oh aren’t you sweet.” he mumbled as he turned around to zip up the rest of the body bags.

He didn’t have time for her provoking, and she was already late.

“Are you some fucking nut job?”

“Nut job? No…I just like watching others drive me around. You are going to drive me the rest of the way to Vegas, and no funny stuff yes? Because I wouldn’t want to piss me off. I can count the capillaries under your skin if you’d like. Understood?”

“And after we get there? What happens to me?”

“Nothing. You drive, do your duty for me, and it ends.”

A hesitant approval synchronized with the click of a lighter and the smoke escapes between her lips.

“What do you think of this country?”

“What do I think of this country? I think its full of whacks like yourself miss.”

“Maybe you aren’t as dumb as I thought.”

“How so?”

“You seem to be realistic at least.”

“And what if I am like this because of all the other “normal” people here? What if the sheer pressure of society bearing on me to be normal has subsided me into being completely “whack” as you describe it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Indeed, you would not.”

She checks her watch, been a while since she last slept, but the three coffees and vodka did its duties, about 40 minutes away she decides to read the newspaper, perhaps a place where she will go unnoticed will do for now.

The color of her hair will also need to be rendered to a light blonde perhaps, to change the general appearance and disguise the identity.

She turns her head towards him, his behavioral signs do not tell of anxiety, fear, or any of these expected signs.

The light of the moon hits his lips, showing a profile she just now admires.

She bites her bottom lip.

Lust?

Desire?

Maybe she will not discard him as quickly as she thought.

Just maybe.

Time: 8:30 p.m. 

She walks in alone, tight black skirt, shortened, intentionally. Glasses, Hair-Pulled back. The rest is not of relevance.

Before, she would have never entered this place, now her mission is to seduce, and seduce again.

A man in a dark blue suit, likely Armani, blue eyes, looks at her as she passes leaving only but a smirk on his face.

“You want this.” say her eyes, but her mind has other plans.

She stops at one of the paintings, ironically, it is one of a room full of men in suits.

Staring for an exact 12 seconds, she then turns her head to the group of men next to her.

In a glimpse she sees them as if they were a pack of hyenas drooling at freshly killed antelope.

“Whats new Suzie Q?” dares one to say.

She fakes a laugh, the kind of laugh a blonde bimbo would have.

Now he thinks he is in, the female kind has given man the right of way for centuries, the instinct is embedded in his DNA already, he cannot help it.

“So would you like me to buy this painting for you? By who is this shit anyway?” he asks.

“Some twat from Europe, a bunch of eurotrash anyway.” answers one of his “intelligent” friends.

“Edgar Dega is his name, and this “eurotrash” you speak of is highly renowned for his portraits, considered to be one of the finest in the history of art. Not even if all three of your rich grandmothers died, could you afford to buy me this.”

She licks her lips, raises an eyebrow, and walks away triumphant.

Her first victims.

One is probably imagining how he would beat the sarcasm out of her.

One is probably imagining how he would do her in his penthouse suite. 

Another is throbbing already, and the last one is most certainly disappointed that she did not fall for the fake rolex he was sporting on his left wrist.

She walks past the same man in the blue suit, her head down, as she passes raising it and looking straight into his eyes.

Although attractive to her, he is flawed. She spotted his flaw long before he even knew her name.

They arrive at the nearest hotel, she satisfies him for an hour straight, and reaches her goal.

He is asleep.

She takes out her camera, takes out his wallet, finds his address.

Poses herself on top of him, next to him, in the nude both.

She leaves.

This week the wife of the man in the blue suit will find a surprise in her mail.

And while she is painting versions of those photos, a man will be getting what he deserves.

This is only the beginning.  

Her bracelets jingle as her lips touch the sweet alcohol,casually sipping while observing her surroundings.

Man #1, casually dressed, jeans, t-shirt, hair cut short, two day stubble, probably likes a girl if she is a cheer leader or model, could care less what her mind flutters, and probably just wants someone to bring him a beer while he watches football. He laughs with his friends as if he were actually funny, occasionally uses a lame pick up line, and thinks the world is his oyster.

Man #2, armani suit, gel greased hair, a hair cut between 200-500 dollars, cigar smoker, and oh yes, married but still in bars at 3 am. Not usually looking for anything serious, and pretentious as to what her breast size is, always a joke teller, perhaps even funny, he thinks he still is young and can run around like a 20 year old boy.

Man #3, interesting style combination, punk rock meets classic windsor tie, long but soft hair, typically pierced and tattooed in numerous places, drinks european beer, and knows when the next great rock concert is, doesnt agree with who is president, and never wears abercrombie and fitch, is highly opinionated when it comes to music, and can discuss art for hours.

Normally she would go for Man #1, but now she is lust.

Lust being a human emotion generally used to describe a heightened state of sexual desire, often exclusively physical in nature.

She makes her decision, she will have Man #3 tonight, picking up her glass she passes him and purely by accident drops a napkin on the ground, slightly bending over to pick it up, she spins a web he cannot refuse.

Small talk is exchanged and the bathroom is their next stop.

Quite agressive as he is, she enjoys it and is refreshed by the new events taking place.

As she reaches climax she remembers how innocent of a child she was, pig tales and all.

An ironic laugh signals the end.

She makes her exit, and doesn’t look back.