Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
She reaches under the bed and pulls out a long, jagged saw. She leans back into my ear, licking the lobe before she croons gently, “Off with her head.”
I point to my own chest, as if to clarify that she expects me to do the honors.
She nods slowly, her grin growing. “Of course, Chet. The head must be removed, and then we begin the harvest.”
The harvest? What does she mean? It’s early March.
But I dare not ask for further elucidation. Her Majesty bade me to decapitate the girl’s body, and I owe her everything in my life.
So I do it. I bring the blade against my former coworker’s throat, and I saw. Right. Left. Right. Left.
The throat bursts easily, spilling blood over Her Majesty’s immaculate floor. It’s fascinating, how easily the knife cuts through. There is a little resistance when I hit her spinal cord, but I make quick work of it. Soon Three’s head is removed from the rest of her body.
I’m mystified by the biology. The musculature. The fragility of the human design.
Three is plain, but she is still a beautiful woman.
And her inside is even more beautiful than her outside.
Five years I’ve been the bouncer at Aces. I’ve met so many interesting people. City and state government officials, socialites, billionaire business owners, the crème de la crème of the Chicago metropolitan area.
I have been most enraptured by a man who’s been coming to the club for quite some time. The son of a legacy patron of Aces, Henry Hathaway, the disgraced former mayor of Chicago.
Maddox is his name. Mr. Maddox Hathaway.
He came alone at first. Then he started bringing a well-respected surgeon with him, his best friend. One Dr. Harrison O’Rourke. They’re close, but their friendship is normal.
For the most part, at least. They have some sort of shared fascination with teapots. Around Christmastime last year, Mr. Hathaway gifted Dr. O’Rourke a teapot-shaped ornament. It struck me as odd, but then again, all the Aces patrons have their peculiarities.
Her Majesty has told me to keep an eye on him. Apparently, toward the end of his life, Mr. Hathaway’s father was making some trouble for her. I don’t know the full details, but she has made it clear that if he puts one toe out of line, his membership—inherited from his father—will be revoked.
Aces has hidden cameras and microphones scattered throughout the premises. I’ve checked in on Mr. Hathaway quite a bit. He’s never once indicated any wariness of Her Majesty’s methodology of discontinuing her employees’ services. He usually just spends his time at Spades, grabs a few drinks—typically a gin and tonic laced with elderflower liqueur—and occasionally courts a woman, takes her home with him.
Tonight the Black Door opens, and in walks Mr. Hathaway. But on his arm is not the rugged Dr. O’Rourke, but rather a petite woman with long blond hair.
She’s angelic. Perhaps the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
I offer her my signature grin, hoping it will entice her into the fray.
She swallows, her eyes widening. The muscles in her arms and jaw tense, and for a moment it looks like she’s going to run the other way. Mr. Hathaway leans into her, murmurs something into her ear.
The woman’s body relaxes. She then takes a deep breath in and walks toward me, Mr. Hathaway at her side.
Mr. Hathaway gestures toward me. “This is Chet. He’ll be checking us in.”
I gaze at the woman. “Is this your first time, young lady?”
She swallows. “Yes, sir.”
I widen my eyes. No one has ever called me “sir” in my life. “No need to call me sir. I’m Chester Tabbit, the club bouncer. You can call me Chet. I’m responsible for checking members in.”
I reach my hand out, and after hesitating a moment, the woman shakes it.
I turn to Mr. Hathaway. “ID?”
He rolls his eyes, like he does every time he comes into the club. “Come on, Chet. You know who I am. I’ve been coming here for years now.”
“And as I have told you before, Mr. Hathaway, the only person who gets in without ID is Rouge. Club policy. Everyone else, no matter who they are—politicians, businessmen, even the President of the United States himself—has to show ID at the front door and be checked against the list.”
Mr. Hathaway nods and grabs his wallet out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out his driver’s license and hands it to me.
“You too, miss.” I nod toward the woman.
She uneasily reaches into her bag, pulls out her wallet, and hands her license to me.
I scan both of them. I’ve seen Mr. Hathaway’s countless times, but the woman’s is new. She truly is beautiful. Angelic in her beauty.
“Maravilla. A beautiful name. Spanish, I assume?”
She nods. “Yes. My father was born in Spain.”
“It means wonder, doesn’t it?”
Miss Wonder.
I find her most mesmerizing.