Taylor headed back to the perimeter tape, planning out the evening, and trying to formulate exactly what she was going to say to Go-Go’s father about his wayward, now dead daughter.
What a damn shame.
“Whoo-eeeee!”
Stover had decided to ride the mechanical bull at the Cadillac Ranch. He was spinning in circles, whooping and hollering and generally making an ass of himself. Two bleached blonde bimbos had attached themselves to him about an hour earlier, and they gazed adoringly at their man for the evening, salivating over his generosity and the size of his wallet.
JR couldn’t stand this much longer. He glanced at his watch, it was past midnight. When had that happened? Granted, he’d been drinking, keeping up with Stover was a challenge for a man who generally didn’t allow himself to indulge more than the occasional adult beverage as a reward. Funny, he’d broken his own rules twice in a month. What did that say? Was he getting lax? Tired? Old?
No. Never old. Not in that way. He was certainly aging, like any normal person would, but he was far from staid and predictable.
Stover, now he was predictable. Out of town, away from his wife, and his mistress, looking to grab the first piece of tail that would bite, throw back as much drink as his protruding gut would allow, then fuck and pass out in a strange room without a second thought.
JR was better than that. Cleaner. Seemlier. And certainly more temperate. Stover drew attention to himself like a five year old throwing a tantrum — everyone around was aware of him. JR never could handle that level of attention from strangers. Not that he wanted to, my God, if he were this indiscreet, he’d have landed in a jail cell years ago. No, prudence and moderation were the keys to his longevity.
Almost as if Stover could read his mind, the man started yelling in a drunken slur. “JR.” The name came out Jar. “Ca’mere. Get yer bony ass up here.”
The blonds twittered and simpered.
JR waved him off, then realized how incredibly intoxicated Stover was. After his invitation, he’d closed his eyes and started to slide off the back of the bull.
It was time to go.
He turned and walked to the bar to settle the bill. Stover had given the bartender his credit card to hold to keep the tab open. JR asked for the tab, and told the bartender to keep it on the card. He figured Stover might as well pay for the drinks, considering how inconsiderate he was being.
But the bartender came back and told JR the card had been declined. Cursing silently, he reached for his own wallet. He’d just give the man some cash, and be done with it.
His back right pocket was empty.
Son of a bitch.
He glanced over to the women who’d latched on to the pair but couldn’t see either of them in the crowd.
Fury began to build in his chest, so hard and fast that the bartender reared back when he saw the look on JR’s face. He’d been ripped off. The worthless bitches had stolen his wallet and run.
He went to Stover, who’d just tripped off the bull, and grabbed him by the shirtfront.
JR hissed the words. “They stole my wallet, you fat fuck.”
“Sucks for you.” Stover began to laugh, the hysterical giggles of a drunken hyena, which just pissed JR off more. He dragged the man to the bar, pushed him roughly against the wooden rail.
“Your card was declined. Pay the tab.”
Something in JR’s voice registered with Stover. He obeyed immediately, pulled his wallet out — he still had his, the shit — and paid for their drinks with two crisp $100 bills.
Satisfied, JR stalked away. He needed to find those women. The last thing he wanted was his name getting out. Granted, it wasn’t his real name on the license and credit cards, but a variation, a pseudonym, if you will, something he used to assure his anonymity as he cruised the country. He’d adopted the name when he failed out of med school. Employers wouldn’t be inclined to hire a man who they perceived wasn’t even competent enough to finish school. That wasn’t it, wasn’t it at all. He could have done the work if he wanted to, but he’d found another hobby, one that satisfied him in ways being a doctor never would. He made a show of struggling with the work so his classmates would think he was just incapable, and he could fade away from their lives.
But Stover was his Achilles heel. He knew JR’s real name. The idiot had spied him in the hotel in New Orleans and remembered.
JR pulled up short at the door to the street. The women became secondary. That was a problem, but it wasn’t fatal. He knew what he needed to do. There was only one way to really fix this mess.
Stover had to die.
He felt a tingle of excitement go through his body.
Two in one day? In one city? Again? Dare he?
His mind answered in the affirmative, with a caveat.
Don’t use the knife.
JR waited for Stover to catch up to him, his mind racing. So many ways to die. Fall in front of a car, trip and hit your head on a light pole…