“Right,” he utters and rushes over to the bed. It’s as if now that he’s half-naked, he’s lost all confidence, lost all of his prowess. He scrambles on and I roll my eyes. If I knew my evening would have turned out like this, I’d have declined and spent the evening painting my nails. Carlson has been lacking enthusiasm and the ability to tell I’m more than a little impatient in everything he does. The past two weeks have been filled with sighs and eyes rolls, impatient exhales and snappy retorts. He found it hot, I found it fucking exhausting.
As Carlson lays himself out, ready and eager for me to take the lead and drag him to a sensual high, I decide to prolong his torture a little more because I have other ideas to start this. I turn and go over to the dresser, grabbing the bottle of champagne that came with the room. I unwrap the top and pop the cork. I take a leisurely drink while looking over my shoulder at him as I do so, garnering his readiness for the bubbly goodness. I turn back to the glasses, holding the bottle ready to pour our drinks, and reach into my bra where I slip a vial from my right cup. As I begin to pour the champagne, I pop the lid and allow all the liquid to drain into the glass of bubbles. Putting the small glass back, I pick up a strawberry and use it to stir Carlson's drink. Turning around with a champagne flute in one hand, strawberry in the other, I use the moment to really build the moment. I step toward him and drop the strawberry into his drink. I allow it to fall, sinking amongst the bubbles and give him an eager grin.
"Drink?" I ask him, sauntering my way toward him.
"Only if you join me," he purrs to me. As I approach, he props himself up on the bed with his shirt thrown open and his hairy chest on show – not the finest of sights I’ve even been graced with.
“Of course.” I cannot help but smirk back at him as I pass his drink over to him. After he’s taken it, he hesitates for a moment, obviously waiting on me. I go back and pick the champagne bottle up. As I turn, I begin to hold it in the air. "Bottoms up!" I toast and then take a large swig from the Bollinger bottle.
I watch as Carlson downs the entire glass and picks the strawberry out. I pick my own from the overflowing bowl and take a seductive bite of the juicy fruit. He watches me with such vigor as I rest against the dresser lining the wall of our room and groan in sheer delight at the sharp taste that fills my mouth.
“Another?” I ask, putting the bottle up as a little to gesture toward him.
He shakes his head as he starts to squint his eyes, looking visibly paled. He sits dazed for a moment, and I just watch – intrigue filters through me as he strives for an explanation as to the sudden feeling overcoming him. He shakes his head, trying to rid the sudden sickness hitting him.
“The alcohol hasn’t gone to your head already now, has it?” I ask, teasing him ruthlessly. I know exactly what’s happening. I’m the one aware of how fast the addition to his champagne will attack his system. He shakes his hand out at me, no.
His hand suddenly flies to his chest as he clutches at his shirt in a familiar manner and looks at me with that deathly confusion. He cannot speak, not as the poison pulsates around his system, claiming every last part of him its victim. I know, in his mind, he’s screaming out the why’s, the how’s, the help me’s, but I just stand here. I don’t move as Carlson reaches out for me desperately. I remain in my spot, watching every last minute of his life play out. I know if I don’t, I will be punished. I see the life pass from his eyes and cherish that mine has been saved with this one cruel act of humanity.
As he falls down, I take my time grabbing my Prada purse and fishing through it for my metal nail file. I continue to ignore him as I walk to the bed and slump upon the end of it. I listen to him start to mumble for a moment, his words slur and merge to one. The drug-infused poison is taking effect, and I merely start to inspect my nails. I see an imperfect unevenness on my left index fingernail and begin to file it into the perfect shape. I stow away a mental note to get a mani-pedi tomorrow. When the bed moves too fiercely, I throw my hands up in the air so as not to stab myself accidentally with the pointed end of the file. As Carlson’s convulsions increase, I stand up from the perch at the end of the bed, unable to remain close with my back to him. I turn and watch him in the middle of the bed. He’s no longer aware of me, vying for my body or my answers. The toxins have full control, leading him to a less than peaceful death with every ebbing beat of his heart.