Page 17 of Judas (The Lito Duet #2)

The shot I get when killing someone is euphoric.

A warmth comes over me, starting at my head and washing down my body inch by inch, until every bit of me feels the ghost of summertime pool water.

Like I’ve just walked or jumped into the deep end and resurfaced for a gasp of breath.

Ready to float around and take in more of the sun, scorching my fair skin as blood rises to the surface of my flesh and stains the epidermis with star kissed blisters.

The cooling water? A baptism that could cast the sins of mankind into the Jordan river.

Same can’t be said for when I reach the end of a good book, excel in chess, finish a puzzle, or something equally mentally stimulating.

The pattering of my heart remains in my chest; there’s no jittery limbs or the need to run in circles to expel energy.

It’s calm, a relaxed sort of clarity that allows me to move into the next task with serenity.

Running when I murdered the heirs and heiresses eighteen years ago?

Pure aviation turbine fuel. It propelled me and masked any irritation—from what I can recall.

Burning leg muscles, the ache in my lungs, dry throat and nose, the throb of my feet as they pounded the pavement and I ran like my life depended on it.

If given the opportunity, I could have sprinted for miles, but we know there was a plan to be followed and deterring from it was not allowed.

This, though? The way my entire body’s winding tight with each passing second is remarkably different than anything I’ve ever felt before. Breathing doesn’t calm my heart; the utter lightning that exists in the fibers of my muscles and raw nerve endings is maddening.

Reaching up, I run both hands back through my dark hair, pushing the long strands out of my face.

The appendages shake, belying the slight sense of control I typically have over my body.

A desperate pressure settles inside of me—my heart, my lungs, my stomach.

I’m wound so tight, it’s like I’m propelling myself as high as I can on the swing set in elementary school—a memory long forgotten until now.

Ready to launch myself off the seat and see how far the wind can carry me before I crash down to the ground and race back to do it all over again.

Again, I rub my hands through my hair, this time a bit more aggressively.

My nerves are more touchy than I’ve endured in the past. Whatever the hell is going on, I need it to get with the program.

We have a long drive ahead of us and I can’t remain twisted up like this—it’s consuming what ability I have to think.

Silence washes over me finally; that’s when I notice the cyclone in the trunk has gone still. Maybe she’s out cold, finally giving up, having learned that flesh is no match for the unforgiving hard surfaces found within a trunk.

Pushing away from the bumper, hands drag down my torso and to my pockets, searching for the pack of cigarettes I stuffed in my jeans hours ago. Feeling them bulging in my right pocket, I drag them out with that same uneasy shake, and grimace. The box is crushed. A scowl dominates my face instantly.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not made of money and stealing these is not as easy as it used to be. Everything is behind counters and sometimes in locked glass cases. They even come with warnings on them now, telling pregnant women not to consume them for there is a threat of birth defects.

Eliminating Darwinism isn’t always the smartest thing to do; I mean, look at me for example.

Delicately pulling a cigarette from the squished container, I attempt to straighten it out to the best of my abilities then give up and light it regardless of its shape—sucking in the longest drag I’ve mustered in years.

Prison is alright for getting contraband; it’s simply making the exchange of goods for goods, or services for goods.

Thanks to the guards having me pick inmates off left and right, others were either too scared of me or asked me to do the same for them.

They paid in cigarettes and those stupid cinnamon candies Kace used to eat.

When Darkwater loosened the restrictions, before I was transferred out, I rummaged through his cell and found them.

Been a slave for them ever since.

Stomping around to the driver side, with my limited driving capabilities, I fold into the front seat and stare down at the dash.

Momentarily overwhelmed with the plethora of electronic components.

This car doesn’t even require a key in the ignition to start—it’s all buttons and switches.

Leaning to the left, then to the right, I locate the start button finally.

When I press on it, a light pops up on the dash telling me to push on the break first, then repeat the motions.

With my half-burned cigarette hanging from my parched lips, needing a gallon of water after struggling with Sadie, the car purrs to life and by God, we are out of here.