But not Robin.
And not with Morgan Albright’s ridiculous roommate.
He needed that buzz, that bang, that fucking crescendo.
He deserved it.
Two women walked by him. Young, the one on the left a bit heavy in the ass for his taste. Tiny shorts, tiny crop tops—asking for it, no question. Add drunken laughter.
He could have killed them both, so easily really. Follow them into the next bar, strike up a conversation, pay for their drinks.
Entertaining the idea, he kept an eye on them. It wouldn’t take much, he mused. Lure them up to his hotel suite. Women thought they had safety in numbers. Easy to roofie them both if he had to. Or just disable Fat Ass, then play with the brunette awhile.
Since it gave him a much-needed lift to imagine it, he tossed the rum punch and slipped into a hole-in-the-wall behind them.
A crowded hole-in-the-wall where the beer ran cold and the zydeco hot. People rubbed asses, women shook their tits on a dance floor the size of a silver dollar.
Since they stood two deep at the bar, he had time to study them.
Fat Ass had the better face, and blond hair if he ignored the solid inch of black roots. But the brunette had the longer, slimmer build he preferred.
Mash them together, he thought, noting the women ordered gin fizzes, and get one winner. And wouldn’t housekeeping get a shock in the morning?
He started to step up behind them. Make that three! he’d say.
Boredom didn’t excuse stupidity, he reminded himself. He could kill them—oh yes, he could see exactly how he’d do it—but then he’d have to pack, leave the hotel, leave New Orleans, and with only what these sluts had in their pockets.
Not how he played the game.
He wandered out, but since he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind, stopped and bought a ball cap, a New Orleans Saints T-shirt, and a pair of goofy sunglasses.
Maybe mixing up the game would pull him out of his slump.
With his hair piled under the cap, the T-shirt layered over his own, and the sunglasses in place, he walked back into the hole-in-the-wall.
Fat Ass shook it on the dance floor. The brunette giggled with a couple of college-boy types at the bar.
He’d just order a beer, see if opportunity knocked.
Before he could, it knocked loud and clear when Fat Ass headed toward the back.
Maybe to pee, maybe to puke, but either way it looked like divide and conquer time to him.
He gave it a count of ten before he followed her back.
Plenty of people crowded on the dance floor, plenty of others massed at the bar or at the tables. The music pounded against the walls.
In his mind, he practiced the slurred Oops, wrong door if he found anyone else in the bathroom.
The music masked his entrance. No one stood at the single, wall-hung sink. Only one pair of feet showed under the stingy two stalls.
Opportunity knocked again, and louder.
He didn’t see any point in ignoring it.
He locked the door behind him.
Risky, definitely risky, but he needed that buzz, that bang.
The instant he heard the slide of the stall lock, he moved.
Her eyes popped when he pushed in the door. Big, almost beautiful brown eyes that glazed over when he smashed his fist into her face.
She barely made a sound as she slid down, and he went down with her, closed his hands over her throat.
“Look at me, Fat Ass. I want to watch the lights go out.”
Too drunk, too dazed from the blow to put up much of a fight, she just batted her hands at him, gurgled while a Cajun accordion went into a long, hot riff that pulsed against the bathroom walls.
He watched her die, waited for that buzz. And when he felt no more than a faint tingle of satisfaction, he punched her again.
“Bitch.” He slammed her head against the side of the stall as he pulled off the small, cross-body bag she wore.
He tucked it into the back of his waistband and left her on the floor of the stall. When he went out again, the music still pumped, people continued to dance, and the brunette cackled at something the college-boy types said.
He wanted to kill her, too, just for being there, for having the right body but the wrong hair color.
After tossing the sunglasses, he walked another block, pulled off the cap, let it land on the sidewalk where he assumed someone would grab it up.
As he walked, he imagined the screams, the chaos when the next woman stepped into that hole-in-the-wall’s bathroom. That, at least, gave him a little satisfaction. And wouldn’t the brunette feel guilty? Flirting with drunks at the bar while her friend got herself murdered.
More satisfaction.
He decided the effort hadn’t been wasted. Trying new things never hurt. He’d killed someone in a public place, so points for him.