Clean

by Paul Heatley

“Mess up her face.  Make sure no one will ever want to fuck her.”  The boss had been pissed.  Wringing his hands and popping his joints. 

“You want me to leave her breathing?” 

The boss pondered it. “ Don’t kill her.  She’s not worth it.  Just take away her face.  Her face is all she’s got.” 

Jackson wasn’t so sure about that.  She had her body.  Great-looking tits.  Nice curves.  A decent behind.  But he supposed her smile set it off.  That coquettish little grin accentuated with a smear of red lipstick, flashed for every man in the room, despite whose arm she was on. 

“However, as for the other fucker…”

She expected the other fucker when she answered the hotel door to Jackson.  It was clear on her face. “ You’re early,” she said.  Wearing sexy underwear and that teasing smirk.  It faded fast when she realized who had knocked.  She seemed resigned, almost. 

“Your man thinks you smile too much,” Jackson said. 

“Let’s get this over with.” 

He hit her twice then stopped counting.  She took it standing, at first.  Dropped to her knees then pulled herself back up.  Looked him defiantly in the eye. 

“Are you gonna kill me?”  She spat out a tooth. 

“No.”  He hit her again.  She went down. 

Jackson was done.  There was blood on the knuckles of his leather gloves.  He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped them down. 

On the floor, she started crawling to the bathroom.  Jackson carried her through.  Ran the bath. “ When will he get here?” 

She wiped blood from her eye. “ Soon.” 

“I’d apologize for doing this, but I don’t think it would count for much.” 

“It wouldn’t.  How many times have you been sent to beat up a woman?” 

“A few.  More than should be necessary.” 

“We all have our roles.” 

“I assume it goes without saying that yours is done.” 

She nodded. 

“Don’t let him see you again.  Don’t turn up looking for forgiveness.  Next time it’ll be your life.” 

Jackson left her to undress and get in the water.  He closed the door.  The taps were still running.  She climbed in and the water sloshed momentarily and then all was still.  He checked his reflection and spotted a drop of blood on his chin.  He wiped it away.  Turned off the lights then took a seat on the edge of the bed. 

He’d admired her, on his boss’s arm.  The same way he’d admire the women on the arms of all the other higher-ups.  When it was just a meeting with the boys they took their whores to show them off.  If it was a respectable, formal event, they turned up with their wives.  Jackson didn’t admire the latter group so much.  Too haughty.  Too nose-in-the-air. 

Jackson waited.  The bathroom was quiet.  He thought he could maybe hear her sobbing, very softly. 

Footsteps in the corridor.  They stopped.  The floor outside the room made a sound.  There was a knock on the door.  Jackson had removed his belt and kept it wrapped around his fist.  He got to his feet and pulled down the handle, then stepped into the shadows.  His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. 

The lover entered the room, saying her name.  There was a smile in his voice, thinking she was playing hard to get.  Jackson stepped behind him.  Wrapped the makeshift-garrotte around his neck and kicked the door shut. 

Lover boy wasn’t as resigned as the girl.  He kicked and clawed.  It didn’t last long.  Jackson squeezed hard after the struggles stopped, making sure.  The girl must have heard.  The sobbing got a little louder. 

Jackson dragged the body to the wardrobe.  Removed lover boy’s belt and let his pants drop.  Wrapped it round the hanging rail and cinched it at his neck.  Put his dick in his hand.  Stepped back and inspected his work.  Looked like he’d gone out happy. 

He knocked on the bathroom door. “ I can’t leave until you do.” 

“Why not?” 

“I need to clean.” 

Jackson hooked his belt back through the loops.  Sat down on the bed again and listened to her get out the bath.  Listened to her dry herself. 

“I need my clothes,” she said. 

Jackson gathered them up and handed them through the gap in the door. “ Don’t look in the wardrobe,” he said. 

#

Paul Heatley does his writing in his loft.  He makes it up as he goes along.