The Killing League - By Dani Amore Page 0,6

232 Amanda Dekins sat on a bed. Her skin was tan but looked gray in the early morning light. Her hair was frazzled.

She stood, put on her micro skirt, knee boots and tube top. She went to the dead man’s pants and emptied his wallet of the cash.

Amanda looked back at the bed. She went to the night table, picked up the small bottle of clear liquid laced with Rohypnol, and tucked it into her small black purse.

She looked at the john.

His face still had a look of utter and complete surprise.

Or at least, what was left of his face.

She looked at her handiwork. It really was unbelievable. It was an old excuse when you were questioned by the cops for something you may or may not have done. You claimed you couldn’t remember. That way, you didn’t have to give any fucking details that would trip you up later.

But this…thing…she was doing now? She really couldn’t remember. It was like, she’d slip the mickey into the loser’s drink, and when he passed out, she’d use whatever was handy. In this case, she’d pinched a steak knife from the restaurant where the poor slob had taken her to dinner. She remembered waiting for him to pass out, then stabbing him the first time, right in his big white belly.

But this black cloud just drenched her mind with rage and she really didn’t remember anything after that. She sort of came to awhile later, breathing hard, looking at the flabby white guy she’d cut into pieces of meat like they’d just seen at the Sizzler.

Amanda stuffed the money into her purse and realized that she couldn’t remember when she stopped fucking the johns and began killing them instead. It didn’t matter. Business had never been better.

8.

Nicole

Nicole Candela was nervous. She wasn’t scared. She’d been scared before and knew what real fear was. This wasn’t it.

But looking at the empty dining room of her restaurant, which was about to open its doors for the first time ever, she felt an anxiety that was very close to genuine fear. What if the dining room remained empty? What if none of her friends actually showed up? What if they all drove together and got stuck in some monumental traffic jam?

There was sure to be a critic or two coming tonight as well. They would note the totally empty dining room and the whole thing would be over before it even got started.

All right, she thought, let’s get it under control, Nicky. She circled the small room, with its bare oak timbers and old world plaster. It was a rustic setting, with wide plank floors and soft linen window treatments. She’d kept the tables fewer in number than the room would allow, which she knew was bad business. Conventional business wisdom said you were supposed to cram as many as possible into the space. But she hated restaurants where you couldn’t move your arm for fear of elbowing another diner in the ribs.

With her restaurant, she decided she was going to create a place she would like, and eliminate all of the things she hated about other restaurants, whether it was technically good for business or not.

She crossed the dining area and stood in the wine cellar as she called it, even though it was actually a small anteroom off the dining room, and it was stocked with her favorites. She’d handpicked them, going not for flashy names but for regional vintages that she’d explored herself.

She thought back on that period in her life. It had been after she sold her first and only interview to People magazine — it had been a business decision. She hated opening up her private life, talking about what had happened between her and Jeffrey Kostner in those dark woods, but she needed the money for her dream. It had been $800,000 for a two-day interview.

The money had put her through a grueling education at the Culinary Institute of California, followed by a long sojourn through Europe and Asia, healing her mind and body while educating herself on local and regional cuisine.

The little bit of money leftover had been just enough to start the restaurant.

She made her way into the kitchen.

The smell of food being prepped met her like a gentle wave. Lemon. Garlic. Onion. The slight heat of the ovens. She had a staff of four. Most were friends from her graduating class at the Institute. Combined with three wait staff, a hostess, and herself, it was a