The Beautiful Trap

Chapter One

It was nearly six in the morning. I'd had a nice night's sleep, feeling tired yet refreshed. So refreshed that I'd forgotten that there was a dead guy beside me.

Huh.

And then the previous night came rolling back.

"Hey, sweetheart."

I'd looked up from the bar, and my refillable bottle of Sprite, to see an approximately 5'9" man. He had slicked back black hair, a bit of chub to him, and had just enough confidence to escape arrogance.

"Hey there, yourself," I said sweetly. "Who are you?"

"I'm...I'm Forrest," he stuttered.

He's obviously a newbie.

"Oh, you're my friend for tonight." I stood and  loosely wrapped my arms around his neck, clasping my hands together at his back. "I'm Sophie."

He seemed flustered—the poor thing couldn't speak without blushing and stuttering. "N-nice to meet you, Sophie."

I knew  then that the confident look had been fabricated. I was in control here. Just like I wanted.

I spun him around and sat him down in my seat, grabbing my Sprite before I straddled his lap. I eyed him as I took a swig, watching this man child squirm beneath me.

"Honey," I said, confused. "Why are you here? You don't look ready for this kind of thing. This might not be for you." He shivered as I ran a hand through the hair near the nape of his neck.

"No, I'm fine. It's just my first time, is all."

No shit.

"Well, I'll make sure to make your first time worthwhile."

His first time would be his last. I let him get a second away from sex—because he was such a good boy—before I ended his life. I made him show me the money first though, so I could get it and go.

I made him kiss the Glock before I killed him. He didn't want to kiss it, per se, but he did it in the end anyway.

Such a sweetheart.

I rose from the motel bed, stretched and arched my back, and inspected Forrest's body. He was just turning 18—the ID in his wallet told me. 

I pocketed the three hundred dollars he'd folded into his wallet, decided against it, and just took the entire wallet with me. Leave as little evidence as possible, right?

It wasn't that I was scared of anyone finding me out, of anyone convicting me for this. I'd done it time and time again and gotten away with it. I don't want to sound conceited, either. I just know what I'm doing.

After collecting my things—a small black backpack with the Glock, a Taser (for public protection), three sets of black rubber gloves, and my bottle of Sprite in it—and circling the room for any obvious factors, I nodded to myself. I headed out, locked up with the key in gloved hands, before dropping it off at the front, handing over sixty bucks. I'd worn a hoodie with sleeves long enough to hide my hands.

"Have a nice day," the motel keeper behind a desk with to-the-ceiling bulletproof glass said. She wore purple oval glasses that rested on the bridge of her nose, making her look as if she was looking over her glasses at me, which I suppose she was. I noticed her gold-plated tag said her name was Lavender. How fitting.