Ruby & The Rose (lesbian stories)

Chapter 1

1

She threw the old khaki duffle bag down onto the bed, the door closing behind her with a bang. It was past midnight, the only light in the room coming from the streetlamps outside, pooling yellow through the fraying curtains. She went to the basin in the corner, turning the taps onto full, and scrubbing at her hands. Scarlet red blood mixed with dirt, and ran between her fingers, spiralling down into the plug hole. It had been a messy one. The client hadn’t warned her that he was a fighter. But the job had been done, and that was all that mattered. The cops would find him over the next few days, the client had their problem neatly dealt with, and she would get her money.

When her hands were clean, and her face too- she knew more than most how blood, like sand, had a habit of getting absolutely everywhere- she dried them on the hand towel. Exhaustion was beginning to set in, as the adrenaline slowly faded. She took off her jacket, and folded it over the back of the chair, then her boots. The girl didn’t even have chance to loosen her belt before she collapsed onto the bed, her heavy eyelids closing and sleep taking hold.

She woke up at half past five exactly, the room still in darkness. She found the old hotel room freezing cold, and hurriedly pulled on her leather jacket. By the glow of the flickering bedside lamp, she opened her moleskin diary, and thumbed through the pages. The next week was fairly empty. Business had been rather slow just lately. It seemed that people were happy enough keeping their peers alive. Damn them.

In fact, she had the entire day free. She brewed herself a thick, strong coffee and began set to cleaning her equipment. She took pride in her work. She was known throughout the nation’s underworld for being swift and precise. And keeping things just so helped no end. So she took apart her rifle, piece by piece, and dusted each small part. She buffed her hand gun, and pulled at the unloaded trigger to hear that satisfying click. She lined the bullets up, to make them stand in their case like soldiers on parade. She took her case of poisons and placed it on her lap. She held each bottle to the light to ensure the liquid gleamed just so, and tightened the caps securely. She unsheathed her silver daggers, sharpened the blades then polished them till they shone.

By ten o’clock, she had downed another two coffees, replaced all her equipment, and made her bed- despite the fact that she was an incredibly still sleeper, and the sheets were barely crumpled. After placing the top blanket down, and tucking it beneath the mattress with military precision, she zipped up her jacket, put her phone and diary into her back pocket, and left the room.

She had found herself in a rather dull town, packed with failed business people with white-flecked hair and ill-fitting suits. Walking along the grey pavement, through the damp air that tasted of metal and carried a scent that couldn’t be placed, but was similar to warm salami, she didn’t meet the eyes of the strangers who bustled past. She chose a small café, with the rusty sign hanging haphazardly, to take breakfast in.

The man behind the counter was middle-aged and ruddy faced. His curly hair was greasy, and hung over dark eyes.

“Mornin’,” he said bluntly, continuing to dry mugs with a dirty looking tea towel. She cast a glance around the establishment- it was empty, save the frail homeless man, stooped over a week old newspaper in the corner- then turned back to the man. Deciding that she may as well risk 100 kinds of food poisoning, she said in a pleasant sort of way, “Good morning. I don’t suppose you do fruit?”

The man jerked a thumb- the nail chewed and grimy- over to the bowl behind him, where a handful of apples and a banana sat, slowly browning and buzzing with flies. She swallowed down nausea. “I think I’ll have the scrambled egg.”

As it happened, the meal that was dumped somewhat unceremoniously before her was actually edible. When she’d mumbled a thank you, and paid the man, she poked the yellow lump gingerly with a fork, then risked a small bite. It really was a pleasant surprise. After adding a little pepper to lift the flavour, she found it almost enjoyable, and cleared it in no time. However, the toast beneath was charred black, and dripping grease. She left that. The homeless man looked up from his paper and gave her a nod, as if that was the right thing to do.

The rest of the day passed, and the girl found herself quite enjoying her time off. She took a walk in the park- though time and lack of use had caused it to become overgrown, and scattered with empty lager cans- and treated herself to a new shirt found at the bottom of the charity shop sale bins.

It was just after lunchtime, as she was wiping the last crumbs of a particularly tasty chicken sandwich from her mouth, when her jean pocket buzzed.

“The Rose?” said a man’s voice, tinted with a sharp New York accent.

“Speaking,” she replied.

“67a, the apartment block on Bridge Street, Mr Anthony Doyle. He’ll be back from the gym at two.”

“Preferred method?” she asked, ducking into the doorway of an apparently abandoned bakery.

“Stab him. Make him bleed. Make him hurt.”

She didn’t question this. She usually dealt with quick, painless snipings- people just wanted out of the way. But her portfolio was a prolific one. Almost nothing was off limits.

“I’ll do my best sir,” said the Rose. “It will cost more though.”

“I will pay whatever it takes.”

She tried not to smirk. Only idiots admitted that.

“Six thousand,” she said, not wishing to take advantage of the poor man. “Cash, delivered to the Portobello Hotel, Room 196, by midnight tonight. Okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“It’s a pleasure doing business sir.”

The man then hung up, and she slipped the phone back into her pocket. She took a deep breath of pleasure. Work.

Through the crack in the wardrobe doors, clutching the handle of her sharpest dagger, Rose could see the man as he entered the flat. He was tall and muscular, with blonde hair cropped close to his head. Still clad in sweaty gym gear, he pulled a bottle of chilled water from the fridge and took several huge gulps. A photo of a very beautiful brunette woman was secured to the door with magnets. He smiled fondly at it.

“Oh Christine,” he said. He, too, was a New Yorker. He then turned away, and began pressing buttons on a sleek silver sound system. She seized her chance.

Mr Doyle gave a startled yell when he found the girl clinging to his back. First, she stabbed one of his well-toned upper arms. Make him suffer, that was the brief, and she would draw this one out as slow as she could. Anthony yelled again, clutching the wound. Fresh thick blood poured out between his fingers. She then hit his leg, his other leg, his shoulder. He cursed and screamed and swore. The noise rang in her ears. The sound of dying never pleased Rose, but she had slowly become immune to it, and kept slamming the blade into Anthony’s flesh. Her feet slipping on the blood covered flooring, and the poor man wailing in his agony, she decided that it was enough. Wiping the back of a hand across her forehead, she held the dagger above her head.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” he croaked, his voice fading. “Would you?”

She plunged the knife down, straight into his heart, and merciful death swept over in mere moments.

Rose did not relay Anthony’s apologies. She had no way of contacting her client after all. Instead she returned to the hotel, washed the congealing blood away, and poured herself yet another hot coffee.