Jill the Ripper (Horror Fiction)

He was utterly charming.

A tall, handsome and brawny specimen in his early twenties; bursting with youthful vigor, and pride.

She watched him as he spoke, lips pursed in amusement, eyes focused, and unwavering; hiding the madness that lurked in their depth.

His lime green eyes were smug and held traces of mirth as he recounted his latest conquest and her desperate need for attachment; one he didn’t care for anymore since he got some cash and a bit of ass.

She watched him with growing contempt, a slim well-manicured finger raised to tuck a stray lock of hair back in place; as she listened to his boastful gloating of how easy it had been to exploit her, how disgusting her body had looked under him.

Gemma Krasinski was her name but to everyone on Williams Hawthorne Campus; she was fat Janine, hell on wheels—not for any literal denotation, but for an accident at a frat party when her two hundred pounds overweight self had missed a footing and crashed into the punch bowl.

The Incident had been a long-standing joke since freshman year, and a source of ridicule that had reduced the minuscule self-esteem of the poor girl, to almost nonexistent.

It was the reason why he lounged there on her sofa, cocky and arrogant as he narrated the way Janine had approached him to pay for a date. How she kept paying him to go out with her, even though he barely listened to her nervous mumbling, nor took her anywhere popular to avoid running into familiar people.

It would be a tragedy If anyone was to find out that he; Cameron Lakefield was hanging out with fat Janine. He couldn’t afford to lose his reputation over some unimportant pudgy bitch with too much money to spare.

His words were sickening, derogatory, and downright unkind, yet they lit up a fire deep inside her; a burning desire to straddle him and ride him straight into oblivion.

She had no empathy, nor did she care about fat Janine, but his arrogance and assuredness filled her with something dark akin to hate

Yet she desired him, and it was a hunger that badly needed to be sated.

She wasn’t like Gemma Krasinski, the bastard was saying; his devilishly cocky grin was still in place as he scuttled closer, and trailed a finger up her arm with an unmistakable intent in his eyes.

She was gorgeous, hot, and oozed sex appeal in a way that brought men to their knees and that wasn’t anywhere far from the truth because she already knew.

She knew this for herself, which was why it had been easy to lure him to the apartment; why it would be easy to send him straight to hell where his kind belonged.

When he reached for her right then, she allowed him; blood pulsing excitedly through her veins as he tore off her lacy bra and buried his head between her breasts.

She studied the thick expanse of his back with critical eyes; the eyes of an anatomy and physiology student turned botanist who took secret pleasures in unearthing the mysteries of the human body.

She reveled in the intricacies, the joints that connected limbs and tissues that made up the organs and other parts of the body.

It was beyond exciting, as she circled her arms around his neck and felt the increased pressure of blood in his jugular, just as his dick throbbed on her exposed thigh.

Practical classes were what she would sorely miss about her switch from anatomy, but that didn’t matter anymore because she had the chance to enjoy it one last time.

Only not hunched over a cadaver, with the pungent odor of formaldehyde-based preservation solution drifting into her nostrils, but on a living human; a disgusting, privileged scum like the rest of his gender with a deep-seated arrogance that brought the blood in her veins to a hateful simmer.

She’d dreamt for a long while of unknotting and taking a life apart just to understand the complexity of how it worked. It also helped tremendously that she’d always found herself drawn to the art of taking away life, the art of finality and conclusion; of watching the lights go off forever.

Years of studying and obsessing over killers who ended lives without an iota of remorse, enjoying every moment of their abnormal compulsions had firmly implanted the urge deep in her distorted mind.

This was a dream come true, and she intended to enjoy every tiny bit of it.

He was fumbling with his trousers now, his eyes heavy with want as he kissed her none too gently; scraping her lower lip and drawing blood.

“You are an aggressive one, aren’t you? She thought with a smile, savoring the metallic taste flooding her mouth. He didn’t seem to notice as he murmured rude, degrading phrases, hitching up her skirt with one hand, while the other fondled her roughly—just how she loved it.

Her excitement was inching closer to the surface, burning her up inside, and she couldn't take the wait any longer. She reached out and pushed away his fumbling fingers, yanking down his shorts, alongside his briefs, and taking his engorged member in hand.

“Ha!” He was huge; throbbing with life and energy, and she had sick perverted visions of the ultimate climax right then.

She straddled him in the next second, sighing when he was finally embedded deep inside before beginning to move up and down.

“Oh bitch, you are the best. I could swear all of you taste the same but you are something special….”

She increased her pace, drowning out the sounds of his half-pathetic, half-desirous utterances as she scaled the elusive peaks of her erotic culmination while envisioning blood drooling from his filthy mouth.

Suddenly, he stopped her; hands gripping her trim waist right before flipping her over on her back, causing her to hit her head on the sofa’s armrest.

“I’m in control, bitch. You have to know your place.” He entered her in one swift move, that drove her straight into the corner of the armrest.

“Bastard! She was angry now but bided her time as the feeling inside her tightened to the point of explosion. She was right there at the edge, and the next thing was surrender.

She let herself go as waves of climax rolled over her for a few short seconds before crashing to a halt and dissipating unexpectedly fast.

With a smile, she reached behind the sofa and grabbed a fourteen-inch steel knife, glinting in the dim glow of a lamp nearby.

Right as he grunted his release, she whirled around in a fast motion and sliced his throat; the shocked gaping expression on his face sending delicious quivers through her body.

He fell backward on the long sofa, clutching at his ripped jugular, pumping out a copious amount of thick red blood.

An extremely satisfactory grin rested on her face as she watched him struggle to speak, but couldn’t.

It would take less than a minute for him to bleed to death, starting from that moment; so she waited, cross-legged on the sofa for the main action to begin….

It was a little over dawn, and daylight was creeping steadily into the sky, like a grounded teenager sneaking home after a wild night out.

There was no one at the beachfront, nothing except seagulls flying above the quietly moving waters, and some odd groups traipsing about on the shoreline, their beaks pecking into the sand.

A man appeared In the near distance, running alongside a lady, the crunching sound of their sneakers digging into the sands as they advanced closer disturbed the serenity of the morning.

They were side by side, moving in complete unison until he stumbled suddenly and was held back from pitching forward into the sands by the woman, who grabbed his hand in a bid to steady him.

That was when they saw the body, covered partially in the sand.

It was naked and male; carved and disemboweled like a thanksgiving turkey, the intestines placed nearby, covered with flies, seashells, and some undecipherable junks washed up on the shoreline from the water.

The man shook his head and took a step back, then another, before throwing up in the sands, his hands clutched around his midsection.

The woman stood, immobilized, her horrified eyes fastened on the gruesome sight just a foot away.

Then she began to scream, the sound piercing through the comforting veil of silence; and kept screaming even as the frightened seagulls took flight, and the sun emerged cheerfully from behind misty low clouds.

The flowers that bloom today,
Withers tomorrow…

—Chinmoy Bordoloi

It was a pleasantly sunny day in the small town of Littleton, Montana; the rolling grassland gleamed green and gold off the side tracks off the road, with clusters of bellflowers and wide peonies blooming beautifully as you drove ahead.

The little red Nissan ambled through the main street of Littleton, Montana in a steady, mechanical pace, heading towards the FlowerCafé were it stopped, coughed and the engine went off.

The door was pushed open with a determined flick, and out she came; on blue sneakers, gray shorts hugging her slim curvy frame and an oversized T-shirt with the words ‘Forever Young’ emblazoned across the front.

Her name was Jill Archer, and she ran the Flowershop Café for ailing Mrs. Donovan, Littleton’s councilwoman and everyone’s sweetheart.

The good lady was a pleasant soul, who’d fallen down the stairs, a week after Jill had moved to town and gotten the job at the Café. She’d since been bedridden at St. Bernadine Hospital, where she’s visited regularly by Jill, who brings her bright cheering flowers, from the shop and keeps her company.

“Good morning, Jill. Found the little stinker yet?” Called Mr. Timmons, a pleasant faced man with bushy straggly beards who ran the town’s supermarket opposite the Flowershop Café.

The FlowerCafé self-appointed mascot; an orange tabby called Sergeant Culpeper, had been missing for two days now, and everyone was interested in finding him. If not for his peppery temperament, but to see him lounging on the window seat watching everyone go by with a bored expression.

“Not yet, Mr. Timmons. I’m sure he would turn up eventually as he always does.” Jill shouted back, and bestowed the man with a smile that had him blushing a deep shade of red, as he nodded and got suddenly busy with the garbage bag at his feet.

Like every red-blooded male in Littleton, the man had a huge crush on Jill and treated her with the utmost respect and consideration. It seemed like the day she’d walked into their boring cold town, the sun finally emerged from behind the clouds.

Once inside the toasty warmth of the FlowerCafé, Jill’s smile disappeared fast like it had only been a memory, and Mr. Timmons, a stranger from a distant past as she came face to face with Becky Ann; Mrs. Donovan’s niece who’d arrived from Miami to visit with her sick aunt and help around the café.

Jill had different opinions about that and resented the intrusion.

The FlowerCafé was already well handled by her and Vienna; the brunette who was wiping a table few steps away, and sneaking furtive glances their way.

They didn’t need an uppity, complaining chit who had a portfolio of ideas and suggestions to bring to the café which was already doing well enough on its own.

They were the best FlowerCafé in both Blue Sky, Jacksontown and its environs.

With a rustic interior done in warm even tones, vines dangled across the walls and ceiling, and vases of marigold, peonies, white roses and jasmine decorated the round oak tables. Pots of annual herbs and flowers were situated in vantage positions behind the chairs and sofas pushed back against the walls.

The large open room which was divided in the middle by a wooden partition, was warm and cozy; with gleaming oak flooring and soft orange bulbs lending it an intimate feel.

On the other side of the partition was the flower shop where pots, vases and large beds of flowers were displayed for sale; an extension of the flowers almost covering the entire frontage of the establishment.

The place was thriving and Jill had no plans of letting Becky come in guns blazing, to change anything.

“Morning, Jill. Glad you could finally make it in,” Becky said, her voice oozing heavy loads of sarcasm as she flipped her wheat blonde curls away from her face.

Becky Donovan was the perfect example of a pampered princess who had never needed to work any harder for anything in her life, but had decided to in a bid to prove to the world that she didn’t belong in that stereotype.

The second and last child of Mrs. Donovan’s real estate shark of a brother, Becky had sailed through Yale on a whim, graduating just below average GPA; she had gotten the fanciest idea of beginning a chain of business, any business would do—she just had to find a niche and carve into it.

Which was why she was in Littleton; to appraise her Aunt’s flower café and decide if it was worth developing into a franchise while trying to convince her at the same time, that it was indeed in her favor to embrace such spectacular development were it to bear distinct possibilities of a future.

One look at Little Miss Sunshine and Jill had disliked her on sight; the feeling turning out to be mutual on Becky’s end as well.

Although, it was way obvious for a perceptive mind to see why the petite blond grated on Jill Archer’s nerves. Becky was beautiful, although not in the uniquely exotic manner Jill was. She had a broad face, an overtly straight nose, a slightly big mole at the corner of her eyebrow, and full lips which made up excellently for all the tiny flaws of her face.

If it was a game of looks, Jill would win hands down; there was no one quite like Jill herself, at least not in the town of Littleton.

With a face and body that looked to have stepped out of a Caribbean fashion magazine, Jill had been blessed with an olive complexion that suited the slight tilt at the corner of her magnetic ice gray eyes. High well-defined cheekbones gave her face a haughty character, along with a small pert nose and lips the shape of a cupid bow. Jill could easily have been a model, and rake in big cash or she could have chosen to work in show biz; she had all it took and more, but instead, she ran a Flower café in a nondescript town such as Littleton.

Of course, she had her reasons; after a brief cancer scare, the need to leave the city, for somewhere where the air was good, and her lungs could benefit from nature’s free administration was logical—it was also a plus that big sky ski resort was just a holler away, and her skills and passion for skiing could be fed as often as possible.

It was a perfect, good enough reason. It was just right for the towners who had embraced her, and her little red Nissan wholeheartedly.

The same way they had welcomed Becky Donovan, who despite her penchant to pick on every little detail; from the unavailability of a large shopping mall around, except you were willing to drive an hour and a half to Yellowstone National Park, or the low influx of tourists whom she’d expected would be as constant as it always was in the winter.

Although people still drifted into the town on their way to Big Sky, and a good number came around steadily from the resort to explore the old Native American haunt in the woods of Littleton; they weren’t half as much they used to be in winter when the Ski season commenced.

In Becky’s forlorn tone, it was obvious that she had arrived Littleton with the hope of finding handsome young men but had been disappointed. There were a lot of tourists who were around town that summer though; most of whom had come for the white water rafting on the Gallatin River, the zip lines, mountain biking, and scores of other activities down at Big Sky.

Becky drove down from Big Sky every evening and sometimes didn’t return to Littleton till the next day, usually with a scowl, and in bad spirits.

Jill couldn’t care less about the girl’s activities except it affected hers.

She wanted her gone, and judging from the way Becky had been stepping on her toes and crossing the line these days; it could end up being sooner than later.

Inconveniences didn’t linger around Jill for too long.

“So, I’ve got this fabulous idea about our noon activities,” Becky was saying, “and before you start foaming at the mouth, I would advise you to hear me out.”

“You always have ideas, and as I told you earlier, there’s no point in upsetting the balance we have created here on the cause of a whim,” replied Jill, who headed towards the sink to wash her hands.

“The best you can do is hear them out, Jill. It’s not a big deal and the way you carry around is not necessary. How do you know it won’t be perfect until you try it? Just how?” Becky’s expression in the mirror was of a displeased pout.

Jill gave her a long-measured look, careful to shield the irritation she was feeling carefully beneath an unruffled demeanor.

The truth was Becky was getting to her, and with every push and jab on the thoroughly constructed wall around her restraints, a crack was revealed; like the way, her hands tightened on the edges of the sink, before easing off.

“You know what? Let’s hear it. What fabulous grand idea is going to transform this wonderful place into wall street?”

Jill relented and dried her hands on a towel hanging nearby before returning to the three-step counter.

Becky’s lips curled in a sneer. “Don’t blame me if you lack visions and ambitions, Jill. My ideas aren’t exactly for the simpleminded.”

Jill froze. The words had been whispered in a true Becky’s fashion; low and stringently delivered, for Jill’s ears only. She looked up from the ledger, straight at Becky who looked exceptionally pleased with herself from the satisfied smirk she wore.

A second passed, five more followed, and Jill was still studying Becky with the deep intensity of a snake before it struck its prey. Becky on the other hand didn’t look as smug as she’d done just a while ago, and the smirk had all but disappeared completely.

“Hey, Jill. Here is a raspberry tart for you this fine morning!” Rico, the café’s baker breezed out of the kitchen, just nearby with a plate of the most beautiful raspberry tart Jill had ever seen, in the nick of time to save the morning.

“Oh, Rico, this looks absolutely divine!” cooed Jill, and she kissed Rico’s cheek before accepting the peace offering, barely sparing Becky another glance.

If she had, she would have seen the relief seep out of the girl’s features right then.

Jill settled on a stool and began to eat the delightful concoction, her eyes going round in delight with every bite. Rico wasn’t just handsome, and Italian, he was also a genius in the kitchen, and Jill had taken to him rather quickly when she’d arrived in town—which was strange because Jill never took to anyone, and everything she did was only a practiced camouflage.

Soon, the café began to fill up with patrons, and Rico was once more back in the kitchen.

Amanda and Becky had gotten busy taking orders and sorting out flower arrangements, while Jill remained behind the cash register; her gaze straying to Mrs. Donovan’s niece where she stood having a conversation with Mr. Talbridge, one of the regulars.

While she watched the annoying blonde, Jill felt subtle vibrations in her body and tapped steadily on the counter to make it stop.

But the vibrations never came all the time, and when they did, they never stopped. They almost never stopped until there was compensation.

Then the thoughts began, sparking up the resentment that was ingrained in the deepest part of her nature.

What was Becky’s greatest fear? What visualized trepidation in someone like Mrs. Donovan’s niece who seemed to have it all; a rich doting family, privileges, and a clear outlook of the nearest future.

Just then, Becky laughed and threw her head back, exposing a fine graceful neck with a network of veins and Jill couldn’t help a smile.

She was beautiful, serene, and innocent when she wasn’t unpleasant. It was just a shame that the innocence was all an elaborate ruse. She was filth to the bottom of her core; rotten filth which Jill recognized, understood so deeply and resented with every fiber of her being.

Filth was meant to be discarded. They were meant to end up in the sewer, stripped of everything that lent them humanity before and left in a pile of bones.

The ominous thoughts began again but were quelled momentarily by the little bell above the glass double door of the FlowerCafé as it was pushed open in a carefree manner.

And that was when she saw him….

I should only have been as lucky as Valentino, in the movies – I didn’t have to be a gigolo. In real life.

—Cesar Romero

There was something about being in the country that always put Bobby Hutchinson in a favorable mood. Perhaps it was the fresh atmosphere and clean air that sifted into your lungs and made it expand in gratitude, or the tall towering trees that always reminded him of early spring mornings in his grandfather’s cabin back in their hometown of Riverdale, Ohio.

But that had been before he’d fallen out with everyone; before he became known as the black sheep of the family.

Bobby winded down the windows of his Audi, to let in more of the country air, the smell of pine needles assailing his senses as he drove down the road, heading for Big Sky Resort.

It was August, the early month of summer, and ski season wasn’t until Thanksgiving; but it had been a last-minute decision to get out of Los Angeles, and the first place that had come to mind was Montana.

Coming down to the big country had been the only way he could afford to get away from his current squeeze, Melanie; who’d begun to get clingy, wanting more of his attention—a surefire sign for Bobby to run.

To Bobby, the women were all business, and one wasn’t any different from the other, well except the size of their bank accounts.

It was a blessing, or perhaps a curse that Bobby Hutchinson had realized early in his life just how good looking, and attractive he really was—a precious gift from his half French, half Russian mother and Canadian-American father.

With a beach blond, surfer styled haircut, and deep blue eyes, the shade of midnight, Bobby’s face was a dream, highlighted perfectly by his two-sided dimples and a charming smile.

His well-toned abs and impressive shoulders, courtesy of an average healthy diet, and constant workouts garnered lots of admiration from both sides of the gender, and his impressive height singled him out in a crowd of men.

It had all started from middle school; when he’d still been appalled by the thoughts of having anything to do with girls—he and his crew had just made a pact to swear off women business forever, because girls were weird, and couldn’t be understood.

But that had changed immediately he got his first girlfriend, Karen.

High school had been a different ball game entirely. Almost every girl in Riverdale high had a crush on him, and it had been a wild competition to get his attention. His ego and pride had blown up considerably, and meeting with Floyd Shapiro had cemented the course of his life in the next coming years.

He would go on to tailor everything Floyd did, and they were soon known and seen as the hottest, coolest boys in high school.

Bobby’s taste had gone a whole lot higher, and it had been easy to learn how to shuffle the girls around, with Floyd Shapiro’s phrase in his head—Why be shackled to just one girl, when his good looks was a ticket to a host of them.

Everything was perfect in his life, and he was hardly taken by the looks of betrayal he got from them when he got caught in the act; an attitude that had graduated slowly into pride and cockiness, an observation made by everyone around him.

But Bobby Hutchinson could give a bear’s ass what anyone thought of him. Most of them were green with envy, and inferior to him anyway.

College in Los Angeles had been an escape from the dull, judgmental attitude in southwest Ohio, and the crowning glory of everything. He had advanced from dating a lot of girls for the pleasure of having a good time, to a select few who were really worth his time.

In the beginning, he hadn’t really thought about hooking up with them for their money until he got sacked from the PR Agency where he worked, after coming into the office the next morning inebriated and making a mess of a presentation.

His girlfriend at the time had been very supportive, if not stupid; and had continued to pay the bills in their condominium, while he went through a big production of looking for another job.

There hadn’t been time to attend any actual interview, in between hanging out with his buddy Floyd; who’d moved to L.A from Ohio the previous spring, and a German friend of his called Wesley.

Wesley had no job but drove the latest, Escalade, and hung out at the ritziest club in the Upper Westside.

When speaking to Wesley on one of their carousals; the dark-haired, enigmatic guy had laughed off their idea of work. He’d dropped out of college quite early, and had never worked for a day in his life; choosing instead to provide intimate services for wealthy older women while getting paid and taken care of in return.

It was a solid deal, which he’d expanded by involving two other guys who were interested and gaining quite a sizable commission from them.

The wheels had begun to turn in Bobby’s head right then. Working in the agency right after college had been a cool move and he’d been beyond excited at the beginning. But it had only gotten tougher, his boss—a critical old nag, was constantly complaining and yelling. He wouldn’t be missing the sound of her yelling from the office above the main workroom when something trivial went wrong—like her coffee not being refilled.

He wouldn't have to deal with the alarm at seven, and the extra hours with some irrational clients, especially when damage control was involved. He sure as hell wasn’t going to miss being blamed for every little thing; from the weather in Alaska to the actions of a client who was dumb enough to be caught doing something stupid on camera.

His girlfriend, Cara had finally left him, after catching him in bed with the blonde from the diner opposite their building; which had saved him the stress of having to break up with her.

That part of his life was shut off now. He was going to make him some money like Wesley had done—even if his best friend Floyd had claimed to find true love and planned to stick to her and get a real job.

Angie was a good girl, but Bobby didn’t care. Most of his ex’s had been good girls too; they just didn’t possess the resources to give him the good life he wanted without stress.

It had been quite easy to get into the lifestyle. Wesley had shown him the ropes, and opened the right doors; and in a matter of a year, Bobby had moved into a bigger condo and gotten a better car.

The only problem was his spendthrift nature and the hunger for more. He spent way more than he made, and didn’t have much choice but to keep scouting for more women to support his extravagant lifestyle.

There was no chance to be picky, and he’d resulted to seducing women below his usual target of CEOs of fortune 500 companies, and rich bored socialites; inching lower down the ladder to average women with good jobs and a desperate need to be loved.

It was just a grave annoyance that they always wanted more, and were prone to dramas and guilt trips that got on his nerves.

Bobby had learned to get out of town when the fire got too hot to handle; which was the reason he was driving down to Big Sky resort to relax and perhaps find new prospects.

After all, there were constant bills to pay, and amazing trips on the bucket list to embark on.

A glance at the map showed he was thirty minutes away from the resort, but Bobby was hungry and googled a nearby place for something to eat.

He found the FlowerCafé quite easily, and the reviews were great, along with pictures of the place.

In reality, they barely did justice to the place, he thought, as he pushed the glass door open and was confronted with pleasant floral fragrances and an aesthetically pleasing ambiance that appealed to him instantly.

The flowers on the walls, and those hanging from shelves, cabinets and rails suspended in every corner of the spacious room; in combination with the oak flooring, wooden chairs and glass transparent tables which showed off the pots of flowers underneath, lent the place a great deal of rustic lost-world charm.

He loved it almost instantly, despite the fact that he wasn’t given to fanciful thoughts of things in that nature.

“Welcome, sir. Please take a seat anywhere of your choice,” said a dark-haired woman, with a pleasant smile who stood just by the door.

“Thank you.” Bobby made his way to a table with a vase of bright pink tulips on it, and took a seat.

There was a menu card on the table, and he perused it absentmindedly for a few seconds.

“Some country styled pancakes, and a cappuccino,” he said, and the lady was gone in the next instant.

That was when Bobby looked up and saw her staring straight at him. If he hadn’t been sitting, he was dead sure he’d have stumbled a little from the intensity of her gaze.

She wasn’t merely beautiful, that would be a disservice. The lady was breathtakingly stunning, with the grayest eyes Bobby had ever seen on anyone. It was almost ice-gray, and he knew that the shade wasn’t achievable except through contacts or eye change surgery.

She blinked once, twice, her expression unreadable; before looking down at the book she’d been studying.

Bobby couldn’t bring himself to stop looking at her. It was like he’d been bowled over, and she—the lady, had been the bowler with a steady aim, and with just one strike—he was out cold.

“Becky, could you give this to Jill? She’s having some trouble balancing up,” the lady who’d taken his orders said to another blonde by the partition, as she brought his pancakes and coffee.

Her name was Jill. The breathtaking lady at the counter was called Jill.

Bobby murmured the name under his breath, his eyes still fixated on her; unaware of the serving lady watching him with a small smile.

“Here is your order sir,” she finally said.

Bobby couldn’t be bothered. His attention was fastened on Jill. He wondered what someone as hot as that was doing in a small town such as this. He figured she owned the FlowerCafé; and although the place was quite a beauty, there was

Bobby had to speak to her. There was a profound sexual attraction he felt towards her, and he had to find a way for them to get together. It had been too long since he’d felt this way.

Bobby had never felt the urge to fuck someone as he did right then, staring at the lady behind the counter.

There was so much he could do with that hot body. Years of practice, routine sex and learning to please every woman he bedded to the point that they never forgot to call back the next day.

Bobby figured she was a country flower; one who hadn’t been out of this small town because if indeed she had, there was nothing going to ever bring her back to this hideaway in the mountains.

It was just his luck to have found her, he knew. His mother had always said he had the best luck, and that was the reason why they still remained in contact; she understood his need and ambition, and wasn’t judgmental like the rest of the family.

Bobby was going to fuck Jill tonight; he’d decided with a lascivious smile.

She wouldn’t refuse him after his trademark smooth charming words, and a few tidy dollars, he was sure.

He could give her money, rather than take from her. She looked hot and he figured she was worth it after all.

She couldn’t get any better options than him, stuck in these mountains, and should be rather thankful he’d noticed her.

Maybe he could keep her his Big Sky secret, or maybe not. Depending on how the sex turned out tonight, he thought.