Marrying the Millionaire

  “SO HOW DID THINGS GO with Kayla yesterday?” the killer asked Carson, pressing the pre-paid cell to his ear, glaring out the window inside his family room. Dark clouds formed in the sky. Leaves on the trees rustled.

  “I piqued her interest about the two of us reuniting, and she’s not interested just yet,” Carson confirmed.

  Dissatisfied with Carson’s answer, the killer cringed. “I paid you a lot of money to make her fall in love with you again. And I expect you to make it happen.”

  “It’ll happen. Just give me some time. The one thing Kayla has never been able to do is get me out of her system. A few more dates and some time together, and I’m going to have Kayla eating out of the palms of my hands. She’ll be dropping her panties for me faster than you can blink your eyes. Just you wait and see,” Carson spoke with great confidence.

  Highly doubting Kayla would leave Richmond for Carson, the killer cleared his throat. Tried to maintain hopeful. “I’m glad you think highly of yourself, Carson. Trying to take Kayla away from my son isn’t going to be easy,” Russell snorted.

  Chelsey snuck up behind Russell, wrapped her arms around his waist, and squeezed the living crap out of him. “When you gon’ make some time for me, Big Daddy?” Chelsey slid her hand inside his pants, raked his testicles with her nails, then squeezed his flaccid shaft.

  Damn, Russell hated when Chelsey snuck up on him like she had. “We’ll talk soon.” Displeased with Carson’s results, he ended the call. Shaft throbbing, he turned around, pushed Chelsey on the sofa, then jumped on top of her like white on rice. “Come here, girl, and give Big Daddy some loving.”

  Around 5 pm, Russell laid in his bed downstairs, with Chelsey sleeping hard and snoring next to him. Worried if Carson could convince Kayla to take him back, he fought hard to keep tears from falling from his eyes. Fully aware that he was one sick, selfish bastard, sharp pains prickled his chest near his heart.

  Done with his short nap, he kicked the covers off his feet, crawled out of bed, and walked into his study. The only place where he found solace. The one place he could be who he truly was—a murderer.

  Making sure the door to his office was locked, Russell did the usual. He removed the painting of his favorite horse, Gypsy Rose, from the wall. Unlocked the safe. Grabbed his diary and favorite pen. Then sat in his recliner in front of the window. Heavy burden weighted his restless spirit as he stared out the window.

  Dark clouds now spread in sheets over his wide land. Wind blew the leaves on the trees, making them rustle harder. Drizzles of rain poured from the sky.

  Chest tightening, he flipped to the next blank page in his diary and put the tip of the pen on the first line.