Slipway Grey: A Deep Sea Thriller by Dane Hatchell & Mark C. Scioneaux

Author:Dane Hatchell & Mark C. Scioneaux
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Sharks, Shark attacks, Horror, Deep Sea, Sea Stories, Thriller
Publisher: Severed Press
Published: 2015-02-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

One Month Earlier

She doesn’t care who sees her. This one is personal.

The car is speeding. The reflectors on the road become a straight illuminated line. The girl next to her is laughing. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard. She wants to kill her then. Turn the car into an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. It would be quick and easy. The girl doesn’t deserve that. For what she did, she must truly suffer. But she doesn’t want to kill herself in the process.

They aren’t even close friends; more like acquaintances that run in the same circle. The girl is so trusting. Always eager to have fun. To take a ride in a fast car. She should really get to know someone better before hopping into the car with a stranger.

They enter the house, and the girl walks to the kitchen; opens the fridge like she owns the place, and removes a couple of wine coolers. Glasses clink. The girl toasts to starting over. She raises her bottle and secretly toasts to her victim’s impending demise. The couch cushions are neatly arranged to set a cozy space for two. She tells her to sit and take her shoes off. Keep her totally off guard. It’ll make all of this easier.

“I can’t believe you invited me here,” the girl says. The wine cooler drains in one long draw.

“Why wouldn’t I? We’re friends, right?”

“Well yeah, but we never really spoke that much. I always thought you hated me. And now there are all those awful rumors about me and—”

“Don’t say his name,” she says, gripping her wine cooler bottle tightly.

She fears the girl will sense the deception, and then she’ll be forced into action. Will she gouge out the girl’s eyes, or slice her throat? So many options. Memories of her past kills turn her on. This one waits to become a fantasy orgasm. Each tick of the large clock on the wall is just one constant reminder the girl is still breathing.

“I’m sorry. I really am,” the girl says. “But you should know the truth.”

“You’re going to talk about it, aren’t you? We don’t need to. I don’t even care what the truth is anymore.”

“That’s not fair. I know you invited me out here to talk about him. So let’s just cut the crap.”

She’s perplexed by the girl’s sudden change in demeanor. Voice rising. Fist clenching. The girl is angry, but she is ready. Maybe getting her angry is a good thing. It’ll make what’s to come more fun.

“I want you to know that he came on to me. I’ve been fighting a lot with my boyfriend, and before I knew it, he was texting and emailing me. Telling me sweet things. He said you two broke up.”

“We didn’t, and you knew that, but I’ll get to him later.” She sees red. She doesn’t want to discuss this. The voice in her head starts to whisper.

“I’m sorry. I really am. He took advantage of me. I have nothing else to say. I was really down, and he was there.

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