Chapter Two-Hundred Sixty-Four: The AuraCare Shift

Chapter 264

The AuraCare Shift

The humid summer air hung thick outside, but inside AuraCare Pharmacy, the cool hum of the air conditioner was broken only by the sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of Layla’s counting tray.

At thirty-five, Layla was the undisputed heart of AuraCare. With her feather-cut blonde hair—meticulously hair sprayed to withstand the Pink Top City humidity—and her crisp pale-blue smock, she moved behind the counter with an effortless, practiced grace.

Dr. Aris: “Layla, do we have the bulk bottle of Amoxicillin 250?”

The pharmacy’s lead pharmacist called out, peering over his thick, gold-rimmed glasses from the back counter.

Layla: “Top shelf, second bay, right behind the suspension powders.”

She answered without missing a beat, sweeping fifty small white pills into an amber vial with her spatula.

Layla: “And I already printed the label for Mrs. Gable’s prescription.”

Dr. Aris: “You’re a lifesaver.”

He muttered, running a hand through his graying hair as the front bell chimed.

Layla stepped up to the pick-up counter, smoothing her smock. A young woman with heavy blue eye shadow and a denim jacket adorned with enamel pins stood on the other side, looking anxious.

Layla: “Hi there, welcome to AuraCare! How can I help you today?”

She said, her smile warm and genuine.

Girl: “I’m picking up for... Tommy. Thomas Vance.”

The girl whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the store’s cassette tape rack.

Layla’s memory instantly clicked. Tommy Vance. Sixteen. Broke his wrist last week playing high school football.

Layla: “Ah, yes! Tommy’s pain meds and the anti-inflammatory.”

She said softly, keeping her voice low to give the girl privacy. She reached into the “V” bin, pulled the stapled paper bag, and gently set it on the counter.

Layla: “Make sure he takes the white ones with food, okay? They can be pretty hard on an empty stomach.”

The girl visibly relaxed, flashing a small, grateful smile.

Girl: “Thanks. You're always so nice, Layla.”

~

As the afternoon sun began to dip, casting that signature neon-pink glow through the front display windows, the store quieted down. The background radio hummed with the distant notes of Whitney Houston, blending with the neon sign buzzing in the window.

Layla took a rare moment to lean against the counter, resting her feet. She looked around at the towering shelves of glass bottles, the rows of pastel-colored cosmetics across the aisle, and the spinning rack of comic books near the door.

Dr. Aris: “You know, Layla…”

He said, walking over with two paper cups of lukewarm drip coffee and handing her one.

Dr. Aris: “They’re talking about bringing in one of those computerized inventory systems next year. Claim it’ll do half the technician work automatically.”

Layla took a sip, a confident, amused smirk playing on her lips as she adjusted a stray wave of blonde hair.

Layla: “Let ‘em try, Doc…”

She laughed gently, nodding toward the front door as another regular walked in.

Layla: “A computer might count pills, but it isn’t going to remember that Mr. Henderson needs his caps loose because of his arthritis, or which candy bar calms down the Gable kids.”

Aris chuckled, nodding in agreement.

Dr. Aris: “Fair point.”

Layla put her coffee down, grabbed her spatula, and gave the counter a quick wipe. The pink twilight outside hit the glass, filling AuraCare with a warm, nostalgic light, and Layla turned to the next customer with a bright, welcoming smile.

Layla looked up from the register, her eyes immediately drawn to Celeste. She wore a Guns N’ Roses tank top, a leather jacket, a zebra-print skirt with chains, leather mules, and a spiked collar. Celeste sauntered up to the counter with a toothy, fanged grin and a wink.

Celeste: “Hey there, lovely.”

She said, her voice dripping with confident charm.

Celeste: “Got a prescription pickup under Celeste Marcella. The monthly essentials, if you catch my drift.”

Layla couldn’t help the warm smile that broke across her face. In a city where half the customers hid their faces when picking up birth control, Celeste owned the room.

Layla: “Marcella… Let me check the ‘M’ drawer…”

She said, smoothly stepping over to the alphabetical filing bin. She slid through the paper prescription bags until her fingers caught the right card.

Layla: “Here we go—Ortho-Novum, right?”

Celeste: “That’s it.”

She said, leaning an elbow against the glass counter, her hoop earrings swinging.

Layla pulled the compact, foil-stamped dial pack from the bag to double-check the label, glancing up at Celeste with an appreciative twinkle in her eye.

Layla: “Just remember the usual routine: take one every day at the same time. If you happen to miss one, take it as soon as you remember, but try to keep it steady.”

Celeste: “Yeah, I take it about three in the afternoon, about when I get up, or whenever I get up.”

She chuckled, tapping her purple-polished fingernails against the counter.

Layla: “Perfect.”

She said, ringing up the total on the heavy metal register.

Layla: “That’ll be four dollars and fifty cents.”

Celeste fished a folded bill and some change from her purse, sliding it over the counter. Layla bagged the compact prescription wheel and handed it over with a friendly nod.

Layla: “You’re all set, Celeste. Stay safe out there tonight!”

Celeste: “Always do. Catch ya next month!”

She gave a snappy finger-gun salute, turned on her mules, and strutted right back outside.

~

It was seven o’clock, and AuraCare Pharmacy closed. Layla unbuttoned her pale-blue pharmacy smock, hung it neatly on the back room rack at AuraCare, and shook out her blonde hair. It had been a long day of pill-counting, phone calls, and high-energy customers, and her feet were aching for a break.

Waiting outside by the curb in a cherry-red 1985 Pontiac Trans Am were Sandra and Brenda, Layla’s two long-time best friends. Sandra was already tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a synth-pop track blaring from the cassette deck, her dark curls teased out. Beside her in the passenger seat, Brenda adjusted her oversized plastic hoop earrings, looking over her shoulder as Layla slid into the back seat.

Sandra: “Finally!”

She laughed, shifting into gear as the engine rumbled.

Sandra: “We thought Dr. Aris was going to keep you trapped in the dispensary all night.”

Layla: “Not a chance.”

She sighed happily, leaning back against the plush velvet interior.

Layla: “I served my time today. Where are we heading?”

Brenda: “Danny Donger’s.”

She declared with a sly grin, turning around with an eyebrow raised.

Brenda: “It’s Tuesday night, which means draft beer specials, basket appetizers, and the best scenery in the city.”

The interior of the bar hit them with a wave of cool air, loud laughter, the clinking of heavy glassware, and the warm aroma of deep-fried bar food. The three women approached the hostess, Janine Fleming.

Sandra: “Table for three!”

Janine nodded, grabbed three menus and three placemats, and led them to a dark wood booth situated right near the heart of the floor. As they slid into the vinyl seats, laughing and settling in, Janine placed their mats and utensils in front of them.

Janine: “Your server will be with you shortly.”

She smiled and left.

Fabien strolled up to their table.

Fabien: “Evening, ladies.”

He said, his voice smooth and welcoming, as he flashed a bright, charismatic smile.

Fabien: “Welcome to Danny Donger’s. My name’s Fabien, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

Sandra immediately leaned back, resting her chin on her hand with an appreciative grin.

Sandra: "Well, aren't we lucky tonight?"

Fabien chuckled, resting one hand on his hip while adjusting his server pouch with his other hand.

Fabien: “I try my best. Can I start you off with something to drink while you look over the menu? We’ve got Glacier Lite on tap, or I can pull something special from the bar.”

Layla: “I’ll take a tall Glacier Lite.”

She said, leaning back in the booth with a relaxed smile, the remaining tension from her workday melting away in the warm atmosphere and friendly service.

Brenda: “Make that three.”

She added, winking.

Fabien: “All right, three Glacier Lites coming right up.”

He rested his hand lightly on his hip, his green eyes darting between the three women.

Fabien: “Now, what are we thinking for food? You look like a table that’s ready to feast tonight.”

Brenda closed her menu with an emphatic, heavy thud, setting it firmly on the dark wooden table. She leaned forward, adjusting her oversized plastic hoop earrings, and caught Layla and Sandra’s amused expressions.

Brenda: “Oh, we’re not messing around tonight, Fabien.”

She said, her voice dripping with playful authority.

Brenda: “Layla just finished a monster shift standing on her feet all day counting pills at AuraCare, and Sandra and I have worked up a massive appetite just listening to her complain about it.”

Layla: “Hey!”

She laughed, raising a hand in mild defense, though she couldn't hide her appreciative grin.

Brenda: “It’s true, and you know it.”

She teased, turning her full attention back to Fabien.

Brenda: “So here’s the plan. First off, we need the Grand Slam Platter.”

Fabien’s pen flew across his notepad, scribbling with practiced speed.

Fabien: “Excellent choice. A crowd favorite. Anything else to start, or are you saving room for the main courses?”

Brenda: “Oh, we’re just getting started!”

She chuckled, winking across the table at Sandra, who was already giggling.

Brenda: “Bring us a giant plate of the house Nachos, too. Load ‘em up high with all the melted cheese, jalapeños, salsa, and sour cream you can legally put on a platter.”

Fabien let out a rich, genuine laugh as he wrote it down on the order ticket. He flipped his notepad shut with a snap and slid the pen into his pouch.

Fabien: “I’ll get those drinks poured right now and put the kitchen on high alert.”

Fabien glided past the crowded booths, pulling out his order pad. He went to the bar. The bar top was an expanse of dark, polished mahogany lit from underneath by vibrant neon strips. Behind it stood the bartender, Frankie, wiping down the counter with a towel thrown over his shoulder.

Fabien: “Hey, Frankie.”

He called out over the hum of synth-pop and laughing patrons, tapping his pad on the counter.

Fabien: “Need three tall Glacier Lites on tap."

Frankie: “You got it, Fabien.”

He replied with a quick nod, grabbing three heavy glass mugs from the freezer rack and pulling the tap handle. Foam spilled over the tops as the amber beer poured down the sides.

Leaving Frankie to draft the drinks, Fabien pushed through the swinging double doors that separated the dining room from the sizzle and heat of the kitchen.

The back kitchen was a completely different world—bright fluorescent lights, stainless steel counters, and the intense, delicious smell of bubbling fry oil and melted cheddar. Standing behind the line, spatula in hand and a stained apron tied over his T-shirt, was the head cook, Sal, currently plating up a stack of burgers.

Fabien: “Sal, I got a big one for ya.”

He said smoothly, stepping up to the metal order wheel and sliding the paper ticket into the clip.

Sal glanced up and squinted at the slip. Fabien grinned, leaning his elbow against the pass-through shelf. Sal read down the ticket, shaking his head with an amused grunt as he grabbed a large metal bowl from the rack.

Sal: “Deep-fried pepperoni and a mountain of nachos? They ain’t playing around. Give me ten minutes, boy. I’ll drop the baskets right now.”

Fabien: “Got it.”

He said with a quick salute and pushed through the swinging kitchen doors.

Fabien grabbed the tray with the three mugs of beer and effortlessly balanced it on one hand. He glided over to the center booth, stepping smoothly beside the wooden table with a confident, welcoming smile.

Fabien: “Three ice-cold Glacier Lites, fresh off the tap.”

He announced smoothly. With a quick, practiced wrist movement, he set down the frosty mugs in front of the women, making sure the damp glasses rested squarely on the cardboard coasters.

Fabien: “Okay, your food is already in the fryer!”

Sandra raised her glass in a small toast.

Sandra: “Fabien, you might just be our favorite person in Pink Top City tonight.”

Fabien: “Just doing my duty, ladies.”

He chuckled.

Fabien: “Enjoy your beers. I’ll be back in just a few minutes with the main event!”

~

It didn’t take long for the kitchen doors to swing open again, sending a mouth-watering aroma of toasted corn chips, melted cheddar, and spiced peppers floating through the air.

Fabien emerged from the back kitchen with a grand, two-handed carry, balancing a sizzling, oversized platter of house Nachos. The dish was stacked impressively high—a golden mountain of crispy tortilla chips smothered in a thick blanket of bubbling cheddar and Monterey Jack cheese, liberally scattered with pickled jalapeño slices, fresh diced tomatoes, and green onions, all topped off with generous dollops of cool sour cream and fresh salsa.

Fabien: “Clear the runway, ladies!”

He called out smoothly as he glided up to the booth.

Sandra and Brenda quickly shuffled their beer mugs and paper napkins to the edges of the dark wood table. With smooth precision, Fabien lowered the heavy, piping-hot platter right into the center of the booth.

Fabien: “One mountain of loaded house nachos!”

He declared, as he rested a hand on his hip.

Fabien: “The cook said he gave you extra jalapeños just to make sure they’ve got a proper kick.”

Layla leaned in, taking in the steam rising off the melted cheese.

Layla: “Oh wow, Fabien, this looks incredible!”

Fabien: “Only for the best!”

He replied with a wink.

Fabien: “The Grand Slam Platter is right behind it—the chef is dropping the mozza sticks and deep-fried pepperoni in the oil as we speak. Dig in while it’s hot, and let me know if you need another round of Glacier Lites!”

As soon as Fabien left, Brenda’s hand darted out to pull a tortilla chip dripping with stringy, melted cheddar and a bright green jalapeño slice from the top of the pile.

Brenda: “Oh, my word.”

She groaned happily, taking a bite and fanning her mouth with her other hand.

Brenda: “They did not hold back on the spice. These are amazing.”

Layla laughed, reaching in to snag a chip loaded with sour cream and salsa.

Layla: “They really are. I didn’t realize how starving I was until now.”

Sandra: “Forget the nachos for a second…”

She chimed in, lowering her glass of Glacier Lite to the table with a soft clack. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the dark wood, her dark curls bouncing as she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

Sandra: “Can we talk about the service? Because WOW.”

Brenda almost choked on her chip, letting out a sharp laugh.

Brenada: “Right?! I mean, the confidence on that boy! The white hair, the green eyes, his lean body—it’s like he stepped straight out of a romance novel!”

Layla: “He definitely knows how to wear those short shorts. And that smile! He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

She admitted with a warm, mischievous grin, taking a sip of her cold beer.

Sandra: “Oh, 100 percent.”

She agreed, shaking her head with an appreciative chuckle as she took another chip.

Sandra: “He’s got that effortless charm. He’s twenty-three, French, gorgeous, and bringing us deep-fried food and ice-cold beer on a Tuesday night? AuraCare should prescribe him for stress relief, Layla.”

The three friends erupted into laughter, clinking their heavy glass mugs together over the steaming platter of nachos.

Fabien navigated through the tables, holding a large, steaming metal platter in both hands with the poise of a seasoned pro.

Fabien: “Make way for the grand finale!”

He called out with a bright, easygoing grin as he approached the booth.

He set the sprawling Grand Slam Platter right down in the center next to the half-emptied nacho plate. The platter was a glorious, golden-brown masterpiece of bar food: a towering pile of crispy French fries surrounded by thick, beer-battered onion rings, golden beer-battered mushrooms, a generous heap of deep-fried pepperoni slices curled up and shimmering with heat, and a stack of stretched-out, gooey mozzarella sticks. Two small ramekins of marinara and ranch sat nestled in the middle.

Brenda: “Fabien, this looks downright incredible!”

She beamed, already eyeing the mozzarella sticks.

Fabien: “Just delivering the goods!”

He chuckled, resting one hand on his hip.

Fabien: “You ladies need another round of Glacier Lites, or are we still cruising on the first ones?”

Sandra: “Give us another round, handsome!”

She blurted out. Fabien’s smile widened. He snorted.

Fabien: “You got it, beautiful.”

He replied with a smooth, theatrical half-bow.

Fabien: “Three more tall Glacier Lites coming right up.”

He gave a quick, stylish turn on the heels of his sneakers and glided back toward the bar, snickering and snorting.

Brenda leaned across the table, fanning herself with a paper napkin.

Brenda: “Okay, ‘handsome’? Sandra, you’re not holding back tonight!”

Sandra: “Hey, I'm just stating the obvious!”

She laughed, picking up a crispy, beer-battered onion ring and dipping it into the ranch.

Sandra: “If he’s going to parade around looking like an absolute dream, the least we can do is give the man his proper title.”

Layla: “I second the motion.”

She grinned, grabbing a piece of deep-fried pepperoni that was still crackling with heat.

Layla: “Besides, after the day I had, a second Glacier Lite and a plate full of fried perfection is exactly what the doctor ordered.”

Brenda: “Speaking of which…”

She said, tearing into a mozzarella stick and pulling a long, gooey strand of cheese.

Brenda: “How are things at AuraCare, really? Any new drama with Dr. Aris, or is he still complaining about those computerized inventory systems?”

Before Layla could answer, Fabien was already back, balancing a fresh tray with three brimming, condensation-coated glass mugs of Glacier Lite. He set them down with effortless grace, picking up their empty glasses in exchange.

Fabien: “And here’s round two.”

He said smoothly, giving Sandra a sly, knowing wink as he slid her fresh mug over her coaster. Fabien: “Enjoy the feast, ladies. Let me know the second you need anything else!”

He gave a two-finger salute and pivoted on his heel to go to another table.

~

The three friends made serious work of the Grand Slam Platter and the mountain of loaded nachos, polishing off every last beer-battered mushroom and deep-fried pepperoni slice between animated chatter and plenty of laughs.

By the time the last drops of their second round of Glacier Lites were finished, the buzzing neon signs of Danny Donger’s seemed to glow just a little brighter against the dark Pink Top City night outside. As if on cue, Fabien glided back over to the booth, carrying a small leather check pad tucked under his arm.

Fabien: “How was the feast, ladies? Did the cook’s culinary skills pass the test?”

He asked smoothly, resting a hand on his hip.

Layla: “It was absolute perfection, Fabien. Seriously, pass our compliments to the kitchen.”

She smiled.

Fabien: “Will do.”

He said, placing the small black pad neatly in the center of the table.

Fabien: “Whenever you’re ready, no rush at all.”

As Fabien made to turn, Sandra leaned forward, propping her chin on both hands with an outrageously charming, exaggerated pout.

Sandra: “Wait just a second, handsome.”

She teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief as Brenda nudged her under the table.

Sandra: “I think there’s an error on this bill.”

Fabien paused, an eyebrow raising playfully as he tapped his server pouch.

Fabien: “An error? What did I miss?”

Sandra: “Well…”

She purred, winking up at him,

Sandra: “I checked it twice, and I don’t see your phone number written anywhere on the back.”

Brenda burst into a fit of giggles, hiding her face in her napkin, while Layla shook her head with a rich, delighted laugh.

Fabien’s grin widened, and he let out a smooth chuckle, leaning over the table just enough to meet Sandra’s gaze with bright green eyes.

Fabien: “Ah, well, you see, that’s not on the menu…”

He replied smoothly, pulling a pen from his pouch and tapping it against his palm.

Fabien: “If I handed out my number with every order, the cook would have a line out the back kitchen door.”

He slid the pen back into his pouch and gave Sandra a wink that could have melted ice.

Fabien: “Tell you what, though—keep coming back on Tuesday nights, ask for my section, and I’ll give you VIP treatment.”

Sandra: “You’ve got yourself a deal, handsome…”

She laughed, thoroughly entertained.

Sandra slid a stack of crisp bills onto the leather pad, making sure to include a very generous tip that was well deserved for the stellar service and sharp banter.

Sandra: “That should more than cover it—plus a little extra for the ‘off-menu’ service.”

She chuckled, winking at Brenda and Layla.

Fabien picked up the pad and opened it, seeing a generous fifty-dollar tip waiting for him. His bright green eyes lit up, and he flashed them a broad, genuine smile.

Fabien: “You ladies are absolute stars!”

He said, giving them a warm, appreciative nod as he tucked the pad under his arm.

Fabien: “Thanks a million. You drive safe out there tonight!”

Brenda: “We will, Fabien! See you next Tuesday!”

She called back with a wave.

The three friends pushed through the front doors of Danny Donger’s, stepping out into the warm Pink Top City night air. The city’s famous neon horizon stretched above them in shades of magenta and soft violet, reflecting off the shiny hood of Sandra’s red Trans Am parked in the lot.

~

Sitting in his 1985 Jeep Cherokee out in the parking lot, Rutherford waited for an opportune moment to ambush Fabien. Clad in a white tank top, green cargo pants, and combat boots, with Ray-Bans hiding his eyes, he was far from thrilled about capturing a pretty French boy to satisfy his flamboyant, rubber-duck-obsessed boss.

He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, scowling at the brightly lit entrance of Danny Donger’s. Capturing some waiter for his boss was ridiculous—especially one who looked like he spent more time on his hair than on survival tactics. He shifted in the driver’s seat, the leather creaking beneath him, and muttered under his breath.

Rutherford: “Rubber ducks and French waiters. This is the low point of my fuckass career.”

He adjusted his Ray-Bans, scanning for the target.

Rutherford: “And if I don’t, he’ll blow my brains out with a bomb in my fuckin’ head.”

He paused when he saw Layla and her two friends gather in the Trans Am. He cocked an eyebrow. Well, ain’t nothin’ wrong with my stuff, he thought with a grin.

Layla hopped into the passenger seat, leaning back with a satisfied sigh as Sandra fired up the engine and tuned the radio to a smooth synth-pop beat for the drive home.

Rutherford turned the key, and the Jeep Cherokee’s engine roared to life with a rugged, mechanical growl that vibrated through the steering wheel. He shifted into gear and eased out of the parking spot, his movements calculated and smooth. Keeping his headlights off for a moment, he pulled out onto the main road, trailing the cherry-red Trans Am at a discreet distance. He kept his eyes locked on Lyala, his expression unreadable behind his Ray-Bans as he blended into the neon-lit flow of the traffic.

~

The red Trans Am pulled up to the curb in front of Layla’s modest Papamos home on Orchid Street, its headlights sweeping over the manicured front lawn and casting a warm glow against the porch.

Sandra: “Here you are, fair maiden—returned safe and sound from Danny Donger’s.”

She laughed, putting the car in park while keeping the engine idling to the soft hum of the radio.

Layla: “Thanks for the ride, girls.”

She smiled, gathering her purse.

Layla: “And thanks for dragging me out tonight. It was exactly what I needed after a long day at AuraCare.”

Brenda: “Oh, please, the pleasure was all ours!”

She grinned, leaning over from the passenger seat.

Brenda: “Between the deep-fried pepperoni and Fabien, I’d say it was a Tuesday night for the record books. Sandra’s already planning next week’s visit!”

She teased, stepping out onto the driveway and leaning back in through the open window with a warm smile.

Sandra: “You know I am!”

She called out, winking.

Sandra: “Get some rest, Layla. See you later!”

Layla waved as the Pontiac rumbled down the quiet street, its red taillights fading into the neighborhood. Turning around, she unlocked her front door, stepped into the quiet comfort of her home, and locked up behind her. Rutherford’s jeep rolled up to her house, and the headlights shut off. His pink tongue flicked over his lips.

~

After kicking off her shoes, she leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a deep, relaxed breath. It had been a busy day, but as she listened to the soft hum of her air conditioner and thought back on the night’s laughter, Layla couldn't help but smile before heading down the hall to get ready for bed.

The quiet of the house was absolute, save for the faint creak of floorboards that didn't belong to Layla. As she disappeared into her bedroom, a shadow detached itself from the darkness of the kitchen. Rutherford stepped into the hallway, his combat boots landing with predatory silence on the carpet. He pulled his Ray-Bans down, his eyes scanning the narrow space before settling on the door where she had just vanished. A slow, jagged grin spread across his face; the hunt was over, and he had finally cornered his target, not whatever French pretty boy his boss wanted.

Layla stepped back out into the hallway, having just changed into a soft cotton nightshirt, when the air around her suddenly shifted. Before she could even register the movement, Rutherford lunged from the shadows. His massive frame collided with her, the force of his momentum slamming her back against the doorframe with a bone-jarring thud.

Layla: “What the—?!”

The scream died in her throat as a heavy hand clamped firmly over her mouth, muffling her voice into a frantic, panicked hum. Her eyes widened in terror, catching the cold, metallic glint of his Ray-Bans as he leaned in close, his face inches from hers. She thrashed against him, her heels scuffing desperately against the carpet, but his grip was like iron, pinning her arms to her sides as he let out a low, menacing chuckle that vibrated against her skin.

Rutherford: “Now the real fun begins!”

His massive hands ripped her nightshirt off.

He slammed her against the wall, his body on hers. Rutherford removed his hand from her mouth and yanked the fly on his cargo pants open; his hardness poked between her locked thighs. Layla was thrown into a frenzy. She screamed, cried, and used her free hand to pummel his head, but it was as if the fly was trying to tip over an elephant. He groaned and pushed.

Layla: “STOP! PLEASE! STOP!! SOMEONE HELP ME!”

She screamed. Rutherford’s strength was immeasurable. Slowly, her legs started to give and make room for his to push against them even harder.

His hand clamped over her mouth again. She tried to scream. The tip of his hardness prodding, pressing forward while she was pinned beneath him. She wanted to scream when the realization hit that he was moving inside of her. Rutherford groaned and pressed onward. His hot wetness squirted inside of her. Layla lay limply waiting for it to end.

He lay on top of her for a few moments, breathing hard, before he withdrew and stood up. He smirked at her.

As quickly as a darting snake, he slipped his arms under hers and gripped the back of her head with both hands. She tried to cry out, but the sound was a choking gurgle as he heaved downward with all his strength. Her neck was broken with a sharp crack. She collapsed, instantly limp. He let go, and her body fell to the floor in a heap. Her hands and feet twitched convulsively for a few moments and then were still.

She was lying on her belly, her head at an odd angle, and he could see her right eye open, staring, froth forming on her lips.

Rutherford smiled, satisfied until the retaliation crashed on him. Balderico is gonna have to bribe the cops and other people, he thought.

~

Rutherford returned to his jeep and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Why do I do this shit without thinking? He thought.