Red Widow by Alma Katsu (good books to read for beginners txt) 📗

hard because he’s a solitary man, with no one dependent on him. No one would miss him if something happened to him.

She looks down at the pill: how would she give it to him? It’s not like he’s going to take it voluntarily. He’s just threatened her: he’ll be on his guard. He won’t take a drink from her that he hasn’t watched her mix himself. And how else could she give it to him?

Her mind blanks, then blurs. It’s impossible. It can’t be done.

Impossible is not the answer. She’ll have to find a way.

She puts the pill back in the tin. She doesn’t know what’s in it, but you have to respect a Russian poison pill. Those Russians know their stuff. She rinses her hands, just in case.

For every second she’s away, Kincaid will grow more anxious. She doesn’t have all the time in the world. She doesn’t want to give him too much time to think. She dries her hands, reapplies her lipstick, and goes to face the music.

—

The hotel Kincaid has picked is not stylish, but neither is it a flea-ridden dump. It’s merely suburban and nondescript, stucco walls and garish, multicolored carpeting in the lobby to hide wear and tear. The clerk at the desk doesn’t raise an eyebrow as they wait without luggage, Kincaid tapping his credit card against the counter as the clerk works the keyboard. Theresa keeps her eyes trained on that horrible carpet, wishing she could disappear.

The room itself is smallish. She slips off her coat and sits on the bed, fighting claustrophobia. She insisted they pick up a bottle of whiskey on the way and he didn’t argue, sensing perhaps that she’ll need to get good and drunk to go through with what he wants. He pours shots into two thick, ugly hotel glasses.

She takes a sip, savoring the burn, before heading to the bathroom. It smells of cleanser in there, though not enough to mask the mildew. She runs the taps to cover noise as she takes the Altoids tin from her purse. She snaps the big, awkward pill in half and then, feeling a pang of conscience, breaks off a little more. The crumbs she brushes into the sink, letting the running water wash them away. She doesn’t want to kill Kyle Kincaid, she just wants to send him a message. Don’t mess with me. All she needs is to make him hesitate; it won’t be long before the Russians help her leave the country.

She tucks the remaining piece into her bra, where it sits like a rock pressed against her sternum.

When she comes out, Kincaid is sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs splayed wide like a careless man on the subway, already a little drunk and not caring what she thinks. His glass sits empty on a nearby dresser.

She sets her glass next to his. She reaches to her waist for the ties that hold her wrap dress closed and with one quick, deliberate motion—before she can think about it—she yanks the knot undone, so her dress falls open. She lets it slide over her shoulders and fall to the floor in a silky flutter. Kincaid smiles, a happy schoolboy. She stands before him in bra and panties and heels, a gold chain at her throat. She can practically feel Kincaid’s throat go dry.

Before he can say or do anything, she climbs onto the bed, straddling his lap. She peels off his jacket first, pulling it down over his shoulders. He watches, amazed. Maybe it plays into a fantasy he has, that a woman could want him so much she’d tear off his clothes. In any case, he lets her. He runs his hands over her body, and she tries not to think about the way he kneads her ass through the lace panties. She loosens his tie—his throat shouldn’t be constricted in any way—and unbuttons his shirt. He throws his head back, loving it, giving her full access, giving her whatever she wants.

“I knew you’d enjoy it, if you gave yourself a chance,” he says. Does he really believe this? His erection rises beneath her, pushes clumsily at her crotch as she undoes the buttons of his shirt.

“I want you to use your mouth,” he whispers in her ear.

She’d rather die first.

It’s now or never.

She pushes his shoulders back on the mattress. He doesn’t fight—why should he? It’s all going his way, his wildest dreams fulfilled. She turns, reaching for her glass on the dresser. And in that moment, he can’t see what she’s doing.

In the flurry of hands undoing his buttons and her twisting and gyrations, she has managed to slip the nugget of poison from her bra into her mouth. She doesn’t want to keep it there for long. Not for one second more than is necessary.

She leans over Kincaid, their faces so close that his five o’clock shadow grazes her cheek, and kisses him full on the lips. She anticipates the open mouth and the tongue rising up to meet hers.

In that instant, she uses her tongue to shove the poison into his mouth. Then follows with the glass, rim crashing into his teeth, and empties the whiskey down his throat.

He knows something is up and flounders beneath her, trying to sit upright, but she wills herself to be as heavy as an anchor. She sits like a banshee on his chest, a succubus. Her fingers pinch his nose closed, clamp his mouth shut. She doesn’t want him to be able to breathe. She waits for him to gulp for air. Swallow, you motherfucker. Swallow.

He’s thrashing, he’s flailing, but she only has to hold on a few seconds more. His face turns red. Tears well in his eyes. A little whiskey seeps at the corners of his mouth, but he’s on his back and gravity is on her side.

Finally, his Adam’s apple moves.

It’s done.

She springs off his chest like a cat and scrambles backward. Standing a safe distance away,