Free Cut and Run by Ridley Pearson Page A

reached toward her face, held her head in a tight grasp, and carefully spread open her left eye with his fingers, searching for a pigmented contact lens.
    No lens
. . . Not possible.
    He felt tormented by the possibility he’d screwed this up.
    â€œI’m not Alice . . . I’m not Alice,” she repeated, in shock now, barely conscious. This was how he liked them. But the situation was not good. He tried to maintain his focus.
    Her face was blotchy, snot all over her chin, tears oiling her cheeks. He used his bare hand to clean her up.
    â€œSteady now,” he cautioned. “You wouldn’t want me to slip.”
    Again he produced the razor. As he lowered it toward her, she froze, obeying him. He cut into the fabric at her cleavage, and the stretch fabric came open like he’d lowered a zipper. This revealed a gray sports bra that he quickly cut and peeled back, exposing both breasts now. Her chest glowed an angry red.
    â€œMuch better,” he said, knowing the power he gained by working against embarrassment and shame. Her nipples and areolas were dark brown going on black, puckered, and nut hard. He felt some drool on his own chin; he was salivating.
    She raked her head side to side, her eyes locked onto the bloodied tip of the razor he held in his right hand. By now her shoulder cuts would be stinging. By now she understood what he intended.
    â€œTell me about Alice. This is her apartment.” He knew enough to discern the spark of recognition. “Talk to me.” He lowered the razor again, pulling on the cut stretch fabric to continue the line he’d started. That line led down. He exposed her navel, a ridge of carefully trimmed pubic hair. The less of the leotard, the more of his arousal. He wasn’t sure how long he could contain himself.
    â€œMrs. Blanchard!” the woman coughed up. “Neighbor . . . Mrs. Blanchard. Mentioned, Alice . . . Alice . . . Alice and her daughter. ‘Two peas in a pod,’ she said. I . . . am . . .
not
. . . Alice. Please, God! Don’t do this.”
    Paolo had a thing about God’s name being invoked during his work. It seemed everyone summoned up the courage to get religion when a razor flashed before their eyes. Paolo had a grim relationship with God that few would understand, but one that caused him deep resentment when his victims begged for saving.
    He cut through the rest of the leotard, careful not to nick her. He didn’t want her all bloody and dirty there. The leotard now stretched in a long
V
from armpits to the dark tangle of brown hair.
    Her scent enveloped him, and he briefly swooned, like a patron in a pastry shop. This was fear. Pure fear. Heady. Heavenly.
    The woman said, “I’m subletting. Alice . . . This Alice . . . IT’S NOT ME! I’m not her.”
    â€œShut up!” He backhanded her, meaning it more for himself. He contemplated the ramifications of his mistake. He loathed the idea of disappointing Philippe. He would not call to inform him of bad news. And what of this child? What
child
?
What daughter?
He’d been told nothing of this, knew nothing of this. He drew a line at doing anything bad to children. He’d been one himself.
    â€œMrs. Blanchard . . .” the woman beneath repeated. “Talk to her. She knew Alice.” The welt rose on her right cheek where he’d struck her. The dull look in her eye told him that she understood this was quickly coming to an end.
    The television instructor was talking about “deep stretches,” and he had a little deep stretch of his own to give her.
    His mind made up, he cut off a piece of the leotard, balled it in his fist, and crammed it into her open mouth as she summoned a protest. She tried to bite him, but to no use. Her eyes wild, they opened to where he could see the crown of the eyeball itself. Again he noted no contact lens, nothing to explain the wrong color. He felt dizzy, both from excitement and confusion.
    He