Blood Crimes: Book One by Dave Zeltserman

he?”
          “Just a few bruises. I’ll live.”
          “He almost kicked you,”
Jim
said glumly.
          “But he didn’t. You stopped him before he could.”
          
Jim
nodded, still looking glum, still unable to face Carol.
          “I heard the things he whispered to you. I’m so sorry.”
          Carol’s face tightened as she was brought back to just a few minutes before. She bent over the dead man’s body and searched his pockets, then counted the money she took out of a tattered and stained billfold.
          “All he had was thirty-seven dollars,” she said.
          “That’s too bad.”
          “Fuck. Yeah it is. We’re going to run out of money in a couple of days.”
          “I’ll get us more.”
          “I’ll help you.”
          He frowned, shook his head. “No need for that. I’m not putting you in any more danger tonight. I’ll do it myself.”
          Carol didn’t argue. She knew it would be pointless.
Jim
stood up, still avoiding looking at her. She reached toward him and took hold of his face with both her hands and forced him to look at her. This had become a ritual for them. After every killing, he’d be overcome with a sense of worthlessness. Seeing him vulnerable like that would only stir up her emotions and make her want to do anything to ease his pain. She was never more attracted to him than right after a killing.
          Reluctantly, he met her eyes.
          “You did what you had to,
Jim
,” she said, repeating the same mantra that she did after every killing, but still with only genuine love and caring and feeling in her voice. “He was nothing but scum. He was going to rape another woman before he got interested in me. You stopped him from hurting me. He’s not worth suffering any guilt over, no more than if you had killed a rabid dog.”
          
Jim
’s eyes softened as he smiled weakly at her, not because he believed her, but thankful for the effort. The two of them embraced with Carol’s thin arms squeezing
Jim
as hard as she could. Her mouth searched for his, but he pulled back. He didn’t want her tasting the dead thug’s blood, nor did he want to risk her picking up any diseases.
          “After I clean up,” he promised her. 
          It was several hours later that
Jim
walked into a biker bar a few miles upriver from The Flats. There were maybe fifty Harleys parked out front, and the place was crowded with a mostly even mix of men and women. A live band covering Grand Funk Railroad songs from the 70s played on a small stage. Before finding the bar,
Jim
had brought Carol back to their motel, showered off the blood that had splattered on him and had changed into some clean clothes. He also used Listerine and, convinced it was now safe, embraced Carol before he left with a long passionate kiss. She still wanted to go with him, but he convinced her that it would be better if he went alone.
          He squeezed through the crowd to the bar and ordered a Bud that he wasn’t going to be drinking, then found an inconspicuous spot to stand and watch the activity around him. It didn’t take long to spot the drug dealer supplying the room; if the guy wasn’t a drug dealer he had a serious bladder problem with the number of trips he made to the men’s room. He wore a black leather jacket, faded jeans and storm trooper boots, and had gang-style tattoos decorating his neck and shaved skull. Hooded grinning skulls wrapped in barbed wire, winged dragons and Chinese letters. He probably would’ve been good looking if he let his hair grow over his tattoos and his face hadn’t been scarred by a fire. Other guys in the bar would seek him out, and after a brief discussion, they’d head to the men’s room. The drug dealer was a big guy, but two much bigger guys dressed the same and with the same pattern of tattoos on their shaved skulls followed him into the