The Games We Play | ✓

7. KILLERS LIKE THEM

07.
[KILLERS LIKE THEM]

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SURPRISINGLY, KILLERS LIKE them didn't exactly get along easily. They got off on taunts and threats, and neither appreciated it when the other threatened them. Besides sex and murder, there really wasn't much in common.

Reed was controlling, and his biggest mistake was attempting to control someone who couldn't be tamed.

As their kill count went up, what little trust they had in each other went down.

Reed rarely every let Charlotte play out her characters. He would end her performances early, a metaphorical murder she didn't take to lightly.

"I wasn't done," she growled, glaring down at the body they had just doomed.

Reed barely acknowledged her, turning away to wipe the blood off his hands.

Charlotte didn't like being ignored. Screaming, she grabbed a nearby plate and threw it at the wall. "Listen to me, you fucking asshole!"

"Charlotte," he grounded out, his eyes narrowed in anger. "What did I say about breaking my things?"

She looked at him through equally burning eyes, unfazed by his tone. "Let me guess – don't do it?"

"Then tell me," he fumed, "why you keep fucking doing it?"

People like them had short fuses and once it was lit, there was no stopping it.

"Oh," she drawled. "You mean like this?" She reached over and knocked over a vase, one that was undoubtedly worth thousands of dollars. She watched it fall, amused, before returning her attention to an angry Reed.

"You're being childish," he growled out.

"Rightfully so, I think!" she yelled. "I said I wasn't done."

"Oh, I'm sorry for ending playtime early," he scoffed. "I don't see how it matters."

Charlotte, in her fit of anger, reached over and slapped him. If she had her knife, she would've happily stabbed him. Her characters were hardly playtime.

In one quick motion, Reed retaliated by grabbing her around the neck and pushing her against the wall. He tightened his fist around her delicate neck, eyes flaring as she fought to get out of his grip.

"Playing rough, are we?" she choked out, still cocky even as she struggled to breathe.

"You hit me," he stated angrily and stepped impossibly close. "Why must you defy me?" he whispered, his eyes examining her. He quite liked seeing her like this, completely at his mercy.

"Because I can," she wheezed.

As much as he wished he didn't, he loved that smart mouth of hers. It spun beautiful tales that brought other people to their demise. Even then, as he held her captive, ruby taunts fled from her lips like lying lines of lyrics. He momentarily forgot their argument and remembered how she tasted as sweet as her lies.

Loosening his grip on her by just the slightest, he leaned in and captured her lips. He kissed her as roughly as he held her, biting hard on her lips until he drew blood. The metallic taste of blood clashed with the sweet cherry of her chapstick, and it nearly drove him insane.

Just as he was about to get lost in her, she kneed him right in the crotch, sending him reeling back.

"Fuck," he groaned, bending over in pain.

Charlotte licked the blood from her lips and smiled victoriously. "What were you saying about breaking things?"

He glared up at her, "You bitch."

She laughed humorlessly, "That was for Bree." The name she had taken on for the night. The character she had yet to play out.

He straightened up, his anger only elevating. "The blood is spilled, the girl is dead. Get over it."

"Wasn't it you that said murder is an art?" she said in challenge. "What? Don't like your front row seats to my show?"

"I don't care for your stupid characters, Charlotte. For all I know, you could be playing one right now."

She sneered, "I don't need to be playing one to kill you."

He knew her cruel threat was as empty as her heart. "Then do it," he hissed, taunting her. "Do it and end this fucking charade of ours."

They had thrown endless threats to kill each other in the past months. While neither doubted the other's ability to do it, it was almost as if they wanted to see how far they could push each other until one of them finally broke.

With one last glare, he turned and left the room with a slam of the door.

Charlotte didn't understand his hatred for her tactics. She thought he would've understood since he was an actor. The two of them really weren't that different: he played characters on the screen and she played them on the streets.

But killers like them didn't get along. Killers like them were selfish.

Killers like them played to win.