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  Kill, Sleep, Repeat: A Psychological Thriller

  Britney King

  WWW.BRITNEYKING.COM

  Copyright

  KILL, SLEEP, REPEAT is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact http://britneyking.com/contact/

  Thank you for your support of the author's rights.

  Hot Banana Press

  Cover Design by Britney King LLC

  Cover Image by Britney King LLC

  Photo by Stasyuk Stanislav

  Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Service

  Proofread by Proofreading by the Page

  Copyright © 2020 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.

  First Edition: 2020

  ISBN 13: 9781393233664

  ISBN 10: 9781393233

  britneyking.com

  For Hannah, who was a better person than I am even though she was a dog

  Contents

  Kill, Sleep, Repeat

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  A note from Britney

  Also by Britney King

  Sneak Peek: The Social Affair

  The Social Affair

  Prologue

  Kill, Sleep, Repeat

  Britney King

  ❝Everything that needs to be said has already been said. But, since no one was listening, everything must be said again.❞ - André Gide

  Prologue

  The first time it happened, I did not think it was funny. It wasn’t funny the second time, either. By that point, saving her ass had become a full-time job. With mandatory overtime. By then, I’d realized something profound—what didn’t kill me only made me want her more.

  Maybe it would have helped if she’d wanted it. Who’s to say?

  She may not have wanted to be saved, but God did she need it. And anyhow, what was I supposed to do? Once you’ve committed to a person on that level, how can you not see it through?

  You could say that’s what I’m doing now. Seeing it through. The worst thing would be if this was all for nothing. And since I have your attention, this is important, so listen up—what you have here is a story about how everything went south. Not literally south, but what you would call the opposite of right. Upside down. Topsy-turvy. You probably catch my drift.

  This thing you’re listening to, the flight recorder, well, I bet the boys at the NTSB had a blast fishing it out of the frigid depths of the Pacific. The black box, it’s called. In reality, it’s orange. Probably my first big point: most things aren’t what they seem.

  Anyway, on the inside of the black box is the record of all that is left. What you’ve found is just that. A story about how things went from bad to worse.

  Except for one—two, if you count me, which most people don’t—the passengers are fine. They deplaned in Dallas, on schedule. Then it was just the two of us. Exactly as it should be.

  You really have no idea what it takes to get her alone.

  The pilots are with her too.

  Although, they don’t count. They’re dead.

  So, it’s just me up here in the cockpit. Well, me and a dispensary of half-empty pill bottles. Xanax, Valium, codeine, Adderall—pretty much anything you could want— I have it all lined up in a neat little row on top of the instrument panel.

  Maybe it’s worth mentioning, I’m not usually this laid back. I don’t typically fly while under the influence, but this is what you could call a special circumstance.

  Up here, where the air is thin, there’s just us trying to stay above the weather.

  Well, at least one of us is trying.

  The other one is all sad-eyed and what you could call emotional. Could be the zip ties. It’s not the first time I’ve been accused of taking things too far.

  That and well…she doesn’t particularly care for the term “hostage.” Obviously, this is more than that—if anyone has been the captive in this whole ordeal, it’s me. Could be, too, that she’s thinking about her children. They’ll be fine. I did my best to reassure her. They’re old enough to make their own food, tie their own shoes. They have a spare parent. Not everyone is so lucky, I said. Not everyone gets to have two.

  She didn’t seem comforted by this, but then, she’s always had a bit of a poker face.

  I’ll do my best not to bore you with the details, but we’re on autopilot up here until we eat through the fuel. Flame out being the technical term.

  I won’t waste your precious time, or mine, for that matter, by giving you a crash course on the fuel consumption specs of two Rolls Royce jet engines, full throttle at forty thousand feet, or how long it takes a sixty thousand pound glider to harpoon the Pacific Ocean.

  Thankfully, I can enjoy the ride down hands free. The autopilot will perform its best dead-stick descent.

  What a relief. I can’t think of anything I’d rather have.

  All I’ve known since she walked into my life has worked out exactly the opposite.

  But I’m probably getting ahead of myself.

  For now, the sky expands forever out in front of us. I’m on cloud nine. We have never been more together. Together, headed toward the Pacific, headed toward disaster, toward the end of our life stories, hers and mine, and I suppose all roads really do lead west.

  For the record, I have never felt more fantastic.

  At this speed and altitude, we have two, maybe three hours left. Which means I’ll have to make this quick. No one wants to die in the middle of their life story.

  Earlier, as I carefully positioned the dead captain and copilot in their final, seated, upright positions, next to her, she demanded to know why I’m doing this. Believe me, I asked myself the same thing. It took a lot of work getting them into those seats.

  In the end, it was worth the effort. It seemed like she had a l
ot to talk about, and I didn’t want her to be lonely.

  Still, I didn’t answer her, at least not right away, because we both know why. When this thing crash-dives into the Pacific and breaks into a bazillion tiny bits of fiery jet, the black box will survive. Sooner or later, people will find it. So eventually I told her the truth: I’m recording this so our story will live on forever.

  Chapter One

  Charlotte

  Three weeks earlier

  The Uber driver drops me three blocks from my destination. Even though it’s a balmy twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, I’m more than happy to walk the remainder of the way.

  My phone chimes as I step off the curb, a reminder I’d better chuck it. Glancing at the screen, I see a notification asking me to leave a rating on my experience with the driver. Considering his incessant attempts at making small talk are half the reason I’m walking several blocks in five-inch heels, against the bitter cold, I have a few things to say.

  I power the phone off, watching as it falls to the pavement, where I channel my frustration into smashing it into bits and pieces with my left foot. No point in shitting on a person’s livelihood because I’ve had a bad day.

  Once I’ve buttoned my coat, I shuffle the broken phone toward the gutter with the toe of my black pump. One small kick and it’s a goner, and then I’m on my way. My mind is, as usual, already two steps ahead, welcoming the time to regroup. It’s imperative I’m in the right headspace for what I’m about to walk into.

  There are three rules. More than that, but three main ones: Stay focused. Remain in character. Don’t get murdered.

  Head down, I walk briskly toward my destination, my hands in my pockets, the rest of me shivering against the icy breeze, trying to keep the cold air at bay. Pushed back from the road, the house is conveniently situated at the end of a long drive, gated and hidden among trees, away from inquisitive eyes.

  It’s dark now, but I don’t need daylight to know the expansive front lawn is well tended, that there are eight steps to the front door, or that the drive has recently been repaved.

  Nor am I surprised to see the walk is well-lit or that the smaller yard up close to the house is littered with toys, tricycles, and various sporting equipment. My host has people for this, so my sense is he’s trying to send a message. He wants me to feel safe here. But I know better.

  I know that would be a mistake.

  It could be this—or it could be that he really doesn’t care one way or the other.

  Maybe it’s a little of both.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter.

  With the exception of a small bench, I know that the porch is empty. To the left of the bench are two pairs of gardening clogs—one adult size, one child size—and next to them, a potted rose bush and a bag of fresh soil.

  As I pass the first camera, positioned appropriately along the walk, I smile. Watching is a fetish of his. There are others, but voyeurism makes him feel big and powerful. It makes him feel safe and in control. Funny, a security system, no matter how sophisticated, isn’t going to save him tonight.

  My heels click purposefully against the porch steps as I make my way toward the front door. I see that the curtains have been left open, a flickering bluish glow emanating from the large front window. As I approach the entryway, I hear a pundit’s voice coming from the television inside. It’s late, but he’s expecting me, and I know he’ll have waited up.

  I raise a gloved hand, take a solid breath, and allow my fist to rap against the door. I knock three times, the sound dampened by thick leather. Eventually, I hear footsteps, and the door opens. He leans out, holding the door half-closed to keep the cold out, and I have to admit he looks exactly as I pictured him. Handsome. Charming, even. Like someone I could fall in love with, if I didn’t know so much about him. If I were capable of such things.

  He looks at me, partly confused, partly perturbed. The TV is louder now, one of those urgent, the sky is falling news reports playing on a seemingly endless loop. His eyes are tired, but he hasn’t changed out of his work attire. His tie is only slightly loosened. Slowly, he relaxes his grip on the door. “I didn’t think you were going to show.”

  We stand there for a second, staring at each other. I’m thinking he’s a good lover. His kind usually are. There’s a hunger in his expression I recognize, one I know will tighten its grip unless satisfied.

  After several beats, he opens the door wider, beckoning me in. I follow him into the foyer, which screams the usual look-at-me, look-how-much-money-I-have rhetoric, only with too much white space. I change my mind. I bet he’s selfish in the sack.

  When I see that the living room isn’t much different, it’s practically confirmed. If given the opportunity to look around, I know what I’d find. Nine bedrooms, eleven bathrooms, three stories, with two boat slips down at the dock. Sure as shit, the rich know how to live: jewelry, guns, clothes, pills of all kinds, loads of money, and plenty of food. But that’s not what gets me off. It’s always their fetishes I find most interesting.

  He doesn’t ask for my coat or make a move to remove it, so I take it upon myself. As I lay it over the sofa, I am reminded why I am here. I have two main goals. The most important is to walk out the door alive. Which is why when he asks me if I want a drink, I don’t answer. My attention is on the couch. It’s the ugliest I’ve ever seen, rich people or no.

  He walks over to the bar and fills a glass with whiskey. Once he tops off a second glass, he turns to me and says, “The dress I like. But what’s with the gloves?”

  “It’s cold out.”

  “This should warm you up.” He forces the tumbler in my direction.

  When I neither respond nor move to take it from him, he turns toward the TV. I clock him with a left hook. He drops the glass, the caramel colored liquid soaking into the kind of plush white carpet no one with kids should ever own. Blood seeps from his bottom lip as he lunges forward. He swings as hard as he can but I dart aside, coming back with a knee to the chin that has him on the floor before he knows what’s happening. He spits blood as he tries to rise, but I can see in his eyes there isn’t a lot to give.

  In a single beat, I’m on top of him, straddling his chest. As I reach for my knife, the tips of my fingers grazing it, he shifts his weight, which causes me to side-swipe my hip with the blade. Suddenly, his hands are on my thighs. He squeezes hard. Our eyes meet and I see it then. He thinks this is a game. He thinks it’s part of the act.

  “So you like it rough,” he says. It’s not a question. Something that is quickly apparent in the way he bucks me off and backhands me, once he’s succeeded.

  Using the back of the horrid sofa, he manages to pull himself upright. He lands another blow. This time it’s a fist to my head. I’m slumped forward, propped up by my forearms, when his elbow comes down between my shoulder blades, forcing me all the way down. It knocks the wind out of me, but ignites a fire somewhere deep within. “Why is it the best whores,” he says smugly, “always put up a little fight?”

  I feel him moving behind me and then he’s close. His weight presses me into the plush white carpet. “Look what you’ve done,” he says, kissing my ear, his erection pushing against my back. I shift, trying to get the knife in a position that won’t be useless. With his weight pinning me, it’s impossible. I reach around and jab my finger into his eye.

  He rears backward long enough to allow me to turn onto my back. We roll several times as he gets a few hits in. Finally, he pulls me up by my hair, and that’s when he learns that even the best of wigs don’t stay put under that kind of stress. “Not even a redhead,” he says, shaking his head. I take two steps backward, defeat in my eyes.

  He tosses the wig aside and then leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. He tries to catch his breath.

  Blood drips from my nose, and I stagger a little as I attempt to regain my footing. The heels don’t help.

  He sighs heavily, surveying the mess. He motions at my injuries. “Is that enough for you—or sho
uld I keep going?”

  I don’t have time to answer. Suddenly, he’s standing in front of me. Suddenly, he’s forcing me to my knees, my hair twisted around his fist. With his free hand, he unzips his pants.

  I’m aware that I’m in a bad position, but my mind is clear and my hands are steady. He removes his shirt, slowly, button by button. Using my mouth, I snake my way up his torso. I pause and take him in. “Where are the girls?”

  “The who?”

  “The girls.”

  He takes my head in his hands and tilts it from side to side as he studies my face. He could easily snap my neck at any moment and I think he just might. “How the fuck should I know?”

  Shaking my head loose, I lean forward and nuzzle his stomach. “He said I should talk to you. If I was interested.”

  “Me? No. You’ll have to ask Dunsmore.”

  “Dunsmore,” I repeat, cupping his balls. I stroke the length of him, first with my hand, and then with the tip of my tongue.

  Eventually his head lolls back and his eyes close. He’s in the zone now, the place where expectancy and ecstasy meet in the dark, like a swirling tide, leaving him exposed.