Page 8 of Razors & Ruin
I could deny it, but part of me wants him to know. Was it a weird thing to do?Yes. But I enjoyed the cold metal inside my hot pussy. Even if it was only the safely folded handle, the blade tucked away where it couldn’t hurt me.
“So?” I snap. “I fucked myself with them. What do you think of that?”
My cheeks flare with heat as a lascivious grin spreads over his face. “Mrs. Lovett. That is not what I was getting at. I was referring to your many scars, but I underestimated you. You became intimately acquainted with the tools of my trade?”
I nod miserably, astonished at my stupidity, and he hands me the razor. It’s heavy, the silver warmed by his hand.
“What a liberty,” he says, amusement coloring his tone. “You’re a hoot, Nellie. Keep this one in case you need it, although you might not feel much now I’ve reamed you out.”
He glances around. “So I said I need a room, but by the look of things, so do you. Why aren’t you using my old place?”
I slump onto the couch, raising a cloud of dust. “Because if you came back, I knew you’d have nowhere to go except here. When Harry passed away, I had enough to buy this place but not enough for anything else. So I had a prime plot on Fleet Street, barely a pot to piss in, but still I waited. What does that tell you?”
“That you need your head examined.” He sits beside me and puts his hand on my knee. “I can get set up, but I’ll need a few quid to get some barber’s gear. Nothing fancy; we’ll go down the Portobello Road tomorrow and see what we can dig up.”
Presumptuous of him to think I have a penny for him, let alone whole pounds.
“Where will you stay?” I ask, despising the wheedling tremor in my voice. “To sleep, I mean. There’s nothing up there but bare floorboards.”
Sweeney slides his hand up my thigh and finds the blood that’s already congealing there. He swipes it onto his fingers and brings them to his lips, sucking them clean.
“I’ll warm your bed for you, treacle,” he says. “Get me a drink, and wash my come off your face before you see any customers.”
The dinnertime rush is no rush at all. One bloke sniffs the air and departs as swiftly as he arrives. The next buys a pie with mashed potato, bringing it back up in the gutter outside for the rats to squabble over.
I’m all but ready to close up for the night when a last-minute customer walks in. Sweeney sits at the table nursing a large glass of gin, but the patron doesn’t notice him and strides toward me, stopping at my counter.
“Lord Francis Wetherby!” he bellows. “Your Harry was a dear friend of mine. A fine fellow, he was.”
“Oh!” I say, taken aback. “Right you are, sir. Thank you. Care to partake this evening?”
“Not of a pie.” He leans on the counter and lowers his voice, affecting a harrowed expression. “I’ve heard tell that you, Mrs. Lovett, are nigh-on destitute, but you won’t sell your decrepit establishment. Pray, why so?”
I look down my nose at him. “My Lord, that is no business of yours.”
“Not yet,” he replies, “but it could be. I’d be delighted to help you out. After all, this emporium is not exactly doing a brisk trade, is it?”
Over Wetherby’s shoulder, I catch Sweeney’s eye. His gaze flicks from me to the interloper and back again, and his knuckles turn white as he grips the gin glass.
“So here’s my proposition,” Wetherby continues, ignoring my silence. “I will pay you an allowance. Nothing too elaborate—ten pounds a week, maybe—and you can keep your shop. As a favor to Harry, of course.”
“Why would you do something like that?” I ask.
Sweeney stands, and I pretend to cough to cover the sound of him moving his chair. I don’t know what he thinks is happening here, but I don’t like the look on this stranger’s face. Wetherby is oblivious; maybe his hearing isn’t too good.
“Don’t you believe in good turns, dear lady?” Wetherby asks with a laugh that sets his jowls jiggling. “I have friends who need the company of a woman. They get lonely. Many widows do well out of such arrangements, and you’ll be able to pay your bills. I’ll just take my finder’s fee.”
My stomach drops. “You’re just a whore’s minder! Surely you don’t think?—”
“Oh, drop the coy act,” Wetherby snaps. “You killed Harry, or at least, I could soon convince the authorities of it. What’s a regular fuck between friends if it’ll keep your peace?”
Wetherby leans forward, reaching for me, but Sweeney grabs a fistful of his hair and drags him to the ground, ignoring his howl of shock. I see a bright flash in Sweeney’s palm, and my heart flips.
Sweeney doesn’t hesitate, placing the shiny strip of silver against Wetherby’s jugular, his other hand on the man’s forehead. It’s perversely like an embrace, with both men totally focused on one other.
“Don’t!” Wetherby’s voice falters. His throat is quivering, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I’ll go. I didn’t know she had—I’m sorry, alright?”
Sweeney wrinkles his nose and tilts the blade, drawing a tiny sliver of crimson. The blood runs, staining Wetherby’s starched collar.