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Britney King LLC

Kill, Sleep, Repeat: A Psychological Thriller (Ebook)

Kill, Sleep, Repeat: A Psychological Thriller (Ebook)

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An intense and deadly provocative thriller which follows a woman who, in a fight for survival, realizes her job may cost more than it pays.

About The Book

Several times a week, Charlotte Jones leaves suburbia behind and boards a chartered flight to parts unknown, where she wraps her hands around the necks of marks for just as long as she has to.

Then she goes back to domestic life with a paycheck, defense wounds, and the sense that she can handle anything.

Which is good, because being a wife, mother, and sociopath, with an insatiable taste for murder, gives the term work-life balance new meaning. When one life unexpectedly bleeds into the other, leading to a secret admirer and borderline insta-fame, Charlotte is forced to ask herself if she really can have it all.

Slick and unsettling, Kill, Sleep, Repeat is a cunning tale of deception and desire that begs the question: Do we ever really know people the way we think we do?

Read a sample


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. 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 lot 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.

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