Authors: Sarah Masters
"I am not your honey.” I managed to yank free and grabbed up my coat, hugging it to my chest and feeling like a fool.
"But he is a nurse, Paul. Let him clean you up."
"I don't need—"
Lil's hand on my wrist, just above the raw, painful skin, stopped me talking. There was not a bit of force, a light touch, only two fingers that gave anger no target. Even his voice was soft when he spoke. Nothing to be afraid of.
"Let someone be nice to you for a change, honey. I promise it feels way better than this shit."
"Someone like you?” But I couldn't muster anything more than petulance, and Lil didn't even rise to that.
"Someone like a nurse. Why not?"
"Only if you stop calling me honey."
He actually smiled. “Sure thing, sugar. Get on in the bathroom. I have got to get out of this get-up.” He ran a hand down the front of his scrubs. “I won't be a minute."
Space. Blessed space, and no one in it but me. I sank onto the stool set in front of a tidy dressing table and mirror. It took a long time to get my breathing calm and my heart rate back to normal. I was tempted to just jump in the shower and let the hot water wash it all away, but a more careful study of the raw skin on my wrists made me think it might be better to let the professional do his thing.
He knocked before he came in and smiled at me. I recognized the nurse mask he'd put on despite the change into his own clothes. The veneer of polite care kept me calm. And of course, he was right, and letting him wash me up and put ointment and bandages on the bleeding leather burn relaxed the tension some. I didn't even mind the pink leopard print mini skirt so much. He had nice legs.
"It takes a lot of force to break the skin like this,” he commented at one point.
It seemed like an obvious comment, so I didn't respond.
"He's escalating."
That made me look up, and I didn't expect the concern I saw in Lil's dark eyes. “Escalating?"
"I've been on the wrong end of a fist or two in my time, and more than one belonged to an aggressive boyfriend.” He smiled, but it was a short, grim flash of bitter memory. “Who'd love a cross-dressing freak? I took what I could get. They put you in the hospital eventually, Paul. It doesn't get better."
"It does if you have Brian."
Now his smile was real, dazzling. “Then it does, yeah. Eventually. I didn't believe in him for a long time. People like Carl are easier to believe in, and that's sad."
I nodded. You couldn't not believe in Carl and his power to do anything when you saw the way the anger turned him. It was easy to want to believe you'd imagined the wild, the ugly, the terrifying. When he turned soft, when he apologized, that's what I wanted to be real. I couldn't deny the bruises or ignore the blood anymore, though.
"Guys?” Brian stuck his head in the doorway just as Lil was taping up the last bandage. “You should see this. It's happened again."
Lil stiffened, his fingers going still and strong against the pulse on my wrist, but I could feel a tiny tremor run through him.
"It's all over the news,” Brian went on.
"Where this time?” Lil's voice had gone flat.
I couldn't read the expression on his face, but that flat, controlled voice chilled me.
"Back of Jilly's."
"What are you guys talking about?” I knew Jilly's. I'd been there enough times before Carl came along. I might even have met him there.
"You have to have had your head up your ass not to know,” Lil snapped.
"Lil.” Brian came in a put a hand on his shoulder. “This is the first time it's even made the news. We know about the others because of Vic."
Lil nodded and pinched his lips. He took a deep breath before asking, “Was it anyone we know?"
"No idea. Family notification and all that. Vic will call."
"Who's Vic?” They might have forgotten I was there. Whatever they were talking about, it had turned them in on each other in their own brand of self-protection.
"Victor Bradley. He's a cop.” Lil patted my wrist lightly and stood, the taffeta under his skirt rustling as he moved to the cabinet to stash away the first aid kit. “My brother Jason was his partner..."
His shoulders were stiff, straight, held like any sudden movement might break him. Brian watched him with worry.
"About eight months ago,” Lil's voice only carried because the hard tile surfaces didn't soak it up, “I called Jason. I wanted to talk to him. Would have been the first time in three years I saw him. He'd tossed me out on my ass, and I wanted him to know...” He sighed. “Wanted him to know I was cleaned up. Wanted him to meet Brian.” A little glance at his lover shored him up a bit. “I should have gone to him, but I thought The Anchor would be a safe, neutral space.” His fingers tightened around the sink bowl, and his breath heaved.
Brian sidled close to him, just touched his fingers, and continued for him. “He was killed before we got there. No idea what happened. Just that we arrived, he wasn't there, and Lil was devastated. I brought him home, and an hour later, Vic shows up at the door, talking about murder. Stabbed seven times and left to bleed to death in an alley behind the club.” He shook his head. “Someone walked away from that alley covered in blood, and they never even had a suspect."
Lil shook himself, straightened, and turned. “The cops keep looking, but Victor is convinced they'll never find the guy because they're looking in the wrong place. There have been four murders...five, now, and all of them gay victims. All but Jason, and that was just him being in the wrong place at the wrong time, since he was only at The Anchor to meet me."
"So the police are looking for a cop killer, and Vic's convinced this is something else entirely,” Brian added.
"No one is looking for whoever is luring gay men into filthy allies to die,” Lil said bitterly.
"Vic is looking.” Brian ran a soothing hand down Lil's back. “He's doing his best."
Lil nodded, but his expression wasn't forgiving. “What kind of person does it take?” he wondered. “I was angry for a long time, at everything and everyone, and I don't get it. How much do you have to hate the world to do something like that? Over and over, like once couldn't possibly be enough?"
For all he sounded confused, Brian was the one who leaned on him, settling against his lanky form and under Lil's protective arm, and for the first time, I thought maybe I understood Lil: his drinking and his problems, even the skirts. The man knew who he was. It might have been a nightmare for him figuring it out, but now he knew, and I suddenly understood how Brian found that attractive.
Carl sat in his car and brooded. It hadn't taken long for the wail of sirens to split the air and the blue lights of police cars to slice through the darkness. Three cop cars sped past him, and he'd put his head down as though searching in his glove box. Now, he stared ahead, spatters of rain plopping on the windshield, and his thoughts turned to Paul.
He'll be needing a piss right about now.
He laughed, loud and hearty, and covered his mouth with his hand. Biting down on the pad to stop the laughter didn't work, so he gave it free rein until tears wet his cheeks. He ought to be getting back to Paul's really, but a ball of spite knotted hard in his gut. Who was he kidding? His relationship with Paul was all but over, yet he couldn't let him go. And if he did, he couldn't stand to let someone else touch him, need him, possess him.
Rage built inside Carl, and for the first time since he'd allowed himself to act on his violent urges, the need to kill again goaded him. He usually went a while between murders, but tonight something had snapped. A new level had emerged—one that burned through him, bringing whispering voices that told him to take action now while the police were occupied with the last body.
He thought of Paul pissing the bed and laughed again. Opening the car door, he got out and locked the vehicle, surveying the area for any nosey bastards who might be watching. No one was about, so he walked toward town once again before stopping abruptly beneath a streetlight.
Tiny bloodstains marred his shirt.
I thought it hadn't splashed.
"Fuck!"
He ran back to his car and opened the rear door, rifling through a holdall on the back seat. Carl pulled out a polo shirt he'd worn to play squash the other night and crouched behind the door to swap his clothing. The polo stunk of sweat and the sport's club changing room, but he didn't give a shit. He stood and leaned inside the car again, rooting about for his jacket. Once done up, it covered the shirt and all its wrinkles. He locked the car again, pissed off at the wasted time, and walked to town, his pace quick, hands in his pockets.
As he strode past Jilly's, he smiled at his audacity.
The doorman was busy shouting at drunkards in the line. “You can't come in, all right? Place is closed."
A woman teetering on high heels, skirt showing her thonged ass, her hair a severe bob, staggered up to him. “But people are still in there. I can see them through the window."
"Everyone already in there has to stay in there until the police have finished taking their names and addresses. Look, I'm telling you, you're not getting in tonight."
"Asshole!” the woman shouted. Her knees jolted, and she grabbed a nearby man for support.
Carl sauntered past, chin to chest, and made his way to the end of the block and around the corner. The pink neon sign for Brewster's flashed, the glow hazy on the rain-slicked pavement. His excitement level increased, and he battled the urge to laugh again.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Irked at his lack of self-control, he approached Brewster's and peered through the window. Packed enough that his presence probably wouldn't be noted, the bar played a hit from the 80s that reminded Carl of summer days and hot sticky nights. He elbowed the door open and pushed through the crowd, heading for a guy nursing his pint of Guinness in the far corner. Head down and foot tapping to the beat, the guy looked off his face.
Carl nudged him.
He raised his head and stared at Carl with glassy eyes.
"Do you, uh...” Carl nodded at they guy's cock.
"Uh, have done, though I don't make a habit of it.” He slurred, and one knee jerked. “Ah, fuck it. Yeah. Why not?"
"After you,” Carl said, cocking his head in the direction of the door.
The guy necked back his drink and almost missed putting the glass on a small table. He weaved through customers, and Carl kept close behind, face lowered into his coat collar, eyes downcast.
Outside, Carl said, “Will the alley do you?"
The guy nodded and took the lead, walking down the street in a wavy line. Carl followed, keeping to the shadows, and they reached an alley between two shops. The man disappeared into its mouth, and Carl glanced left and right before pursuing. Darkness seemed a tangible thing, oppressive and thick, and swallowed them whole. Carl tripped over debris and staggered forward, his curses heavy, echoing in the still air. His hands met with the man's back, and Carl patted him to get him to stop.
"Here,” Carl said. “I can't wait. Up against the wall. Face it.” He squinted, trying hard to make out the man's shape. Reaching out, Carl felt the man's back and stepped up close. “You like it hard and fast?” His breaths left him in gasps, and he concentrated on forcing himself calm. “You like it like that, huh?” He imagined the guy nodding, and his cock hardened. Pulse thudding loud in his ears, he reached for the knife. With his free hand, he smoothed up and down his victim's back, fingers creeping into his hair. Gripping it—God, he loved this bit—he yanked back the guy's head and raised the blade, using his senses to guide him in the darkness.
"W-what's that?” he man asked, trying to twist out of Carl's grasp.
"Just a little toy,” Carl whispered, pressing it against a soft neck that would gape open in seconds. He closed his eyes, savoring the throb of his cock for a moment, then drew the blade across.
Hot warmth splattered his face, the copper stench of it heady and arousing. Cum spurted in Carl's jeans, and he sagged with the man, body juddering, a hissed “Ah!” leaving his mouth. Heart beating hard, he dropped the man and arced the blade downward, striking flesh by luck not judgment. He hacked and stabbed, images of Paul tied to the bed seeping into his mind. Anger that Paul hadn't come ripped into him, and he raised the knife again and again, the blood on his face already drying, making his skin tight.
Bloodlust sated, he straightened up and slipped the knife back into his inside pocket. Cuffing his face, he hoped he'd wiped all the blood away. Realization slammed into him that if he hadn't, he'd draw attention to himself.
"Fucking shit!"
He made to turn and leave the alley, but a vicious thought struck him—one he couldn't resist obeying. Hand in jacket pocket, he withdrew Paul's wallet. Pulling down the polo shirt's hem, he covered his hand and flipped open the wallet, extracting one of Paul's credit cards.
"You didn't come,” he said and tossed the card to the ground. Wallet back in his pocket, he walked toward the alley's end, feet sloshing through a puddle. He kneeled and scooped up as much water as he could and splashed his face, drying it with his sleeves. “Fucking teach you not to come."
At the end of the alley, he lowered his head and gave the street a once-over, waiting for a gaggle of women to exit Brewster's and totter off up the road. He stepped out and walked back the way he had come, past Jilly's, now devoid of a queue, and headed for his car. Seated inside, he repositioned the rear-view mirror so he could check out his face. He smiled at having cleaned off most of the blood.
"Fucking A!"
Gunning the engine, he pulled away from the curb and took a right turn, intent on returning to Paul's and teaching him a damn lesson he'd never forget. Thoughts of what he'd do to him filled his mind on the journey, and he alternated between laughing and congratulating himself on his killing expertise.
Outside Paul's place, he parked and locked up, then walked to the door, fatigue overtaking him at an alarming rate. He let himself in and went into the kitchen to drink a cold beer, hoping it would wake him up before he went into the bedroom. The bubbles stung his throat, and he chuckled again at the irony.