Addicted In Cold Blood (25 page)

Bad move.

“Why didn’t you try to take advantage of the situation? You saw I was hurt...” he said, his back to her. Anxiety riddled him. He rubbed his palms over his thighs as he waited for her to respond.  He wanted to hear it, the lies...The dirty, sickeningly sweet lies.

“...Because, you were right. I’ve been screwed, this is a second chance. I want to make this right.”

He looked at her from over his shoulder. “What do you mean?” A slither of blue light highlighted the contours of her body.

“I know who you are and what you’ve done. I can’t undo that, Xzion.”

No, actually you don’t know either...
He smiled slightly.

“But, I can make the FBI pay for what they tried to do to me. They need to be exposed...but you’d have to help me. I’m sure you hate them now as much as I do.”

He didn’t speak for several seconds.

“I don’t hate anyone, I’m incapable—but, they have been like a gnat that never goes away, causing trouble, making things harder. I will think about helping you. It could be advantageous for me...send them a lesson of sorts.” He kept his back turned, reached down and scratched his ankle as he mulled over her sentiments. “Anyway, what are you doing awake?” he asked, facing her.

“I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been angry. I don’t like not having answers. You’ve yet to tell me why you have me here, what you want. I’ll keep asking.”

He remained quiet and placed his arms behind his head.

“I miss my friends and my family,” she added.

He could sense the sadness in her voice and it hurt him that he was partially responsible. He knew that statement was real.

“What if... I promised you, that you’d see them again?” he offered. “I can’t tell you when... I’ll just know when it’s right, but right now, I need you still here with me.”

“...Thank you,” she offered in almost a whisper. She patted his arm. “Jesus, you’re so cold...”

He snatched away from her, wanting to blurt it out, to tell her he’d been having a hard time and explain why she was there, but he just couldn’t. He hated being so deceptive to everyone involved, and he hated the feelings, most of all. He began to not trust himself anymore, and that was all he had—himself. He
had
been lonely; it was the nature of his existence. Since he was discovered to have the special gifts as a child, gifts that were needed for the mission, he was trained to do exactly what he was doing, and he’d never questioned it.  Not once.

It was about survival of his people, nothing more, nothing less, but over time, he developed a strong disdain for many of the individuals he’d come in contact with—senators, politicians, drug lords, who sold death to people who were trying to run away from life and all that it entailed. The soul hunters preyed on the weak, and suddenly, he realized in some regards, he was no better. Regardless, he was steeped in his beliefs, and these people made him ill.

He couldn’t call it abhorrence, but it was a close second. It helped drive him, the wrong he saw...the small dope boys incarcerated for years, for blow they never brought into the country. They were mere marionettes trying to be rap stars while a rich fat cat pulled the strings, never doing a day of prison time. Sometimes, he was the judge, sentencing these wayward youths for crimes that sharks had arranged, yet the guppies took the rap—turned into sushi while the ‘big boys’ continued to play Marco-Polo.

The dope boys that risked their lives on the street didn’t even seem to realize that they were pawns—or maybe they did, but desperation caused their silent hells to build second and third floors in mansions of mayhem. Just as Jayme had been used and lied to…made to feel more important, slimy manipulations. Once he realized that addiction to drugs wasn’t the fuel that ran the trade—it was addiction to control, power and wealth—he developed a taste for the murdering. He relished it, looked forward to it, and he couldn’t stop. It helped him justify that his people needed this, hell, that was the truth...it made all the pieces fit together nice and tight. He’d misunderstood his own self; this
was
in fact about morals, after all...

Surprise, surprise...

*
***

He was about to fall to the fucking floor and instead of punching that bastard in the throat, I helped him lie down...get comfy...like that is my damn man. I have lost my ever-loving mind. Then he kissed me, he fucking kissed me, and I didn’t want him to stop. I liked it...

Jayme stared up at the ceiling, fully convinced she was going crazy. The fact of the matter was that she knew, if she’d hurt him and did manage to get to the exit—if he caught her, th
ings could have turned deadly. She needed a better plan than that for she was still on his turf and barely knew what lurked behind each and every twisted corner. She’d felt his strength as he gripped her tiny wrist earlier. She’d never felt strength like that before, it almost seemed inhuman. Yet, she sensed he wasn’t even using his full capacity. He was taking it easy on her, so she didn’t want to test him and find out what an actual assault felt like.

And now, here she was lying close to a cold, naked man with dog tags dangling around his neck while she curled up next to him, in her blue hearts fleece top and bottoms, along with a pair of thick white socks he’d purchased for her a few days ago. The thin stream of cobalt light settled on them, making the atmosphere beautiful and haunting. Before she knew it, he pushed back closer to her, his eyes like hers on the ceiling. After a few moments, his icy hand gently grasped hers, intertwining their fingers. She shuddered and heard him swallow.

She looked over at him, and he continued to glare up at the ceiling. So many questions filled her head. The world as she knew it no longer made sense, and he was to blame. But he wasn’t to blame for her growing attraction to him. She felt dirty, sickened with herself, but she couldn’t stop it.

She wondered if this was what happened with women attracted to men in prison for murder, if she, too, were suffering the same grotesque lure and ailment. The nagging feeling kept at her like a little dog at a mailman’s heels. He wasn’t your ordinary run of the mill murderer, and furthermore, she was technically a murderer as well. She had to kill two people in her line of duty. The first guy had raced toward her with a gun, a pimp high on crack and speed during one of her notorious prostitution busts, and the second, from a domestic violence call—the boyfriend held a knife to his girlfriend’s neck and began to slice... She’d had to do it without hesitation.

The part that disturbed her most was that she’d lost no sleep over the murders, especially the second one. She’d heard that she’d have nightmares, and things would never be the same, but honestly, she barely batted an eye. Maybe she and Xzion were more alike than she initially realized. That unanswered question now haunted her as she squeezed his fingers and fell asleep with her forehead against his chilly shoulder, recalling her dream from last night. It had caused her to wake up screaming. A sordid dream, and she couldn’t shake the imagery loose.

In it, they were making love. It had felt so real but to her horror, she’d relished every goddamn second of it and was sickened by the moisture soon running down her inner thigh...

*
***

One week later...

Jayme tried not to laugh. What the hell was she doing being amused? This man was crazy, and she was still trapped in the beast’s house...yet, her stomach knotted with joy. It was simply too funny and she was accepting that she was, in fact, going insane. She may as well enjoy the ride to crazy-ville, especially since it appeared to be a non-stop train with no exit in sight.

Must be fumes or drugs. He must be drugging me with all of that delicious food he cooks for me...

She shook her head and glanced in the mirror. He finished applying her lipstick, his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth like a child doing a crayon drawing that could earn him a gold star and an extra cherry lollipop. Occasionally, Xzion would look into her eyes, grin, then turn serious again. His tongue now slicked over his bottom lip as he went over her blush and checked her faux lashes.

“You’re shaking.” He looked down at her folded hands in her lap. “You’re laughing.” His expression instantly relaxed. “Hey, I never said I was an ar-teest.” He laughed lazily.

“Thank you, for this,” she said, studying his eyes more closely.

What the hell is going on with his eye? That is just...strange...but kind of cool. I want to ask him if it is real. Is that eye really that shiny or did something happen? Naw, it can’t be real. Don’t rock the boat right now...

“Well.” He shrugged. “It’s time you get some fresh air...” He picked up her wig and handed it to her. As she brushed it, she glanced at herself in the vanity mirror. She was actually impressed with his work. She almost didn’t recognize herself,
inside
or out.

She turned away from her reflection, fighting the urge to throw something at it. She’d been enjoying herself the last few days. They’d gone swimming in his pool, and they laughed. He told colorful stories, the kind children hang onto—only, the characters were adults and the themes slightly raunchy. Initially, she listened for clues, but soon found herself engrossed in the storytelling, forfeiting her investigation.

She had multiple banquets with him in his dining room, immersed in candlelight and soft music. They’d dress up, wearing gowns, suits and ties, as if they were in a posh restaurant...and she loved it. They’d lie around talking about things, all sorts of things, and she giggled at some of his corny jokes... Well, not all of them were corny; a couple were actually brilliant... 

They’d played card games. He wasn’t sure what she was into, so he returned home with fifteen different games, and they’d played over half...beating peanuts, hard candies and crackerjacks.

And she kept staring at that damned eye... and they kept kissing, and the kisses grew longer...and he ran his fingers along her shoulders and back...and then they’d stop, regroup, and play their games again.

She no longer asked him what his intentions were. What did it matter? She was in another world now, so she could make the best of it...well, that was what she told herself. That she complied. But why did she have to smile so much?

Why did she ache when she wasn’t sure if he was in the house? Why had she woken up the night before, the crotch of her lilac pajama pants soaking wet once again? She knew why, and that was why she was sure she’d gone officially insane. Only, she was fighting her own personal brand of crazy. It felt too good to go toe to toe with; instead, she danced with that irrational bitch, looked for her when bits of sanity and clarity would try to come knocking. No, she much preferred being loony...because this variety of craziness felt like being in love...

****

Xzion drove and cursed under his breath. The stingy slice of moon gave just enough mood lighting as the smooth R&B music played on his car radio. He glanced at her on occasion, resisting the urge to say things that may force him to feel regret for the first time in his life. He knew she needed to exhale for things were getting out of control. Several times, the sexual tension had reached a boiling point...but he wanted her to really want it, so he’d pull back. His dick was pissed at him; they were no longer speaking. Xzion sighed and gripped the steering wheel, trying to get the image of seeing her dark brown nipple out of his mind, her writhing around under her sheets, moaning in sexual ecstasy, the evening prior.

The disturbance in her room woke him up, so he peered at the monitors, and saw her back arching off the bed while her fingers danced under the covers. He knew what she was doing...and he couldn’t turn away from that glorious sight. He watched her, ‘take her own damn self’, and yearned to be the one to touch her. Her nightgown strap had come down, exposing one of her breasts. He immediately zoomed in on the exposed tit, and thought he may lose it right then and there. Instead, he just laughed—a frustrated laugh—and lay back down on the air mattress.  He’d blown off some steam earlier, took care of a guy that made Stalin look like an angel right after God’s very own heart, but this right here was damn near unfair.

He resisted the urge to look at her again, to violate her privacy any further. He could tell she was half asleep, and though he kept the volume on, he never peeked until he heard her finish. He had even contemplated whipping his cock out and following suit, to masturbate with her from his room—but even that, to him, seemed unfair. No, it couldn’t be like that. He needed a willing participant. He’d fantasized about her so many times, he’d lost count, but he didn’t favor fantasies. He preferred the real world...though he hoped that her self-indulgence was fueled by images of him...

He switched to a different lane. He was taking her out for a late night meal a couple hours away from town. She was perfectly disguised and though he understood the risk involved, he knew that without risk, there would be no trust built between them. He understood his goal loud and clear; he wanted her to
truly
want him, and not be afraid. That wouldn’t be possible without more investment from his part, so here was an act of faith, something to help bind them together.  He took the exit ramp and parked in the back of the Waffle House restaurant. No, it wasn’t fine dining, but it was all that was open at that hour. Regardless, she seemed quite appreciative as he grinned while he shut off the engine.  Moments later, they were seated and looking over their ketchup stained menus.