Fight Page 3

  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.

  Bet his throat stung... Bastard should have been more careful.

  Beer gone, he dumped the bottle in the trash and made for the bedroom.

  The door was closed.

  I left it open...

  He turned the handle and kicked the door open, filling the threshold to scare Paul with his appearance. The bed stood empty, the silk scarf resting on the rumpled sheets, and a burst of anger boiled in his gut.

  “What the fuck?”

  Though annoyed at himself for doing so, he crouched beside the bed and looked underneath. No one there. He stood and barged into the bathroom, noting Paul's jeans and a few toiletry items had gone. Carl stalked into the living room, heart thudding so painfully his chest hurt. His lungs felt as though someone squeezed them, and he struggled to inhale. Staring at the empty room, he clenched his teeth and fists, the backs of his eyes painful from the pressure growing inside his head.

  He released a yell then quieted, mindful of the neighbors hearing him.

  “Shit. Fucking shit!” he whispered.

  Carl turned and reached the front door, his mind trying to work out where Paul would have gone without his wallet. Brian's? No, Lil didn't like Paul. Who else would help him?

  “Think!”

  He yanked the door open and left the apartment, feet thumping on the ground, rage growing, festering. In his car, he started the engine and shoved into gear, veering away from the curb calmly in case anyone watched.

  The drive home fraught with different scenarios, Carl coached himself to keep calm and deal with finding Paul in the morning—if the police hadn't picked the limp dick up before then. He grinned as he imagined how it would go. Cops finding the credit card and the body—and he had no doubt they'd find it tonight, what with door-to-door enquiries about the other jackass he'd killed. Paul being found and hauled in for questioning
. Paul denying it, shitting bricks at being in trouble.

  What did I see in him again?

  He batted away the answer, not wanting to face up to the fact that Paul was good for him—to him. His relationship with Paul was the closest Carl had come to loving someone. Fucked if he could show it the way Paul wanted him to, though. Didn't Paul see Carl just wasn't like that? He needed the violence, the control. No way could he get down with any of the vanilla shit. And he thought Paul had liked the roughness too.

  Unless he was lying. Or too damn weak to tell me where to get off.

  But wasn't that what Carl wanted? Someone to bully?

  “Damn fucking right!”

  Carl parked on his driveway and leaned across to the back seat for his shirt. He sat for a moment, contemplating tonight's events. Shit, it seemed to have gone on forever. Seemed hours ago he'd fucked Paul. He peered at the dashboard clock. Just passed ten.

  “Jesus.”

  He left the car, locking it on the key fob as he walked away, and went inside. Flicking on the hallway light, he moved to the large leather-framed mirror on the wall and inspected his face. Flecks of dried blood smattered his hairline, and he reached up to pick some off. A flake stuck to his fingertip, and he brought it to his nose, sniffing heavily. It smelled of nothing. Disappointment thundered through him, and he studied his reflection, trying to see the person behind the mask. If he was honest, he couldn't find him—he'd lost himself too long ago to even remember what he used to be like.

  Carl shrugged and took the stairs two at a time, going into the bathroom to set the shower on hot. He dropped his shirt to the floor then stripped, suddenly eager to wash away the filth of those men. The shower burned his skin, but he gritted his teeth and scrubbed himself clean. Finished, he stepped out of the stall and dried his body, walking into the bedroom to slip on some tracksuit bottoms.

  “You never know, the police might be round at any time, asking if I know where Paul is.”

  His heart rate sped up. My clothes...

  He strode into the bathroom and scooped them up, jogging downstairs and out into the back yard. Carl stared up at his neighbors’ windows to check if any lights blazed. They didn't. Satisfied he was safe, he piled the clothes on the grass and went inside to get some lighter fluid and matches. Back out in the yard, he doused the clothes and set them on fire, watching the red, yellow, and orange flames devour the fabric. Dark gray smoke billowed upward, gusted his way on a sudden stiff breeze. It caught at the back of his throat, and he coughed, returning inside for a glass of water, closing the back door so the smell didn't get in.

  Carl stared at the flames for long moments, his mind replaying the killings and fabricating scenarios. Would the police call on him with regards to Paul? And if they did, what would he say? He shrugged. I'll deal with that if it comes to it.

  He went back outside, pleased to see the fire had gone out and only ash and small material remnants remained. What if the police call round and see this? He clamped his jaw tight, thinking. I'll vacuum it up tomorrow.

  Pleased with his ingenious idea, he turned and headed back inside. Inside to bed, where he could rest his weary body after a damn fine night's work.

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  * * *

  Chapter Four

  * * * *

  Much as I tried, sleep kept dancing back, just out of my reach. Every bone ached, and despite Lil's reassurances, I wasn't convinced ribs hadn't been cracked. He said bruised, but I figured that was quibbling. Like calling the Atlantic Ocean a pond. Semantics. Pain was pain, and it pushed sleep away just the same.

  It didn't help that the couch, while comfortable, as far as it went, was way too close to their bedroom door. The thing wasn't soundproof. I know they were trying to be quiet. I know they needed it. I could see the tension I'd brought into their home stretching Lil's shoulders tight and straight and pinching the skin around Brian's mouth into a glower. I noticed how close he stayed to Lil, and how free Lil was with his reassuring caresses. In public, they weren't a demonstrative couple, so the dynamic surprised me. I'd always imagined Brian holding the fragile cross-dresser together, and now, well, maybe I'd had it backwards all that time.

  They quieted, eventually, and I found a relatively comfortable position half-sitting against the tall arm of the couch with my head propped on a thick cushion against the back. I wrapped a heavy quilt around my shoulders and dozed. Flashes of the previous day and night kept pulling me back, shaking and sweating, into the dark, quiet living room. I ended up just leaning there staring into the blackness. Oddly, the thing that finally banished Carl's anger-distorted face and the memory of his violence from my mind was the stranger from the park. Just his face, the way he'd watched me as the car passed. I was used to people looking at me like they wanted me. Guys especially, who figured a pretty, skinny little thing would be an easy lay. And normally, before Carl got possessive, they'd have been right. But that isn't what I remembered seeing in that guy's eyes. I didn't know what it was. Just not lust.

  I didn't really notice that the dark had become less so, until the bedroom door opened quietly. Lil emerged, followed closely by Brian, a sheet wrapped around his bare shoulders. He walked Lil to the door and leaned on him as Lil wrapped his arms around him.

  “You're going to be okay,” Lil said. It wasn't a question, and Brian looked up into his face, nodded, and straightened. “Good boy.” He cupped Brian's face, leaned down and kissed him firmly. “Don't leave him alone here, yeah?”

  I almost surged up, livid he would think I couldn't be trusted, but he just looked grim and kept talking.

  “He needs you with him. He might not be my favourite person, but he shouldn't be alone right now.”

  Brian nodded, and I sank back, confused.

  “And remember what I said. Do not let that asshole in this apartment.”

  “I can look after myself, Lil.” Brian straightened a bit and squared his shoulders. “Carl does not scare me.”

  “He scares me. He'll want to get Paul back, one way or another. He'll start with flowers and candy, and I don't care if he sings a fucking love ballad. Do not let him in; do not leave Paul alone with him.”

  “You don't really think Paul would go back now?”

  “I know people like Carl. I know how they work. They get under your skin.”

  He shivered and pulled Brian to him, more for his own comfort this time. Memories, maybe?

  “Trust me, babe.” He kissed the top of Brian's head. I'd never noticed the height difference before. “Ice cream and old movies on the couch. Undivided attention that has nothing to do with Carl or sex. I said I would help you with him, and I will. Do what I'm telling you. He needs this. I'll try and get home early if I can. I'd be more comfortable if you didn't go to the pool too.”

  Brian manoeuvred himself away from his lover again. “Life doesn't stop—”

  “His boyfriend raped him. Whatever either of them calls it, that's what happened. Some things can go into a bit of a holding pattern while he deals with that. Besides. You didn't see the bruises. I doubt he'll give you much argument if you suggest staying home and not showing that shit off to the world.”

  “Okay.” Brian gave him one last kiss, held the door, and handed him his coat. Lil slipped it on over his scrubs. “Have a good shift.”

  Lil smiled. “I'll be thinking of you, lover.”

  Brian stood in front of the closed door for a few minutes after Lil left, and I wished I could see his face. I wasn't up to the chat that would happen if he knew I'd overheard their conversation, though, so I closed my eyes long before he turned and kept them closed when he came over to the couch. I almost flinched when he touched my hair, but long practice in holding back my reactions to Carl's touch kept me still.

  “I am not letting you go back there,” he whispered.

  The blanket moved, pulled up and snugged around my shoulder, and he left. He went back to his room and didn't come out until I shuffled past his half-open door an
hour later, on my way to the bathroom.

  * * * *

  “Coffee?” Brian stood by the kitchen window, his back to the living room as I came back and dressed.

  “Sure.”

  He didn't move. “You want to talk about it?”

  “About coffee?” I pulled up an old pair of jeans and started doing up the buttons. “Cream and sugar. Baileys if you've got it.”

  “We don't.” He turned around, and the colour drained from his cheeks a bit.

  I supposed most of the really bad bruises hadn't developed yet when he'd seen me tied to the bed. They had now, layered over older marks. I'd just spent a good ten minutes examining my torso in the bathroom mirror. I knew what he was seeing. And what he wasn't.

  "His boyfriend raped him."

  I could practically hear the echo of Lil's statement in the air. I wondered if Brian was going to ask. I wondered what I'd tell him.

  “I think I'll call the kids,” was all he said. “Cancel swim practice.”

  I nodded. This wasn't something to try explaining to a bunch of teenage boys.

  “We can run relays on Wednesday. Only takes one coach.”

  “Life doesn't stop,” I said, quiet, not looking at him. I snagged a sweater and pulled it over my head. I don't know if he picked up on the echo of his earlier conversation with Lil. When my head emerged from the collar, he was pouring cream into a cup of coffee.

  We spent the next hour feeling around the inner bruises and trying to figure out where the whole mess left us. A lull in conversation stretched tight over something he wanted to ask, but I wasn't sure I wanted to answer, so I shuffled over to the couch when he gathered the mugs and brought them to the sink. I supposed it would be easier for him if I wasn't sitting across from him, watching the way his nerves clenched his fingers into fists he repeatedly had to flatten out onto the tabletop.

  “I never would have left you alone with him, Paul. I didn't know he would.”