After Dark

by Olson, Yolanda

  After Dark

  Yolanda Olson

  Murphy Wallace

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About Yolanda Olson

  About Murphy Wallace

  Also by Yolanda Olson

  Also By Murphy Wallace

  Prologue

  I'm being stalked.

  Followed by a shadow that doesn't know the darkness is the best place for him to hide.

  He doesn’t think I know, that I don’t see him, but I noticed him long before he did me. I like this game that he’s playing. I let him think he’s the predator and I allow him the small creature comforts of being the pursuer in whatever dream he seems to be walking in.

  Eventually he’ll come to realize this is nothing more than an infatuation and I’ll be fine with it. I crack my neck as I move away from where I’ve been perched on the windowsill in my own darkness, watching the glow from the end of his cigarette.

  I walk into my bathroom and turn on the light because it’s the furthest room away from prying eyes and as soon as I close the door, I look into the mirror.

  The eyes that stare back at me in the mirror’s reflection are feral.

  The comedown is usually the easiest part—it’s the best feeling in the world next to taking a life.

  I let out a sigh as I tear my eyes away from the mirror. I never understood why I looked the way I do. I imagine that if Barnum and Bailey were still touring and displaying a sideshow, I’d be a main attraction.

  I look neither male nor female—a mystery only answered by what I carry between my legs. Anatomy at its finest, I think with a quiet, bemused chuckle.

  My features resemble a feline.

  Eyes narrow and set a little too far apart.

  High cheek bones.

  Full lips.

  A low, slanting forehead.

  But he still pursues me and that’s all that matters.

  I sigh as I turn away from my reflection and flick the light off with my long, slim fingers. I sit on the edge of my shower, face in my hands, and a smile spreading slowly across my lips.

  I know that at some point I’ll grow sick of this game. That’s when I’ll show him I’m more animal than human, however, I think I’ll continue the dance a little while longer.

  He’s probably confused and doesn’t understand why he’s so drawn to me, but I’m used to that as well. I just don’t like that he’s becoming bolder with his infatuation. I don’t like that he thinks he can follow me and there won’t be any repercussions.

  For him.

  For me.

  Who knows?

  Even though I have an idea of how this will end, I won’t hedge my bets, because while I’m growing weary of his pursuit, I’m becoming equally fascinated by it.

  It’s a conundrum I want to unravel.

  To dig deep into the core of his soul until the secret spills forward like a rush of blood at the end of a blade.

  I sit up and square my shoulders as I begin to chew my lower lip thoughtfully.

  Not everything has to end with the destruction of one for the other to survive, and maybe I can find a way to make him comfortable enough to approach me. I’d like to know his name, his occupation, his deepest, darkest thoughts.

  It would be the best way to begin the real game we’re both eager to play, though we watch each other from either side of an imaginary line, waiting for the other to strike.

  A viper and a scorpion are how I would best describe us.

  Both deadly in our own ways—no matter how unassuming the other looks.

  I’ve found that to be true for most people in this world; although some manage to contain their sadistic tendencies better than others.

  I still haven’t figured out where I fall on the scale of things.

  I like to be left alone to my own devices which, more often than not, happens to be at work in the stoic silence working on salvaging what’s left of the dead. Preparing them for pick-up by the first vulture that was able to secure an exorbitant amount of money from a grieving family.

  That’s not always where my job ends, though. I mourn the dead even when they have families, because in a way, they’re mine for the time I have them.

  I get to my feet and open my medicine cabinet, pulling out the pack of cigarettes I keep inside before walking over to my small bathroom window and opening it as high as it will go. Lighting my smoke, I inhale deeply, then let a billow of cancerous fumes leave from the parting of my lips, and I wonder.

  It feels different looking out into the night with no one looking back, and I feel more at ease. I can be in my home, no matter how hidden I have to be, and feel like I’m alone again.

  The way that I choose to be.

  I flick the ashes from the end of my cigarette and watch them billow in the wind as they spiral to the pavement below, then sigh.

  While I do love being alone, I love the chase even more.

  I like to show the animal in me because it’s how I’ve been constructed to look. By the universe, by my parent’s rampant drug abuse—who the fuck knows?

  The only thing that matters now is the game, and I’ve just decided that I want to engage my stranger.

  I want to know him the same way he wants to know me and I want him to see the real me before this is over.

  I want to know if he’s worth my time, and if he’s not …

  Well, there are other ways to reimburse me for the time I intend to spend wallowing in the conundrum of the shadow that haunts my every step.

  Chapter 1

  The way her hands dance across the ivory keys has my blood running hot. I can feel it rushing quickly to the center of my body, flooding the veins of my cock. They’re so full, protruding from beneath my skin. I place my ankle on my knee and put the sweatshirt that I brought along on my lap. It covers my hand as I stroke myself through my pants. I don’t go crazy, working my hand too fast for anyone to notice. Luckily the piece she’s playing, the one she has been practicing and perfecting for weeks, is at a slow part. I only move my hand as fast as the beat allows.

  I think back to the lessons I had as a child. The way my piano teacher would place her hands on top of mine and we would play together. Even back then, the melody would take me away; far away from the chaos that surrounded me in our house. I grew up in a rich family. My dad worked in finance. He would come home from the club, drunk, after a long day at work and beat on my mother. He would beat me and my little sister, too. It hurt so bad and my mom didn’t do much to stop it. But when my piano teacher came over, her hands were tender as she helped my fingers learn each of the keys. Every note I played made me feel good inside; too good apparently. My teacher quit when I was fifteen and started popping boners during my lessons. Ever since then, I’ve been drawn to the blissful sound of a piano.

  There is a reason I chose to sit in the darkest corner of the theater. The venue is crowded, but far from full. The furthest seat on the left in the back row provides me with the cover that I need. I look at the few people sitting in one of the rows in front of me. They’re rapt with attention just as much as I am. They don’t even know I’m here, just the way I like it. As the melody picks up under her slender but nimble fingers, my hand works at the zipper of my jeans. I slip it i
nside and grip my cock tightly. I pump my fist to the rhythm of the notes as they float into my ear.

  She’s nearing the last bridge of the song as my balls begin to tighten. I grip them hard and rub them in my palm. I can hear the pitch of the music rise as the crescendo begins; the melody increasing, note-by-note. The louder the song gets, the harder I squeeze myself. I look around, just to make sure I am still unnoticed, and I place my other hand underneath the sweatshirt. My breathing increases as one hand grips my cock and the other rolls my balls around in my palm. The rhythm of the song increases as it gets louder. As the crescendo peaks, just before the rhythm starts to slow again, I take a final glance at her dancing fingers. Lights burst in my vision as I am overcome with pleasure, my cum spilling out of me. The spurts slow just as the melody does, until finally, there is nothing left inside of me.

  She reaches the last note of the song and suddenly everyone is on their feet. In seconds, the sound of her angelic melody is replaced with applause ricocheting off of the fabric walls of the theater. I remove my hands from inside of my pants and I can feel my cum already cooling on the fabric of the sweatshirt. I fold it in half, so the cum is trapped inside. I smush the fabric together and sling it over my shoulder before zipping myself back up.

  As people begin to file through the doors into the lobby, I place the device I used to record her performance tonight into my messenger bag. Standing, I throw the messenger bag over my head and let it fall across my chest. I walk to the front of the theater and, taking one final look behind me, I turn toward the ramp leading up into the backstage area. As I walk, I take the small container of chloroform and the washcloth out of my bag. I know exactly where to go, because I’ve walked these halls before. She isn’t the first person that has caught my attention; there have been others. But none near as fine and talented as her.

  I think I will end up missing her the most.

  I sit in the corner of the abandoned warehouse that I like to work in. I found this place a few years ago, right after I made my first kill. I’ll never forget him. He was younger than me by a few years. He worked in the diner that I still frequent. Ever since taking him, I find myself going back there after each kill. It’s a tradition I’ve become dependent on, as if the kill isn’t complete until I’ve sipped my last drop of midnight coffee.

  She is just starting to stir. Soon enough she will open her groggy eyes and see she is tied to the weakening planks of wood that I affixed to some of the piping in the middle of the room. They’re slightly off-balance; I want my guests a little on edge. They’re not meant to feel like they’re on solid ground. She won’t be able to see me; not yet anyway. I like to watch them squirm for a while. The way they move their hands, trying to get free. The push and pull, twisting and turning, clenching their fingers into fists. Those fists showing off both fury and determination that is begging me to stamp it out. But I won’t, not right away. I am getting hard just thinking about it.

  She lifts her head off of the wood slightly and takes in the part of the warehouse she can see.

  “What?” she questions softly.

  She looks to her left, then to her right before her head thumps back down onto the wood beneath it. I can hear her breath hitch and my cock twitches; the fear is setting in. I run my fingers lightly up and down my cock through the fabric on my jeans, just as I did earlier this evening. Her arms are stretched and secured above her head, hanging just over the edge of the board. The piping they’re on is perfect at around three feet off the ground. My guests are at just the right height for me to cradle my cock gently in their hands when the time comes.

  I lean over and press play on the recording device. I can think of nothing more than to feel her, to taste her, as her angelic melody floats through the air around us. It’s not the best quality, but nothing would be as good as the live performance anyway. I stand, silently, from my seat and unbutton my jeans.

  “Who—who’s there?” she asks.

  When she hears my footsteps coming closer to her, she starts working at her binds. She pulls the sides of her hands together, trying to fold them in on themselves so they’re skinny enough to slip through the rope. As she does this her fingers elongate, enticing me further.

  I have to will myself not to pull my cock out right then and finish both her and myself off too quickly. I haven’t spent months following her, getting sucked into the grace in which she executes her craft, to end our secret tryst so quickly.

  I reach out and run my fingers gently over her palms, mimicking the same motion I used to stroke my cock a few moments ago.

  She screams out in terror.

  “Shh, Jessa,” I say.

  Her breath hitches again at the sound of her name on my lips.

  “Who are you?” she screams again, tears pouring down her face.

  “I am Knox.”

  Standing just above her, she looks up and can finally see me.

  “You—you’re the janitor.”

  “That’s right,” I say to her, still stroking her beautiful, porcelain hands.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she pleads.

  “Your performance tonight was exhilarating. Your best yet.”

  I link our fingers together and the smooth velvet of her palm is exactly as I’d predicted. Her finger tips are soft but they bare slight calluses on them from the constant friction they get, gliding over the ivory keys.

  “I’ll do whatever you want but, please, I’m begging you; please don’t kill me.”

  I ignore her plea as I don’t want to lie to her, but I don’t want to tell her my plans either. Instead, I lean my head over her outstretched hands and run my face across them; the way a kitty might butt its head to their master’s hand when they want to show them affection.

  She senses the aberrant behavior and I know she is thinking I am an unbalanced individual. She couldn’t be more incorrect. In this moment, with her cradling my head in her palms, I have never been more centered.

  “Caress my face,” I command her.

  Her only answer is a terrified sob.

  “Or I will kill you right now,” I promise.

  My breathing intensifies as she does what I ask. She curls her fingers, running them down my cheeks, over my eyes, down the bridge of my nose. I am lost in pleasure and therefore caught off guard as she takes my nose between her thumb and forefinger, squeezing it until I feel a pop.

  She’s expecting outrage from me that never comes.

  “I understand why you had to do that. You had to try to get away or else you will always feel regret.”

  I dip my head and capture her index finger with my mouth. As the melody continues to play, I lick each of her fingers to the beat.

  I am not sure when it happened, but I am so enthralled with the taste of her that I don’t realize she goes into a state of shock. My eyes shoot to the top of her head before peering over to look into her stare. She doesn’t move; doesn’t blink. She only lays there as flat and stiff as the board beneath her.

  I return my gaze to her hands as I push my jeans down to my knees. I place my long, hard length in between her hands and force them to close around me as I begin to fuck her hands.

  It isn’t going to be long; I’ve been waiting for this moment for a very long time. Just as I did in the theater, I move to the sound of her sweet melody. As the rhythm increases, so do I. At the peak of the crescendo, I come undone, spreading my cum on her skin; coating her hands. I revel in the sight of it.

  I have one final lick of her fingers, wanting the taste of us both swirling over my tongue. When I’ve had my fill—though, if I’m being honest, I could never get enough—I pull my pants back up and straddle her body on top of the boards. I pat her cheek a few times, trying to bring her back from the state of shock that she is in, with no luck.

  I place my hands over the length of her throat and begin to squeeze. She doesn’t fight me. She continues to lay there calmly as I squeeze her neck a little harder. Her breathing becomes labored and I see a tear es
cape from her eye. As it runs down the side of her face, I do something I’ve never done before.

  I loosen my grip.

  She lays still, staring at the ceiling, her body still stiff on the board beneath her. I climb down off of her and return to my chair.

  When I’m seated again, I glance back in her direction. I notice her chest is now shuddering as she tries to calm her breathing. I sit there in silence, unsure of what to do next. If this were an ordinary case, she would be dead and buried by now. Only, Jessa is anything but ordinary. About an hour later, her breathing has become steadier and deeper as if she’s asleep. I return to the middle of the room and gaze down at her perfect elegance. That’s when I decide parting with her would be a mistake. She’s much too lovely to leave. I need to keep her around.

  For a little while longer at least.

  As I sit in the diner, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of sadness. Something that has never happened to me before, after a kill; even though I couldn’t actually go through with it.

  Is that why I’m so sad? I grab a cigarette out of the package and light it up as I watch the waitress refill my coffee.

  “More coffee, suga?” the waitress asks me in a southern drawl. It makes me wonder where she is from and how she found herself here in Los Angeles. She probably came to try and make it as an actress, like most people.

  “No. Thank you,” I reply softly.

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  I watch as her fingers curl around the handle of the coffee pot as she walks away. They aren’t beautiful; not like Jessa’s.

  No, I’m not sad because I chose to let Jessa live. Her talent is too grand to have taken. I couldn’t steal the chance to hear more of what her fingers have to say, to watch different emotions cross her face as she plays her beautiful melodies.