Mattie had braced herself by grabbing a side of the couch and picked up speed. The tension was building inside him, and he’d begun thrusting his hips in rhythm to her movements. It took everything he had to keep from grunting into the phone, so he covered the edge with his hand. Hoping to get rid of the man, he lifted his hand long enough to add, “I’ll come in earlier than usual. Sound good?”
“No.” There was some muffled conversation, then Bob changed his tone to one he probably thought was encouraging and added, “Not in the morning, now.” There was another round of muffled conversation, then, “Trust me. You’ll be glad once you get here.”
Mattie leaned down to whisper in Hayden’s ear, “Guess I better hurry.”
Bob was still talking, but the only thing Hayden caught was the man’s speculation that whatever Hayden was doing right then couldn’t possibly be that important. Getting fucked to make himself useful enough to not kill or turned into some kind of dormant undead, unalive thing. No, nothing important at all.
While the guy was still talking, he clicked off, tossed the phone across the room and grabbed Mattie’s hips. Finally, consciousness faded. His raw instincts took over, and he thrust upward as hard and rough as he could. The acrid scent coated his nostrils, making him salivate so quickly the sharp surge made his jaw ache. Clenching his teeth, he continued pulling her down onto his cock, losing more of himself with each hard thrust.
Above him, she started laughing, mocking him as he tried to hurt her. The pulses of her pussy came hard and quick, squeezing his cock with a cruel chill. Her orgasm set off his own and soon his hot cum filled her, offering the first bit of warmth since they started fucking. Groaning, she continued moving until the last pulse of his cock then swung her leg over and climbed off him.
“Stop making that face, Hayden.” She eyed his limp dick as she tugged down her skirt Dropping into the chair across from the couch, she asked, “What is it? Do you want me to say thank you? Tell you I liked it?” She laughed. “Would that make you feel better about yourself?”
“Fuck off.” Hayden pulled his briefs and jeans up, then swung himself upright to buckle his belt.
“That’s’ the idea.” She got up, backed away from him, making her way to the hall that led past his bedroom to the bathroom. “I’ll be back to get you later for our little trip to the camp.”
Not willing to give up on whatever waited for him at The Southie, he called after her. “Come late.”
She shrugged, “We’ll do it your way. But be ready when I get here.”
The last he knew of her was the thump of her boots on the sill as she swung herself out the bathroom window. A gust of bitter wind rushed down the hall and whispered over him. He shivered from the air and from the thought of her perching on the corner beside the bathroom window, then climbing upward to skitter across the icy roof.
* * *
Less than an hour later, without bothering to wash the traces of their sex off him, Hayden jogged up the steps to The Boston Weekly office. He’d tucked a stack of notes into his backpack and planned to use them to throw his boss off whatever goose chase the guy thought he was going to send him off on. By the time Hayden reached the landing that led to the office door, he’d pieced together an idea to pitch.
Bob Keeler, the status hungry social climber that he was, insisted on having an office that reflected what he thought of as ‘Old Boston.’ Definitely ironic, considering the man made his living by churning out scandalous junk that fed the East-Coast’s fascination with gossip, rumors and half-truths. The Kennedys must’ve been an inspiration for Keeler because the old man lived to dig up hidden family secrets, political scandals and create buzz where there was none.
Hayden hit the afterhours buzzer, waited for the lock to click. Upstairs, he expected to see the usual interns uploading videos and slouching on the tables, retweeting or posting on Instagram but found the place empty instead. The vague scent of sweat and pizza was the only proof that an entire staff of reporters regularly filled the single room. The only light came from Keeler’s glass-walled, corner office. The man liked to keep an eye on his minions while also enjoying the downtown view. There should be a sign over his door reading the Kingpin of Crap. As it was, the marker identifying the room as the boss’ office was a recent photo of Bob shaking hands with the newly elected mayor.
The soft rumble of conversation drifted out into the silence. Hayden slowed his steps, trying to catch the tone of whatever was being said as he dug the pages out of his backpack. May as well have them ready, he figured. Get in, distract Bob, get out. That was the plan. The words from the office came quickly, but not loudly. That ruled out a local being unhappy with a negative depiction of their business or the fact that the newspaper had not only spilled their family secrets but also made them a laughingstock of the city. Little did they know, nobody cared about that sort of thing for very long. Another scandal always came and caught the city’s interest. Short attention span—that’s how the paper stayed in business.
Hayden swung himself through the threshold, took two steps into the office, then stopped short and instantly lost control of his face. The two men continued talking, barely acknowledging his entrance. Bob was half-leaning on his huge oak desk, his fingers bouncing up and down, tapping his gold pinky ring on the glass top.
Hayden didn’t care about his boss’ distress. He had his own to deal with, now in the form of Guy Belmont, standing right there in front of him. Hadn’t he had enough of that decrepit old man?
Apparently not. And apparently the guy didn’t understand that Hayden never wanted to see, or even hear from, him again. The last time he’d been around Guy Belmont, the man had been crawling his old ass self across the floor of a hotel suite, begging to get his turn fucking Mattie or, if that wasn’t possible, get fucked himself. By Hayden.
Hayden got his shit together enough to begin slowly curling up the papers in his hand. A conversation about why he was carrying them around and what he planned to do with them would not be productive. Time for a new plan.
Bob set his fat hand on Belmont’s shoulder. “Look here, Hayden. Dr. Belmont in the flesh. Right here in our humble office.”
Hayden gave up on rolling the papers, stuffed them into his backpack, then forced himself to stretch out his hand.
Belmont’s handshake was damp but shockingly firm.
Bob took his hand off Belmont. “I understand the two of you have already met.”
“Um, yes, at—”
“The comic convention.” Belmont cut in. “I told your boss how helpful you were.”
Hayden set his backpack on the floor. “I was?”
Shaking from an awkwardly hearty laugh, Bob replied, “At the convention contest. When you helped him select the female winner.”
Picking Mattie as the female winner of the dress like a sex tribe zombie contest had hardly been Hayden’s idea.
“I had a great time with that.” Belmont said, also looking falsely jovial. “In fact, I wished I could’ve gotten to know the winner a bit more.”
What the hell? The three of them—Belmont, Mattie, and Hayden—had been together in Belmont’s hotel room. The old man hadn’t had a great time. He’d been thoroughly humiliated, disappointed and taken advantage of. He whined pathetically when Mattie refused to use him as her sex slave, then cried like a baby when she’d taken off with the sketch journal and notes he’d collected over the years of following and studying her tribe. As if that wasn’t enough, Hayden himself had snatched up the two burlap-wrapped dormants he’d found stashed in the man’s bathtub.
Bob reached over and set his hand on Hayden’s shoulder. “That’s where you come in.”
Guy Belmont’s face was totally blank, so offered nothing to clue him in on what the hell was going on.
“You’re going to get that winner and Belmont together. Do some pictures, an interview, maybe more. Write an article together.”
The old man nodded.
Oh hell no.
If his boss saw the disgust flash across Hayden’s face, he ignored it as he continued. “I’ve given Guy your cell number, so we’re all set.” He took his hand off and backed away, retreating to his desk. The tapping of the ring started again. “Thanks for coming right up. That’s it for now, son.”
Son? Since when was his boss into acting like a pseudo father figure? And they hadn’t set anything up. Hayden was about to point out the second part of that thought when Belmont lifted his hand to offer a condescending wave good-bye. A pink plastic wristband dropped down from under his sleeve.
Chapter Three
“Do you want me to say thank you? Tell you I liked it?”
At about 6:30, the Uber that brought Hayden to The Southie pulled away from the curb. The cloud of exhaust puffing out behind the Toyota Camry bled into the rest of the unnatural smells filling the South Boston street. The car bounced off a pile of dirty snow, then disappeared around a corner, leaving the street silent. Unlike his laced-up, careful and socially conscious co-workers, Hayden wasn’t a total stranger to this neighborhood. He knew how to find the infamous dive bar even though the only marker was a faded Rolling Rock beer sign.
Not that he’d ever been inside the place.
Then again, he’d never been curious. Or invited. Until now.
Rod McKinon and Matthew had a connection. He needed access to Matthew. He needed information on Matthew. Belmont, a man he’d thought was history and must have underestimated, was somehow in this mix. And so, he climbed over the hunks of rock-filled snow heaped across the sidewalk, bracing against the constant chill as he moved to the building, stopped under the sign, squeaking in the wind. The music inside vibrating the door was low and wordless, a goth trance blend, if there was such a thing.
He shoved the door open, came face to face with a thick-browed woman with green hair and black lipstick.
“Lemme see your wrist.” Instead of waiting for him to lift his arm, she grabbed his hand and, with a sharp jerk, pulled his arm up. The pink band flashed against his wrist. She pinched the shiny material between her thumb and index finger, slid them around the smooth plastic. The slow movement was both a caress and an assessment. Finally, she looked at his face. “Band comes with free specialty drinks. Enjoy yourself lucky, lucky boy.”
Hayden pulled his arm from her grip as he moved into the small, battered bar. The place was mostly empty. Half of the stools along the bar were vacant, the others occupied by versions of the same man—jeans or work pants, boots dripping from snow, woolen hats pulled low. One, wearing black leather gloves, stood out, so Hayden went to sit next to him. He passed on the free drink, ordered a Rolling Rock instead, then waited.
For what, he didn’t know exactly.
Something to feed his curiosity. Something to take his mind off that awkward, illogical scene in Bob’s office. After he’d been dismissed, he stood by the door, watching them. The whole time Belmont had been talking, Bob kept nodding and grinning, looking like he would have agreed to anything the old man said. Totally out of character. His boss was usually a total blowhard, arrogant and condescending to the core.
Hayden scanned the room, checking again for Belmont. That geezer had a bad habit of popping up at the worst times. The crowd was, like the blond who’d sold him the band said, only men. One by one, the single men came through the door, looked around like he had, then took a seat. Some at the bar, some at the small tables spaced across the chipped vinyl floor. The music continued to vibrate, filling the room with an oddly electrical series of sounds. All the men sat alone, the pink plastic cups that the free drinks were served in dotted the room.
One guy tapped his unlit cigarette on the table, flipping it end over end, tapping, then flipping.
Tapping. Flipping.
A guy with a cowboy hat poked the ice in his drink with a stir stick. Poked, then swirled.
Poking. Swirling.
Hayden picked at the label on his bottle, tearing it into small pieces and creating a pile on the bar. He’d been sitting at the bar for 13 minutes when Rod McKinon, wearing only his leather coat and a pair of tattered black jeans, showed up. The star must’ve come in through a back door because he appeared from behind the bar. His face was emotionless, and he was carrying a labeless wine bottle. The two bodyguards from the convention were with him, trailing behind, their faces pulled tight, gazes bouncing back and forth, scanning the thin crowd seated around the bar. The men in the room continued with their drinks, expressions flat, fingers tapping, gazes flickering.
Matthew appeared too, also from behind the bar. Wrapped in one of the giant fur cloaks from the camp, he looked like a second from the Game of Thrones set. But he wasn’t holding a sword. He was holding Guy Belmont’s hand. Belmont trailed back and off to the side, as though he was an afterthought in a bad dream. The spark he’d just seen in Belmont’s eyes was gone, the old man’s eyes were glazed and grey, his posture soft and submissive.
Matthew ran his index finger down Hayden’s arm. “Hello again, pet. What a complete and total surprise to see you here.”
Hayden leaned back.
“No, no need for that. We’re all friends tonight.”
Matthew moved down to the end of the bar, then rounded the corner at the far end. Hayden resisted the urge to back away again as the two of them got closer. Matthew paused directly in from of him, threw back one side of the cloak to reveal his naked, wiry body, and said, “Tonight, it’s your turn to sit back and watch the show.” After making a humming noise, he rolled his eyes while lifting his brows. “How excited are you?”
Hiding his revulsion and dread, Hayden asked, “The guy who sold me the band implied this was a party.”
“Will you be surprised to find out he lied? People do that you know.” Matthew slid his gaze to Hayden’s crotch then shot a look at Belmont. “People lie. They lie like they use each other.”
The image of that so-called gift Matthew had sent Hayden off with earlier, now wrapped tightly in burlap and hidden under his bed screamed to the surface of his mind. “I’m not surprised by anything anymore,” he said through a crack in his voice.
Matthew snorted. “Now look who’s lying,” he drawled over his shoulder as he stepped off, taking the ashen-faced Belmont with him.
McKinon had set his bottle down, seated himself on one of the dented metal chairs and was waving at the guards to clear the area around him. Metal screeched as the two huge men shoved tables and stacked chairs. The yellow and blue lights from the jukebox blinked, making the chipped, brown linoleum coating the floor glimmer with a malicious sheen. McKinon slid out of his coat, and it spun through the air when he tossed it away. It landed in a heap beside the jukebox. Newly arriving men continued to step up and request their free drink.
Matthew parked Belmont near McKinon, leaving the old man floating like a ghost, then went back behind the bar. The door to a back room swung sharply after he cut through it. It was still swinging when he reemerged, a burlap-wrapped heap draped over his shoulder and an all-too-familiar thermos gripped in his hand. This time, he strode past Hayden, leaving a trail of stench behind. That smell. It was the same stink that had filled his bedroom. He’d wrapped the creature tightly in plastic, but how long until the stink oozed out, seeping into the other rooms of his apartment. Hayden’s heart started hammering, pushing his blood so suddenly his veins stung from the force.
The heavy music continued to pump from the speakers, making the air thick with bass and liquid with rhythm. The men sat, even more still than before, their hands no longer skimming or tapping. Their bodies were so still if he weren’t already on edge, the unnaturalness of the crowd would’ve given Hayden the chills. As it was, he was lost somewhere between fear and fascination.
Guy Belmont had removed his clothes. He stumbled forward, dropped to his hands and knees and crawled forward, his bony legs jerking as he moved toward McKinon. When he sat back on his heels, he lost his balance, tipped sideways, hit the floor, then rolled onto his back. His hands floated abov
e the floor as he scrambled, trying to get himself upright again. McKinon scooted forward, stopping at the edge of the chair, stretched out his legs then spread them apart, creating a space between his ankles. The heavy bass beat on, the men in the crowd unmoving.
Matthew laid the burlap heap in front of McKinon, shrugged off the cloak, then knelt. McKinon began running his hands over the rough, brown fabric. Back and forth, back and forth, he rocked in rhythm to the music. His lean body was a smooth blur. Hayden’s breath caught in his throat, his face started to get numb, his neck was tight, his chest hard.
Hayden knew what was inside that burlap—one of the undead. Only unlike Matthew, Mattie and the rest, this one was truly undead. It was both undead and unalive. McKinon continued to caress the dormant’s wrapper, slowly pulling the burlap off the top of its head. Inch by inch the thing’s pale, frozen face appeared. Soon everyone would be able to see the long red hair, vacant eyes, the hard cheekbones, the dry, chapped lips.
Keep going, Hayden whispered to himself. If Matthew kept going, the men in the room would see the thing inside the burlap for what it was. They’d stop this—whatever it was—stop Matthew, collect Rod, even Guy, put a stop to it all. Then they’d all leave. Go home to their lives, their families, jobs.
But nobody moved.
These men couldn’t know, couldn’t understand, what they were watching.
Matthew pulled the rough brown material around the thing’s neck, tightened, pretended to choke it. The eyes of the dormant didn’t even flicker. It continued to stare straight ahead, unseeing, unknowing. Matthew’s fingers flattened, his wrists started to shake as he continued to pretend to squeeze the life out of the body.
Guy had gotten himself upright and shifted so his face was directly above the dormant, his open mouth barely an inch from the dry, pale lips of the undead. It was as though he was trying to breathe into the thing’s mouth, force air into its unmoving lungs while Matthew continued to pull tighter on the material around its neck. And still the music rolled, beating lowly throughout the room, making the walls bounce, making Hayden’s skin tremble.
Mistress of the Undead Page 3