Paul stepped out onto the path, paying the driver through the window. He glanced up then down the street. He looked tired, panicked even, and rushed toward the building, turning his head left then right before he disappeared inside.
Carl’s stomach muscles bunched at the sight of him, and his heart hurt. Shit, he loved him. Knew that now more than ever, the thumping of his pulse and stinging of his eyes more proof. He waited for long moments, then quickly, a surge of excitement coursing through him, Carl exited the pickup. He went inside the building. Paul would be in his apartment by now, what with the elevator indicating its descent by the glowing green triangular light on the side panel. He jabbed the button, impatient, then changed his mind and took the stairs. Tiredness fled, and he made it to Paul’s door in record time, using his knuckles to rap the wood below the peephole with three short, sharp knocks.
Carl stood to the side of the door and waited.
“Who is it?” Paul asked.
Even through the door, his voice had sounded…tight.
Do I answer as me or…?
“Gas man, sir. Report of a leak in the building.”
Fucking lame. Like he’s going to believe—
The chain rattled, and Carl readied himself for a hasty entrance, dependent on whether Paul’s features showed shock or pleasure at seeing him.
They showed wide-eyed shock. And horror. And repulsion.
Carl stuck out his foot, wedging it between the door and frame. Paul’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He widened his eyes and curled his fingers around the door edge as he tried to push it closed. Carl shoved the door, both hands flat against it, and Paul let go, staggering backward then crashing into the wall. Carl smiled, shutting the door and snapping the deadlock down and the chain across.
“Hey, baby,” he said, arms out, waiting for Paul to step into them. To realize he wasn’t anyone to fear but someone who loved him to distraction.
“What are you doing here?” Paul sidled along the wall, gaze darting, then dashed across the hallway and into the kitchen.
Carl rushed after him, catching Paul yanking open the utensil drawer and bringing out a knife. Paul held it before him and backed away, catching his foot on the table leg.
“What the hell’s all this about?” Carl asked. This wasn’t happening. He was seeing shit due to being tired. Paul wasn’t standing there with a damn knife and fear plastered across his face.
“Get away from me,” Paul said, knife hand shaking. “Get the fuck away.”
“Get away? Oh, yeah. We’ll be getting away all right. We’ll go someplace, yeah?” Carl moved forward. “Go someplace nice and quiet where no one knows us. We can start again. We don’t need anyone else, do we?”
Paul frowned, swallowed hard, and shook his head. As though what Carl had said was stupid. “Start what again?”
“You do want that, right?” Carl stepped closer, knife in his peripheral vision, main gaze fixed on Paul’s eyes, which flicked from side to side, stilling on the doorway behind Carl. “Ah, I see maybe you don’t.” Carl stifled a sigh of frustration. “Still, it doesn’t matter. It’s what you’re going to get. We’re made for each other, you know that. No point denying it.”
The knife wavered, and Paul raised it, exposing his bandaged wrist. Carl lunged forward, gripping that wrist with biting fingers, digging his nails in the soft underside, twisting the bandages against what he imagined was raw skin beneath. Their gazes met, and a battle of wills ensued, one Carl knew he would win. He always won.
Paul splayed his fingers, the pain in his wrist—it had to be that—drawing a sharp gasp from him. The knife clattered to the floor, spinning across the tile then coming to rest in front of the cooker. Carl spun Paul, securing his wrists behind him, then marched him toward the bedroom, Paul struggling to get away the whole time. Paul didn’t speak, instead issuing noisy exhalations that showed his anger and frustration. As they neared the foot of the bed, Paul jabbed his heel into Carl’s shin. Pain bloomed there, but nothing Carl couldn’t handle, and he bit back the curse tormenting his tongue. He didn’t want to hit Paul, he really didn’t, but he raised his fist then cracked it against the back of Paul’s head. Paul yelled out, and Carl released him, flinging him onto the bed where he landed heavily with a battered grunt. Carl quickly rummaged inside the wardrobe for a belt. With Paul disoriented, he dragged him up the mattress and secured his wrists to a post, going back to the wardrobe for another belt to tie his ankles.
This wasn’t what he’d intended. Wasn’t how he’d envisaged it to be, but Paul needed time, that was all. He’d come around. Hadn’t he always in the past?
“It’s a shame I have to do this, but I need some sleep, and by the looks of things so do you.”
Paul twisted and blinked at him. “Let me go.”
Was he less angry? His voice had lowered, the edges of his words blurred together, like they sometimes did when he was softening to the point of truly submitting. That hadn’t happened in a long time.
Carl climbed on the bed to snuggle up behind Paul, the feel of him like a balm, like he’d come home. “We’ll rest a while, yeah? Then when we wake up, we can discuss where we’re going. We’ll be all right, so long as we’ve got each other, baby, you’ll see.”
“Carl.” Paul squirmed against the tight grip of Carl’s arms around his chest. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
“I had to. I came back for you, babe.” He squeezed Paul and nuzzled his neck. “It’s all been for you.”
“No,” Paul whispered. But he stopped squirming. Stopped trying to get away.
Carl pulled the comforter up to cover Paul and stop his hard shivering. “It’ll be all right. Promise.”
Chapter Thirteen
Connelly had had a plan, all right. And the second I’d laid eyes on Carl at my door, it had gone to shit. In the abstract, I maybe could have handed him over. Seeing him there, looking ragged and desperate, even for that split second before the usual mask of superiority had slammed down, I’d felt myself unraveling. I’d let him in, because that was the plan. He’d expect me to. That was also the plan. Do what he’d expect and nothing else. Don’t let him get suspicious.
His short beard had thrown me off. I hadn’t been able to read his face. Every time I’d opened my mouth, the wrong thing had come out. He’d just gotten edgier and edgier, and I knew what happened when he tipped over. My body still ached from the last time. I’d snapped. Plan or no plan, he wasn’t going to touch me again.
Whatever had possessed me to pick up a fucking knife fled about six seconds after I’d had it in my hand. I’d have never been able to use it, and Carl knew that. He could have talked it away from me. Once, he’d been a good talker. He’d been able to talk me into just about anything. Now, he just forced the issue with pain. Whatever feelings I had left for him had crumbled apart as he’d dragged me back to the bedroom. That dissolution of my connection to him was the one thing I could never let him see. I’d seen it in his eyes—as long as he thought I loved him, he’d keep me. The minute he understood I no longer wanted him, I was nothing.
I wasn’t sure when the shivering had started again. Sometime after he’d hit me and tied me, before he’d gotten into the bed too, my body just began to shake. Now, despite his arms around me, the heat of his body against my back, I couldn’t stop the cold chills racing through me.
“You shouldn’t have come back.” I could have kept what little of you I had left…
He tightened his embrace.
I closed my eyes, remembering when I’d loved the feel of him holding me like this.
“I had to. I came back for you, babe.” His beard scratched as he nuzzled against my neck.
I wanted us back. For that moment, before he spoke again, I wanted to go back in time, to see how to fix him before he’d turned into this…
“It was all for you.”
“No.” Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that. But there it was, said, and true. Somehow, I hadn’t loved him ha
rd enough or well enough, and now…
He pulled the blankets over me, wrapped himself closer around me, and I let him whisper in my ear about how it was all going to be all right. But nothing was right. I wondered if Vic and Lil realized how badly I’d failed. This entire mess, all those dead men, came down to me not being what Carl had needed me to be. Maybe he was right, and we did belong together. I couldn’t imagine Vic wanting me when he figured out I’d somehow led Carl down this path.
I suddenly wished I could roll over, hold him willingly, and tell him how sorry I was. But he wouldn’t let me go. And he wouldn’t believe me if I told him I’d stay. It was impossible to give him what he wanted now. He wasn’t stupid. He knew this was the last time for us. Didn’t he? And he spent it holding me, loving me, like I hadn’t felt from him in so long, instead of fucking me.
Which made me wonder where he thought we would be able to go together and remain safe. That thought catapulted me beyond shivering straight into icy terror.
What if he didn’t ever expect either of us to leave this flat?
* * * *
Sleep clawed at Carl, and his voice slowed in telling Paul how their future would be. He’d already explained them being together—always—never apart with what he had in mind. They didn’t need anyone else. Didn’t need the trappings of life to spend eternity together. Giving up speech, he thought about what came next, but he needed a nap in order to progress to the final stage. A meal together—and if it meant Paul being manacled still, so be it—and conversation, the kind where they got everything out in the open so they could move on with a clean slate. No good harboring grudges or holding emotions inside. No, it all had to be laid out there for them both to see and deal with. It wouldn’t be long and they could put this silly business behind them, go to a better place.
His body sagged into the mattress and his muscles relaxed, his mind floating at that in-between stage before sleep fully grabbed him. Paul would have plenty of time to think while Carl slept, to remember the good times they’d shared, and Carl hoped when he woke everything would be back how it was. Before life had turned to shit.
An irritating knocking jabbed at his nerves. He ignored it, thinking Paul was working to untie the belt. He wouldn’t be able to—not with the way Carl had secured it—so it wasn’t a problem. Except it went on for a long time, or seemed to, and a thought streaked through his mind.
The door? Someone knocking on the door?
He jerked upright, disoriented, and stared through the bedroom doorway and out into the hall. The sound came again, insistent, louder. Carl sighed and climbed off the bed, a little unsteady on his feet as he walked out of the room. He paused and glanced back at Paul, who lay with his eyes closed, chest rising and falling as though in a deep sleep. Carl longed to join him, to doze away the last few hours they had together and wake refreshed, ready to begin the new phase. He rubbed his gritty eyes, the sting of them harsh, then drew his palms down his face.
The knock came again.
Damn inconsiderate fucking jerk.
Annoyed, Carl moved to the front door. He peered through the spy hole. No one stood in the outer hallway, and he grimaced, turning to go back to the bedroom. Christ, he needed sleep badly. His body felt so heavy and his mind, though alert, wasn’t firing on all cylinders. A sharp rap had him jerking around and back at the door in seconds, eye pressed to the spy hole. Still no one there. Usually, he’d have swung the door wide and given whoever hid beside the door a piece of his mind, but he couldn’t be bothered. Kids, probably skipping off school, had dared one another to knock and run. Yeah, that’s what it was.
Back in the bedroom, Carl got onto the bed, careful not to wake Paul, who looked so at peace, so right. It had been worth it, doing all…this. Risking everything to show Paul how much he cared. Not every lover killed to show their devotion. Not every lover was prepared to go to such lengths. Paul would see that once Carl explained. He’d understand why and be thankful he was adored so fiercely, then act the way he should have all this time, giving Carl what he needed inside the bedroom and out. No more resistance. No more Paul wanting things all his own way.
Carl closed his eyes, letting the pull of sleep come to take him away.
Another knock startled his eyes open.
“Right, that’s it. Fucking had enough now.” He jumped from the bed, lethargy gone. He stalked toward the front door. “Whoever you are, fuck off!”
Whoever it was tapped again.
Jesus fucking Christ! If I open that door…
Would he be faced with a kid or the cops? He couldn’t risk seeing either. Cops being there, well, it was obvious why he couldn’t answer, but a kid? Shit, he’d wring the little bastard’s neck. Not something he wanted to do, not with where he and Paul were going. So far the deaths had been justified. He’d compartmentalized them away from everything else in his mind, telling himself that those he’d killed had deserved it for a variety of reasons. A kid didn’t deserve what he’d dish out, and he didn’t think, if Heaven really existed, God would be pleased at an unwarranted death.
He leaned on the doorjamb and positioned his mouth at the frame. “Look, we’re trying to sleep in here, all right?”
Something scuffled outside—feet shifting?—and Carl held his breath, hoping the visitor was walking away. He moved his face to the spy hole and peered through. A guy stood on the other side, and Carl jumped back, leaning against the wall beside the door. Was it a cop? He couldn’t be sure. Had the guy worn a uniform? Then again, if they were after him for murder, it stood to reason they’d send a plain-clothed officer around. Wouldn’t they? And wouldn’t there be more than one?
Panic slightly eased, Carl peered out again. The guy remained where he was, gaze fixed on the door, jaw muscles flexing. Tousled brown hair flopped over his forehead, and a hooked nose bore signs that the man liked a drink or two, broken red veins prominent. His hooded green eyes gave Carl the creeps, but he stayed in position. No way would some man scare him.
“What do you want?” Carl asked, his even voice belying the tremor of insecurity nestling in his gut.
“Gas leak in the building.”
Carl laughed at the irony. Did everyone use that fucking excuse? “Yeah, pull the other one.”
The guy lifted a small laminated card attached to a chain around his neck. “Got my identification right here, sir.”
Carl examined it, unable to read it clearly, but the photograph on it matched the man. Didn’t mean a damn thing, though. The police—wily bastards—were well able to create cards like that. He’d seen it on TV.
“Think I’m stupid?” Carl said, narrowing his eyes. “If there’s a leak, we’ll come out when I smell gas and not before. So, like I said, fuck off.” He waited for the man to give up and go away.
He didn’t. Lowering the card, he raised a clipboard, the paper attached complete with gas company logo. Still didn’t mean anything. Anyone could mock up that kind of shit these days.
“Sir, if I could just come in to check, I’ll be gone within five minutes.”
The clipboard went out of sight.
“I don’t think so, buddy.” Carl sniffed—smelled no gas. Scrubbed his chin. Itched to grab a knife, open the door, and ram the blade into the guy’s chest.
Can’t. Mustn’t.
He glanced back to the bedroom. Paul still slept.
“Sir, if I don’t gain access to check, I’ll have to call the police.”
Carl returned his attention to the door. “Say what? Like they’re going to be bothered about something like this!”
“Let me in. Now!”
The man’s tone of voice and words sent Carl back to another time. His breath caught in his throat, and he pressed his back to the door, splaying his hands over the wood. Kevin had said the exact same thing one time when Carl had fled to his room and barricaded himself in, knowing the belt was to come.
Carl had been messing around in the lounge, kicking a ball against the wall—something Kevin wouldn
’t tolerate if he was in the room. Kevin was in the shower, getting ready for his weekly night out at the local bar. The ball knocked Kevin’s glass of red wine onto a brand new shirt he’d laid out on the back of the sofa. Rather than wait and admit he’d done it, Carl ran to his room, dragging a set of drawers in front of the door, his chest inflating as he drew in huge gulps of air.
I’m for it. He’ll see it and come get me…
The creak of the floorboards outside Carl’s room indicated Kevin had left the bathroom and walked past. One of the stairs groaned under his father’s weight—the fifth one down if memory served right—and Carl breathed harder, knowing Kevin would see the stain and come roaring up the stairs, irate as fuck.
He did and hammered on the door, the knob turning as he tried to gain entry. “Let me in. Now!”
Carl hunkered in the corner, wedged between the bed and the wall, knees to his chest, arms about his shins. Shaking.
“Kid, I said let me in! You ruined my shirt? Yeah, I know you did, else why can’t I get in here?” A pause. “I mean it, kid. Open the fucking door!”
Carl’s guts rolled over, and warm tears dribbled down his face, dripping off his jawline onto his grubby Superman T-shirt. He swiped them with the back of his hand, sick to death of living in fear, of hoping Kevin would give up and go away.
He didn’t.
The chest of drawers slowly inched forward, the base scraping the floorboards, the whine it produced much like the one Carl wanted to release from his mouth. Kevin’s face appeared in the partially open doorway, eyes ablaze and lips drawn back over his teeth. He’d shoved his way inside, shunting the drawers out of the way, and advanced on Carl. Shivering, Carl tried to push himself farther into the corner, wished the wall was made of fluid so he could swim to safety. Kevin reached out and gripped Carl’s hair in an evil fist, then yanked the boy upright and flung him onto the bed.
“Think you could get away with that, kid?”
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