The Equinox

by M J Preston

  “You from around here?” He was looking directly at her.

  “I live in Westvale.” She polished the bar with the rag as she spoke.

  “You go to SU when you’re not working?” he asked.

  She laughed, shook her head. “No, I’m not exactly what you would call university material.”

  Silence then, hanging between them uncomfortably.

  “I just thought...”

  “What? That I was working my way through college.” She smiled scathingly. “Isn’t that what half the strippers say over at The Chub?” The Chub, aka Chubby’s, was what some might call a gentleman’s club. “Why aren’t you there?”

  “Sorry, I guess I was mistaken.”

  She stopped then, furrowed her brow and the cynical smile fell away. Why had she spoken to this guy like that? He wasn’t anything but nice, and he had slipped her a ten every night he’s been in. “Aw, shit. That didn’t come out right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have been nosy.”

  “No, I shouldn’t have been a bitch. Let’s start over.”

  “Okay.”

  “My name’s Wendy. What’s yours?”

  He looked up from the beer and grinned. “Devon.”

  She dropped the cloth on the bar, stuck out her hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Devon. Are you from around here?”

  He took her hand, his skin warm, smooth, and without callous. “I’m going to the university.”

  She pulled her hand back, placed it over her mouth, giggled and then broke into laughter. He shook his head and smiled. When the laughter subsided, she grabbed him another beer. He reached for his wallet, and she said, “This is on the house.”

  It was an hour before closing, and at that moment, she really didn’t think that she would end up sleeping with him. She hadn’t been with anyone for some months. But when she got home that evening and squared Patrick away, well... The idea of a warm body next to hers seemed appealing. This idea hadn’t begun to brew in the beginning, but as he sipped his beer, talked a bit about what he was taking at Syracuse University, the word “maybe” began to echo in the back of her subconscious.

  Fifteen minutes later, she set another Rolling Rock on the bar at his request, and she said, “You’re not driving are you, Devon?”

  “No, I walked. I’ll probably grab a cab back to the university.”

  And then she decided. “I’m off in half hour. I can drive you to the university if you like.”

  “Aw, that’s okay. I don’t wanna be any trouble.”

  “No trouble. Besides, you’ll never get a cab at this hour. I can drive you back to the university if you like, or maybe we can go somewhere for coffee.” His eyes brightened at this, became charmingly boyish. She imagined a lean, young man beneath those clothes. Virile young man too. He would probably only last thirty seconds after getting into bed, but he’d be quick on the rebound.

  “I don’t have any classes until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That settles it then,” Wendy said, and as he finished his beer, she went about the business of closing down. She moved around the bar collecting glasses, wiping things down, and eventually squaring up the cash. He sipped the last of his beer, watching her every move.

  This was going to be easy.

  She had him step out and wait on the front walk while she put away the evening deposit and set the alarm. Devon was the consummate young gentleman. He’d only had three beers, and if she made an offer to bring him back to her place, she guessed it wouldn’t affect his performance in the least. When she slid the deadbolt over and removed her key, she made her final decision. He was cute.

  “Let’s go.” She led him to her car, a beat-up Chrysler Cirrus sitting curbside. She unlocked the car. They climbed in. She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine came alive. She reached over, placed a hand on his, and said, “You want me to take you back to the university, or would you rather come home with me?”

  He smiled. “What do you think?”

  She slid her hand up his leg and held it there, a finger teasing his manhood. “I think you want to come home with me.” Then she kissed him. Wendy was not promiscuous—this was definitely out of the norm for her—but she was a single mom, and that was a lonely business. She pulled back from the kiss, put the gearshift into drive, and pulled away from the curb.

  The ride to her house consisted of touching and feeling, but very few words. There was no need for discussion. It had been established: they were going to have sex. As she steered the car with her left hand, the right reached down between his legs, rubbing and massaging. He answered by caressing her breasts, causing her nipples to harden and stirring something inside her. This anticipation was almost too much and Wendy considered pulling the Cirrus over and jumping into the back seat with him.

  No, she couldn’t do that. Patrick was at home, and... oh shit, she’d almost forgotten about her mother. She pushed him off gently. “Devon, I need you to do something when we get to my house.”

  “Okay. What?”

  “My mom, she’s watching my son. You’ll have to stay outside until she leaves.”

  Devon laughed, “You want me to hide in the bushes or something?”

  She turned left up another street and said, “How about you just duck down in the car until I give you a signal.”

  “I could do that, but what if she catches me and...”

  He was going to say calls the cops. But Wendy cut him off.

  “I park my car in the front of the house, on the street. There’s only one parking spot out front, so my mom parks in the back alley. She won’t be coming out the front. She won’t catch you if you duck down low. I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff, but I just don’t feel like explaining to my mother that I’m bringing a stranger home for the night.

  “How long will I have to wait?”

  “Probably not too long, my mom sometimes falls asleep in front of the TV. So I may have to wake her up. I don’t know, five maybe ten minutes.”

  “Alright. I don’t generally do this on first dates, so I hope you’ll appreciate all the effort.”

  She grinned. “I do, and it’ll be worth your while.”

  2

  They rolled up to the curb five minutes later. About a hundred feet before coming to a stop, she told him to get down and lay his head on her lap. And with that, she parked and cut the engine. He could feel the heat coming off of her. It was a subterranean heat. Brought on by the petting and groping.

  She shut off the ignition and whispered, “Ten minutes and I’ll come get you.”

  “Okay, ten minutes,” he agreed.

  She slid out from underneath him, leaving his head to rest on the cloth seat. She closed the car door, and he heard her footsteps as she made her way up the walk. He heard the clicking of steps as she climbed the porch, then the screen door creaked, a door handle clicked over, or maybe it was a deadbolt. He couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t see anything above the orange bleaching of the dashboard from the arc sodium street lamps.

  Ten minutes, he thought.

  He wondered if the mother would come out and catch him hiding in the car. Or maybe a local patrol notified by a nosy neighbor. What if she were to deny his presence? “Oh no, officer, I don’t know him. I have no idea why he was hiding in my car.” The game would have ended right there. He’d be carted off to jail. He was sure shit like that happened from time to time. What would his father say to that? The old man would be royally pissed.

  This made him grin.

  3

  None of those things happened. As promised, in less than ten minutes, she came down the steps to the car and whispered, “Come on, the coast is clear.” He sat upright, and she opened the car door.

  “You’re sure it’s safe?”

  She smiled, took his hand, and led
him up the path.

  When she closed the front door behind them and turned the bolt, she reached over, pulled him in and gave him a long kiss, running her tongue over his. Then she drew back and said, “I have some beer in the fridge.”

  She kissed him again.

  He said, “Maybe later” and began touching her all over. She ran her hands down to his nether regions, feeling his hardness. He did the same, feeling her heat. They kissed, an intertwining mess of fumbled gropes that were desperate and blurry with sexual need. All the while, they worked their way toward the bedroom, once almost tripping and falling down. She laughed and pulled off his shirt. He tugged off hers. She stroked his chest, barren of even a single hair. He unsnapped her bra. By the time they were at the bedroom door, she was in her panties, he in his briefs. Behind them a debris trail of clothing. She dropped her undies and tugged at his briefs. When they dropped, she cupped him, and suddenly stopped and looked down. Then she looked up at him.

  “My last girl didn’t like hair.”

  She looked down again. She held onto him. Not even a single hair. “Why?” she asked. “What was her problem with hair?” She brought her eyes up to his, still holding his manhood tightly.

  “She said, ‘It ruined the mood if you had to lick the pillow.’” He started to grin.

  Wendy giggled and worked her hand.

  They fell onto the bed side by side. No more talk, just touching.

  But then...

  “I gotta get something out of my jeans,” he said.

  “I have condoms in the nightstand,” she whispered, and she reached over with one hand and pulled the drawer clumsily open. She brought a strip of condoms up and held it before him. He bit down on the corner with his teeth, and she removed it and went to work. It rolled on with ease, she supposed the smoothness of his clean-shaven skin helped in that regard.

  Then they got busy.

  He lasted longer than she initially thought. Over two minutes. Then she went to work on him and got him back into the game in under four. Young men bounced back so quickly. With the old condom tied off and discarded, she rolled a second one on and they found their rhythm. This time, he lasted almost twenty-five minutes. When it was over, she was spent.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything, he just lay there watching her, a thin smile on his face.

  “I gotta check on my son. Do you want that beer now?”

  “I’d love one,” he said.

  He sat up against the headboard, watching her naked form disappear through the doorway, fading in the dim light of the hall. She was wraith-like, melting in and out of reality. A little while later, she returned with a can of Budweiser and handed it to him. It was ice cold.

  “Thank you,” he said and sipped. Then added, “That was fun.”

  “More fun than a college girl?”

  He turned his head and said, “Way more fun than a college girl.”

  “And no pillow licking.” She giggled.

  “Yeah.”

  She wrapped herself around him. Using his bare chest as a headrest and he listened to her breathing. In no time, she was falling asleep. He counted down the space between each inhalation and exhalation, the gap was widening. He’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to perform, but he’d come through. She was, and he meant it, way better than any college girl. Most of the girls at SU were fucking airheads, but moreover, they were dead fucks. Not her. She wrapped her legs around him, then literally squeezed from inside as he thrust. That was talent. Definitely a sign of experience. He hadn’t expected this to happen: he was planning on a couple beers and fully intended on heading back to the dorm.

  He grinned. Fate was a strange thing.

  Half an hour later, cossetted in sleep, she rolled off him, turning her back and pressing her buttocks against his leg. He lay still, fully alert, considering the situation as he ran a hand over her shoulder and into the hourglass of her waist. She had a nice body for a woman who had a child. He guessed you made it your business to look good, especially when you were raising a kid alone. He wondered where the father might be. Guessed that he wouldn’t be too happy if he were to walk in now.

  Somehow, he doubted this scenario was likely. Daddy was long gone. He looked at the two spent condoms sitting on the nightstand.

  Then slid quietly from the bed.

  There was much to do.

  4

  She hadn’t known what woke her. Dream or premonition, but she had come up out of the sleep into a sitting position even before her senses were roused. Her mind pricked, pins and needles, her eyesight still unfocused. She had heard her name. Not urgent, but calling in a whisper.

  “Wendy, wake up. Wendy, wake up.”

  Slowly, she pulled focus adjusting to the dark of the room. She saw a naked silhouette standing in the bedroom doorway. It was him. Devon.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Are you awake now?”

  “Come back to bed.”

  He said nothing, stepping through the doorway, moving closer. He was holding something in his right hand. She couldn’t quite see.

  He took another step.

  It didn’t register at first. Or wouldn’t register.

  Something in his hand, something in his right hand. What was it?

  He took yet another step.

  “Wendy?”

  “What are you holding?”

  He took another step.

  Then it began to register.

  No. Oh dear God, no. No! Oh my...

  “It’s okay. He never felt a thing.”

  Never felt a thing? No!

  She felt the scream building, expanding inside her, a hard, jagged ball in her throat, cutting her oxygen. It wanted to escape, but she couldn’t find her voice.

  Or wouldn’t.

  To do so was to acknowledge the unthinkable.

  He took another step.

  The small, round object hung from his right hand. Like the head of a doll.

  No, not a doll: bigger.

  It was...

  She knew then.

  Oh my god!

  “Patrick,” she moaned and then the scream began to rise like a whistling tea kettle.

  Why?

  He closed in then, his pace quick and deliberate. His other hand rising—moonlight gleaming off steel—before she could scream, he severed her windpipe. She felt an initial sting, and then there was a pop, but no actual pain. He hovered, watching intently as the darkness turned the black to blue, light to gray. Her life was spilling out, like a river running into the sea, swallowed by the abyss.

  Her eyes closed.

  Opened.

  It was better this way. At least she would be with him.

  Then nothing.

  5

  He showered. Massaging the water over his skin, pushing into the contour of each muscle and rubbing away the blood. There had been a lot of blood. Some had already congealed on his naked form, and when he touched it, it flecked away. He worked his way to the shower, using a towel to pull back the curtain and stepped in. The water had been cold at first, causing his limp penis to contract even further. At his feet, the water puddled in swirls of diluted crimson before being pulled to the drain in tendrils. He followed the drops as they fell into the pool.

  Plop... Plop... Plop...

  It was a lot of blood.

  A lot of DNA, he told himself.

  He shouldn’t have had sex with her. But then, he hadn’t planned on killing her. No, that wasn’t quite right. He was thinking about killing her. She was the one who had initiated the sex. He had been thinking about killing her from the first time he saw her, but he thought about killing people all the time. It wasn’t unique to her. He could have easily taken the ride back to the dorm and continued his fantasy.

 
He rubbed the back of his neck, the hot water beating away even more blood.

  How did that get back there?

  Correction. He hadn’t planned on killing them. Yes, them, but he needed to be thinking about other things. “DNA,” he said aloud. How much DNA had he dropped here? “A lot of DNA.” He rubbed the back of his neck and considered his penis. He’d used a condom, but there would be drops left on the bed. And what of his skin? The bump and grind they’d performed would have rubbed off dead skin. He’d shaved down there for that reason, but there was still the short, cropped cut on his head. His eyebrows.

  “Fucking DNA.”

  He wasn’t in a database anywhere. He had no record.

  But your DNA will be now and if you’re ever picked up?

  “Fucking DNA!” He smashed a fist against the tiling.

  He inventoried his body. Every nook visible to the naked eye and thought he was clean. He then took a cloth and used the shower head to rinse the tub in swirling gyrations. Why? He wasn’t sure. He’d probably left enough fiber and DNA lying around for an easy conviction. He needed to get dressed, clean up, and consider his options.

  He climbed from the shower onto the bath mat and toweled off. Once dry, he dressed and stared into the small vanity. Was it how he thought it would be? This being his first. No, but then was it ever going to be? The act had been deliberate and mechanical. He didn’t think it was the act that he sought for gratification anyway. No, the act was just a means to an end. He thought of all the others he read about. The killers who’d risen through the ranks to stardom. Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, whose names were as household in modern culture as Van Gogh or da Vinci. Perhaps even more.

  He wiped the tub with the towel.