by Aven Jayce
My hands claw his face as I push him into my garage with the knife still stuck in his flesh.
He screams, flailing his arms like a toddler in a tantrum as he calls for help.
“Shut the fuck up!” I cover his mouth, but he bites my finger, piercing my skin. “Goddammit, you shit!” I pull out the knife and front kick his knee, taking him down. His body smacks the concrete and he cries out for help. I straddle his waist, grab his hair and give him a second powerful blow to his face.
“Shut up!”
Blood runs from his nose.
“No, stop! Please!” he shouts. “Please don’t, please don’t,” he panics, starting to hyperventilate. “Don’t hurt me! Please! I’m sorry.... I’m... I’m...”
He cries and struggles to catch his breath.
“Help!” he bawls. “Don’t kill me!”
I hold the knife steady and clutch his chin, pulling his mouth open.
“Nooo!” he mumbles, trying to kick free.
The garage door makes a loud jolting noise and closes, disrupting the moment. Jules is standing at the bottom of the stairwell, lowering her hand from the remote... wet from the pool, in flip-flops, a sweatshirt, and her bikini bottoms, hair slicked back... such a beautiful sight in such an ugly scene.
She doesn’t move or tell me to stop. Her head doesn’t shake ‘no.’ She doesn’t try to grab the knife or ask me what the hell I’m doing. There’re no feelings expressed. The only communication comes from her eyes and it’s all curiosity and total fascination.
She’s aware I’m about to kill... and she wants in.
“You ready for this?” I ask her.
“No,” he gasps. “No.”
She steps closer, staring at the knife and his bloody gut, nodding with composure.
“Help me!” he shouts at Jules. “Sarah, please!”
I place a knee on each of his shoulders, pinning him down while restraining his lower jaw.
“I didn’t know you guys were married.” His words are garbled in my hand. “I would’ve picked someone else.”
I turn to her with the struggling rat underneath me. “You can walk away. It won’t change the way I feel about you.”
“Fuck, please, please,” he begs.
“First thing you need to do,” I say to her, “is establish silence in the room. Even if you’re going to keep someone around for days before you kill him, tape the mouth, gag ‘em, or...”
My hand tightens, his mouth is open, and I cut out his tongue.
“Mmmph! Mmm, mmumma, mmumma!”
“You can plan on the guy mumbling for his mother after his tongue is removed. I don’t do this very often, but it’s part of his punishment for speaking to you in such a way. His tongue needed to be removed.”
“He’s pissing himself,” Jules whispers.
“That happens too. It’s very painful. Right, buddy?”
Tears stream down his face as he sobs and closes his eyes.
“Closing eyes signifies the guy knows death is coming. He’s giving notice that he wants it to end.”
He spits the blood from his mouth and babbles nonsense.
“Sometimes they puke... you can always expect a lot of bodily fluids to escape. Blood, piss, shit, vomit. Solids and liquids will expel from every orifice of the body. But mostly it’s blood. They can also become delirious from fear.”
“What’s he trying to say?” she asks.
“Kill me. Don’t torture me. They always say that. When you’ve been doing this for as long as I have, it’s easy to figure out the mumbling... the same way a parent can understand what their two-year-old is saying when no one else can.” I toss his tongue, shift lower over his body and stab his chest. A loud cry fills my garage. “You see where I knifed him? It’s below his heart. It won’t kill him yet, but he’ll suffer. That’s what I want. I’ve known men like this... I’m doing this for his past victims. He’s scum.”
“Nooo,” he moans.
“Blood will spurt if you hit an artery, like the femoral artery in the groin. And it pulses when you cut the jugular in the neck. You’ll experience a gush if you knife someone in the heart and twist the blade; otherwise it tends to leak slowly.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Some people get off from a spray or a surge of blood, some don’t. My father always enjoyed watching it, he’d actually cheer and light a cigar in celebration if some showered my face. But I learned quickly the best places to drive a blade into a guy so it wouldn’t happen. And down here,” I point to his abdomen, “if you thrust in dead center you might hit the aorta or lower vena cava. That’s a quick death. Only a minute or two, and a man’s gone.”
She listens carefully.
“I want to share this moment with you. Come closer,” I say tenderly.
She kneels so our eyes are at the same level.
“Tell me what you smell.”
“Chlorine,” she whispers, inhaling deeply. “Blood... urine... sweat.” She inhales again. “Rubber and oil, your cologne... but mainly, I smell his blood.”
I look at his teary, bloodstained face, his freckles, his lips trembling and his face turning pale.
“What do you hear?” I ask.
She closes her eyes and touches my arm, listening to the sounds in the room.
“The buzz from your fluorescent lights.” She pauses. “I hear his shallow breathing, his moans, and my heart beating.” She listens. “The sounds from him... we’re the last people to ever hear these noises, his words... no one else, just us.”
I smile. It’s gratifying that she can sit quietly and process what’s happening in the room without being terrified of the situation, or of me. We’re both calm, her finger moving in the shape of a heart on my arm... she’s in control.... she still loves me.
“What do you see?” I whisper.
She opens her eyes, raising her head toward me. I’m ready for her to be blunt, for her to tell me she sees a deranged man. I know she’ll say I need fixing - ‘I love you, but you need help, Mark.’ She’ll be upfront. Do it. Say it.
“I see a man,” she keeps a steady voice, “who will protect me until the day that I die.”
With a speedy jab my blade slides into the drunk’s eye and disappears deep inside his head. I wait a minute then exhale.
“A stab through the eye kills almost instantly. It’s quick and easy. Always remember that.”
“He’s dead?” she asks.
“Dead,” I say.
“So now what?”
“Clean up.” I stand and help her to her feet. “I need to pull his vehicle into my garage and dispose of the body then take care of the evidence.”
“What are you going to do with his car?”
“Call a runner in Vegas.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain it another time. Are you okay?”
She glances at the floor and nods. “I think so.”
“I meant with Mera.”
“Let’s take care of this one first.”
“No. If she’s sleeping in her truck I need to deal with her before daybreak. She’s not gonna drive off and get away with her shit.”
“Mark,” she takes my hand, “do you trust me?”
“Yeah.”
She smiles. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I trust you. We’re so far in at this point that we can’t have a relationship without trust. And?”
“Deal with him first.” She points to the body. “Mera’s not going anywhere in the morning. We have time.”
“I hope you didn’t promise her my breakfast buffet.”
She shakes her head, nudging the bloody tongue with her flip-flop. “How can I help?” she asks.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“The subject right now is the dead man laid out on your floor.”
“Fine.” I take a flashlight from my workbench and place it on his chest then raise the garage door. “I need to take him into the woods, the farther away from my hotel the better, at least a mile. But it’s dark, so
I want you to stay here.”
“Mark,” she complains.
“Shh, listen to me. I don’t want you to fall and get hurt. I promise we can do this together another time, but not tonight. This was a spur-of-the-moment kill and I have a lot of stuff to...”
“Are you a serial killer?”
“What? No.” My head shakes. “Of course not. No. I punish people who deserve to be punished.”
“How did it start?”
“What are you doing? We’re not having this conversation right now.” I stand defensively with my arms folded and my feet apart.
“How. Did. It. Start?” She puts her hand on her hip, her usual ‘I mean business’ stance, knocking my authoritative presence out of the water.
“I wanted to impress my father. Okay? Now let it go.”
“You were seeking attention?”
“Maybe.”
“So you’ve got Dayne in the Lake, this guy here, and Mera as a possible third victim. Oh, and then there’s Roland. What the fuck? That’s like four people in a matter of weeks. And it feels good, right? You get a thrill out of it?”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.”
“Wait, I thought you just said it was to punish people who deserved it.” She cocks her head and crosses her arms, mirroring my position. “So now it’s more about you. See, this is what I was asking about during our date.”
“What does it matter, and why are you making me sound fucked in the head?”
She shrugs.
“And so what if I enjoy sinking my blade into people. I might be a little fucked up, but I’m a Jameson for Christ’s sake.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Jules.” I look at my ceiling and exhale. “Stop. Please. It’s the middle of the night and I’ve got things to take care of and people to call about this fucking vehicle. I know you get chatty, but now’s not the time. Don’t try to analyze me,” I wave my hand at the body, “or any of this.”
“You said you were isolated as a child. Are you also a voyeur?”
“Fuck. Stop!”
“These are all traits of a serial killer.”
“How do you know this shit?”
“I took abnormal psychology in college. This is basic...”
“I’m not a serial killer, I’m a vigilante,” I cut her off. “I take the law into my own hands because the cops don’t, and won’t, do anything about these creeps. I know every person who’s ever been hurt by these fucks would praise me for what I do. My actions are justified.”
“A vigilante? Like Robin Hood or some comic book character? And what, am I your faithful sidekick?”
“That would be great.”
She stares at me, not amused by my response. “Is that why you bought me the knife? It’s not for protection or for play or because you love me, it’s just to kill?”
“Oh, fuck that. Why are you doing this to me? To us?”
“Answer me.”
“I bought it because of the way I feel about you.”
“I know,” she says straight-faced.
Her body language has changed instantly. She’s now relaxed, arms down, lip twitching as if she’s holding back a smile, and her eyes are playful and full of excitement. Shit, she’s joking.
“Are you fucking with me? You are. You’re fucking with me, right?”
A burst of laughter echoes through the concrete garage as her face turns beet red.
“Goddammit, why do you have so much power?”
She laughs even harder.
“You just love torturing me, don’t you?”
She smiles wildly as I’m embraced. Holding her in my arms, I look over her shoulder at the bloody scene and kiss the top of her head - her damp hair smelling of chlorine, her skin warm. She’s precious.
My hand caresses her back as I reveal something about myself that I’ve never been able to say to anyone.
“I kill to protect the people that I love and to keep others from harm. I watch over people because no one ever watched over me. It’s that simple,” I whisper. “I’ve felt abandoned and alone my entire life.”
She’s breathing steadily and holding me tighter.
“My parents never loved me. Fuck, they never even liked me. They wanted a different son.”
“That’s sad.” Her voice is muffled in my chest. “I’m sorry. I was only teasing you because I’m confused.”
I lift her chin and look into her eyes. “About what? Us?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s him.” She turns toward the guy on the floor. “And Dayne’s blood and the desire I have to harm Mera. I enjoy all of this a little too much,” she admits bravely. “Fuck, I don’t know why I was delighted in seeing you kill him and why I’m not calling the cops, and it scares the crap out of me. Why is it so stimulating? Why does this fascinate me? That’s why I asked you those questions. I was hoping you could give me an answer.”
“You may never know.” I try offering a comforting smile. “But you’re not crazy, if that’s what’s going through your mind. My father was a psychopath, he was insane, not you or me.”
“You sure?” she laughs. “I could be. I mean, think about it. I just poked a tongue with my foot and it didn’t even phase me.”
“Alright, maybe a wee bit,” I tease, leaning closer as she closes her eyes for a kiss. Our lips touch lightly under the humming lights, her mouth unlocks, and a groan emerges when I slide inside. She touches my chest, running her fingers down to my groin and strokes over my jeans while our kisses grow powerful. I’m erect under her hand. Wanting her.
Don’t disappear, my princess. Sleep in my bed so I can make love to you in the morning. Just two hours is all I need to take care of the body and vehicle then we can be together.
I keep my thoughts to myself as she heads to the stairwell in a slow, sexy, hip-swaying walk, stopping on the bottom step and pulling her Berti out of her sweatshirt pocket.
“I really wanted to spend the rest of the evening alone until I saw you beating the pulp out of this guy. Now I don’t believe I ever want us to be apart. I never imagined a scene like that would turn me on, but seeing your hand clenching the knife, the blade covered in blood, the surprise in your eyes when you saw me, and how your expression changed quickly from hatred to affection... I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. And in your words, Mark, I think we need to fuck.”
DEVOTION
My expedition into the damp woods was tiresome. The guy was short and slim, so carrying him wasn’t an issue, but keeping my footing in the mud was. The pines blocked the light of the moon, making it nearly impossible to see without the flashlight. I slipped twice and got my boot stuck, had to lay him down a few times, thought I was lost, then finally found a good place to put the body.
I’m lucky I didn’t run into any mountain lions or black bears, but I’m certain he will.
Unfortunately, the vehicle is more of an issue than the dead guy. I called the three car runners I know in Vegas and when they heard it was a Suzuki Jimny and the possible second vehicle would be a rusted out Datsun, I pretty much got big “FU” from all three.
These are guys I knew through my father and they’ve helped me out for years when I lived in Vegas. If it’s a nice car, they’ll take it and sell it underground, making a decent buck. If it’s a piece of shit, I can pay to have it left somewhere, like an empty lot or a dingy motel. The cars are wiped clean of prints, vacuumed, washed, the works. But no one wants to risk the seven-hour trip from South Lake Tahoe to Vegas for such worthless vehicles. Having a car disappear in a matter of minutes was easy in Vegas. It’s one of the downsides of leaving that area.
I was able to finally make a deal with one of the men, but it’s up to me to get the vehicles to him.
Shit, I’m in no mood for a road trip. I’ll have to think of another solution, and quick.
Before heading to bed, I bring up my security cams and check to see how much of the incident at the pool was recorded. His snide remarks wer
e caught, the firm grip on Jules’ arm and then neck, Joe and me on the scene, and the entire escort out. Nothing else. Good evidence if the cops come questioning why he was asked to leave and yes, that he did actually leave. I have no cameras toward the end of my hotel drive or down to my private garage so nothing to erase or worry about there.
I check the current state of my grounds, too exhausted to take my usual walk through the hotel on foot. Mera’s truck is still in the lot, the pool has cleared, and the corridors are empty.
“Fucking Mera Calloway. You’ve come a long way... sleeping in your truck, penniless, tweaking out on the drug Special K like you’re some rave-happy teen. I wonder if you’re in a trance right now? I could get inside your truck and you probably wouldn’t even know I was there. I’d slice your throat open... but no, I’m not that dumb. Not in my visitor lot in open view of my guests. I’ll let Jules continue whatever she started with you then step in sometime tomorrow.” For now, I’m content letting the sleeping bitch lie.
Enough of this, I need to wake Jules for some pussy then get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another day to think about Mera Calloway.
Of course my watch chimes with a text from my son as I’m on my way upstairs... it’s not like I can ever have a free moment.
fukker mutherfucs
Yep, that’s my boy, and I can tell by his misspelled words that he’s wasted. “Alright,” I whisper, taking a seat on the stairs and placing a call. “Time for another round of ‘father knows best.’”
“Jack, it’s your dad.”
“I know whose the fluck yous is,” he slurs, completely plastered.
“You okay? What are you drinking, buddy?”
He moans, once, twice, a third time, then heaves.
“Fuck, you sound like shit. What did you have and how much?”
“Wha?” he mutters. “Nothin’. I’m good.”
“Are you at home? Is your mom around?”
“You hate me... you...” his voice trails. “I’m nothin’...you married mom cuz... waz pregnant.”
“No,” I sigh. “I need to know what you drank.”
“Life... sucks.”
“At your age it does, but it gets better. You’re only fifteen and...”
The call ends.
“Shit, I fucked that one up.” I head down to my office then out to my kitchen, to my living room, pacing, pacing, through the dining area, back upstairs, parking my ass on the top step. Fuckin’ hell, why can’t kids skip the years from thirteen to twenty so parents don’t have to deal with this teenage bullshit?