Fight

by Sarah Masters

  He walked toward the club, cap peak pulled low over his brow. He supposed he looked like any average Joe. His features below the cap peak could belong to a thousand or more people. No, he didn't need to worry. He'd be in and out so quick no one would remember him anyway.

  The neon signed beckoned, luring him, an echoing voice inside his head urging him forward. He could do this.

  Damn right I can.

  Thankful no queue snaked outside, he walked right in, head down, the beefy men either side of the door giving him no attention. After paying the bored-looking woman with cash at the entry booth, he took the stairs two at a time, the tiny, flashing strings of lights along the riser widths promising fun and good times. He thought back to the past, to other times and other clubs where he'd acted like a regular guy, before he'd met Paul and been consumed by a love so strong Kevin's teachings had come crashing through. He grimaced and ousted the memories from his mind, needing to keep his head clear and his senses keen.

  At the top, a packed club greeted him. Bodies gyrated to jungle music, inebriated people throwing away their inhibitions to dance with arms waving. The beat pulsed through him, exacerbating the tingle in his balls. He weaved through drinkers, eyes studying the crowd for a lonely guy who'd be grateful for attention. Spying one sitting in a corner booth, he slid onto the seat beside him and prayed he was gay.

  “All right?” Carl shouted over the music.

  The guy nodded, giving him a weird look and shifting away.

  “Great place, yeah?” Carl asked.

  Nodding, the guy stared at the crowd, jaw clenching. Carl followed his gaze and spotted a blonde woman staggering their way, a bottle in one hand and a clutch bag in the other. She arrived at the booth and plopped down beside the guy, lips pressing against his cheek, fingers kneading his crotch.

  Fuck.

  Carl eased out of the booth and headed for the bar. He didn't want a drink—fingerprints, gotta think of the fingerprints—and stood beside it, watching the throng. The thought arose that he wouldn't find anyone here, that his mission would be thwarted by the lack of the other player needed to act out the next scene. What would he do then? Move on? Drive to another town? No way would he settle for jacking off. He had to feel skin on skin to attain the ultimate high.

  A hot wisp of breath heated his neck, and he turned to face a man about his height, wiry-framed and good-looking in a Ben Affleck kind of way. Carl frowned, for a moment uncomprehending that the man was interested in him.

  “Lonely?” the man asked, head tilted, his honest eyes regarding Carl.

  “A little,” Carl said. “Came out to find... Well, yeah, you know how it is.”

  “Good job I do,” the man said. “Greg.” He held out his hand for shaking. “You?”

  Carl shook it. “John. My name's John.”

  “Aren't they all?” Greg grinned. “Come on. My place or yours?”

  “Yours.” Carl smiled and followed Greg down the stairs and out into the night.

  And he scores! Just like that. Fuck, I'm good.

  In the pickup, Carl tailed Greg, filing away the turns and street names so he'd remember the route back to the highway. Let's see if his confidence falters once we get to his place. Let's see if he's so in control then. Carl laughed, giddy from the thrill of acting out his desires. Everything fell into place every time, and he mused on whether a higher calling directed his life. He didn't believe in God—no, he couldn't, not when Kevin had brought him up the way he had; God would have stopped it, surely—but there could be something else orchestrating his life, couldn't there? He tapped the steering wheel at a red light, staring at Greg's rear fender, eyes glazing. He contemplated every scenario that could possibly lie ahead, working through his actions and reactions, ensuring he knew exactly what to do should something go wrong. And it could, he knew that, but refused to fully believe it.

  He was in control. He had it all covered. He was the best.

  It took a honking horn to pull him from his reverie, and he pressed on the gas to catch up to Greg's car, which turned into an underground parking lot. As far as Carl could make out, no security cameras were in sight. He maneuvered into a spot beside Greg's and got out, smiling as he trailed the man to an elevator. Their footsteps echoed, the sound bouncing off the walls, giving the place an eerie feel. God, I love this shit!

  The elevator arrived quickly, and they stepped inside, Carl scanning the interior for cameras. None. Good. Greg jabbed his thumb onto the level three button, and the elevator rose with a judder. They didn't look at one another—they both knew this was a one-night stand that didn't need the added mess of inane conversation—but Carl studied Greg's reflection in the metal door. The man stared up at the ceiling, biting his lower lip and tapping his foot.

  Easy to bring down. Easy to manipulate. Look at him fiddling with his pants leg. Nervous. Just the way I like them.

  The elevator lurched to a stop, and a ping sounded as the doors opened. Carl walked behind Greg to door number sixteen and followed him inside. His prey strode to the second door on their left down a long hall. Carl peeked inside a living room to his right, noting a state-of-the-art flat-screen TV and an expensive black leather sofa. What does this guy do for a living? He closed his mind off from caring. What did it matter? He had a job to get done, and what Greg did or didn't do in the workplace was no concern of Carl's. He walked down the hallway and turned, eyeing the bedroom while feeling his back pocket. The knife bulged pleasantly under the fabric, and Carl smiled.

  Greg undressed hurriedly, draping his clothes on a chair in the corner. His cock already hard, he smiled sheepishly at Carl before turning to face the window above the bed. Buttocks that were ripe for a thrashing clenched, and Carl swallowed, realizing with regret he didn't really have the time to indulge in such pleasures. Get in, get out. That's the deal you made with yourself. Deviate from the plan and you risk fucking up.

  “Got a belt?” Carl asked.

  Greg spun to face him, a fleeting dash of shock crossing his face before he masked it with bravado. “Yeah. Sure. You into kink?”

  “Damn right I am.” Carl laughed to ease away any misgivings Greg might be having. “You?”

  Greg pulled a belt from the loops in his pants, seemingly feigning nonchalance. “Not tried it, but I'm open to new experiences.”

  Oh, you'll be having a new experience all right.

  Carl stifled a chuckle and held his hand out for the belt. The leather felt good in his palm, and he savored the rush of blood to his cock. “You want me to take charge, right?”

  Greg nodded, the flush of desire tinting his cheeks and twitching his cock.

  “Giver or a taker?” Carl moved to the bottom of the bed. Taker if ever I fucking saw one.

  “Taker.”

  “Right. Get on the bed, facedown.”

  Greg obeyed, his arms by his sides, cheek pressed to the mattress, eyes looking right.

  Carl climbed on the bed and straddled him. “Hands up to the headboard.”

  Lifting his arms, Greg curled his fingers around an iron pole.

  Carl leaned forward and secured Greg's wrists then tied the belt to the pole. “I'll make you feel fucking good,” he whispered in Greg's ear, flicking his tongue out to taste the lobe. He kneeled between Greg's open legs, reached to his back pocket and brought out the knife, lube, and condoms, placing the blade within easy reach to his left. Jerking down his zip, he freed his erection and rolled on a condom, hating the damn feel of it but knowing it was a necessary precaution. Lubing the condom, he slapped Greg's buttock—hard. “Lift up. Kneel.”

  Greg did so, and Carl shut out the sight of Greg's excited smile, superimposing Paul's features there instead. His cock thickened further, and he smoothed his hands over Greg's ass globes, closing his eyes to convince himself it was Paul he caressed, Paul he would fuck. Touching his cock to get lube on his thumb, he opened his eyes and circled Greg's asshole, pushing the thumb inside to ready the man for the fuck of his life. Greg gave a l
ow whimper, spurring Carl on to loosening that ass quickly. Carl's cock ached, and a steady pulse beat at the base of his balls. He couldn't wait. The excitement of his day had been too much, and he needed the release. Removing his thumb, he butted his cock to Greg's asshole, pushing inside harder than he should have but uncaring of any pain he caused. Greg grunted, and Carl ignored him, gripping Greg's waist and thrusting in to the hilt.

  “Ah, fuck! Careful, man!” Greg said through gritted teeth.

  Fuck you.

  Carl eased in and out, slowly at first, and not because of any consideration to Greg either. No, he went slow because he liked it that way, liked the anticipation of speeding up and fucking hard and fast. The moment came when he couldn't hold back any longer, and he pumped that ass with an unforgiving rhythm, pleased to hear Greg's moans.

  “Yeah, I'm making you feel good, baby,” Carl ground out, his cock vein pulsating. “Ah, yeah, I love you, Paul. Fucking love you!”

  Cum spurted from him, the heady rush of his orgasm spacing him out, sending him into a swirl of bliss he could drown in. He scrunched his eyes closed, another ejaculation coming out so fast his cock hole hurt, and he reveled in it. Fucking reveled in pumping Paul's ass. He slowed, glorying in the after shocks and cock twitches, then gave a short, sharp thrust to expel the last of his cum. He opened his eyes, and the sight of Greg's wide eyes and stilled hand pissed him off. Carl pulled out, shoving his condom-covered cock in his pants, and zipped up, rage overtaking the pleasure he'd so recently experienced.

  “You didn't like that?” he asked. “You didn't like me calling you Paul?”

  Greg hunched up the bed, a ball of flesh at the headboard, the look he flung over his shoulder one of bewilderment tinged with hatred. “It was weird, man. Fucking weird.”

  “Weird? Weird?” Carl snatched up his flick knife, red rage thundering through him. “I'll give you fucking weird!” Grabbing a fistful of Greg's hair, he yanked his head back, exposing his neck. He flicked the knife open out of its sheath, pressing against skin and the pulsing vein in Greg's throat. He sliced, wanting this guy to die quickly, the bastard undeserving of Carl wasting Paul's name on him. He let go of his hair, ignoring the gurgles and Greg's bucking body, and got off the bed, anger still roiling through him.

  Lube and condom wrapper back in his pocket, he sneered and left the room, past caring if his fingerprints were on that belt. Storming down the hallway, he slammed out of the apartment, poking at the elevator button with a shirt-covered finger.

  It was time to go home. Time to save Paul. Time to be a hero.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  * * * *

  “Sanders?” The man was frustratingly closed-mouthed. All I wanted was a name. He walked on ahead of me without a word. I might not have even been there. “You people always keep this place so damn cold?” I muttered. I wrapped my arms around my waist, not sure exactly what I was trying to protect myself from. Silence, maybe, the chill, myriad other things I didn't want to think about.

  “Is it cold?” Sanders asked, disinterested, as he opened the door at the end of the same hallway Vic had led me down what felt like a week ago. “I hadn't noticed.”

  I wondered what he did notice. It was no warmer in the squad room. The place resembled a deserted battlefield. We passed through the maze of disorganized desks, strewn with unfinished paperwork, in silence. The few cops there watched my progress with almost the same hostility they'd greeted me with earlier. I supposed they didn't like their bird in hand being released when they hadn't managed to flush the bushes for the real killer. I shivered again. Odd. Why could I only remember the good times, suddenly? The Carl I'd first met had been gentler; comfortingly possessive. Not a man who brutally murdered for no good reason. Why hadn't I noticed the change? Or maybe there hadn't been one. Maybe I was just that blind.

  “Wait here.” Sanders pointed to the chair beside his desk.

  I sat, my hands shoved into my jeans pockets. Not that it was any help in warming them. I couldn't stop the shivering. Sanders returned a minute later with papers which he shoved across the desk in front of me, along with a pen.

  “What?”

  “Sign.” He watched me, steady, unblinking.

  “What is it?”

  “Release papers.” He set the pen down and leaned forward slightly. “The one bit of evidence we had, that they were willing to convict on, has just been thrown into enough doubt they can't hold you.”

  “What do you mean?” No one had ever told me what that one piece of evidence was.

  “They found a credit card—your credit card—at one of the crime scenes.”

  “That's impossible! I wasn't there...” But then, I didn't have to be. The only other person who might have had access to my credit cards had been.

  “What?” He leaned a little closer. “You remember something.”

  “Yeah.” I swallowed hard as a chill seeped beyond a surface shiver deep into my bones. “Carl took my wallet when he l-left me...you know. When Bri came to take me back to his, I noticed my wallet was gone. I just thought...”

  “Thought what?”

  “He did that sometimes. Carl. He took my keys and my wallet when he left. So I couldn't go anywhere.” And fuck. How pathetic did that sound?

  But Sanders just nodded, face impassive, as though he'd heard it before. Likely, he had.

  “What happened to change their minds?”

  Sanders sighed. “While you were freezing your ass off in a cell full of—” He stopped, curled his lip and started over. “While you were in custody, someone checked into a hotel three towns over, using your credit card. That puts at least one of your cards into someone else's hands. Couple it with your story, and with Leland's story that you were at their place, and there's nothing to hold you on. Some of my...colleagues...aren't happy about that.”

  I slumped back in my chair. “So he left.” He might have inadvertently cleared me, but Carl wasn't, as Vic thought, coming back for me. I should not have felt loss at that. I pushed Carl and my confused feelings for him aside. I didn't want him back. I didn't want him. “What happens to him if...”

  “If he did it? If they prove it?” Sanders brows drew down over his eyes. “You care?”

  I shrugged. Did I?

  He leaned forward in his chair. “That Leland guy was right. You really do love this maniac.”

  “Lil, he doesn't go by Leland anymore.” I don't know why I felt compelled to point that out. Avoidance maybe.

  Sanders just sat back in his chair. It creaked under his shifting weight, the sound loud in the quiet room. “I'm sure at some point there will be more questions for you to answer. Try not to forget anything else.”

  Thank whatever twisted god was ruling my life he hadn't pressed for some coherent accounting of how I felt about Carl. I didn't know myself, and it didn't help that even the bruises weren't enough to keep me focused on the bad times, and everything else had begun to bleed into more recent thoughts of Vic, his strong arms and incredible eyes. That was some fucked-up momentum that allowed me to turn from one to the other so fast.

  “So.” That hard voice hammering the one word against the back of my neck shocked me out of my thoughts. There was no mistaking the hostility. This same cop, Simpson, who had challenged Vic, had spent hours countering all of Sanders’ questions, scoffing at my answers. Belittling me. I didn't bother to acknowledge him. He leaned a fist on the papers in front of me, bending so his stale coffee breath wafted into my face. “They're lettin’ you out.”

  “I didn't do anything,” I mumbled, hating how my voice fell and that I cringed away from him.

  “So you said.”

  “Leave it, Simpson.”

  “So how does it happen you get yourself tied to the bed in the first place, huh?” The asshole was relentless.

  “I said leave it!” Sanders yanked the other cop away from his desk.

  “Serves him right. Keeping that kin
d of company.”

  “I didn't know—”

  “What kind of man he is?” Simpson pulled out of Sanders’ grasp and hovered over me again. “How could you not? You sleep with something that tainted, it affects you. Don't try to tell me different.” He glared me down, ignoring Sanders, the other cops, commotion off toward the front of the office, and waited. What he was waiting for, I couldn't say.

  “You can't just walk in here!”

  I don't know who shouted. It was enough to break the stalemate, though. Simpson glanced up; Sanders’ lips twitched. The clack-clack of hard-soled shoes on the floor turned heads.

  “Come on, sug.” Lil. Blessed Lil picked that moment to come striding between the desks, height augmented by a pair of very bitchy heels. His purple faux-fur and the pale pink zebra stripes across his skirt were a loud fuck you to the gaping cops still left on duty. The rest of the room sank into shades of gray and drab around him.

  “Took you bloody long enough, Jimbo.” Lil glared at Sanders, lifted his chin, looked down his nose at both cops as he brushed past them to lay a possessive hand on my arm. “Let him sign whatever he has to sign. I'm taking him home.” His expression was grim, and although his eyes flashed, the thin set of his lips, the tight ridge of his shoulders showed me he was upset. I think everyone else took it for anger. I knew different. Still, he was there. For me.

  Sanders pushed the papers and pen at me, poked a finger at the dotted lines I was expected to sign, and nodded to Lil when I was done.

  Lil draped the ugly faux-fur over my quaking shoulders. “We're done here, honey.” He didn't move his glare from Simpson's face as he guided me toward the front door of the building.