Obsessed by Darkness

by Autumn Jordon

  “Yeah, I see.” Bart got a nice peek at Colleen’s size double-D boobs and plump ass as she scrambled off the bed. She grabbed the comforter and wrapped it around her full body.

  “Get out,” he ordered her and then shifted his eyes to Mark, warning him to shut up. “And close the door behind you.”

  Colleen squinted at Mark. “What about my stuff?”

  “I didn’t finish,” Mark snapped.

  “Not my fault. Your friend interrupted.”

  “Girl, just go.” Mark pointed at the door. “We’ll take this up later. I’ll call you.”

  “Damn right you will,” she bit back, catching her bra as he threw it at her, “or, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Mark sneered.

  Colleen swallowed, as her gaze jumped between Mark and him. “I’ll be pissed. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Get your ass out, now,” Bart snarled.

  Refrains of When The Levee Breaks grew louder in Bart’s temples as the seconds ticked off while Colleen located her underwear and snatched up the rest of her clothing that was heaped on Mark’s desk. The comforter trailed behind her, skimming the dust from the floor as she brushed by Bart and stalked from the room.

  The moment the outside door lock hit home, Bart pivoted, pinned Mark with an angry gaze, and said between clenched teeth, "You, mother-fucker. I told you to get rid of the shit.”

  Mark’s dark brow altered to a mass of pale lines. “What are you talking about?”

  “The ice.” Bart hit the air with his fist, wishing his friend’s stupid head was within range. He bit down on his back molars so hard his jaw actually locked. How the fuck did he get into this mess?

  The answer stared up at him with a blank expression. He had shared his secret with this jackass—along with some of the ice he’d made for his own personal use.

  He’d bet his father’s speedboat Mark had sold some of the drug, which made him, Bart, a drug producer and dealer. And if Denise had died from an overdose of drugs Mark had supplied her, he could be held liable—considered a murderer. “I told you to get rid of the shit. That didn’t mean sell the rest, you stupid fuck!”

  “Whoa! Back up.” Mark swung his feet to the floor, stood and then stepped into his boxers. The hours Mark spent in the gym showed. The elastic snapped against his skin. None too happy, he faced his roommate.

  “I don't know what you’re talking about. I did get rid of my stash. I flushed the ice down the crapper as soon as you told me about Tom Rollman. Why—I still don’t understand. We had nothing to do with his death.”

  “You better not be lying to me about not selling drugs to Tom. Or Ben.”

  “I didn’t sell any of our stuff to them,” he replied, unrolling each word, one at a time, holding Bart’s gaze level with his. “Cross my heart.”

  Bart frowned at Mark’s attempt to pacify him by actually crossing his Cub Scout positioned fingers over his hairless chest. “And you didn’t sell any to Denise?”

  Mark’s eyes lowered as he scratched his chin-strap beard and Bart knew the next words out of the fucker’s mouth would be a lie. He flexed his fingers before clenching them tight against his thighs so he wouldn’t hit Mark.

  “Denise? No man.”

  “Really? That’s not what Tara told me.” Bart watched for Mark’s reaction and it came immediately.

  “The bitch told you,” he spat. The whites of Mark’s eyes widened, giving him the appearance of a madman. “The cunt. She told me she’d never tell anyone where she and Denise got the shit. Funkin’ bitch.”

  With Mark’s confirmation, Bart’s cherubic image of Denise shattered into a trillion pieces. Why hadn’t he seen the signs of her use? He knew them. “You son of a bitch. How bad off was she? Enough to kill herself?”

  “Hell, no. Denise was a chippy. She only took small amounts to lose weight.”

  “What?” Denise had lost a lot of weight over the summer break, but he’d assumed she’d done a lot of exercising. He knew she’d changed her eating habits. “When did you—?” His blood boiled, knowing his best friend had hooked up Denise. “When did she start taking?”

  Mark posted his hands on his hips. His tongue ran across his lips and his eyes darted toward the window before returning to meet Bart’s. His chest lifted as he exhaled his words, “I had spilled our story to Denise last year at a party.”

  “Why the fuck would you tell anyone?”

  “I was wasted, man, on Jack and Jim. We drank so freakin’ much that night. I shit rivers for a couple days. Denise was wasted too. She was down over some guy not being interested in her. Blamed it on her weight. I never saw her so unhappy. I felt for her. My sister was a big girl all her life and I knew the torment she’d lived through. So, I…”

  “You gave her the ice.”

  “I did. Not much. A few ounces at a time. But, I warned her not to take too much and she didn’t. She didn’t want to get hooked. She only wanted this guy’s attention.”

  Bart felt like a fool. All this time, he believed Denise finally made good life changes and that was the reason she’d lost weight. He thought they’d been close and yet he didn’t know about this side of her, or her interest in someone. Mark had, but he hadn’t.

  “What guy?”

  “Hell if I know. I never asked. I figure it wasn’t any of my business.”

  “When’s the last time you hooked her up?”

  “A few weeks ago. I told her it would be the last dope I could give her because I was out and we had only cooked one batch last spring. That was when I flushed the stash.”

  “You better be telling me the truth.”

  “I am.” He didn’t cross his heart this time.

  Bart aimed a finger at Mark’s nose. “Because rumor around campus is Denise was higher than a kite when she swan dived off the bridge.” He lied because he wanted to push Mark.

  Mark threw up his hands. “If she was, she didn't get the shit from me.”

  Could he believe Mark? Bart paced between the door and the dresser. The downward turn of Mark’s gaze made his bowels twist.

  “How about the guy she hung out with at the library?”

  “OK. I sold him some ice awhile back, before Tom died,” Mark confessed. “Not much. He said he needed some help to stay up all night. He fell behind in his economics class and midterms were two weeks away. So I sold him a couple of ounces. I needed a little extra cash anyway.”

  Unbelievable. Anger made Bart tremble to his core. He had believed he could trust Mark. Now he knew he couldn’t.

  “Denise is dead a fuckin’ day and you didn’t think to tell me all this shit? How fuckin’ stupid are you?” His molars ground together and Whack! His fist hit the inside of his other palm.

  “I didn't know she was on the stuff when she jumped. If she jumped. There are so many fuckin’ rumors flying around.”

  Mark’s placid attitude made Bart’s blood boil. “If she did, what the hell do you think made her jump? She probably hallucinated.” He scrubbed his face. “Crap. I told you before, if you need money let me know.”

  “I'm not going to keep asking you for money, man.” Mark’s step-mother had his father so cunt-washed Mark had told him he’d never loosen up on the strings of Mark’s inheritance from his grandmother. In Mark’s opinion, she wanted the quarter of a million dollars for herself.

  “Good old Dad believes I can’t get into trouble if I have no cash.” Mark continued to rant as he slipped on his socks.

  The world was fuckin’ messed up. While Mark’s parents were divorced and remarried several times, Bart’s parents had been married forty-five years and been christened the perfect couple by a long list of Who’s Who. Each set of parents had done a job on their sons. Their messed-up childhoods could be the reason he and Mark were as close as two men could get.

  Mark wanted to be the cherished child, and he was tired of being the product of the highly esteemed couple, expected to do everything perfectly. “What the hell is the difference, if I g
ive you money or give you ice?” Bart asked.

  Marked yanked his jeans on and zipped them up with a jerk. “Hey, I helped you make the stuff. What I did with my share was my business.”

  “Not when other people end up dead because of it.” He never wanted to kill anyone, but Mark’s attitude pushed Bart to want to kick the life out of him. The cold droplet of sweat trickling down his spine caused Bart to shiver. “Do you understand we could face murder charges?”

  “We’re not responsible for the deaths of Tom, Ben, or Denise. I didn’t sell any of them any of our stuff. Get off my back.” Mark grabbed his sweatshirt off the floor where he’d probably tossed it in his rush to jump Colleen. “I only sold the stuff from my private stash, which I bought. OK?”

  Mark was lying through his teeth. Bart couldn’t take that or his attitude any longer. He crossed the room, slammed Mark up against the wall and held him there with his arm. His entire weight pressed against Mark’s windpipe.

  Mark struggled but his arms were hog-tied, tangled in his sweatshirt. His dark eyes morphed into round opals filled with fear.

  “You stupid fuck. You’re lying to cover your ass. I know you are. You put the loaded gun in their hands.” Bile tickled the back of Bart’s throat as Denise’s face came to the forefront of his mind. “And I made the fuckin’ gun.”

  “Calm down. We both cooked,” Mark wheezed.

  It was hard to tell, since Mark’s skin was the color of rich coffee, but Bart swore Mark had turned blue. He searched his friend’s eyes. Did Mark finally get the magnitude of the ramifications of their actions? Was he scared shitless?

  The penalty for their actions, if they were caught, could be life imprisonment, or death. The concept almost made Bart shit himself. He wasn’t going to die because Mark screwed up. The ice they’d made had been for their use only, not every cunt Mark wanted to fuck or every dick who had money when Mark needed cash. He had trusted Mark.

  Bart’s blood vibrated through his muscles. He leaned closer to his friend until their noses were a fraction of an inch apart. He should break Mark’s fuckin’ neck. He wanted to, but that wouldn’t help his situation. He had no idea who else Mark had sold ice to, and each one of them was a path back to Mark, and if Mark didn’t keep his mouth shut, to him.

  If he was going to put this behind him, Mark had to undo Mark’s fuck up. Bart let Mark drop to his feet and backed away slowly, watching his partner gasp for air while rubbing his throat.

  Bart sucked in a breath, kept his tone even and said, “We need to clean this mess up, and quick.”

  His hands trembled as the plan formed in his head. Deciding he needed a drink, Bart headed to the kitchen.

  Mark followed close behind. “What did you do that for?” He coughed. “And what do you mean by clean this up?”

  “First, we’re going out to the lake house and bury everything we used to make the ice,” he said, opening cabinets and retrieving a tumbler and the bottle of Jack. “Near the swampy area, where no one will ever find it.”

  “I already dismantled everything and got rid of it.”

  “When?”

  “When you told me to get rid of the shit. I took care of that too.”

  “But you didn’t get rid of the shit,” Bart spat back at him.

  Mark shrugged away the lie. “I kept a little, but I did get rid of the kitchen. I had to clean it up anyway. Around then my dad considered selling the place. He brought a realtor out to the property and they did a walk around.”

  Adrenaline rushed into Bart’s blood so fast his left arm twitched. “Did they see it? You never told me that?”

  “You were away at your cousin’s wedding. After, Dad spoke to the realtor, and considering the downturn in market price for the house, he decided to keep the place. I didn’t think to mention it.”

  Bart studied Mark over the tumbler while heat coated his throat and found its way into his jittery stomach. Was his friend telling the truth? Was he an addict? If so, Bart would be faced with making a hard decision. He set the glass down and said, “How much of the ice have you used?”

  “You gave me three pounds.”

  “I said used? Yourself. Not sold.”

  “Not much.” Mark shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

  “Every day?”

  “Nuh. I know what you’re thinking. That I’m hooked. I’m not.”

  Suddenly all of Mark’s nervous energy made sense. He’d always been active, but lately Bart had noticed he never seemed to sleep.

  Bart kicked back his drink. He needed to know firsthand that Mark told the truth.

  ***

  Bart cracked opened the greenhouse door and winced as his nostrils were assaulted by the putrid scent of decomposition. He unconsciously swiped a finger under his nose and drew in a fresher breath of air before he slipped into the deteriorating structure.

  The greenhouse, built around the beginning of the last century, sat on the back acres of Mark’s parents’ property. Against his palms, the planked door felt cold and smooth, and feeble. He gently set it back on its hinges and took a second to ensure it stayed put before he pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his leather coat.

  Spiders scattered on glistening cobwebs as he aimed the cell’s light at every wooden shelf, every broken clay pot, and every dirt-filled corner. He saw nothing of interest, except for the beady eyes of a few disgusting pests, both four and eight legged. The old storage area where he and Mark had made their supply of the new drug he’d invented, had the least amount of dust, but everything they’d used in the production of it was gone, just as Mark had said. The placed looked as if untouched for years, causing Bart to exhale the angst that held his lungs captive over the last several hours.

  The lapping of the nearby lake against its shores and cadence of tree toads could be heard through the broken pane windows and reminded him how secluded the property was. The greenhouse had been the perfect place to try out their experiment. A few of Mark’s family remembered the building, but none visited.

  Satisfied Mark had told the truth, Bart retreated along his path, and secured the door. He then trekked carefully back through the several hundred yards of woodland separating the main yard from what once had been the working nursery area of the small lake estate. The night appeared blacker than the sea on a starless night and he kept the cell’s light cast downward so he could watch his footing.

  Nearing the old logging road where he’d parked his car, he looked up and saw there were lights on inside the lake house. He wondered if Mark had followed him there and waited for him inside, wearing a satisfied I-told-you-so grin. He might as well bite the bullet and set things right and apologize for not trusting his friend.

  As he drew closer to the log home, he pocketed his cell. He noted a very feminine silhouette in the great room’s window; long legs, rounded ass, tiny waist and full bust. His cock responded to the way the woman let her hands lavishly pull something from the air. His eyes then followed the curves of her body, lingering on the areas he generally enjoyed spending time exploring.

  At this distance, through the sheer curtains, he didn’t recognize her, but her movements made his body crave to know hers. He wondered if Mark had brought yet another coed to the lake house.

  After their confrontation that afternoon, he doubted Mark had the balls to bring anyone back to their apartment until the argument between them had settled in the dust.

  Exiting the woodland, Bart remained in the shadows as he circled the house. He expected to see Mark’s jeep, but instead he recognized the late model, faded silver-blue Saturn. What was Emma doing here?

  The brief moment of elation faded. Was she there with Mark?

  Mark knew how Bart felt about Emma. Even though the idea of her with Mark seemed highly improbable, Mark did have a way of charming women.

  He would kill the son of a bitch.

  In that moment he forgot he’d come there covertly and stalked toward the front door. Strands of violin and piano
wafted from inside. The cedar boards under his feet vibrated against their screws as he climbed the steps with vengeance in mind. He hit the porch landing and had to uncurl a finger in order to stab the doorbell, and then shook his head. Why had he rung the bell? He had never used it before. He had a key.

  The notion Mark would, if given the chance, defile the woman he intended to marry, caused Bart’s vision to blur. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  The music lowered. Two seconds later the lock clicked and the door inched open. Wide, rich brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes stared up at him. He unclenched his jaw. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Nanette said, cocking her chin forward as she leaned on the door, like someone would a lover’s arm. A smile curved her lips and she quickly trapped it between her teeth, as if she wanted to hide her thoughts from him.

  The woman was a first class charmer, like Mark.

  Why Mark wasted his time and chased other women instead of accepting his stronger feelings for Nanette, was a mystery, but Bart wasn’t one to talk. He’d spent the weekend with Vivian while he wanted Emma. A man had needs. However, Nanette wasn’t the wait-until-we’re-married type, or so he’d heard. Still, cheap talk was just that, and often untrue.

  Nan’s top’s spaghetti straps strained against the weight of her full breasts. Below the cropped tank, her tight abs shone with tiny beads of moisture. Above the waistband of her skin tight pants, her bellybutton glistened. The diamond stud was new.

  She huddled her bare feet together, painted toes of one foot curling over the bridge of her other foot, apparently guarding against the cold air drifting inside.

  Over Nanette’s head, he scanned the room behind her. “Where’s Mark?”

  “He’s not here.”

  His gaze fell on her again. “You’re here by yourself?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “No.”

  “You sound surprised,” she suggested.