Unless …
I force myself to open my eyes, and when I do, the specter is still crouched down beside me. “Are you real?” I ask, with a whimper. I barely recognize my own voice.
“Whether I’m real or not, it doesn’t matter.” Lorelei reaches for me and grabs me by my hair. A flash of my evening spent with Domino catches me off guard. It’s been years since I’ve felt that happy. The sound of our wet flesh slapping against one another was pure music to my ears. The memory disappears when Lorelei continues, “I’ve latched onto you. A celestial chokehold, if you will. And I won’t let you breathe until you hold the face of Good Boy … Dooley Rogan … in your hands.”
When I arrive back at my house, Domino is still asleep in my bed. I linger by the door, allowing my eyes to drift over his flawless, strong body wrapped in my duvet. He uses his right arm as a pillow, and his lips are parted ever so slightly. The collar is still around his neck and the chain hangs off the side of the bed. He’d be right at home nestled between a Rembrandt and Botticelli painting in the Louvre. Not that I know anything about art, save for the masterpiece I’ve played guardian to for all these years.
I so badly want to nudge him awake or kiss him one last time and savor his taste, but I know that won’t be wise. If anything, it will only make things harder.
“Goodbye, my little man,” I murmur before shutting the door. It may be a while before we meet again. I can only pray he isn’t too angry to wait for my return.
Before I leave, I collect everything I need for the road ahead – scalpels, knives, a rag and a bottle of chloroform. I place them all in a tote bag that I pull out from the cupboard underneath my staircase, then remove Lorelei’s box from my coat pocket and add it to the mix. Her face is back inside it; that’s where it will stay until Dooley Rogan’s ugly mug joins his friends on a wall in my basement.
I leave Domino a note on my dirty kitchen counter and head out the door without looking back. It may be a crummy farewell, but at least he won’t be under the false impression that I’ll be returning anytime soon.
A lump rises in my throat and, more than anything in this cruel, macabre world, I want to turn around and fall asleep next to my little man forever. But my sister’s sour image at the other end of the street pushes me forward. The expression on her face is severe.
Domino is mine – now and always. I reassure myself he’ll be around when I get back.
Until then, it’s time to put down a filthy mongrel. To do that, I need to go back to where it all began.
Domino
When I wake up, probably close to midday, judging by the light coming through the space in the curtains, the first thing I feel is empty.
I sit up, and the hasty movement makes my head swim. The bridge of my nose is on fire, my face is swollen and my entire body aches. Yet all of that is muted by the hollowness resonating from my core. It’s almost as though I’ve been abandoned or cut loose.
The chain rakes against the floor as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and attempt to stand up. When my legs have steadied, I make my way to the en-suite and turn the shower faucet on, then take a good look at my reflection in the mirror before it mists over.
Jesus, I’ve had a night. It’s quite possible I look worse than I did making my way home from my visit to the IT Guy. It doesn’t stop the silly grin forming on my lips though. After all these years, I’m free of the unnecessary fear that has weighed down on my shoulders since the night of my sixteenth birthday. Even better, I’ve finally had Sir.
I lick my lips and his taste still lingers on them. Never in my twenty-three years of existence have I experienced a night of such sheer, brutal passion. The upper-city yogi and the IT Guy don’t even come close, not that the latter ever would. The only reason I’d let him touch me was so I could pay my rent, but now that I’m with Sir, things are going to be different. I know they will.
I examine the skin underneath my collar – it’s bruised and raw from all the twisting and choking I endured while giving Sir the utmost submission. The very thought of our time in his bed sends blood rushing to my cock. I have to stroke myself when I’m in the shower in order to think straight.
Where is Sir?
He has to be around. I need to see him, sink my teeth into his flesh and savor him bite by bite. There is nothing more erotic than picturing myself consuming him, swallowing him whole. I would choke on his bones and quite possibly suffocate, but we’d die together as one. There’s nothing George A. Romero or Sam Raimi about this fantasy. If anything, it is vampirism at its most gothic, but I’ll admit, perhaps a little weird to be thinking about, especially in the shower.
I turn off the faucet and grab the first towel I find hanging on the shower door. When I’m dry, I head back into Sir’s bedroom and get dressed. I poke my head into his wardrobe, trying to find a hoodie or sweater, something warmer to wear than my tank top. I can’t resist bringing his scarf to my nose and sniffing it. It smells of cigarette smoke, hair product and strong cologne. Before I get hard again, I put the scarf back where I found it and head downstairs.
Sir is nowhere to be found. He isn’t in the kitchen, nor the living room. I check the dining room and even my old bedroom, but when I don’t find him in either, I steel myself and search the basement. He isn’t there. Despite the emptiness welling deeper within me, I brush it aside and assume he’s headed out, no doubt buying groceries to make us breakfast, or a late lunch.
“That’s probably it,” I think out loud with a yawn. I consider cleaning the little home as a surprise for when Sir arrives later, but I have a feeling I’d make more of a mess than anything else, so I head up the rickety staircase and lie back down on his bed, burrowing my face into his sheets and pillows, drinking in his smell. That’s how I fall asleep.
I wake up hours later to pitch darkness and call out for Sir, but nobody responds. Leaving the bedroom, I creep out the door. The house is so quiet, it may as well be Christmas Eve. It’s also freezing cold.
Wondering if I should try to reach Sir on his cellphone to be sure he’s alright, I realize I’d left my phone at The Red, so I head to the kitchen and flip the light. There’s no house phone, but my eyes do catch an egg-white envelope I didn’t notice before. It’s on the small counter with my name scrawled on it.
With twitchy fingers, I pick up the envelope and tear it open. I pull out a piece of paper, one that looks as though it has been torn from a notebook. Unfolding it, I’m greeted by five words, barely legible:
Don’t hate me, Little Man.
Hate him? For? Nothing about what’s happening right now is making any sense.
Then it hits me, and when it does, a bitter taste fills my mouth. The void inside of me widens and I gasp, dropping the paper to the floor. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I try to catch my breath. But as the empty cavity yawns wider, I understand why it’s there.
It’s replacing something else. Something that’s been torn away.
The tether between Sir and I is broken.
As I cry out in both agony and fear of being digested by the growing abyss, there’s an undeniable realization that the connection I once regarded as a blessing and a curse is far beyond repair. It is no more.
Domino
It takes me two whole days to leave Sir’s house. Mostly because there was an annoying sprig of hope inside of me that he’d walk through the door. Eventually, the emptiness ate that up too. When I do leave, I decide to head straight for The Red.
I still wear the collar around my neck. No matter how hard I try, it won’t come off. Neither will the chain attached to it. I wrap the chain around my body, tying it into a knot just below my ribs, but it still protrudes out of my tight tank top, no matter how hard I try to hide it.
Before leaving Sir’s house for work, I take one last look at the dump before shutting the door. Plates lay smashed to pieces on the floor. Ripped-out boards from the staircase jut out in all angles. FUCK YOU! is smeared in my own blood on the wall, which I’d written
when I’d ruptured the scabs in my right hand, which Sir had seen to on New Year’s Eve. Somewhere in the kitchen, the sound of hissing water from a shattered faucet acts as the perfect soundtrack to my farewell. I’ve really done a number on the bastard’s place. It was the least I could do.
I close the door and walk to the bar without looking back. It’s a dark afternoon, gray and unnervingly quiet for this part of town. It feels good to leave it behind – once and for all.
After about half an hour of navigating my way through the snow, I reach The Red and stop to stare into the miserable alleyway next to it. In my head, I see myself retching my guts out onto the wet ground before Sir and I got into an argument and he knocked me out. When the scene is done playing out, I’m not left with regret, nor anger. The only emotion tearing through my mind is pure rage.
I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself down before I enter the bar. Christ, I could do with a cigarette. My stomach roils and the skin on my shoulders prickles beneath the coat I stole from Sir’s wardrobe. I don’t fucking smoke.
Inside, The Red is as gloomy and depressing as it was on New Year’s Eve. It’s hard to tell if there are any patrons at this time of day, but when my eyes adjust to the darkness, I don’t spot a single gent. Not even Jorge or Regina seem to be around. The only sign of life is High enough by Damn Yankees coming from the jukebox.
I climb over the bar counter and remove Sir’s jacket, leaving it on the sticky floor. I pick up a dusty tumbler and help myself to a Glenfiddich. I rock my head back and feel the burn of the heavy liquor slide down my throat, then groan. Sir had no food in his house, not even a cracker. I haven’t eaten in two days. Downing a drink was probably a dumb idea, but I’m full of those these days, so what’s one more? Can’t be worse than falling for the lies of a sly older man. The man who took me in as a kid and raised me like his own, only to break me down by toying with my head, kidnapping me then ploughing me raw, using me, hurting me and then …
The build-up to my internal rant is cut off by a familiar, although gruff, voice behind me. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Baby fucking Jane.”
I do my best to plaster the world’s happiest grin on my face. I don’t need a mirror to know how maniacal and exaggerated it looks. “Hi, hunty!” I say cheerfully, turning around to greet Regina.
The spindly drag queen is wearing a neck brace. One of her eyes is puffy and blue, her blonde hair is frazzled and her lipstick is smudged. Goddamn, she looks like shit.
“Don’t you dare ‘hunty’ me,” Regina spits, her voice cracking. “Don’t you even think about it! I should throw your tight little yams out onto the street after what your daddy did. Better yet, I should be calling the cops.”
I roll my shoulders and give off a relaxed air. “Relax, Regina. Besides, have you been to this part of town? Cops aren’t coming anywhere near here.”
“I don’t need a pig to put a bullet between those chocolate browns of yours!” She shrieks, leaning against the bar and coughing wildly, no doubt from the strain she’s put on her wounded voice box.
I use the time to fill my tumbler with water from a jug we keep under the bar by one of the mini fridges and give it to my boss. “No,” I say, watching her gulp down the water. “But you do need me to keep working the bar here, whether you like it or not.”
“And why’s that?” Regina asks, her voice like nails against a chalkboard. “Why do I need Frankenstein’s bargain bin monster working at The Red?”
I assume she’s referring to my face, which, understandably, hasn’t healed. “Because once I’ve used that crappy shower in our staff room, I’m going to head out onto the street and flirt with every dickhead with a limp wrist I run into until this bar of yours is packed with big, queer energy.”
I slap my left hand on the bar top for emphasis. Regina jumps and winces, bringing her hands to the brace around her throat. “Fine,” she whispers.
“Frankenstein’s going to make you proud. Swear to God,” I say, although whether the promise is directed at Regina or myself, I’m not sure. It doesn’t actually matter all that much.
“It’s Frankenstein’s monster, you halfwit,” Regina moans, then sighs. “Frankenstein is … ah, fuck it. Just get out of my sight.”
Somewhere inside of me, I feel a flicker of excitement. I’m going to get over Sir, one day at a time. I’ll do that by staying busy, in every sense of the word. Then, one day, I’m going to wake up and I’ll be back to my normal demi-god self.
Then I’ll be out for blood.
The thought actually makes my cock hard. I haven’t been able to get it up since Sir left.
Talk about progress.
My afternoon scouting the blistery city streets for potential customers has paid off. Tonight, there are over twenty losers sitting in booths or rubbing up against one another by the jukebox. Just wait until my face is healed completely. I’ll be raking thirsty dudes in by the thousands.
Maurice is the first customer I serve for the evening. Clad in tight leather as always, sporting an eye patch and a sorry expression on his face, he makes a beeline for me when he struts in from the cold.
“Look at what your gaybasher dad did to my face, Domino,” he shouts over the music and chatter.
I roll my eyes, really not in the mood for getting into an argument with the otter or bringing up Sir. “He’s not a gaybasher, Maurice. Besides, the look kind of suits you.”
Maurice crosses his arms over his skinny chest. I can hear his leather squeak, even over the tunes. “What do you mean he’s not? He tore a hole in my face!”
“Because you got up in his,” I say, pretending to be busy counting the bottles of Tanqueray behind the bar. “Simple as that. Learn some boundaries next time, why don’t you?”
“Don’t protect a homophobe, Domino.”
“I’m not protecting a homophobe, Maurice.”
“Yes, you are!”
Exasperated, I gesture at the twenty men scattered around The Red. “Are we really going to do this, when there are so many bachelors at The Red tonight for you to irritate?”
Maurice cranes his neck my way and purses his lips. “All I’m saying is, you better watch your back with him.”
“He’s not going to hurt me,” I scoff.
“How do you know?”
Before I can bite back my words, they fall out. “Because we fucked on New Year’s Eve.”
The otter’s jaw drops and he takes a step back. He doesn’t seem to believe me at first, and no doubt thinks I’m playing a prank, but whatever look I have on my face seems to convince him I’m telling the truth. He grimaces and marches off to the other side of the bar where he gestures for Jorge. If I’d known he’d piss off so quickly from that one little comment, I’d have told him I fucked Sir the second Maurice opened his damned trap.
A balding redhead in a crinkled business suit pushes a quarter into the jukebox slot and picks a song. Absurd by Fluke erupts through the speakers and some of the patrons who are dancing cheer and sing along to the classic.
I drag my eyes away from the embarrassing clot of bodies on the dancefloor only to have them land on a gentleman at the bar. He’s older, more so than Sir, by at least a few years. He’s giving me that intense look pervs at sex clubs often give when choosing meat for the evening. I don’t look away.
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who enjoys games the whole family can participate in, young man,” he says, his voice like gravel.
“I don’t?” I ask, playing hurt. If I come across as sarcastic, the golden oldie will pick up on my uninterested vibe and will hopefully pester Maurice instead.
“No,” he says, tapping the index and middle fingers of both his hands on the counter. He smiles. “Then again, what the hell do I know?”
I frown as I suddenly understand why the gent has set my nerves on edge. The stranger on the street I saw through Regina’s office window the night Sir returned. The man in the alleyway, watching me puke my guts out. It’s him. “I’ve seen you
before. Twice, on New Year’s Eve.”
The man nods without hesitation and runs a hand through his curly hair. “You did. I confess, I was watching you.”
Well, that’s not creepy at all. I maintain my cool by reminding myself of what I’ve been through the past couple of days. The void in me aches, but I don’t feed it. Instead, I raise an eyebrow and lean forward, resting my elbows on the bar. “Did you like what you saw?”
I won’t be intimidated. Not after Sir. I’ll never be submissive again, not for any man.
The man drops his gaze to my hands, then works it over my arms, shoulders and back to my face. “Still do.”
I straighten myself, creating more space between us. If this man wants to play a game of chess, that’s fine. It’s obvious he doesn’t know he’s challenging a king.
“What are you drinking?” I ask, going along with whatever is unraveling between the two of us.
He squints, pointing at a bottle of Southern Comfort. “SoCo and lime.” He winks at me and I inwardly cringe. “Hold the lime.”
“Straight SoCo it is.”
I grab the bottle off the shelf and rummage underneath the bar for a clean tumbler. The one I find has a white smear on the side. It’ll do. I pour him the drink and he hands me the cash. I place the glass in front of him and collect his money.
“Get yourself a drink, young man,” he says with a nod. “On me. I hate drinking alone.”
Wow, this guy is lame. I honestly expected better. “No thanks, not while I work.”
The older man studies me, narrowing his eyes. He licks his lips. “Not even a shot of tequila?”
I shrug. “Maybe one.” It could help get through the rest of our conversation. “What’s your name, Mister Blonde?” I ask, removing a bottle of watered-down nonsense from the mini fridge. I pour myself a shot and lift the tiny glass up, awaiting his response.
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