Page 166 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

Still, Larkin lets go with a laugh, standing up to drain his water bottle in front of me for me to watch. God, I shouldn’t enjoy looking at him this much. My eyes are drawn to his throat working to swallow the water, to the markings all across his torso, and to the designs that continue lower, hidden by his jeans.

I want to know how far they go.

But that’s not a very healthy thought, so I force myself to glare up at his face, keeping my body tense and ready to move if he comes at me again. “You should drink your water,” he informs me, crunching the bottle in his hand. “You look a little dehydrated, silly girl.” For a few seconds he just stares at me, observing, like he’s going to say something else. But he only shakes his head with a stupid little grin on his face, and turns to walk away with his jeans still slung so low on his hips that I can’t look at anything else before he disappears into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

The moment I hear the shower, I’m on my feet. I grab my shoes and yank them on before locating my phone that must have gone skidding across the floor in our ‘struggle.’

“Fuck this,” I murmur, my chest feeling tight with fear. There’s no way I’ll be sticking around any longer. Not when his mood shifts between flirty and murderous so easily, and I’m never sure which I’ll get.

Hell, maybe there isn’t that much of a difference, now that I think about it. But I also don’t want to overstay my welcome. By the time I’ve closed his door behind me, I’m already calling an Uber and breathing a little too hard, my desperation and fear are pushing me to get out of his apartment and this building as quickly as possible, before Larkin decides he’s had his fun, and that I don’t deserve to live anymore.

14

Alan’s blood is warm, though it has no right to be.

Instead of pushing him off the cliff, I rip open the garbage bags to reveal his gasping, panicked face. Alan whines and begs. He squirms in his makeshift-straightjacket, trying to get free.

“Please, Sierra,” he whispers, his eyes wide and pleading. There’s blood on his neck where I stabbed him, and it continues to bubble and pool on his upper body before streaking down to the bags under him. “Please don’t kill me again.”

I feel like I’m drifting as I reach down to shove two fingers into the hole left by my scissors. Alan gasps, then cries out in pain as I shove my digits apart to widen the hole forcefully. Around my fingers I can feel his flesh tearing like paper, painfully making room for me to add another.

“Say you’re sorry,” I whisper. I can’t look away from him, not even as blood spurts from the wounds and sprays onto my face, warm and wet. “Tell me you’re sorry. Maybe I’ll stop.”

He does.

Apologies pour from his lips like rain, and they’re accompanied by sobs as I continue to tear open the wounds in his neck with my hands, until I can see the bone and meat beneath. It’s not enough, though.

It’s never good enough. No matter what he says or what I find, I just keep tearing into him while he begs.

“I can’t find it,” I whisper finally, covered in blood up to my elbows as I lift my eyes to him. “I can’t find anything, Alan.”

He sits up, and suddenly it’s me that’s ripped open. My neck and chest and ribs are all splayed out between us while he looks at me with pity in his eyes, his wounds still bleeding though he must be all bled out by now.

“I don’t think you have it to find, Sierra.” Somehow he reaches an arm out of the garbage bag, and he presses it between my ribs, like he’s feeling for something. “I don’t think there’s anything here at all.”

My eyes snap open, and I stare up at my ceiling as pots and pans clatter around in the kitchen, signaling a full-scale production by Esme this morning. A sigh leaves me, and I roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into my pillow. “Ridiculous,” I grumble, able to recall the dream with impressive lucidity, even as it starts blurring around the edges.

It’s a variation of the dream I’ve been having all week, and I’m not impressed by it whatsoever. Though it feels different from how I usually dream of what I’ve done. It feels…stronger, in a way I don’t understand. Every time I wake up, I have to check my hands for blood, and I flinch at the sound of my real name in my ears. Not that it’s plausible, since Alan only knew me as Tova.

“Fuck,” I sigh, curling up under my blankets. I’m unsure what to do about the dreams, truthfully. Or anything else in my life right now. But staying in bed hasn’t helped over the last couple of days, so I doubt it’ll work today. That and the smell of French toast propels me out of bed, though I make a stop by Yoichi’s enclosure to pick up my black rat snake and drape him over my shoulders like the world’s scaliest ascot.

Out in the kitchen, I’m surprised to find Esme looking pretty normal, given our recent circumstances. I pat myself on the back for making up a story about some guy I met at work, instead of actually telling her about Larkin, and I run through the details of what I told her so far, just in case she asks about him again today.

I have to keep my shit straight, after all.

No part of me feels bad about lying to her. Telling her that Larkin knows what I did, and how she helped me, on top of having video of it, would absolutely send her off the deep end without a doubt. She can’t handle it, and I can’t watch her spiral. Not again, not that she’s finally starting to come out of it.

“Good morning,” she greets, grinning at me happily. “You want French toast.” it isn’t a question, and I give her a little smile in return.

“I always want French toast when you’re making it.” I don’t remark on how her French toast is like crack. Which it is, and I’ve told her many times. But every time she just shakes her head and tells me I’m being dramatic, even though I’m not, and I could survive a nuclear winter on her French toast alone if I needed to.

Sitting down at the island on one of our stools, I watch her as Yoichi slithers down my arm, his tail still coiled around my wrist as he explores the maze of now-empty mixing bowls and paper towels there. It’s like his own little sensory playground, and I remind myself to clean it up once his fascination is exhausted. “You seem better,” I say carefully, not wanting to shatter this fragile, happier feeling in the apartment. “Are you doing better?”

“I am.” Esme barely hesitates, but I can still hear the edge of dishonesty in her voice. Sure, she might be doing better, but she’s not doing great, I decide. She turns that dazzling smile on me and adds, “I’ve been a shitty friend lately. I’m sure you’re struggling too, and I don’t want you to think I don’t support you.”

Well, she isn’t wrong. I am struggling, but not for the reasons she’s thinking. I don’t have guilt or regrets about Alan’s death. I don’t worry about Mike Flanagan showing up again. Those things aren’t even on my radar, except as something to be aware of that’s bothering her.

No, my problems include a man who threw me into his trunk before fucking me on his couch, and dreams that point to me not being quite as reformed as I’d hoped to be. I’m not stupid. I know what my subconscious is trying to tell me, and what Alan implies every time he searches in my chest for something that he doesn’t find.