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“Do it while you stroke,” the voice says. “I want you hard when you bleed. I want your dick jumping when it opens. I want you to hear how sick that is and keep going.”
I drag.
It is not clean. It burns. A thin line opens and heat follows it, wet, bright. I make a sound I did not plan. My cock kicks in my fist anyway. Blood beads and runs toward my stomach. Not a lot. Enough. Enough to ruin the morning.
“Fuck.”
“Yes. Again. Shorter. Make it mine.”
I do it again. A second cut. I tell myself someone is still alive if I bleed for this. The sting is worse this time. It bites deeper. Blood runs down and finds the first line and turns it darker, wetter, uglier than it needs to be. My hand shakes. My cock stays hard anyway. I want to smash the phone against the glass and throw the whole night out the window. I do not. I keep the line open.
“Look at it,” the voice says. “That is me on you. That is going to scar. Tonight I am going to pin you down and lick that cut while I fuck you, and you are going to come with my name in your throat even if you don’t know it yet. I want you to send a photo. Now. Your chest and cock. I want both. I want proof you are my dirty thing in a car park full of police. Send it.”
I take the picture because I am not ready to hear a scream. Chest. Blood. My hand. My cock wet and stupid against my stomach. I send it. I feel sick. I feel worse that I am still hard for this.
A pause. Breathing. Almost a laugh. It does not sound like Rafe. It does not sound like anyone I know.
“Beautiful. Pretty when you bleed. You always were. Zip up. Leave the shirt open under the jacket. Now drive. Do not go back in that building, and don’t even think about going to Pell. If you do, the next one dies faster and I will make you listen the way I made you listen to Ivy.”
“Who?”
“Not you. Not yet. Someone else first. Someone who thinks they are safe because they lock the door behind you.”
“Say goodnight, Mr. Preswood.”
“Don’t.”
“You already did the thing that mattered. You stayed on the line with me on nineteen. It’s Halloween. It’s a bloodbath. Don’t scream. Kiss me.”
The line dies.
I sit in the quiet with blood on my chest and my cock still out and the building full of people who cannot find a number that is already dead. I zip up. I do not clean the cut. I start the car because staying feels like waiting for a body to drop on the hood.
I drive home.
Behind me, Preswood Tower stays lit and taped and full of questions. Ahead of me the mountain road is dark. Someone is still breathing. For now.
Halloween has started in my hands.
10
Shane Cole
Friday, October 31st. 2:40 a.m.
The lower bay is cold enough that I can see my breath. One light hangs over the ramp. Everything else is concrete, dark cars, and a quiet that makes the door sound too loud when I shut it.
I sit in the firm car with the engine off and the doors locked. Driver’s seat. The same seat as always.
I was not supposed to be here.
It’s Halloween night and I was already out, driving home. I passed the square and saw the tape around Preswood Tower, lights in the windows, police cars lined up like the building had finally done something it could not buy its way out of. I pulled over and called Rhys. It rang until it died and I left a message because that was all I had.
“Do you need the car?”
That’s all I asked. Nothing else. No story. No please. Then I hung up.
He told me to stay home for the meeting. I did. I was not in the building on Wednesday or Thursday. Tonight, the tower looks like the crime scene because it is, and Rhys did not pick up, so I came anyway. If he is in there, he will want someone waiting when he walks out.
