the night comes down like heaven

With the setting sun and the flaming cabin in your rearview, you check on the trackers you’d hidden in Joel’s old truck. You’re shocked to see that he’s already hit the Carolinas, heading north on 95 towards DC. That man has driven like a bat out of hell away from you, running like a man who knows he fucked up. He’s probably ugly-crying while driving, torturing himself thinking about what he did to you. God, you wish you could see him right now.

He has one hand clutched at his neck, trying but failing to hold in all of the blood spurting out of his body. His eyes meet yours, wide and panicked, as his blood continues to spray all over the cabinets and the floor. You hear wet gurgles, and the scrabbling of his feet. He’s kicking his feet slowly, trails in the blood indicating that he’s been attempting to get up but most likely slipping back down. Bloody, smeared handprints mark the bottom half of the cabinets where he pawed at them. There’s blood spattered on the oven door, sprayed across photos pinned with magnets to the fridge, and pooling on the linoleum floor underneath him. He’s stopped moving now, his eyes still open but his gaze no longer piercing. You’re still standing in the doorway, mouth agape and staring down at his now-lifeless body. The floor creaks behind you slightly and you turn around slowly.

He drops the spoon into his bowl, otherwise keeping very still. You stop blowing on your spoon, blinking slowly. Biting your tongue to suppress your smile, you make an obvious glance at the revolver in the table’s center. When you meet his eyes again he blinks but refuses to look away, unwilling to look at the weapon. You break eye contact again to look once more at the gun, letting your gaze linger longer this time. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed, and a deep line settles between them. 

You sigh. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to go for it. He refuses to even acknowledge its presence. Maybe he knows you emptied it back at the campsite. Maybe he just wants to use his hands instead. Either way, it seems as though he’s not going to eat the carefully crafted dinner you made for him, so it’s about time to get this show on the road.

You must give something away because before you can move a muscle he is lunging across the table, his right hand immediately at your throat. You grab the syringe taped under the table with your right hand and in a wide motion, aim it for his open left side. Unfortunately he expects this and grabs your wrist with his left hand before you can even come close to making contact.

His large fingers are digging into the tendons at your wrist, painfully separating them, weakening your grip on the syringe. Meanwhile the fingers on his right hand are steadily increasing pressure on your windpipe. You need to focus. You can’t hold onto the syringe if you’re unconscious. You use your left hand to dig your nails into the skin of his arm at your throat. When it has no obvious effect, you drop the syringe and immediately bring your right arm to join the efforts.

This must not feel good, because before you can see it, you feel it; the open palm of his left hand cracks against your face. You’re surprised how much it knocks the wind out of you, but then again, you’ve never been slapped across the face by a grown man before. Instinctually you reach out to grab his face, clawing at the air as he is out of the range of your arms.

His face is serious, his eyes black, the sound of his harsh breaths filling the room. He raises his hand in a show to slap you again and you’re embarrassed by your body’s reaction. You flinch. Not even a little. A huge flinch. Your eyes squeeze shut, your face contorts, your arms raise up to defend your head, and your body tries to turn away from him. You forget to even focus on his other hand cutting off your oxygen supply.

But part of your brain is fighting to live, and with the dwindling spirit left, your body lets out a pathetic gurgle from your mouth. It catches his attention. He blinks his eyes rapidly, focusing them on your face as though he’s seeing you for the first time. His mouth falls open, his breath gasping. His hand falters at your throat, the grip becoming almost light. 

You reach your left hand out towards his head as gently as you can muster, cupping it to receive his cheek in your hand. Even without words he understands the gesture, and slowly brings his face in to meet your hand. Once his smooth cheek is resting against your palm, he closes his eyes, the grip on your throat barely felt now.

You draw your right hand back as far as you can and slam the heel of your hand against his nose in an upward motion. His eyes fly wide open, as does his mouth, a loud cry piercing the silence of the cabin. Blood almost immediately begins to flow out of the nostrils of his crumpled nose, his hands flying to his agonized face.

With your small window of opportunity, you reach down to grab the syringe off the floor. It takes a moment longer than you expect as it’s a little slippery. The syringe is already covered in blood drops because the whole floor is already covered in blood drops. You look up at him and see that he’s bleeding like a stuck pig. His fury-filled eyes meet yours. Your window has closed.

There is pressure once again at your throat as both hands forcefully raise you up to standing, the syringe slipping out of your wet fingers. His grip at your throat resumes its efforts, his focus singular once again. Before your nails can find purchase in his skin a second time, you feel the ground under your feet disappear. The lack of oxygen is starting to make you dizzy but you’re pretty sure the entire room is actually spinning. It’s only when your body slams against the floor do you realize what has actually happened. 

He has thrown you to the ground.

He stands above you, eyes wild, blood covering his lips, his chin, even his teeth, which are bared in an animalistic snarl. Before he can dive on top of you to finish what he’s started, you notice his legs are straddling one of your own. Planting the outside foot, you bring the other leg up as swiftly and as forcefully as you can. 

Your shin makes a sickening noise when it comes in contact with the apex of his legs. This time the noise he makes is much quieter, as all his breath seems to leave his lungs before he can cry out. His hands are cupped over his balls as he drops heavily to the floor, falling with such little care that the back of his head slams against the dirty planks.

Not wasting one moment this time, you grab the syringe and climb on top of him. You straddle his torso, attempting to pin his arms cradling his manhood below you. He is able to get one arm out from under you before your full weight settles on him. You take the syringe in both hands and press it towards his chest. With his free arm he grabs your wrists and attempts to push them back, to move the needle away from him.

You squeeze your thighs around his torso, keeping his other hand bound under you. You lean forward, putting more weight onto your arms to press downward. He is still fighting, unsuccessfully, to stop the forward movement of the syringe. One hundred percent of your focus is on the needle inching towards him. You squeeze your legs harder and hear him struggling to breathe. You lean forward and down, pressing the needle closer. Closer. Closer.

You watch the needle disappear into his shirt, piercing his skin below.

*****

He’s watching your face. You’re watching the needle. You won’t take your eyes off of it.

The needle is in, you’re going to push the plunger. You’re going to kill him. He’s going to die. 

“Baby,” he croaks with the little breath you haven't squeezed out of his lungs.

Your eyes snap to meet his. 

You pull the needle out and sit back.

The needle falls to the floor once more and you lean forward again, this time capturing his lips with yours. He knows his face is covered in blood, hell most of him is covered in blood. You broke the shit out of his nose. But you don’t seem to care. He doesn’t care either. Your mouth is on his and you’re kissing each other and tasting each other and he was about to die but he’s alive and you’re fucking crazy and you’re his.

His hands are all over you, one on the back of your head attempting to push your tongue deeper into his mouth, the other roaming your back, both pulling and pushing your body forward into his chest. You lift your pelvis up slightly and then grind back down into his lap, making him groan loudly, but you probably don’t realize it’s from pain. Maybe you forgot how hard you just kicked him in the balls. 

He pulls you tight to his lap to try and curb your movements on his sore crotch but you’re absolutely feral. You’re moaning into his mouth, licking and devouring him. Your hands are fisting in his hair, pulling and scratching. Your body is gyrating and smashing on top of his, drawing out breathless grunts from him. He’s trying to enjoy himself but he’s still in so much pain. Everything hurts right now.

He pushes off with one foot, gently flipping you over so you rest under him now, parting your mouths for a beat. You look at him for a moment and the intensity he sees in your eyes is mind-altering. There is a tightness that seizes his whole body, making his head swim. He feels a heaviness settle in his belly and a throbbing desire begins to come forth. He hasn’t felt this way in a very long time.

He hunches over and dives his face into your neck, nipping and kissing at the skin over your pulse point, remembering well the way you cried out when he did that last time. He keeps his body above yours, avoiding contact with his center, leaning his head down into you. Your hands go under his shirt, scratching at his back as you arch yours and resume your moaning. The syringe lies completely forgotten one foot away from your writhing body.

He starts to notice that everywhere he kisses you is wet and upon pulling back, he sees it’s because your neck is covered in blood. His blood. It’s all he tastes, so he didn’t even realize he was still actively bleeding, saturating you. You open your eyes and look at his face, then down at your chest and realize what he sees.

He leans back but brings you forward, not wanting to separate too far. He pushes himself up onto his feet gently and grabs you by the waist, pulling you up from the floor and against his chest. You gesture with one arm, and he leads you the short distance to the kitchen sink. He lifts you up and sets you on the countertop, moving close to stand between your legs.

You reach behind you and grab a roll of paper towels, and you both use them to clean each other up. You gently push paper towel wads into his nostrils, he wets some and wipes down your neck. He gently dabs the corner of your mouth where your lip split from his strike, you wipe off the bottom half of his face. A pile of wet and bloody paper towels begins to form at his feet as you each take care of the other, working to repair the damage you did to one another.

When you’re both finally cleaned up, he gingerly pulls the paper towel out of his nostrils. He dabs up a single blood drop that weeps slowly out of one side, but otherwise the bleeding has stopped. With his hands on your thighs he begins to kiss your face, slowly at first and then deeper. You’re both being gentle with each other now, careful. Tender. 

He can’t breathe through his busted nose, so he has to keep pulling back, taking frequent breaks from kissing you. Your eyes meet his every time he does, pupils having swallowed your irises. The tightness returns to constrict at his chest, making his insides feel hollow. He keeps rubbing his hands on your thighs, trying to ignore their trembling.

He guides your legs to wrap around his hips and he lifts you off the counter, carrying you into the bedroom. He sets you down on the large bed where it’s obvious you’ve been sleeping and slowly begins to undress you. The way you maintain eye contact and blink slowly as he peels your clothes off piece by piece has him beginning to harden in his jeans.

When he has removed everything but your underwear, you lie back on your elbows, feet dangling off the side. Neither of you has said anything since he called you baby just as you were about to end him. He lowers himself to his knees in between yours and drags his hands up your legs, wrapping his fingers around your underwear before slowly pulling them off.

Keeping eye contact, he leans forward and places kisses on the tops of your thighs, up your hip, across your lower stomach, and overtop your mound. He finally closes his eyes when he lowers his face into your patch of hair and inhales, stifling a smile when you gasp sharply. With a hand on each knee he gently pushes your legs open, pleased when he meets no resistance.

He leans back down into you and begins to lick. Just as with your kissing he starts slow and gentle, increasing pressure and speed as he goes. Still unable to breathe through his broken nose, his breathing through his mouth goes right into you, creating sloppy slurping noises that, mingled with your moans, fill the room. This time when he pulls back from you to take breaths, he meets your gaze and whispers praise into your core.

God dammit you taste so good.

I’ve thought about you like this for months.

You look so beautiful.

Louder… louder I wanna hear you.

Your moans increase, an edge forming on them, becoming desperate. Your head is thrown back on the bed, unable to look at him anymore, back arched, legs beginning to shake. He’s talking you through it and he knows you’re close but when your noises turn into whines he realizes you need something more. 

He slowly pushes two fingers into you, wet but tight around him, until his knuckles are seated against your lips. He latches his mouth over you and begins to suck, swirl his tongue, and move his digits in the same motion all at the same time. That’s what you needed because you immediately cry out his name and start pulsing on his fingers, wetness leaking out onto his palm.

He wasn’t expecting you to say his name when you came and it has him absolutely dizzy with need. Between the way you taste, the way you feel, and the way you sounded moaning and screaming his name, he is so fucking hard in his pants it’s painful.

He stands up and unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off and wiping you off his face with it before letting it fall to the floor. You shift to pull your legs and feet up on the bed, laying on your side facing him with your head on his old pillow. He further rids himself of his pants and underwear, your eyes drawn to his cock, deep red and leaking. He crawls across the bed until he’s hovering over you, speaking in a gravelly voice.

“Tell me yer name.”

He watches your eyes look back and forth between his, a smile forming on your lips.

“My name is whatever you decide,” you whisper, and hook one leg around his waist to pull him towards you. His cock bumps up against your wet folds but he resists, growling, pulling back and grabbing your face with one hand.

“No. I wanna know what it is,” his dark eyes search yours. “Tell me yer name,” he orders again, “please.”

*****

Your self-satisfied smile fades away at his final word, at his seeming desperation. This is what you wanted, right? You wanted him to know you, to want you, to feel you. You wanted him to experience a shred of the agony you’ve been experiencing for five months; wanting him, needing him. You’ve been so close and yet not close enough to touch him or taste him or feel him. Now here he is, doing everything you’ve been dreaming about, and you have the chance to hear your name on his lips.

“My name,” you whisper in a broken voice, “is Kathryn.”

Kathryn, he repeats. He rolls it around his mouth a few times, looking at your face, trying to decide if it suits you. He lets a smile creep across his face and leans down to whisper your name in your ear as he pushes himself into you. He fucks you slowly, slower than you’ve ever been fucked. He kisses your mouth, your face, your neck, he even lets you suck a painful hickey into his shoulder as you moan into his skin.

You think he’s going to speed up but he doesn’t. You think he’s going to flip a switch after you mark him but he doesn’t. You think he’s going to lose control when you wail at the feeling of his thick cock dragging along your walls, but he remains steadfast. Only when you cry out, finally the one to break, does he even acknowledge the agonizing pace he’s set.

You whine, a truly pathetic high-pitched sound, that you need more and he huffs a laugh into the crook of your shoulder. Even then he doesn’t pick up speed, he continues to drag himself in and out, the squelching sound of your wet cunt being drowned out by your howling. He reaches between you, touching your clit, and with only a few strokes you nearly black out from the intensity of your orgasm. 

It’s like a bomb goes off inside you, jolting electricity down all of your limbs. You hear ringing in your ears but can’t quite process that it’s from you, having just screamed loud and long. You’re still convulsing on him inside of you when you feel him sit back on his heels. Remaining pushed all the way into you, he spreads his thighs and pulls your hips to tilt up on his lap.

He leans over you once again and whispers in your ear that he’s really going to fuck you now, as if what he just did was somehow something else. But when he follows through on his promise, rolling his hips into you, slapping his pelvis into the back of your thighs, slamming his cock deep inside of you, you believe him.

He pushes your legs up and leans on the back of your knees, pushing your legs down into you, pressing you deep into the mattress. He fucks you faster, snapping his hips into you harder and harder, pushing breathy moans out of you now. He fucks you until your moans increase and then go silent, watching you intently as you begin to come on his cock again. He follows you immediately with his own release, stilling with his hips pressed inside you, grunting as he pulses his load into you.

You hear him groan ‘Kathryn’ several times as he cums, and now you’re annoyed with yourself for lying. That could have been your name he said, if you didn’t have such trust issues. Oh well. You can pretend to be Kathryn for the night. Maybe for him you could pretend to be Kathryn for longer than a night. You wonder if he’ll stay.

*****

He wakes in the middle of the night, his arms wrapped around you pulled close to his chest, the way you both fell asleep. He starts thinking about how the day has gone. Part of him didn’t want you to catch him, fearing what you could be capable of. Part of him did want you to catch him, longing to be reunited with you again. A constant war inside him, going back and forth, pushing him along over the past five months but tethering him to the thought of you.

You were on his trail the whole time. Did part of him know? Did part of him want that? Was he ignoring the signs the entire time, leaving you breadcrumbs and letting you watch him from afar? Every thought he has is now consumed by you. He is overwhelmed by you. The smell of your hair, the feel of you in his arms, the warmth of your body against his. He instinctively clutches you tighter, passing on the constricting feeling spreading in his own chest.

What is this? Are these feelings? He has been half numb for decades, the only thing akin to emotion that ever rises to the surface is rage. He feels it even now, even among the other feelings brewing inside him that are threatening to spill out. He feels his rage as a low flame deep in his gut, and lets it rise up to warm him, twist his guts, burn his ears. 

But then you turn your body into his, awakened by his tightening grip, and you wrap your arms around his torso, one under him and one over. You pull him into you and smash your lips onto his and the flame stutters. It’s pushed back down by the rest of what’s inside him, which expands now, filling up the empty spaces, making him feel like an inflated balloon.

Maybe there’s a compatibility here, which seems an absurd thought. He thinks you’re crazy, but he’s sure people would call him crazy as well for the things he’s done. You might be the only person who can understand him. Well, understand who he’s become. He wasn’t always like this, but there’s no going back now. You were right when you said you do it - killing - because it feels good. It feels so fucking good, and he likes it too much to stop.

Although it occurs to him that he has stopped, that he’s gone six months without it, that he is starving a part of himself he had kept regularly fed for a very long time. He pushes that thought away as you deepen the kiss with your tongue against his lips, your nails dragging along his back and scratching through his hair. He lets you wrap your legs around him and he rolls into you, joining you in the exploration of each other.

You use mouths, tongues, and fingers, familiarizing yourselves with one another’s bodies, taking turns getting off over and over. He loves you like this; when your head is thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted. In the dim light he watches your face crumpling in ecstasy at what he’s doing to you. He feels you holding your breath right before a shockwave hits you, orgasmic bliss washing across your body. You look so beautiful when you let him take you apart. 

Sweaty, sore, sated, and sleepy; you both collapse back into each other’s arms and fall into unconsciousness. He sleeps solid and soundly, for the first time in a long time.

He wakes up to the sound of a thump on the wall and realizes you’re not in bed with him. He can hear what he assumes is you in the bathroom, on the other side of the bedroom wall. He faintly hears the water running and some rummaging around, then the closing of a cabinet door. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and by the time you’re walking back into the bedroom in a towel he has woken up. 

“Good morn-  oh,” you say as you rake your eyes over him in the morning light. You don't continue. He must look more than worse for wear if it gives you pause. If it’s any indication of what his appearance must be, his entire face is aching and throbbing.

“Maybe I need… a shower?” he asks. You only reply with a head nod. If he didn’t know better he’d say you had a look of remorse in your eyes. He pulls his head from the pillow and the pillowcase sticks to his face for about a foot until it peels off and falls back to the bed. Dried blood had melded his face to the pillow. Must be his broken nose had sprung another leak.

He hoists himself off the mattress, still feeling pain in between his legs where you kicked him, and his back not loving him at the moment either. He walks past you, rummaging through the dresser at the end of the bed for clothes, as he heads out of the room. He sees you now in the daylight, fresh face clean of makeup, damp hair down and shorter than the last time he saw you.

He notes you’re not as young as he thought you were the first time he saw you. You’re still significantly younger than his 56 years but you have a couple gray hairs at your temples, some lines starting around your eyes. He wonders how long you’ve been doing this, and if you’ve ever found anyone else like you before, like him. Anyone else you could truly share yourself with.

“Oh,” he says at the doorway, turning back towards you. “Do you prefer Kathryn… or Kathy… or Katie or…..”  he lets the last word linger in the air, expecting you to finish the sentence.

You’re only partially turned towards him but he sees that you briefly squint, a look passing across your face. It’s gone in an instant and you shrug your shoulders, still not looking towards him, “I don’t really have a preference. Just whatever you want.”

He waits a beat and then decides not to ask the next question on his lips. “Ok sweetheart,” is all he replies before he heads into the bathroom.

In the ghoulish reflection of the bathroom mirror he sees what you saw; a face covered in bruises. Two black eyes, a red-purple nose still bent at an odd angle, a pool of dark dried blood from his nostril to his cheek, red marks bitten down his neck, and a sizable maroon hickey sucked into his shoulder. He looks like a colorful palette of pain.

Stepping in the shower he places his palms on each side of his nose and braces himself. He pushes his palms together against his nose and drags them down and to the right, attempting to reset his own broken nose. The consequences of his action are searing pain stabbing backwards into his head along with a renewal of the river of blood flowing from his face.

He also cries out loud, despite himself, and feels tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He hears you call through the door asking if he’s okay and he calls back that he’s fine. The nasal tinge to his voice must give away the source of his outcry, as you don’t ask any follow up questions.

By the end of his shower the bleeding has slowed to a trickle and he grabs some toilet paper as he steps out. He reaches for the mirror to open the medicine cabinet to check for a first aid kit, but his fingers slip off the edge. It’s not a medicine cabinet, it's just a mirror. He looks around the bathroom for a cabinet. He’s sure he heard you in here earlier closing a cabinet door. 

Shower, shower curtain, window, toilet, pedestal sink, mirror. That’s it. There is no cabinet.

He suddenly recalls the look that passed across your face when he asked you what nickname you preferred. The look was… what was it? Confusion? As if you didn’t know what he was talking about. Then you told him you didn’t have a preference. You apparently didn’t care what people called you. How unusual. Just whatever you want. What did you say last night when he asked your name? My name is whatever you decide. That’s what you had said.

A vile tightness grips his insides as he feels the familiar flame begin to rise deep within. Can he trust you? He wants to. He stuffs the toilet paper into his nostrils to free his hands and gets down on the floor, still naked and wet. He feels around the floorboards, checks the baseboards, and even checks the toilet tank. Then just as he’s about to stand back up he sees it. Kneeling at the toilet he can see the wall paneling under the sink has a loose board, sticking out just a fraction.

He quietly pries the board loose, and sees the plumbing for the sink behind the wall. Stuffed inside the wall among the pipes are several plastic bags and a small messenger bag. He carefully removes the cloth bag and opens it, finding personal items inside. This bag is most likely being used as a purse, as it contains an address book, a women’s wallet, and two cellphones - one of which used to belong to him. 

A soft knock comes at the door.

“You okay in there?” 

“Yeah,” he replies, trying to sound calm and not like he nearly just jumped out of his skin.

“You didn’t bleed to death, right?”

“Nawww, can’t get rid a’ me that easy,” he chuckles for good measure. “I’m just….” he isn’t sure what excuse to give. If he says he’s treating his wounds you might want to come in and help and he’s just now realizing there's no lock on the bathroom door. The silence goes on for what feels like forever.

“Seein’ a man ‘bout a horse?” you ask. He exhales the breath he was holding. You think he’s embarrassed about taking a shit. Sure, that works. He’ll let you think that.

“‘Fraid so,” he answers, “won’t be much longer.”

He hears your footsteps go into the next room and move about the small kitchen. He’s still kneeling naked on the floor, purse in hand. His heart is racing in his chest and every muscle in his body is aching with tension. He pulls out the wallet and opens it up, eyes immediately finding the driver’s license. There you are, a version of you, staring back at him. 

You’re wearing a bright smile, an unfamiliar haircut, and the name written next to you is different from the one you gave him. He takes the license out of the holder and checks the anti-fraud hologram, and the other security measures the state that issued it put in place to prevent fakes. He has many years of experience with fake IDs, having made many himself. It’s only gotten harder to make them as the years have passed and he knows the one he holds in his hand now is a legitimate ID.

He can’t trust you. You lied to him. You gave him a fake name. You made a big stink about him not asking your name and then when he did ask you; you lied. You don’t want to share yourself with him. You don’t give a shit about him. You tried to poison him at dinner and when that didn’t work you tried to stab him with that needle full of shit that probably would have stopped his heart. You broke his fucking face. You kicked him in the goddamn balls. You’re a crazy fucking bitch.

He comes out of the bathroom and casually checks over his shoulder, seeing you in the kitchen preparing some kind of food that he definitely won’t be eating. He steps into the bedroom to grab his clothes from yesterday off the floor but you’ve picked them up already. Instead he finds a stack of clean clothes sitting on top of the dresser, more of his clothes you stole from his house.

He hastily gets dressed and walks out into the main room, passing by the open bathroom door and glancing down, where the concealed items he found are still spread out on the floor. The flame of rage is tearing at his insides, beginning to set fire to everything you’ve done together in the last half day. He marches up to you at the kitchen counter, cracking eggs.

“What’s your name?” he huffs out. He sees your hands falter.

“Kathr-”

“NO,” he interrupts, “I know that’s a fuckin’ lie. Try again.”

You drop the eggs, shells and all, into the bowl on the counter and turn towards him. You smile sweetly at him, not answering. He hardens his gaze but it has no effect. You don’t stop smiling. You don’t answer him. You don’t tell him your name.

The inferno inside him has reached flashover, combusting everything inside his body at once, turning it to ash. Yesterday he complained that you had the upper hand and you were insulted. But you have been nothing but withholding since the moment he met you. Nothing but a liar. You have manipulated him in every step he’s made and what’s worse, is that he’s let you. 

You had the nerve to make a complaint about him not knowing you, when you won’t let him know you. When you don’t care to know him. When you don’t care about anything. He had all of these things inside of him, filling him up, expanding his physical body with the surge, and you don’t care. Everything he had to give you, and you don’t want it. You don’t want him. 

*****

You see it out of the corner of your eye and it takes every shred of effort not to instinctually duck out of the way. His left hand cracks against your cheek, sending you flying into the table, knocking the gun that sat atop it onto the floor. Your hands scrabble against the table as you fight to keep yourself upright, the pain temporarily blinding you and making you want to sink down to the floor. Then you feel his hands on your arms, pulling you back up to him.

He holds you by your upper arms now, shaking you, red-faced and screaming for you to tell him what your name is. You don’t fight back, letting your body go limp like a doll, letting him rattle your brain around your skull. His legs sweep behind yours and you fall to the ground, but notice that his hands are behind your head to catch you before you can knock too hard against the floor.

Not wanting a repeat of yesterday he quickly climbs on top of you this time, squeezing his thighs on either side of your hips. His hand reaches out to your throat but the grip is so soft at first. You look at his face and his angry eyes have gone momentarily soft. He must have noticed the bruises all over your neck from his fingertips yesterday.

Any shame he felt is washed away quickly, as he catches your still-smiling face peering up at him. His grip gets tighter and tighter, as he growls repeatedly for you to tell him your name. He goes until your vision starts to blur, and the black starts to creep in around the edges. Your eyes slide back in your head. Then he lets go and shakes your neck, allowing oxygen to rush back into your lungs as you choke and gasp for air.

Once he’s given you a moment to breathe he repeats the constriction on your throat, screaming for your name as you barrel towards the edge again. Why is he even doing this? You can’t answer him. He’s asking a question and then depriving you of the ability to speak. You suppose it doesn’t really matter in the end, since you won’t be giving him what he wants either way. It occurs to you as you begin to lose consciousness again that this must be what his victims experience.

You’re shaken back into existence once again, met with his red seething face as you open your eyes. You put the soft smile back on your face and continue to lay passive at his ministrations. You think your smile might actually be making him angrier. You notice there are tears in his eyes threatening to spill over and he has started to mutter to himself. You do your best to decipher what he’s saying even with the dwindling oxygen to your brain.

You don’t think I’ll do this but I will, you’ve done this to me, you’ve driven me to this, you’ve been chasing me, I’ve been running away like a rat, I haven’t killed anyone in so long, you don’t think I’ll do this but I will, I have to do this, this is what I am, you’ve done this to me.

You know that he’s losing it, maybe he’s already gone, already snapped. You’ve been able to step away from this chase over the last many months and fulfill your urges but you know he hasn’t. He’s been starved this whole time and now he has his hands around your throat and you don’t think he’s going to be able to stop himself. Maybe he doesn’t want to stop himself.

Maybe this is all this has ever been. Him waiting to get his hands around your throat. He’s been hungry for it since the first day he saw you, you recognized the look in his eyes. He’s played your game, made you believe you were kindred spirits, taken everything he wanted from you, all so that you could end up here. 

It surprises you a little that after everything you’ve survived, you’re not even fighting back.

Oh well. If even this man can’t love you, then who could? Let him have you in whatever way he wants. No one else wants you. Let him take whatever you have left to give. Let him take your life. 

You weren’t really honest with him about much. Not your history, not your motivations, certainly not your name. But you were honest with him when you gave him yourself, when you gave him your body. So you’ll give it to him now, let him suffocate it, let him smother the life out of it. After all the lies he deserves some peace. You’ll give it to him.

He also deserves to at least know the truth about how you feel.

*****

He is delirious right now, consumed with rage, drunk off the feeling of his hands tightening around your neck, watching you go in and out of consciousness. You made him feel things he thought were long dead, he doesn’t even understand how he let you worm your way inside him and dig these feelings up. They’re mixing with everything else and confusing the shit out of him.

This should be familiar. The rage. The thrill. The choking gasps beneath him. But it’s different this time because it’s you. Fucking you. What have you done to him? He’s confused and angry and… hurt. Why did you hurt him? Why did you fucking lie to him? Why did he let you? Why were you doing this to him? There’s unfamiliar things happening too. There’s hate. There’s… love? There’s excitement, and terror. He can’t take his hands off you. He can’t let go. He can’t stop squeezing.

This is familiar. This always ends the same way; with a limp and lifeless body beneath him. But it’s different this time, right? You’re staring back up at him, a lazy smile on your face, eyes hooded. The periphery of his brain notices that your hands are not trapped under him, they’ve been resting limply on his thighs this entire time. You could be fighting back but you’re not. 

Are you egging him on? Do you think he won’t do it? Do you think he doesn’t have it in him?

You think he’s weak. You think you breached his walls and tore down his defenses. You think you’re smarter than him. You think you’ve always had the upper hand. You think you’re better than him. You think he’s dumb. You think he’s sloppy. You think you know him. 

You’re going to. It’s going to end the same way it always does.

He wraps both hands around you now, pressing his body weight down into your neck, watching your blinks get slower and slower. His vision has tunneled now and all he sees are your eyes, all he hears is his own blood pumping a muffled beat in his ears. He barely registers the touch of your hand on his cheek, finally noticing when your thumb brushes over his lips. 

His vision opens up enough to see you mouth the words, I love you.

He shakes his head repeatedly, not letting up the downward pressure. Even after your hand drops from his face to fall listless at your side. He sees your pupils get slightly larger, despite the sunshine pouring in from the front windows. He feels all tension leave your body beneath him. He has lost track of time. He blinks rapidly and releases his tight grip. 

You don’t inhale. He shakes you. Nothing. He slaps you. Nothing. He slaps you harder. He watches your chest, you’re not breathing. He checks your pulse, he feels nothing. 

He went too far. You’re fucking dead. 

He fucking killed you.

Bile forces its way up his throat and he turns his head to the side, throwing up all over the floor. His vision is blurry and all he hears is a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He slaps your face with both hands, back and forth, screaming at the top of his lungs for you to wake up. He grabs your shoulders and shakes you hard, letting your head bounce around on the floor.

He vaguely recalls being trained for a summer lifeguard job almost four decades ago, and with limbs that feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each he attempts to mimic that training. He haphazardly pounds on your chest, frequently huffing his full lungs into your mouth. He’s fighting the dread slowly consuming him from within and swallowing back the nausea that threatens to cause him to vomit again.

Raising both arms up high, he beats down on you, hoarse shouts echoing through the too-quiet cabin. Pausing to shove his fist into his mouth, to stifle the sob that falls out of him now, he vaguely registers the soft bird songs outside. Sunshine, dewy grass, birds and bugs and wildlife outside in stark contrast to the macabre scene inside.

You, lifeless, lying on yesterday’s bloody floor. Dead by his hands.

Suddenly you jolt awake, gasping loudly and coughing violently. He jumps off you, letting you roll to your side as you grab your chest and sputter wildly. Holy fucking shit. You’re alive.

He stands up, horrified by what he’s done to you, terrified by the anger, and the hate, and the love racing through him. What has he done? He did what he always does. He destroyed. He is nothing but a destroyer. In another life he was handy, but now he lives a different existence. All he does now is break things, pull them apart, and scatter the pieces.

*****

You focus your vision in time to see him backing away from you, wide-eyed. He watches as you gather enough strength to wheeze out a quiet sentence, “you love me too,” and then he takes off. He runs into the bathroom and when he comes back out he’s holding your purse. He ducks into the bedroom and when he emerges from there he’s holding your pillow (that you stole from him).

He grabs the empty revolver off the floor, checking and seeing the empty chambers, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He rounds the table and goes to your jacket, draped over one of the chairs, and fishes his truck keys out of the pocket. He heads to the door and opens it, turning in the doorway so you can see his face, still tear-stained and flushed.

He doesn’t make eye contact with you.

“This is over. You hear me?” he doesn’t wait for you to answer or even look at you for acknowledgement, “No more chasing me. It’s done….” He inhales a strong breath, and says in a low and steady voice, “If I see you again, you’ll stay dead.”

.

.

.

*peers out from behind rock. everyone okay? i hope it wasn't too much....😬

✨🔪These two will return in.... The Surprise🔪✨

He’s been on the run for almost five months now, though it feels longer. He saw the hungry look in your eyes when he suggested you let him go in order to chase after him again, but when the needle went into his neck he thought it was all over. Suffice to say that ever since he came-to in that empty garage he has been scrambling to stay two steps ahead of you. 

What he realized too late was that you still weren’t planning on playing fair. You left his wallet but took his driver’s license. His actual driver’s license with his actual home address on it. He also realized you had searched through his truck when you cleared out his cabin, taking all of his ‘hunting supplies’. And finally, it struck him much later than it should have that the phone you kept waving in front of his face was his own phone, which you also took with you.

So you have the location of his northern cabin, his home address, and would probably be able to find his secondary southern cabin with his map data in his phone. All three were burned. He has to start from scratch, and he has to do it all while staying hidden. He decides to risk it and immediately heads home, thinking there’s a chance that if he drives through the night, he might beat you there. If you didn’t head there as soon as you left, and maybe you didn’t - thinking it was too obvious of a place to start  - he has a shot.

He gets there and the house appears empty, no strange car in the driveway, doors locked the way he left them. He thinks things are looking up. Then he finds another note on his kitchen table. It says ‘Miss me yet?’ in a looser, more erratic handwriting scrawled in the middle of a large piece of paper. Covering the rest of the paper are lipstick prints smooched in varying shades and intensities. Jesus fuckin’ christ, he thinks, you are unhinged.

He checks the house carefully, looking in closets and under furniture, but you aren’t there. You must have been there for a little bit, there is evidence you made yourself some food and took a shower, but didn’t stick around. He gets right to work on his plan. He showers, his reflection and another lipstick print staring back at him from the vanity mirror. Then he spends the morning packing up anything he thinks he’ll need into boxes and totes and limping them out to his truck bed, his leg wound still fresh.

He doesn’t pack much, he’s not that sentimental. He packs up some old photo albums, all of his non-perishable food, a bunch of cash, a variety of clothes, a variety of weapons, and all of his camping supplies. While packing he notices that you spent enough time in the house to go through a lot of his things. You have stolen a bunch of his clothes, his toothbrush, some photos off his walls, and his pillow.

He makes some phone calls to arrange for the packing up and donating of the rest of the items in his house and then selling the house itself, making up some excuse about moving to his cabin permanently. He gives his forwarding contact number as the burner phone that he picked up at a Walmart halfway back home. 

Neither of his cabins were purchased through ‘regular channels’ and his real name isn’t associated with either of them, so they should be safe to hold on to for now but as long as you know about them he can’t step foot near them. He gives his truck a very thorough once-over for tracking equipment and leaves his neighborhood. 

That was 21 weeks and 3 days ago.

He was so careful at first. He would constantly check his mirrors to watch for following cars. He wouldn’t use any roadside motels or even register at campsites, preferring to drive deep into public land and boondock in his tent. He washed up and did his laundry in creeks, ate the canned food he’d packed up, and even utilized his boy scout skills - foraging for edible plants and hunting small game animals. 

He would think about you constantly. Not even because he wanted to, but because he was constantly gripped by the panic that you were on his tail. One time he could have sworn he heard your voice calling his name as he leaned over a mountain stream, the bubbling water carrying it downstream. He saw movement across the water out of the corner of his eye, but when his head jerked up, all he could track was the tall dried grass swaying in the light breeze. 

After a couple months of this behavior his food supply was completely tapped out. He was tired of sleeping on the ground, tired of washing his body in cold streams, and tired of hiding away like a prey animal. He got in his truck and drove for three straight days back to the deep south, so he could escape the cold of winter where he had been further north. Halfway through the second day he was so tired he almost pulled over to sleep, but then it was as if lightning jolted through his entire body when he thought he saw your face in a passing car. A double take relieved him of that fear, but it woke him up enough to keep him going for another day.

He checked into an old roadside inn that he drove by twice before stopping. He didn’t see any security system outside of the building. In the office he inquired about a room and noticed that they weren’t even using electronic equipment, instead keeping a written logbook of guests. He paid for a week in cash and when they asked for his ID, he handed them one of his fakes, watching as they copied the false information into their book.

The musty smell of the room didn’t bother him, nor did the squeaking of the ancient air conditioner in the window, nor did the roaches that scurried out of view when he turned on the bathroom light. This place was such an upgrade to what he’d been living with, it felt like the Ritz. He took one of the longest showers he’d ever taken, groaning with relief at the warm water and the clean feeling of his skin when he’d slathered it with soap. 

He gave his hair a proper wash, the first in many weeks, and felt just how long it’d grown. He ran his fingers through his hair and remembered your fingers in his hair, scratching his skull and tugging at his curls. He remembered your mouth on his neck, and your moans in his ear, and before he could stop his thoughts, he was half hard in the shower. He refused to touch himself and give any merit to those thoughts of you, that his traitorous body was enjoying.

What he should have been thinking about is not what happened last time you caught him, but what might happen if you catch him again. He knows you’re crazy. He thinks you’re like him, at least that’s what you said. And if you’re anything like him, then he knows you’re very dangerous. He tried many times to search for you with the limited clues he had, using his data on his prepaid phone. But with almost nothing to go on, any attempt at getting additional information about you had been futile.

After a week of sleeping in scratchy sheets and listening to the sink drip all hours of the day, he’s ready to move on. He didn’t just stop somewhere for the relative comforts. He stopped somewhere in order to stop running. He wanted to stand still for a time, to see if you would pop up behind him. He wondered if he could catch your scent on the wind, sense any sign of you approaching. It was a week of silence, of stillness, of nothing. It was a week of peace.

His next weeks of travel took him to remote towns along back roads. He didn’t spend more than a couple nights in each place, but he was able to replenish his canned food stash, wash clothes at a laundromat, do some repairs on his truck, and replace some of his hunting and camping supplies that had worn out with use. He even splurged and got himself a new tent, the old one having sprung a leak a week before he stopped using it.

The pressure to stay hidden starts to lift off his shoulders. He feels less like a frightened baby gazelle being stalked by a lioness. He doesn’t feel the need to constantly check over his shoulder, fearing the ghost of your hot breath on the back of his neck. He is careful but he’s more relaxed. He decides to stick by the Gulf of Mexico, and travels between four states now, repeating stops in little out-of-the-way towns. He sees familiar faces, but finds that it benefits him.

In another life he was handy, taught by his dad to build things, to fix them, to take them apart and put them back together. He has struck up a deal with some of the motel owners to do some minor repairs when he stays there, in exchange for a reduced rate. He doesn’t have to go more than a week now without a hot shower. He helps repair machines at the laundromats in exchange for free laundry services, so now he doesn’t have to re-wear dirty clothes. 

Several food markets give him boxes full of dented cans and near-expired products. He may wait until he looks dirty and unkempt enough and stop by these places to give them the impression that he’s struggling and homeless. It very well may be a working ruse, but it also might not be a total ruse. He kind of is struggling and homeless, thanks to you. It’s been almost two months of this routine. He still uses fake IDs, pays in cash, and doubles back when driving well-worn roads.

To further conserve his cash supply, he alternates between stopping at the motels and camping on public land. If he’s honest with himself it’s also not just about saving money. He isn’t ashamed to admit that he enjoys the amenities that the cheap little roadside stops provide as compared to the backwoods camping he endures, but his urges start to creep up on him when he’s around people for too long. Sticking himself in a tent all alone in the middle of the woods keeps him from killing anyone.

One afternoon last month he entered a small room in a dump outside of Lafayette, LA, where the guest complained the door wouldn’t lock properly. Without even needing the masterkey, he entered the empty room and was overwhelmed with the feminine smell that hit him immediately. An open suitcase laid on the bed, items of clothing draped along the side. A bottle of perfume, hand lotion, and lip gloss sat on the dresser next to the TV. Each item his eyes landed on was more tempting than the last. 

How badly he wanted to snatch a piece of clothing, to pocket the perfume, to leave the lock unfixed so he could return to the room later and put his hands around the throat of the woman who was staying there. It took every ounce of self control to only fix the lock and leave empty-handed. He couldn’t give into his urges. He couldn’t draw any attention. He couldn’t risk you hearing about his lapse in judgment.

He checked out of the hotel that very day and drove into Mississippi to escape the scent of the room with the now-fixed lock. You were on his mind the entire drive. He hadn’t thought about you that much in a long time. But as he laid in his tent in the growing dark, his mind was consumed by you. He couldn’t remember what you smelled like, but he imagined. He barely got the chance to touch your skin last time, but he fantasized. He definitely recalled what you felt like; the weight of you bouncing on his lap, the wetness of your tight cunt. Your moans played on repeat in his mind as he, not for the first time, fucked his fist while dreaming of fucking you again. 

The moniker little bird passes his lips as his cum spills over his hand, and he wonders if this delusion will ever come true. Will he get to fuck you again? Will he want to? Will you want to? What will happen if you catch him? Sex might be the last thing on your mind. You’re fucking crazy. You might just kill him. He might not even see it coming.

Yesterday he was working on the back of a dryer in a laundromat and he listened as a young man, trying to impress a young lady, explained how he was traveling alone in an old cargo van across the country to the grand canyon. He listened to this man confess everything you don’t want a stranger to know, only to have the girl giggle and walk away, excusing herself while admitting that she doesn’t speak English very well. 

Joel took almost three hours to repair the dryer because he spent so much time kneeled behind it planning a way to inconspicuously kill the young idiot without alerting you or the authorities as to his activities. By the time he had a plan in place and emerged from behind the appliances, the young man was gone. He allowed common sense to return to him before he could run outside to seek the camper out, and carry out his desire for blood.

And that is how Joel finds himself setting up his tent again, this time in the Florida Panhandle. He has once again had to run away from his urges, which grow stronger with each passing week. It’s been almost five months since you left him in that rented storage garage and almost six months since he killed anyone. He hasn’t gone this long between kills in a very long time. He likes to think of himself as methodical and controlled, even though you called his cabin disgusting and implied he was sloppy. 

But he has self control. He doesn’t kill on a whim, he plans it. He keeps it discreet. No cop has ever come knocking on his door. No one at all has. Except you. Even if you picked berries in his yard instead of knocking, you knew what you were doing. You were hunting him. He had no idea. He thought you were alone. He thought you were scared. He thought you were weak. He thought he was in control. How wrong he was.

And how wrong he is now. How wrong he’s been to have stopped looking over his shoulder. How wrong he’s been to let himself get comfortable with his surroundings. How wrong he’s been to ever doubt that you could catch up to him. Because as he turns around to reach for the rainfly to his tent, there you stand. Hands on your hips at the tailgate of his truck, smiling.

“Hi honey.”

*****

You watch him intake a quick breath, his face falling in dismay, his pupils dilating. It’s so obvious how hard he’s trying not to look at his rifle, which sits on the tailgate behind you, partially covered up by his tent’s rainfly. He makes a quick calculation as his brows knit on his forehead and you see him twitch forward an inch.

“Watch it now honey,” you point one finger to your hip, tilting your pelvis to display the 8” knife hanging from your belt. He freezes again and eyes the knife, then rolls his eyes. He must recognize it. You took it from his truck almost five months ago.

“Looks a little familiar,” he huffs.

“Does it? I had to replace the one I used to have…. left it somewhere a while back,” and you nod towards his leg. He winces, then looks at you for a moment before a cocky smile settles on his face. There’s that shit-eating grin you missed.

“I got myself a new one too,” and he tilts his own hip, showing off the sheathed knife hanging from his belt loop. “It’s ten inches.”

Your eyes go wide in a mocking display and you tsk your tongue against your teeth. “Oh honey, haven’t you heard? It’s not about size…. it’s about knowin’ what to do with it.”

His smile turns ugly. He’s feeling confident. He slowly reaches his hand back as he takes a step forward, muttering, “oh trust me I know what to do with it.”

You quickly reach your hand back into your waistband and grab the small revolver out, pointing it at him with a smile. “This look familiar too?” You ask him, mockingly, watching as he once again freezes in place. His smile is gone, replaced by an annoyed look as he registers that the gun you now have aimed at him also once belonged to him.

“You don’t really look happy to see me, honey.”

“Should I be?”

“Well the way we left things, I just thought you were gonna be missin’ me a lot more.” He is frozen still, watching you wide-eyed, struggling to find the words that will piss you off the least. He kind of looks scared shitless, this is amazing. He looks down for a moment and when he meets your eyes again, his whole face has softened.

“I did miss you sweetheart.”

There he is, there’s your charmer. You can’t help the smile that flashes across your face.

“Oh you did? You missed me?”

“All the time,” he nods slowly. “Every single day,” he adds. Now he’s pushing it. You try not to roll your eyes. You don’t want to be a brat after all this time apart.

“What’d you miss about me?”

Silence. Too long of a pause. He holds his breath and then begins to stutter something out. It’s too late. You’ve caught his lie.

“You didn’t miss me you fuckin’ liar. You’ve been runnin’ away from me for months,” you seethe.

“Runnin’ away was the point sweetheart,” he attempts to soothe you. “This game we’re playin’. Me: Mouse, You: Cat. That’s the game, right?” 

Maybe he has a point. It still annoys you. Maybe it even hurts your feelings a little. Feelings?

“I just thought you’d be sufferin’ more than you seem to be,” you try not to sound whiny.

“I’ve been so busy sweetheart,” he coos.

“Busy?”

“Busy tryin’ to stay two steps ahead of yo-” 

You can’t even help the laugh that bursts out of you. You clap your empty hand over your mouth but it’s too late. He’s got his face scrunched up, watching you too closely. Oops. You might as well tell him.

“That’s what you’ve been busy doin’? Is that what you think?”

The crease between his eyes deepens, his body settling into his stance while also visibly tensing up. He’s bracing for your next sentence. 

“Were you two steps ahead of me washin’ your laundry in that creek in Wyoming?” He’s holding his breath. “Or what about when you finally came back to civilization in Arkansas? Man, you really needed that shower. You stunk to high heaven!” His eyes look like they could pop out of his head. “How many steps ahead of me did you think you were in Mississippi, when you got in your tent, turned off your lantern, and whispered little bird into the dark?”

“What the fuck?!?” he gasps out, expression wild. “What th- How long- Did-,” he can’t even think of what question to ask first. “Was I ever even one step ahead of you?” he says through clenched teeth.

You just shrug your shoulders, trying your best to hide your smile, fully enjoying his realization and subsequent freakout.

“I shoulda fuckin’ known you weren’t gonna play fair,” he’s shaking his head, scowling.

“The fuck you mean by that? Play fair?”

“You always had the upper hand. You haven’t been playin’ fair. AGAIN.”

You mockingly frown at him. “If I wasn’t playin’ fair then why didn’t I just hide under your bed and kill you when you went home?” Men always have something to fucking complain about.

“I dunno. Probably has to do with the fact you’re fuckin’ crazy.”

What the fuck did he just say? Your right eye twitches. Your fingers tighten on the revolver.

“You had all the advantages,” he continues. “You had my first and last name, my home address, and my fuckin’ cellphone. I don’t even know your first nam-”

“And whose fuckin’ fault is that?” you interrupt, absolutely livid.

He snaps his eyes to yours, noting your tone. “I-”

“You never asked me my fuckin’ name did you?” you snarl.

“I-”

“You didn’t. Never asked. It was all wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” you glower.

“That’s not exactly how I remember it goin’ down,” he mutters under his breath.

“What’s my fuckin’ name?” you take a step forward, white-knuckle gripping the gun now.

His eyes flicker between yours and the revolver in your hand.

Your eyes bore into his, growing wider and wider. His mouth opens and then shuts, his pupils fully dilated. He swallows loudly, the only sound he makes.

“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” you growl, pointing towards the passenger side with the gun.

He stiffly marches to the passenger side and plops himself on the seat, pulling the door closed once seated. You raise your leg and stop the door from closing with your foot.

“Wait a fuckin’ minute cowboy,” you mock. You grab handcuffs out of your back pocket with your free hand, the other still pointing the revolver at him. You toss him the handcuffs and warn him, “make ‘em tight, this ain’t my first rodeo.” He clicks them into place and then you double check them, giving each a couple more clicks until the metal is digging into his wrist bones. 

Slamming the door closed and walking around the back, your arm sweeps his rainfly and his rifle off the tailgate onto the ground. You close and lock the back up, and round the truck to the driver’s side door. You look in through the window and make eye contact with him, his face expressionless. You know that getting into a small space with him is dangerous even if he’s handcuffed. Better not to have a gun for him to grab.

Well below the window and out of his eye-line, you flip the revolver open and let the loaded bullets fall into the grass. You flip it closed and tuck it back in your waistband at the small of your back. Opening the door, you climb in the driver’s seat. You hope he thinks it’s still loaded. Part of you even hopes he reaches for it, so you can punish him for his indiscretion.

He lied about missing you. He didn’t seem to be suffering without you. He looked like he was having fun playing cub scout in the woods. He called you crazy. He said you weren’t playing fair. He’s acting like a fucking victim when you gave him 21 weeks and 3 days more to live than you had originally planned. What an ungrateful fucking asshole. He has ruined this reunion.

*****

You drive in silence, which he takes as a bad sign. He can vaguely hear you grumbling under your breath through clenched teeth and see you white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel. He thought he had you calm for a minute back there. He was smiling, you were smiling, things were looking up. And then he said something that pissed you off, right about when he said you weren’t playing fair. He’d insulted you and now you were taking him somewhere, probably to kill him.

He thinks about grabbing the wheel, about grabbing his knife, about going for the gun he’s pretty sure is back in your waistband. But he knows you have the knife on your left side and probably a syringe hidden somewhere waiting to stab him with if he makes the wrong move. He sits in silence during the short drive and feels slight relief when you pull his truck up to a cabin, smoke billowing out of the chimney. This is better than what he was expecting - a six foot hole in the ground.

You park the truck right outside the cabin’s front door, exit the vehicle and head inside, front door slamming behind you. You’ve left him out in the truck alone. He should run. But he’s handcuffed, and you have his truck keys. What did you do with his rifle? He slowly exits the truck cab and shuts the door as quietly as possible, watching for movement at the cabin’s door. He heads to the back of the truck and quickly realizes you’ve locked both the tailgate and the bed cap’s door closed. Looking through the windows he doesn’t see his rifle and assumes you left it at his campsite. 

He might be willing to run for it with these handcuffs still on but he can’t leave everything in this truck and take off with no weapon at all. You’d catch him again in no time. He can’t run, he has nowhere else to go. He has to go inside the cabin, which of course you already knew and is the reason why you didn’t bother to drag him inside or babysit him until he came in.

He walks inside the front door and you immediately shout “SHOES!” His feet shuffle as he skids to a stop. You’re less than six feet away, at the sink of the small kitchen, not even bothering to turn and look at him. He toes his dirty boots off at the door as he looks around the small cabin, assessing the layout. To his left is a small couch, chair, and wood burning stove. Beyond the small sitting area is probably a bathroom and at the back of the cabin he sees a bunk bed through the open door.. On his right is the tiny kitchenette and directly in front of him sits a small dining table. 

He can’t help but notice that sitting on top of the otherwise empty table is the small, shiny revolver. He can’t help but notice it because it’s glaringly obvious. It’s clearly not an accident. You left that there for him to see as soon as he entered the cabin, turning your back to entice him into grabbing it, probably so you could shoot him with a different gun you have tucked into your waistband now. It’s such an obvious trap, he’s actually insulted that you think he’s that stupid. 

“Come ‘ere,” you snap, grabbing his attention.

He waits a beat but shuffles towards you, your back still turned. When he comes up behind you, you turn around, a knife in your hand. He flinches slightly and hopes you don’t notice. It’s a paring knife. You’re peeling potatoes. Knife still in your right hand you grab onto his handcuffs, pulling his arms up in front of him. You reach into your pocket with your other hand and produce the handcuff key, unlocking them without a word. 

He resists the urge to rub at his wrists where the metal has been digging into his bones. You point towards the back, at the door he assumes is the bathroom, and then turn back to the sink. You still aren’t speaking. You must still be pissed but at least he’s still alive. He won’t test your patience. He heads into the bathroom and quietly closes the door behind him, noticing a cardboard box sitting on the toilet. 

Inside the box is a change of clothes, a toothbrush, deodorant, and shaving supplies. He recognizes all of them as items you stole from his home all those months ago. He showers, shaves, changes, and takes a deep breath to steel himself as he exits the bathroom. You remain at the kitchen sink, the gun remains on the table.

He stands just outside the bathroom, able to see the entire cabin from his vantage point. Behind him is the bedroom, bunk bed on one side of the room and a double bed on the other. He can’t help but notice his old pillow on the unmade side of the double bed, presumably where you’ve been sleeping. The larger room in front of him is filled with the smell of dinner, a large stockpot simmering on the stove.

He slowly makes his way into the kitchen, looking into the pot and seeing a creamy stew, green flecks rolling along the surface as it gently bubbles. He approaches you timidly and sees you’re still armed with a paring knife, slicing strawberries now. He takes a risk and places his hands on your hips. You still your movements, but don’t move to stop him. 

He’s pretty sure you have a weapon stashed somewhere. He slowly moves his hands along your hips towards your belly button. No gun tucked in the front. He presses the front of his body up against the back of yours. He hopes it’s not obvious that he’s checking for a weapon at your back now. He feels nothing but your hair tickling his nose. He inhales. You smell like a campfire. 

He presses his nose deeper into the back of your head and inhales again. He faintly smells the shampoo from the shower. He realizes he’s still gripping you at your stomach and pulling you into him while pressing himself into you. He also notices his growing erection is pressed against you, digging into your ass. You haven’t resumed your strawberry slicing but you haven’t stabbed him either, which is a surprise.

He lets go of his squeezing grip of you and puts his hands chastely back on your hips. He waits while you slowly resume your preparation of the last of the strawberries. Impulsively, he moves his head to the side of yours and noses around the shell of your ear, his freshly shaved face brushing against your cheek. He can’t stop himself from inhaling again, memorizing your scent.

Suddenly losing all control, he closes his eyes, kissing just below your ear and slowly down your neck. A part of his brain tells him to keep checking for weapons and so he moves one hand up to cup your breast and the other hand down, fingers dipping below your waistband. He hears the clatter of the knife being dropped in the sink and his eyes snap open, you turn in his arms to face him. You gently push him backwards, his arms dropping back to his sides.

“Dinner’s ready,” as you nod to the table, an obvious instruction to sit down.

You ladle the stew from the pot on the stove into two bowls, setting one down in front of him and the other down in front of you. You drop a spoon in each bowl and sit down across from him, the revolver now serving as the meal’s centerpiece. He still won’t look at it, knowing it’s a trap. You bring a spoonful to your lips, blowing on the steaming liquid.

“Eat,” you order, your eyes not leaving his.

He grabs the spoon and mimics you, blowing on the steaming soup before taking a loud slurp. It’s very hot. You’re still watching him. What even is this? He thought you were going to kill him but instead you brought him here. What are you doing? You made him shower. You implied he should shave. You cooked him dinner. He swallows another burning spoonful. Are you playing house? What the fuck is going on?

This is just part of your game. You’re fucking crazy. 

You’re still blowing on the spoon in front of your face, watching him. He lifts another spoonful to his lips, and freezes. You haven’t put that spoon in your mouth. You’re just staring at him, watching him eat. He looks down, past his spoon, into the bowl. What is this? What is he eating? He looks back to you, your eyes still boring into his own, still gently blowing on your spoon.

“Eat your dinner,” you bark, “little bird,” you quietly add.

What. 

Is. 

This?

*****

NEXT PART: The Chase (Part 2)

He watches as she stays hunched over, reaching into the bushes and rustling the leaves. Nearly a minute passes before she finally stands, wiping her hands off on her thighs. He notices a small wooden bowl at her feet, stuffed full with berries. She is sucking on her fingertips, stained a light purple, when she turns and meets his eyes.

“Oh!,” she says, startled by his presence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone was in this ol’ thing.”

She gestures towards the cabin. She has a point. Even at first glance, the woods surrounding the cabin appear to be putting forth their best effort to reclaim it. The roof is covered in fallen leaves, moss and lichen cling to every surface, and the front steps - made of flattop logs - are sinking down, seeming to retreat back into the forest floor. And what he knows that she doesn't - yet? - is that the musty smell of the forest has permeated every square inch of the old log cabin’s interior, and everything inside of it. 

He puts on his warmest smile, softening the way his eyes are squinted, and blinks slowly. “Yeah, she’s not much but she keeps me honest,” he says, and he notices the way her body relaxes at his gentle, comforting tone.

“I’m guessin’ I’ve wandered too far. Sorry, I didn’t notice any signs posted.” The gentle lilt of her southern accent hits his ears like a sweet melody. 

“Yeah, state land ends at the treeline at the bottom ‘a that hill,” he gestures to the distance, her gaze following where he points. “But I don’t shoot or bite or nothin’, so don’t worry about steppin’ on my property,” he chuckles. He can see her continuing to relax under his welcoming reception. 

“I appreciate that. I’ve got one ‘a those little vans in the clearing down there, ‘n I expected more people to be around if I’m being honest.”

He notices she’s said I, not we.

“It’s gettin’ the end of camping season, so there’s fewer ‘n fewer out here, I think,” he waves his hand, hoping to convey how little he even notices the campers on the adjacent land.

“Well I’m sorry about stealin’ your berries. You want ‘em?” and she takes a few steps forward, closing the gap between them, holding the small bowl in her outstretched arms. 

The pigtails make her look young. So does the innocence in her eyes, which are partially hidden behind her thick-framed glasses. She stops short of the steps, still about six feet away now, still holding out the bowl. 

“No, ‘course not,” he gives her a sideways grin. “Those were gonna get eaten by birds before they got eaten by me. You enjoy ‘em little bird.” His guts twist at the smile that breaks out on her face. The way she looks down, almost bashful.

She turns to walk away and then stops, turning back to look at him. He watches her as she gives the outside of the deteriorating cabin another once-over, and then looks him up and down. “Can I ask you somethin’?” and before he can even respond, she continues. “Is it safe around here?”

His stomach clenches. He gently furrows his brows, “yeah, sure it is, why?”

“I’ve heard a couple things recently about people going missin’. Hikers and campers near here,” she gestures in a circular motion with her finger. “You heard anything about that?”

She is worried. He can tell because she looks worried. God, every emotion she has is playing across her face right now. He can read her like a book. She is so vulnerable. She’s a young woman camping all alone in the woods and she is worried. She should be.

“I haven’t heard anything myself, no. But that happens every year. People underestimate it.”

“Underestimate what?” she interjects, her doe eyes scanning his face.

“Nature,” he replies, and now he gestures around with his finger.

He gives her another soft smile and blinks his eyes slowly. She lets a genuine grin break through her worried features and she nods, taking in his response.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, there’s no one out here to cause ya trouble,” he offers, hoping she notes that he is clearly not a danger. “Besides, if anything happens, you can come back here.”

This time her smile falters a bit. He’s pushed too far. She’s worried. She’s alone. She’s not looking to seek refuge in a stranger’s cabin. He backtracks.

“I’m sure the worst thing that’s gonna happen is ya find a spider in your van,” he continues, “But please don’t come back here for that!” 

He gives a low chuckle and is glad to see she does the same, good humor returning to her now relaxing face. She gestures to the bowl of berries and flashes a toothy-smile as a thanks, before turning to retreat down the hill. He hears her call out a goodbye after she turns and he calls one back in response. 

He goes back inside and finishes watching her leave until the trees hide her departing figure. He has about seven more hours until dark fully takes hold. Seven more hours until he can seek her out in the clearing with the safe knowledge of remaining undetected. Plenty of time for him to finish prepping the cabin and get himself some dinner.

*****

He thinks he might be getting too old for this. His lower back is aching, his thighs are on fire, and he’s had a stabbing pain in his neck for the last twenty minutes; all due to the fact that he has been hunched against this tree for over an hour. Usually he wouldn’t still be here. He’d have made some observations, taken some mental notes, and planned for additional reconnaissance later on.

But he doesn’t know how long you’re going to be here. You haven’t unpacked anything - not even a folding chair - to indicate that your campsite setup will be anything more than a one-night stay. If you’re gone tomorrow and he has missed his opportunity, he’ll regret leaving now. He has spent the last eight hours thinking about nothing but you. 

He’s thought about the way your delicate lips wrapped around your fingertips and the gentle melody you hummed before you knew he was there. He has thought about the kind way you offered him the berries you picked and the way your jeans hugged your ass as you sauntered away. What would your eyes look like if he took your glasses off, if he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, if he wrapped his big hands around your delicate throat?

No, he has to do it tonight. He can’t wait any longer. 

Your van is all black. Besides the windshield, there are windows only at the two front seats and the rear double doors. However, you have all the windows covered with blackout panels. Smart. You’re a young woman camping alone, keeping your privacy is a smart thing to do. And keeping peeping eyes out of your space is probably important to you.

You’ve been playing music inside the entire time, though he doesn’t recognize any of the songs. Sometimes he thinks he can hear you humming along. He imagines you’re eating the berries you picked from the bushes outside his cabin. Maybe you’ve changed into more comfortable clothing, maybe you’re sitting on your bed, maybe you’re reading a book. Maybe you’re even thinking about him. He tried not to make an impression earlier but part of him hopes he did.

He really can’t wait any longer.

He moves slowly, not just because his body is quite literally creaking, but because he has to keep his head on a swivel and continue to make sure there are no eyes watching him. He makes his way towards the van, choosing his steps carefully. His head moves back and forth, checking in front of and behind him, watching for any movement. The night is so quiet all he hears is the gentle wind rustling the tall grass and the constant cricket song.

He finally reaches the side door of the van. The music inside is louder from here but he still doesn’t recognize the song. He pats his pockets, obsessively triple-checking he has the supplies he’ll need. He pulls a small tool out of his shirt pocket and sticks it in the door lock. He feels rather than hears the soft click that he knows means he now has full access to you. 

He puts his hand on the door handle and inhales a breath, holding it with full lungs. He closes his eyes and imagines what he’ll see when he opens the door, warm light spilling onto him from the inside. What will you be wearing? Will you look excited to see him? Frightened? Will you scream?

“Hey there little bird,” he says quietly as he throws the door open. Confusion falls across his face. He looks down onto the floor of the van, where a single bluetooth speaker sits, still playing music. The single overhead light from the van’s interior barely illuminates the inside, but it doesn’t matter, since there isn’t anything to see. 

The inside of the van isn’t a camper. It’s an empty utility van. There are no seats and no wall panels. In fact, the entire inside of the van is covered in thick plastic sheeting, which vibrates a strange buzz from the reverberation of the bluetooth speaker.

He has barely taken it all in when he feels a pinch in his neck. He grabs at it with his hand but there is nothing there and before he can react further, everything goes black.

*****

You hear a couple deep breaths and then some grunting. Maybe this means he’s finally waking up. You walk around in front of where he sits bound naked to a chair, and bend over, hands on your knees, face close to his, cooing gently for him to wake up sleepyhead. 

Standing up straight, you watch as he slowly opens his eyes, bit by bit, working to focus. He is blinking long, slow blinks, and his eyes raise to your face. His pupils start going big and then small, his eyes start rapidly blinking as his swirling thoughts begin to come back to him. 

Then you see it - recognition.

He crinkles his brows, the crease between them going so deep. His mouth begins to form a question but only a short, dry croak comes out. You can’t help yourself, you laugh at him. A quiet, melodic chuckle.

“Sorry, I think I gave you too much back there,” with two fingers you brush some hair off his forehead that has fallen forward. “I thought you were fatter under all these clothes, but you’re doing alright for yerself there.”

His eyes fall to your shirt - well, his shirt - and then to his own lap. He’s just realizing he’s naked. Then his eyes trail back up your body as he takes in the fact that you’re wearing all of the clothes you stripped off him.

His mouth opens again but you don’t let him even try to speak this time. You grab his face and his eyes snap to meet yours. “Remember when I asked if you knew anything about those campers and hikers goin’ missing?” You drop your hand from his face and step to the side to reveal a folding table set up behind you. Along the table you have laid an array of different souvenirs he had plucked from his victims. 

“You told me you didn’t know anything,” you continue, as you watch his eyes grow larger as they rake across the table, taking in the items he had hidden away in his cabin. “But honey, I think you know a lot more than you said you did.”

His eyes slowly come back to yours and you can’t hide the smile you now have plastered across your face. “I don’t-” he starts. You quickly shove your finger overtop his mouth in a shush motion.

“Don’t even try that honey, we’re way past denial now. I already found all yer little trophies.” 

Now he flexes in the chair. Your finger drags down his neck and across his shoulder as you walk around the chair, circling him. You watch him continue to strain, testing the ropes, checking to see for himself if you knew what you were doing when you tied him to the chair. You did.

“So what is this?” he mutters, “One a’ them yer friend? Your brother or sister or somethin’?” He continues to push against the unforgiving ropes. “This some kinda revenge plot you got brewin’?” 

You can’t help it, you laugh again. “Oh honey, is that what you think?” You place your finger at the top of his forehead and slowly run it down his face, “You think you’ve hurt me?” over his nose, “Think I’m your victim?” over his lips, stopping on his chin. You lean in and ghost your lips right over his. “I’m not your victim honey,” you whisper against his lips, “you’re mine,” pressing into him with a kiss.

You stand up and take a step back. “I know what you are. I know exactly what you are because I’m the same. Well, almost the same,” and you laugh again, breaking eye contact. “When I was young, my adoptive father recognized it in me n’ taught me how to direct it. He called it my dark passenger and I-”

“Y-yer what?” he interrupts.

“What?” You’re back to looking him in his eyes.

“Did you say your dark passenger?” He looks past the folding table strewn with his trophies and sees the ‘camper van’ parked with the side door still wide open, inside still covered with plastic sheeting. “Dark passen- isn’t that from that fuckin’ TV show? Dexter?”

“What the fu-,” you slap your arms against your thighs in frustration. “Don’t tell me you get fuckin’ Showtime in that piece a shit cabin. There wasn’t even a fuckin’ TV in that shithole.”

“Well I don’t fuckin’ live there sweetheart that’s just where I-” he stops short but just rolls his eyes at you. Then he gives you a look like he’s embarrassed for you. 

“Oh well excuse me for wantin’ to add a little flair to this situation!” you yell out to the ceiling. “I guess we can’t have any fuckin’ fun around here.”

“So what’re you gonna do now Dex, chop me up and take me out to the ocean?” a cocky fucking grin settles on his face.. 

“Jesus Christ what’d you watch the whole fuckin’ series?” You look down at his smug face. He thinks he has the upper hand again. This motherfucker. Naked. Tied to a chair. Still thinks he’s smarter than you. 

“You know how much fuckin’ work it’d be to chop your fat ass up?” and you watch his grin get wiped off his face. “Think I’m gonna take the time to dismember you? You? I could leave you just like this in a shallow ditch ‘n not one person would even miss you honey.”

“Then whatcha’ fuckin’ waitin’ for, huh?” He snarls, his smugness gone. “Get it over with, let’s go.”

You walk behind him and grab a second chair, dragging it noisily across the floor until it’s parallel to his own chair but facing the other way. You plop down in the chair and lean closer to him.

“I really don’t know how you’re still not gettin’ it,” you say quietly. You drag your finger along the ropes across the front of his chest as he lowers his chin to watch you. “But you are not in charge here.” He lifts his head and his hard eyes meet yours.

“Now… I’m gonna ask you some questions and you’re gonna answer me honestly.”

“And why would I fuckin’ do that?” he says calmly, quietly.

“Cuz otherwise I’m gonna call 9-1-1 right now. When they get here they’ll see I’ve done all their work for ‘em.” you hitch your thumb back to point it towards the table behind you. He sighs a deep breath and - growls? - under his breath.

You point to the table again and ask, “How do you choose your victims?” He shakes his head, tries to shift in his chair but the ropes are tied too tight to allow for much movement. You really do know what you’re doing. He still doesn’t seem to believe it, flexing his arms and chest against the ropes yet again.

“I don’t.” You give him a beat to add more to the sentence but he just stares at you with black eyes, mouth closed and tight-lipped.

“You’re gonna have to do a little better n’ that honey,” you gently coo. He suppresses another growl. You can tell that your little nickname for him is finally starting to grate on his nerves. 

“That’s my answer,” he grumbles, refusing to elaborate, staring ahead at the folding table.

“Okay hun, no problem,” you reply as you lean forward and pull a cell phone out of your back pocket. You punch in the lock code and begin to dial. You type in 9 and you see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You quickly type in the 1 and then hover your finger over the button, ready to repeat the motion. You pause and look up, meeting his eyes.

“You wanna call my bluff or you wanna start talkin’?” and then you smile as you hear jesus fuckin’ christ muttered under his breath and watch him spend some more time straining against the ropes. “Get it over with, let’s go,” you repeat his words back to him in a bad impression of his gruff voice. His scowl deepens.

“I don’t,” he repeats. “I don’t choose ‘em.” He sighs, and you open your mouth to protest that he’s still holding back but before you can speak he continues, “I just take what’s there.”

“You don’t have a type?” 

“You seem to know everythin’, look at ‘em,” he nods towards the table where you have placed cut out photos from the missing posters next to the trinkets you found in his cabin. “Does it look like I have a type?” You remember the photos of men and women from all backgrounds on that table.

“So you just take whatever… whoever you can get?”

“Easier that way. Don’t have to go findin’ something specific.” He’s not making eye contact anymore, even though you have leaned in so far your faces are just inches apart. “Less suspicious that way too. Looks less like one person is pickin’ ‘em all off.” He shrugs, then quiets.

You lean back in your chair now, thinking over what he’s said. He’s been doing this for years. You could connect some of his souvenirs to known missing people but he had more items stuffed in his floorboards than you had pictures. So who knows how high his number really is.

“Is that all of ‘em?” nodding your head back towards the table again. His head is still down, seemingly very interested in a freckle on his left thigh. But you see a smile tug at one side of his mouth. He tries to hide it before you can see but it’s too late.

“Yeah,” he lies, unconvincingly. He doesn’t see you roll your eyes. God he’s shit at lying. 

You raise the phone up and wave it in front of his face, showing the 9-1 still dialed in. “Is that your final answer, honey?” He lets out a big sigh, like you’ve spoiled his fun. That’s right, we can’t have any fun around here, can we?

“Not exactly,” he grumbles. “Camping season is short ‘round here. Winter comes on quick. I have somewhere else I go sometimes,” he vaguely adds. He doesn’t elaborate further.

“Do you have sex with ‘em before or after you kill ‘em?” you ask, not even taking time to absorb his previous answer. His head snaps up to yours, his eyes wide.

“What?”

“Do you have se-”

“I don’t fuckin’ do that,” he spits, face contorted in disgust.

“Yeahhhh. But that’s what they all say. And, spoiler alert,” your voice goes high and teasing, “they ALL do it.” His face is still tight, mouth curled into a frown. 

“Well I fuckin’ don’t,” he looks back down at the freckle on his thigh, continuing to curse under his breath how disgusting you are for asking. “Killin’ doesn’t get me hard,” he snarls.

“Oh honey, I don’t know why you’re goin’ all shy on me now,” you coo, he’s still looking down, shaking his head now. “I’ve been in your little hidey-hole, ya know. It smells like fuckin’ loam ‘n body odor. I took a black light. That place is truly fuckin’ disgusting.” You adjust your glasses on your nose and continue, “I didn’t find a single cleaning product in the whole place. And now you’re gonna act like you’re not in there sprayin’ blood and cum all over the walls?” He doesn’t raise his head but his eyes meet yours under his eyebrows to scowl at you. You lean in till your noses almost touch. “A black light,” you repeat.

“That’s a huntin’ cabin sweetheart, and it wasn’t always mine. So I can’t tell you what yer little black light saw but it wasn’t me doin’ - that - with any ‘a them,” he nods to the table. 

Now you consider what he’s said and decide if you believe him or not. He’s a terrible liar, right? Maybe. Or maybe he’s just been playing you this entire time. You don’t give a shit that he’s a murderer. Anyone would murder under the right circumstances. But sexual assault? That’s a line you’d never cross. In fact, most of the men you’ve killed have been guilty of it themselves. Pigs, all of them, who’d stick their dicks anywhere for a moment of pleasure. They deserved what they got. Is this guy one of them?

“Well like I said, that’s what they all say, n-”

He interrupts, muttering jesus fuckin’ christ again, and more curses follow in whispers. “Is there fuckin’ evidence that I did any ‘a that? Any… sexual assault?” he spits the last two words out with particular venom, speaking the term for the first time.

“You’re askin’ if there’s any evidence on the months-old decomposing body parts found half-eaten in the woods?” You poke the freckle on his thigh he’s been seemingly obsessed with. “Surprisingly, no, there was not any evidence of sexual assault found.”

“Well then, there ya go,” he grunts out, as if that settles it. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. You can’t tell if it’s from shame, discomfort, or disgust. He’s doing a good job pretending it’s disgust. Is he pretending?

You try to ask another question but he is done talking. He won’t look up from his lap now. You even hold up the cell phone again but he doesn’t flinch. He knows by now you’re not going to dial the police. He’s shut down. So you get up and pull your chair away, disappearing behind him for a moment. 

When you come back in front of him you sit on his lap, facing him, straddling his legs with yours. He looks up at you with cautious eyes and opens his mouth to say something - but say what you’re not sure. When he feels the sharp poke just under his ribs he stops short. He looks down and sees the 5” knife you have pressed into the soft spot where his sternum ends.

“I guess it’s time then, honey,” you hum. The hand not holding the knife traces the side of his face. He looks almost sad for one singular moment before his eyes turn hard and all the muscles in his face pull tight.

“If ya expect me to beg, you’re wastin’ yer time.” His pupils are blown wide. “Just do it.”

“How about you stop bein’ so bossy on our first date?” You lean in and kiss him on the nose, then the right cheek, then the left cheek. “Well…..  Our last date,” and you kiss him on the mouth.

You press your lips hard into his and wait. When he doesn’t relent you take your free hand and squeeze his cheeks, hard, forcing his mouth open. Risking him biting your tongue, you push it into his mouth. Your gamble pays off when he doesn’t bite but instead pushes his tongue back and forth along the length of yours.

You wrap your free arm around his shoulders, bracing yourself and grinding your body down into his naked lap. You press your chest into his as your hand moves to the back of his head and fists in his wild curls. You continue kissing him, tongues wrapping around each other, lips moving sloppily across each other’s mouths. 

You move your wet kisses down his jaw, mouthing at the patches in his graying, scruffy beard. You grab a handful of his hair and squeeze your fist, tugging gently at the roots. He grits his teeth and groans, attempting to buck his hips up. 

Of course he can’t move against the restraints, but you grind down again, and you can finally feel that he’s gotten hard through the baggy jeans you’re still wearing. You let a low chuckle slip out.

“I thought killin’ didn’t get you hard,” you smile against his mouth.

“Who am I killin’?” he mutters, still simmering with anger at the topic.

Oh yeah, you giggle, your breath ghosting across his neck. “I guess I’m the one who it’s gettin’ hard,” you whisper. 

You can’t help it. The anticipation of the kill is thrumming through your veins. It’s always like this, the energy, the electricity. Killing makes you feel more alive. You usually aren’t making out with them though. Never, in fact. This time feels different. You’re not sure why.

You lick a stripe up his neck, rolling your hips over his hardened length, and now he bites, nipping gently at your jaw. You squirm and the knife pokes harder into his abdomen. He inhales a sharp breath through his nose at the contact. You silence any additional protest by kissing him hard on the mouth again.

You pull back, face flushed and panting. He is looking at you with wild eyes and puffy lips, his hair pulled at strange angles from your hands running through it. Do you want to fuck this guy? You just brought him here to kill him but now you think you want to fuck him. This is a morally gray area. He’s bound to a chair and you have a knife at his ribs. Can he consent?

“Why’d ya stop?” he huffs out, bringing your attention back to him. “Are we doin’ this or what?”

“It feels kinda fucked up,” you say meekly, the first time he’s seeing any hesitation from you. You look down, twirling the knife against the rope crossing his chest. “It’s not gonna change my mind ‘bout what happens here ya know.”

“I didn’t say it would,” he says quietly, and you look back into his eyes. His eyes are dark, like fresh brewed coffee. They’d be kinda nice if they weren’t about to be on a dead guy.

“You…. you want this?”

“Why not?” he immediately answers.

“Because I’m gonna kill you after,” and even though you’re sure he doesn’t need the reminder, you poke him lightly in the ribs with the knife again, leaving a little red dot from the tip. He doesn’t react this time. He just lets a small smile ghost across his face and his eyes soften as they land on yours.

“What a way to go.”

It’s all you need to hear. You get up and uncinch the belt that is the only thing holding his pants up around your waist. As soon as it’s loosened, the pants fall to the floor, the belt buckle tinkling as it hits the concrete. You’re not wearing any underwear but the view of your cunt is obstructed by the long flannel shirt draped over you.

You take the knife and stick it in the edge of the shirt about breast-high, just above where you have the first button done up. You slowly drag the knife down the placket, cutting each button off easily with the very sharp blade. The buttons clatter to the floor one by one and when you’ve reached the last one, the shirt opens up a bit.

It’s just enough to see the valley between your breasts, a line of your soft stomach, the patch of hair on your mound, and your pink folds peeking out between your legs. You watch him looking you up and down, devouring the sight of you. His brown eyes now black with hunger. Now you can finally take the time to admire his body. 

Yes you had stripped him naked and then tied him to the chair. The whole process had taken nearly thirty minutes. Your hands had been all over him, this grown man you had to maneuver while he was unconscious. But that wasn’t about sex. That was just a body. And you’ve had your hands on plenty of bodies. It’s not sexual. 

But now…. now you can really admire him. He has a long and muscular neck, a broad chest, and freckle-dotted shoulders with strong muscles that continue down his thick arms. He isn’t very hairy but he does have soft arm hair, a little chest hair, and a trail of hair that starts beneath his belly button and continues down to a large patch around his cock.

His cock. Now you can appreciate what you were feeling on his lap. Why does it look so good? Cocks shouldn’t look this good. It’s fully hard, leaking precum and leaning against his stomach, his balls pulled tight at the bottom. You’re surprised to notice his pubic hair isn’t growing wild, it looks as if it was trimmed but has grown out a bit. His cock is both a little larger and a little thicker than what you know to be average. It’s not the biggest you’ve ever seen but that’s alright. In this context you aren’t looking for something that’s going to destroy you. You need to be able to walk later, you’ll have a body to dispose of.

You look back at his face and his eyes are meeting yours. You wonder if he can see the same hunger in your eyes that you saw in his. He’s smiling again but this time it’s not the same cocky grin as before, this one is genuine and filled with excitement. Your heart is pounding. You feel intoxicated. Is this the thrill of the kill or the sex?

Double ropes make an X across his chest, fastening his torso tight to the back of the chair. His arms and wrists are also bound to the back of the chair, causing his arms to be extended stiff at his sides, hands dangling towards the ground. Another X of the double rope crosses his thighs, attaching him to the seat of the chair, and his ankles are tied to the chair’s front legs.

You consider for one brief moment if untying any part of him would increase your enjoyment but quickly decide that’s not a good idea. Even if you might want his hands on your body, if you find them on your throat, it could all get very messy very quickly.

You give your shoulders a slight shrug and his flannel begins to fall off your shoulders, brushing down your arms as it falls to the ground. Now you stand before him completely bare. You don’t miss the fuuuck he silently mouths. Jesus christ what is this guy doing to you? You swear you just felt your clit twitch. 

It is now obvious more than ever the effect he’s having on you, as your unobstructed cunt is so wet that the cool air hitting your thighs makes you realize you are a fucking sopping mess down there. Not wanting to wait any longer, you straddle his thighs again. This time you don’t put your legs on either side but rather rest your legs on top of his. Your feet rest inside of his thighs right under his balls and your ankles and shins lay on top of his thighs. This position is you going give you the best leverage to raise and lower yourself, since you know he can’t help with driving his cock into you.

You can see his arms straining against the ropes. By now he should have learned that they’re too tight for him to move but you think this might just be out of habit. He wants to touch your body, you can tell by the way he moves his head forward - the only thing he can freely move forward - and laps his tongue anywhere he can reach.

You grab his face with one hand and crash your mouth onto his, a mess of teeth and lips and tongues. With your other hand, which is still holding the knife, you carefully use two fingers to tilt his cockhead directly under you and you slowly sink down on it.

You both let out wanton moans into each other’s mouths at the sensation. You continue to press down until he’s seated all the way inside you, and then you pause to let your body adjust. He feels bigger than he looked. Maybe it’s been a while since you’ve been with anyone but this feels borderline painful. You don’t move up and down but rock forward and backwards ever so slightly, giving yourself some more time. He groans a little bit, maybe impatient but you don’t care, and you just smile against his mouth.

You feel your own wetness dripping out of you, down around him, and you feel like you’re ready to go. Pulling your face back from his, you look in each other’s eyes, almost tenderly. You put both hands on top of his shoulders, careful to have a good grip on the knife but not have it too close to his skin. You don’t want to be the one to do anything prematurely in this situation. 

You start slowly at first, ignoring the quiet groans coming from him. He’s not whining but he doesn’t sound or look pleased with the pace you’ve set if the pained look on his face is any indication. You continue moving but grab his face to ask you good? The pained look immediately disappears from his face as his eyes snap open. He grunts and mutters a quiet it’s been awhile before he closes his eyes again, trying to focus.

“Don’t you end this early on me,” you warn. It’s a little funny to you when you realize that his punishment for doing that would be death. It shouldn’t be funny but it is. Probably because you’re fucked in the head. He barely reacts and just mutters I won’t between clenched teeth.

Your pace starts to pick up and you alternate between quite literally bouncing up and down on his cock, and grinding forwards and backwards on it. Each time you switch movements he lets out a strangled groan, clenching his eyes tighter. You can feel your orgasm start to build as a little ball of energy deep in your torso.

You picture what it would be like if he could put his hands on you. You take your own hands off his shoulders and run them up and down your thighs, careful to not let the blade hit either of your bodies. You run them across your stomach and up your ribcage, grabbing your breasts, the cold blade of the knife pressed against one of them. You cry out at the sensation and notice he has opened his eyes now and is watching you intently.

You throw your head back, squeezing your breasts, and bring two fingers to pinch each nipple until they’re over-sensitive and stinging. You look back down and watch his face, inches from your breasts, mesmerized. Without warning you shove one of them right into his mouth and he greedily accepts it, tonguing and biting your nipple. 

You continue to move on his lap, driving his cock in and out, up and down, filling you up, hitting all the right spots inside of you. Your bodies are sliding against each other, lubricated by the sheen of sweat covering them. The sounds of your skin slapping echoes off the walls. The slurping noises of his mouth are turning you on even more. You can feel your orgasm now just below the surface. You know you’re close. 

“I’m gonna come honey,” you moan. Jesus fuckin’ christ you hear him grunt beneath you, mouth still full of your breast.

You push yourself closer to him, pressed up against his chest, his mouth popping off your nipple. You wrap both arms around his neck and pull him tight, rutting hard and deep on his lap. It’s just there, so close. Then he latches his mouth onto your neck just below your jaw, and he sucks. 

A white-hot release immediately hits your body, spreading from the core out. It hits you so hard that you actually scream. Your movements stutter and slow as you work through your orgasm, feeling your pussy contracting on his cock.

Seconds later you hear him against your neck, a long and drawn-out moan, as you feel him releasing repeatedly inside of you. You continue gentle rocking motions against him until you feel his cock still. His mouth is still against your neck, breathing heavy breaths in between curses of jesus fuckin’ christ, and holy shit.

You push yourself up off him using the leverage from your shins on his thighs just enough for him to slip out of you, your combined release dripping out onto his lap. You lay your head down on one of his shoulders, gently kissing his neck. At the other shoulder, your arm rests with the knife dragging up and down along where his carotid artery lies.

You sit like that for a while, both of you catching your breaths, getting your bearings back. You are vaguely aware of the mess on his lap you’ll have to clean up later. It’ll have to wait. You think that orgasm made you dizzy. You’re pretty sure your legs will be jell-o for a bit. You haven’t felt like this in a long time. Fucked out and cockdrunk.

He is the first to speak.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says tentatively, “before ya….  ya know.”

“You have a question for me?” you scoff, “I’m flattered,” which is true, even considering what you’ve just done.

“Were ya serious about doin’ this before? The killin’ part?”

“Well yeah, what makes ya think I wasn’t serious?” you lift your head to look him in the eyes just in time to see him roll his.

“Probably the part where ya pretended to be Dexter-” he starts.

“Oh my god I can’t wait till you stop breathin’ so I don’t have to hear about that again. I was just trying to- ya know what? Nevermind,” and you push the blade forward into his neck a little. It’s hard enough to pierce the skin. It draws a couple drops of blood but you’re mostly just teasing him, since you have no desire to clean five liters of blood off the floor of this rented garage. But you can’t help the thrill that shoots into your stomach at the way he clenches in fear.

His body relaxes after a few seconds when he realizes you haven’t pushed the knife in any further. He had clenched his eyes shut, not letting you see the panic in them. Now they flutter open and meet yours, barely able to focus, your faces are so close together.

“My question was somethin’ else,” he mutters, barely audible over the sound of your pounding heartbeat whooshing in your ears. You say nothing, just continue to stare at him wide-eyed, unblinking. “My question was… why. Why do ya do it?”

You are taken aback. Literally and figuratively. You physically pull back from him, resting on your heels back where his knees are. Your hands remain on his shoulders, one still clutching the knife against his neck. Someone is looking for the answer, you think to yourself. It’s almost sweet that he thinks you have it.

“I do it for the same reason you do it.” You scan his face, searching for that smug smile, waiting for deception to play across it, for something. For anything. It doesn’t come. He genuinely doesn’t know. “I do it because it fucking feels good, honey.”

He just keeps your gaze, nodding his head slowly as he takes in your answer. He doesn’t ask anything else or add to your answer. He’s just considering it. You get up off his lap and fold up the knife in your hand, dropping it on the floor on top of the discarded flannel. You walk behind him again and grab the pre-filled syringe you set up. This is the way you like to do things. Clean. Efficient. No stains or smells to deal with later.

You walk up behind him, standing so you are pressed to the back of the chair, his head resting against your bare stomach. You put your hands down on top of his shoulders, the syringe in your dominant hand tapping against his skin. He looks down at it and then tilts his head back to look up at you.

“Why me?” he asks. Not whiny, like most people are. Just a curiosity. Why him? Why did you pick him? Out of everyone in the world, why is it him? It’s almost romantic.

“I thought it’d be fun. I mean, it’s always fun. But I thought it’d be more fun than usual, huntin’ someone like me. Well, almost like me. I’m better at it,” and you tap the syringe against his clavicle a few times, “obviously.”

“Well you weren’t exactly playin’ fair, were ya sweetheart?” he says in an accusing tone.

“How do ya mean?” you ask, your eyes going wide, insulted by the implication. “You knew people would be lookin’ around and askin’ questions, maybe even the police.”

“Yeahhh,” he concedes, “but the police‘re idiots.” He keeps his eyes on you, watching you nod your head in agreement. “I didn’t think I was up against someone like you.” He pauses and then flashes you a cocky grin. “Someone smart.”

“Oh stop, now you’re just tryin’ to flatter me,” and you swat the syringe on his shoulder.

“I’m not,” he says, still smiling.

“Kinda seems like you are, ya ol’ flirt.” and you wink down at him.

“No, what I’m tryin’ ta say is…” and he finally looks away, staring straight ahead before he delivers the next sentence. “I bet you couldn’t do it again.”

“Do what again?” You continue to look down at him but he’s still looking straight forward, not meeting your eyes.

“Catch me.”

Now you’re annoyed. “Honey it really wasn’t that fuckin’ hard the first time. I highly doubt th-”

“But,” he interrupts, “I bet you couldn’t do it again.” His cocky smile is back, head thrown back staring up at you again. “You couldn’t do it now that I know you’re lookin’ fer me. 

You push off his shoulders and walk around the front of him. Bending over, you pull his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans laid on the floor. You’re gonna wipe that smug grin off his face once and for all. “Well Joel Miller,” and you read off his home address in Texas, “I really do think I could find you again.”

“Then do it.” His smile is gone. His face is expressionless. He’s just staring at you. “Find me again,” he taunts.

You drop the wallet back to the ground and sit down on his lap, almost considering what he’s saying. You run your hand on the side of his stupid smug little face, syringe still in the other hand. You lean your face to his and gently pepper his face with kisses.  

“Honey, I don’t want you sufferin’,” you coo between smooches. “Yer gonna miss me too much if I let you go.”

“How long you think I’d have to suffer?” he counters, “Hmm? How long you think it’d take you?”

“It took me less than a week this time honey. So probably not long,” you continue the kisses down his neck.

“Then come find me,” he growls, stilling your motions. “End my sufferin’.”

You pull back from him. Fuck. The thought of it made you undeniably excited. You were practically vibrating with anticipation and you weren’t even thinking about killing him anymore. This was about a chase. An honest-to-god chase with someone that might be something close to a challenge.

He had a point. You didn’t want to admit that to him, but he didn’t know you were looking for him. He had no idea there was someone like him in the area, whereas you had begun to suspect last summer, and had spent the last year putting pieces together and planning your trip this way. 

It did take you less than a week of moving around to different areas of the state land with your van, finding different places to camp, until you ran into him and his filthy little cabin. But you had spent much longer than that reviewing his victims, studying his patterns, and getting yourself into his mindset as best you could. 

He has confirmed your suspicions that he moved on after the summer to hunt somewhere else. But where else? Where he lives in Texas? Another off-the-grid cabin? It could be anywhere. It doesn’t matter. You’ll figure it out. 

The phone you’ve been threatening him to dial 9-1-1 with is actually his phone. You'd used his fingerprint to gain access while he was out cold and then changed the passcode to something that only you know. You can gather a lot of information on him from his cellphone. That will help and he doesn’t even yet realize you have it. 

You already have an upper hand on his little proposition. You’re already outsmarting him.

You press your lips to his one last time and stick the syringe’s small needle into his neck, pressing the plunger halfway down. With open eyes kissing him you see his eyes go wide and then shut. His entire body goes limp under yours, including his lips. His plush lips. You feel his heart still beating strong under your hand so you take the time to indulge, holding his head up and stealing a few more kisses before you have to start cleaning up.

*****

Joel wakes a while later, how long he’s not sure, but the room he’s in looks very different. The van is gone, as is the folding table covered in trophies and photos of his victims, as are you. In fact, very few things remain in the room. 

His clothes are folded in a stack on the floor in front of him. Next to them are his wallet and truck keys. Finally, there is a folded note stuck to his leg. It’s pinned to him with your five inch pocket knife having been driven into his thigh.

The restraints around his wrists have been cut so that he can reach forward to take the knife out of his leg. When he does, the note drifts to the floor a few feet away. He ignores the searing pain and blood now streaming from the wound on his leg and manages to work himself free of the rest of the ropes. 

He moves to stand up out of the chair and immediately his legs give out, collapsing him unceremoniously onto the floor. He is free of the chair for the first time in - judging by the physical state of him - what has probably been half a day. With shaky hands he reaches out and picks up the paper where it had fallen, unfolding it.

In pretty, looping handwriting it reads: ‘Catch ya later!   xoxo’ 

*****