painfully his chest hurt. His lungs felt as though someone squeezed them, and he struggled to inhale. Staring at the empty room, he clenched his teeth and fists, the backs of his eyes painful from the pressure growing inside his head.
He released a yell then quieted, mindful of the neighbors hearing him.
"Shit. Fucking shit !” he whispered.
Carl turned and reached the front door, his mind trying to work out where Paul would have gone without his wallet. Brian's? No, Lil didn't like Paul. Who else would help him?
"Think!"
He yanked the door open and left the apartment, feet thumping on the ground, rage growing, festering. In his car, he started the engine and shoved into gear, veering away from the curb calmly in case anyone watched.
The drive home fraught with different scenarios, Carl coached himself to keep calm and deal with finding Paul in the morning—if the police hadn't picked the limp dick up before then. He grinned as he imagined how it would go. Cops finding the credit card and the body—and he had no doubt they'd find it tonight, what with door-to-door enquiries about the other jackass he'd killed. Paul being found and hauled in for questioning. Paul denying it, shitting bricks at being in trouble.
What did I see in him again?
He batted away the answer, not wanting to face up to the fact that Paul was good for him— to him. His relationship with Paul was the closest Carl had come to loving someone. Fucked if he could show it the way Paul wanted him to, though. Didn't Paul see Carl just wasn't like that? He needed the violence, the control. No way could he get down with any of the vanilla shit. And he thought Paul had liked the roughness too.
Unless he was lying. Or too damn weak to tell me where to get off.
But wasn't that what Carl wanted? Someone to bully?
"Damn fucking right!"
Carl parked on his driveway and leaned across to the back seat for his shirt. He sat for a moment, contemplating tonight's events. Shit, it seemed to have gone on forever. Seemed hours ago he'd fucked Paul. He peered at the dashboard clock. Just passed ten.
"Jesus."
He left the car, locking it on the key fob as he walked away, and went inside. Flicking on the hallway light, he moved to the large leather-framed mirror on the wall and inspected his face. Flecks of dried blood smattered his hairline, and he reached up to pick some off. A flake stuck to his fingertip, and he brought it to his nose, sniffing heavily. It smelled of nothing. Disappointment thundered through him, and he studied his reflection, trying to see the person behind the mask. If he was honest, he couldn't find him—he'd lost himself too long ago to even remember what he used to be like.
Carl shrugged and took the stairs two at a time, going into the bathroom to set the shower on hot. He dropped his shirt to the floor then stripped, suddenly eager to wash away the filth of those men. The shower burned his skin, but he gritted his teeth and scrubbed himself clean. Finished, he stepped out of the stall and dried his body, walking into the bedroom to slip on some tracksuit bottoms.
"You never know, the police might be round at any time, asking if I know where Paul is."
His heart rate sped up. My clothes ...
He strode into the bathroom and scooped them up, jogging downstairs and out into the back yard. Carl stared up at his neighbors’ windows to check if any lights blazed. They didn't. Satisfied he was safe, he piled the clothes on the grass and went inside to get some lighter fluid and matches. Back out in the yard, he doused the clothes and set them on fire, watching the red, yellow, and orange flames devour the fabric. Dark gray smoke billowed upward, gusted his way on a sudden stiff breeze. It caught at the back of his throat, and he coughed, returning inside for a glass of water, closing the back door so the smell didn't get in.
Carl stared at the flames for long moments, his mind replaying the killings and fabricating scenarios. Would the police
He released a yell then quieted, mindful of the neighbors hearing him.
"Shit. Fucking shit !” he whispered.
Carl turned and reached the front door, his mind trying to work out where Paul would have gone without his wallet. Brian's? No, Lil didn't like Paul. Who else would help him?
"Think!"
He yanked the door open and left the apartment, feet thumping on the ground, rage growing, festering. In his car, he started the engine and shoved into gear, veering away from the curb calmly in case anyone watched.
The drive home fraught with different scenarios, Carl coached himself to keep calm and deal with finding Paul in the morning—if the police hadn't picked the limp dick up before then. He grinned as he imagined how it would go. Cops finding the credit card and the body—and he had no doubt they'd find it tonight, what with door-to-door enquiries about the other jackass he'd killed. Paul being found and hauled in for questioning. Paul denying it, shitting bricks at being in trouble.
What did I see in him again?
He batted away the answer, not wanting to face up to the fact that Paul was good for him— to him. His relationship with Paul was the closest Carl had come to loving someone. Fucked if he could show it the way Paul wanted him to, though. Didn't Paul see Carl just wasn't like that? He needed the violence, the control. No way could he get down with any of the vanilla shit. And he thought Paul had liked the roughness too.
Unless he was lying. Or too damn weak to tell me where to get off.
But wasn't that what Carl wanted? Someone to bully?
"Damn fucking right!"
Carl parked on his driveway and leaned across to the back seat for his shirt. He sat for a moment, contemplating tonight's events. Shit, it seemed to have gone on forever. Seemed hours ago he'd fucked Paul. He peered at the dashboard clock. Just passed ten.
"Jesus."
He left the car, locking it on the key fob as he walked away, and went inside. Flicking on the hallway light, he moved to the large leather-framed mirror on the wall and inspected his face. Flecks of dried blood smattered his hairline, and he reached up to pick some off. A flake stuck to his fingertip, and he brought it to his nose, sniffing heavily. It smelled of nothing. Disappointment thundered through him, and he studied his reflection, trying to see the person behind the mask. If he was honest, he couldn't find him—he'd lost himself too long ago to even remember what he used to be like.
Carl shrugged and took the stairs two at a time, going into the bathroom to set the shower on hot. He dropped his shirt to the floor then stripped, suddenly eager to wash away the filth of those men. The shower burned his skin, but he gritted his teeth and scrubbed himself clean. Finished, he stepped out of the stall and dried his body, walking into the bedroom to slip on some tracksuit bottoms.
"You never know, the police might be round at any time, asking if I know where Paul is."
His heart rate sped up. My clothes ...
He strode into the bathroom and scooped them up, jogging downstairs and out into the back yard. Carl stared up at his neighbors’ windows to check if any lights blazed. They didn't. Satisfied he was safe, he piled the clothes on the grass and went inside to get some lighter fluid and matches. Back out in the yard, he doused the clothes and set them on fire, watching the red, yellow, and orange flames devour the fabric. Dark gray smoke billowed upward, gusted his way on a sudden stiff breeze. It caught at the back of his throat, and he coughed, returning inside for a glass of water, closing the back door so the smell didn't get in.
Carl stared at the flames for long moments, his mind replaying the killings and fabricating scenarios. Would the police
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