Hawk: A Stepbrother Romance Part 99

"Fine," I say. "What do you want to know?"

"The earliest thing you remember. You can lie down if you like."

I turn on the bed and spread out, propping my head on my hands, but all I can do is shrug. "I can't really remember. Sometimes I think I remember my first real memory, but there's always something else."

"I want you to reach back, as far back as you can."

"I was in a hole. I dug myself out and I was covered in dirt and there was blood in my mouth. I think somebody buried me."

"Where?"

"I'm not sure. The desert, maybe."

"How did you get away from there?"

I shake my head.

"Can't remember that, either."

He sighs and s.h.i.+fts in the seat and scribbles down some notes. I can hear the graphite scratching across the paper. It sounds like a bug trapped in a wall.

"You have a peculiar hunting strategy."

I arch my eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why bars?"

"I have my reasons."

"Illuminate me."

I sigh. "Fine. I only kill people that deserve it."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't know how it works," I say, with a little shrug. "I look people in the eye and things happen. I can feel things, hear things, sometimes see things. If I stare into their eyes they kind of glaze over and just do what I want. I don't know how or why."

"So you read your prey's mind before you take them."

"I don't take them. They take me. I give them every chance. They don't have to drug me or buy me enough booze to get black out drunk. They don't have to take me home. They don't have to..." I trail off.

"Do what?"

"One guy was different. He was worse than I thought. Worked in a funeral home. He was planning something. He liked to play with the corpses, but you don't get very many pretty young corpses, do you? Not fresh, clean, intact ones." I stifle a little laugh. "Hilarious, isn't it? The necrophiliac and the vamp... whatever I am. Like a cheesy romance novel."

"What happened?"

"I gave him a chance even though I caught a glimpse of what he was planning to do. He hit me on the back of the head with a tire iron. I guess he didn't want to mess up my face."

"You killed him."

"Yes. Yes, I killed him. I dragged him into the bathroom," my voice rises, "and I took the sharp end of the tire iron and I rammed it into his gut, and I did it over and over and over and over again until he stopped screaming. I didn't even feed off of him. I didn't want to swallow that. I left the apartment that night. I don't know what's worse," I'm shouting now, "that there are people like that or that none of the neighbors heard or cared about him begging for help. I watch the news, I read newspapers when I can. I never saw any reports about a man stabbed to death with a tire iron in the bathtub. I never saw any sign that anyone even found him. Somebody just disappears from the world, and n.o.body cares."

He waits, while I unclench my fists.

"So why the bars?"

"I don't know. What does it matter?"

"If you're hunting for predators, you could go lots of places. Parks in the middle of the night. Dark alleys. The bad part of whatever town you've been holed up in. You always go to these upscale places, though. Fancy bars in gentrified parts of town."

I look over at him and narrow my eyes. "You know a lot of details."

"Yes. I do."

"How long have you been following me?"

"A long time. I've been watching you for a while."

"Why?"

He sighs softly and scribbles something in that d.a.m.n notebook. "I'm afraid that's two questions. You have to tell me more."

I grit my teeth. "Fine."

"You always do it the same way. You order a screwdriver and sit at the bar, waiting for a man to approach you. Why?"

"I told you, I don't know."

His impatience is palpable. He crosses his leg, resting his ankle across his knee, and his foot inscribes a circle in the air. After a few seconds I realize I'm staring at his foot, like I'm trying to figure it out.

He's wearing boat shoes and wool socks. I don't know why I notice the detail, but I do. My eye moves to his hands as he writes in his notebook. There's something off about that, too. He keeps it pointed so I can't see the pages. I watch the pencil move, and then it catches my eye. There's a ring on his left hand. A cheap costume jewelry ring, something a kid might wear.

"Did something happen to you in a bar?"

I'm not really paying attention when he says it. I feel the words, somehow, before I feel them. They sink in past my clammy dead skin and settle inside and I answer him before I even get a chance to think about it.

"Yes."

"Tell me."

No. No, I don't want to remember that.

"I can't."

"You can. What happened in the bar? Where was it?"

"I don't remember."

He s.h.i.+fts in the seat and I catch a hint of frustration in his voice. I clap my hands over my ears to drown it out.

"Yes, you do."

The notebook claps closed and he rests it on the side table and places the pencil on top, so it settles in the little channel that runs along the spine. I watch it wobble, and the familiarity of it makes me aware of the dull stillness in my chest where my beating heart is supposed to be. That's the funny thing about souls. You don't know what it feels like to have one until you don't have it anymore. He looms over me and I shrink back on the bed.

"Tell me."

"What if I don't?"

He sighs.

"You'll understand why I'm doing this. I swear."

His voice is so heavy with genuine apology I almost believe he doesn't mean to hurt me. If he's acting he's good. He sells the look of compa.s.sion he gives me.

He doesn't speak, but his eye twitches, and the collar closes around my throat. I claw at it and writhe on the bed, kicking my feet out as he seizes my arms and forces me down, a blank expression on his face. When he cups my head in his hand my instinct is to sink my teeth into his palm but the collar only tightens more and I go rigid, the agony of it crus.h.i.+ng me to stillness.

His thumb brushes between my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose, a little higher. His touch is strangely tender, but all I feel is pressure, not even the warmth of his hand. He rubs at that spot between my eyes and murmurs, "memoriae".

Then he pulls back. The collar loosens, but that doesn't matter anymore. Something cold and liquid is moving around in my head. I can feel it, like a sinus headache with a mind of its own.

"Please," I whimper, "don't make me tell."

In spite of everything he's just done his touch as he brushes the hair out of my eyes and holds me still is firm but gentle. Some dull unremembered part of me wants to curl up and put my head on his lap, wants to feel his fingers on my skin. I can smell him.

I know that scent.

"Shhh. Close your eyes."

I press them shut.

"Lie back and don't fight it. Tell me what you remember."

My voice catches as I struggle for a breath that never comes. I hate this, hate this, hate this. I hate my body, I hate the world, I hate him.

"Tell me, Christine. Tell me how it happened."

I swallow, by my throat is still dry. My voice is thin and reedy and I feel a boiling ma.s.s of shame and revulsion when I give voice to the words that haunt me when I close my eyes to flee the sun.

"A man sat down next to me at the bar. He said 'this is what's going to happen...'"

Copyright 2014 Abigail Graham.

end.