Dancing with the Devil

by Marie James

  So we both wait. What feels like a lifetime later, the blonde walks back through the door. She’s now wearing a set of scrubs that swallow her tiny frame. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, but even from this distance, I can see the honey-blonde streaks still coated with blood. My cock stirs in my jeans.

  Wavering between what I want to do and what I should do, I watch her face fall. Alone in front of the hospital, her shoulders sag with resignation. She’s realizing she’s going to have to walk home.

  Before I can climb out of the truck and do the creepy thing by asking her if she needs a ride, the cop I’d forgotten was still in the lot pulls in front of her. A grin spreads across my face when I notice her face fall even more. Clearly, she’s not fond of the cops either.

  With no other options, she climbs inside, and they pull away. This is exactly what I needed, the only thing that will feed what is quickly becoming a new obsession. Keeping distance from the cop car, I follow them out of Haverhill and back toward Andover.

  Unease settles low in my gut as I watch the cop car pull up outside of an unkempt house. The larger than normal driveway is an indication that this house has been transformed, more than likely, into several studio apartments.

  She doesn’t look back at the car after closing the door, but the officer doesn’t pull away until she retrieves a key from under the mat, unlocks her door before placing the key under the mat once again, and closes herself inside. Stubborn, naive girl. Doesn’t she know how corrupt and dangerous the world is? Did she not learn her lesson mere hours ago?

  The urge to go to her, to teach her a lesson about self-preservation lights my skin on fire. The need to show her just how bad things can be if she isn’t careful with her safety begins as a twitch in my knee. I stare at her door, leg bouncing with jittery agitation because at this very second, there’s nothing I can do to correct her behavior.

  The world is starting to wake up. Traffic is increasing on the roads as the sun lifts on the horizon, which means I have to wait. I’ve waited all night to see her again, to be close enough to reach out and touch her. When there is only one crappy car parked in the oversized driveway, I climb out of the SUV and bury my face and hands deeper into my coat, more to shield my identity from others than a need to get warm. Heat is the last thing I’m thinking about because my blood is already on fire for this girl. Her carelessness makes me want to shake her until she understands the dangers, or at least until she’s frightened enough to take precautions.

  She weighs almost nothing. I could tell from the way the full-sized bed at the frat house nearly swallowed her, so subduing her if she came at me would be child’s play. As if I own the place, I scoop the key out from under the mat and let myself into her space. Just as I suspected, the one-room apartment allows me to observe her from the door.

  She doesn’t stir when the door closes behind me. Surely, her exhaustion from last night has taken over, and she’s down for the count, but upon further inspection, I notice the prescription bottle of Ambien on her bedside table.

  In the time I waited for the house to clear out, she’s taken a shower. Blood no longer decorates her skin. It no longer enhances the delicate glow of her blonde hair. I miss it immediately. Fighting the urge to replace it with my own, I walk to her kitchen. A purse she wasn’t carrying earlier sits on the cramped countertop. Knowing that she’s out like a light with the help of a sedative, I upturn the bag and pour the contents out.

  Two things draw my attention, her small wallet and her cell phone, neither of which I imagine she had on her tonight. Imagining what those guys were planning to do with her after they’d had their fun only serves to reignite the turmoil I felt when I left her there to take Briar home. From my vantage point, I see no pictures, no snapshots of friends or family members. A quick search of her phone, not password protected by the way, provides the same dismal results. Either this girl has purposely isolated herself, or she has no one to rely on. The result, however, is the same. There’s a good chance that no one would look for her if she disappeared. If those guys finished her off after their playtime ended, no one would be the wiser, a missing girl no one would look for. She wouldn’t even be a blip on the police radar.

  The realization is both jarring and filled with so many possibilities.

  After taking a picture of her driver’s license, I upload a tracking app on her phone, hiding it in a folder labeled “Shit I’ll Never Use.”

  When she entered this place, I’d sat and dreamed about all the things I’d find inside. I imagined the information, the secrets her belongings would reveal to me. Standing in her dismal home, I’m disappointed but struck at the same time with a revelation. This girl may not have anyone to look out for her, but whether she likes it or not, she’s now stuck with me.

  I don’t question the attraction or the allure she has that no other woman has even come close to.

  I see her.

  I want her.

  I’ll have her.

  Simple.

  It takes everything in me not to mark her with my own blood. The sight of her cheek, the heart I’d drawn missing, is almost enough to break a rule I may not be able to recover from. I don’t know her enough to trust leaving another heart behind. I don’t have enough power or control over this situation to leave my DNA on her silky cheek.

  “Until next time, Sweetheart.”

  I press my lips to her warm forehead. Unlike when I touched her at the frat house, her eyes remain closed. My time spent outside the hospital, police station, and her apartment isn’t rewarded with one last flutter of her gorgeous green eyes.

  I walk away craving with needs unmet, leaving the key to her apartment on the cluttered countertop rather than returning it under the tattered welcome mat outside.

  It’s hard to walk away when all I want to do is curl around her in the bed and promise to protect her. Make sure she knows she’s mine. Make her swear that I’ll be the only one to hurt her.

  She’ll know this all in good time.

  Chapter 3

  Kaci

  Waking up with a hangover when you didn’t have the luxury of enjoying a couple of drinks has always been the negative side effect of taking a prescription sleep aid.

  The growl of my stomach chimes in with the familiar chorus of my neighbors arguing. I don’t have to look toward the single window in my tiny apartment to know that night has fallen. The drunken bickering always starts late in the evening, and by the time the sun kisses the ground, they are at each other’s throat.

  “The joys of having neighbors,” I mutter to myself as I climb out of bed and head straight for the shower.

  Although I scrubbed every inch of my skin before I crashed into my bed, I still feel dirty. I always feel unclean, which makes me grateful utilities are included in my rent. Nothing has changed from when I woke up yesterday, I realize as I climb out of the shower.

  Swiping my hand across the frameless mirror hanging above the bathroom sink, I stare into my empty eyes. Waking up surrounded by bodies, getting interrogated by the police, it hardly even registers. It’s not a common occurrence, but the brutality of what happened in that frat house yesterday wasn’t my initiation to the darkness. Hell, it wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve seen in my life.

  That’s what I mutter to myself as my eyes slam shut. Bile rises in my throat, burning a path from my stomach until, unable to hold it back any longer, I’m bending over the toilet and dry-heaving.

  This is also part of my daily pattern, only today the sequence of actions doesn’t take much effort. I don’t have to concentrate or dig deep into my past. I don’t have to hyper-focus on past touches, violations, or abuses. Purging myself of the filth, both from the inside and the invisible layer that perpetually stains my skin come effortlessly today.

  I smile at the mirror, ignoring the dark circles under my eyes, as I rinse my mouth. Makeup easily covers the purple proof of my restless sleep, but I don’t bother with it this evening. I have no one to impress, no troub
le to find myself in tonight. There’s always some mischief to entangle myself in, but after last night, although I feel like it’s admitting defeat on some level, I need a break.

  And tacos.

  With wet hair and my mother’s tinny voice bouncing around in my head warning of illness, I grab my wallet and leave my apartment. A five-minute walk from my house is a little restaurant that makes the most amazing street tacos. Formerly a food truck turned success story, Tito’s Tacos has quickly become a staple in my life, and the walk in the dark over uneven sidewalks just happens to feed my hunger for danger.

  “My cock gets hard every time you walk past here.”

  I roll my eyes at the old bum as I pass the liquor store. He’s as familiar as the smell of pot from the alley, and the stench of burning plastic from the crack users a couple streets over. The vagrant smacks his dry lips at me, but like every other day, I just keep on going.

  You’d think the liquor store would be a dangerous place for a woman to stroll past alone, but around the corner is Pappy’s. The coin laundromat is the real test of courage. Kept warm with the use of the dryers inside, the laundromat attracts all the people not allowed to stay inside the liquor store and consume their purchases.

  Any other day, I’d walk right by the cracked picture window, head held high and daring anyone to mess with me, but tonight I’m still raw from my choices twenty-four hours ago. Instead of turning the corner and crossing the road a few blocks down, I cross right after the liquor store and keep to the shadows along the closed storefronts opposite of the laundromat. None the wiser, the degenerate population inside drink from cans stuffed in paper bags and don’t even raise their heads from their card game as the sinister darkness turns into a more respectable area of the neighborhood.

  The paper-thin divide separating the contradictory areas of town on Parker Street are always battling for dominance, but lucky for me, tonight isn’t one where either side is wrestling with the other. Tonight, the streetlamps and the lone light in Tito’s small parking lot are lit, and there are no teenagers looking for trouble across the street to hassle people needing to walk by.

  The false sense of security crackles around me. It’s not a good thing no one is out causing trouble. It’s curious more than anything. The air is different, crackling at the wrong time, surrounding me in a bubble that’s sure to pop at any minute.

  Blaming the cold, I shiver when I step inside of Tito’s, but the malevolent sensation doesn’t subside even when the tinted door closes behind me. A collection of spices invades my sinuses, and I know, if only for a few moments, things will be fine. It’s amazing what the promise of tacos can do to a person. Getting two tacos, fries, and a drink for just five bucks isn’t a deal many people would turn down.

  “Can I get the special, beef with extra pico?”

  The cashier behind the counter jots my order down on a generic menu pad. “To go?”

  She may not know my name, but every other time I’ve stepped in here, I’ve asked to have my food packaged to carry back home. The idea of being caged in this windowless building has always teetered on the edge of too confined for me. Tonight is different, however. Tonight, going back outside is what activates that low hum of fear deep in my gut. It’s the promise of what could happen that forms the response on my lips.

  “To go, yes.”

  The same fear that drove me to cross the street earlier than normal mere moments ago is the same one that urges me back outside immediately after collecting my bag of food and Pepsi from the counter. My life is spent in a never-ending game of chance. Last night I almost lost. Most often, I somehow manage to slide through unscathed. Those nights are the ones I find most disappointing.

  Still focused on their card game, the guys in the laundromat don’t so much as give me a passing glance when I cross in front of the window. The homeless man that has become a permanent fixture on the front stoop of the liquor store isn’t around either.

  Silence in a busy town is eerier, more alarming than gunshots and arguing as far as I’m concerned. You expect the violence, the raw and uncensored humanity of people unhappy in life and no real means to change. The people around here don’t hide who they are. They don’t bite their tongues until a later time when voicing an opinion contrary to their current company is appropriate. If an emotion bubbles up their throat, they spew on the sidewalk as if it’s their God-given right to let the world know they are unhappy, or sad, or pissed they caught their best friend on her knees in the alleyway sucking a cock that didn’t belong to them just for that bump they needed to make it through the night.

  What is unusual right now is the false tranquility that seems to engulf the entire neighborhood. There’s a sinister energy surrounding everything. Like dogs who can sense the tornado and impending storm just by sniffing the air, the folks up and down Parker Street seem to be taking cover.

  Chilled both from the early spring air on my bare arms and the vibe that’s crackling around me, a soul-deep shiver runs down my spine as I cross the street from the liquor store. The headlights of a car blind me as it closes the distance. I stare straight into the blinding light. momentarily wondering if the vehicle will pop over the curb and strike me down. A grin forms on my lips at the thought.

  Disappointment clouded only by a tinge of relief washes over me as the car zooms past. Like all horror movies, the night comes alive again in a flash. A cat screeches in the distance, someone bangs the lid of a trashcan, and an argument over whose turn it is to watch the kids surrounds me.

  All of it normal.

  All of it more calming, more comforting than the quiet that surrounded me as a child.

  It isn’t until I’m certain I hear my name whispered over the buzz of the neighborhood that my skin tingles with the urgency to get back home, but I’m stubborn. So instead of increasing my pace and focusing on the lone light on the front porch of the house I live in, I slow to a crawl, hoping and praying, just like in that ridiculous Jeepers Creepers movie that something swoops down from the sky and carries me off.

  Chapter 4

  TJ

  Like a magnet to jeopardy, Kaci walks in the dark, wearing a thin tank top and yoga pants. Less concerned about the cold air, I’m focused on the sharp jut of her nipples as she leaves her apartment and walks, in the dark no less, down the sidewalk.

  This gorgeous girl, less than twenty-four hours ago, was on the verge of being gang-raped. Now, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world, she’s prancing down the street freshly showered and tempting every man she walks past.

  I’m a sinner on my best day, not caring who I hurt or plow down on my way to have a good time, but I’ve always drawn the line at hurting women unless they legitimately deserve it of course. Those infractions usually come with a healthy dose of club betrayal. That being said, and I’m not one to blame the victim or start an argument on rape culture or suffer through opinions about why women should be able to wear whatever the fuck they want without fear of being assaulted, but the sight of Kaci walking down the road, her hair wet and dampening her back just enough to make it clear she isn’t wearing a bra is almost enough to persuade me to take her against the wall of the alley she’s fixing to walk past.

  “My cock gets hard every time you walk past here.”

  I can’t see her face, but there’s no change in her posture that even hints at hearing the man even though I’m yards behind her, and he didn’t bother to whisper his confession.

  Clearly homeless, the man is dirty, emitting an odor that only shows up after too many missed showers. It’s chilly outside, but he seems to be wearing numerous layers of clothing, probably everything he owns. He doesn’t throw sexual innuendo at me as I pass him. I must not possess the same appeal as the green-eyed blonde a few yards ahead of me.

  “Hey man, can I grab a smoke?”

  My feet pause in front of him, but my eyes stay on Kaci’s back as she walks across the street, turning left down the block.

  “She’s sexy as fuck, rig
ht?” My blood heats with his comment. I’m angered that he’d even chance looking at something that belonged to me, much less open his filthy mouth and speak the words aloud. “One of these days, I won’t let her get away. How about that smoke, man?”

  He nudges my shoulder like we’re best buds.

  I grin over at him when my prey disappears from sight. A sparkle lights his eyes as if he believes he’s just found someone either with a cigarette or the same lack of morals when it comes to persuading members of the opposite sex.

  Ignoring the urgency to get Kaci back in my line of sight, I pull loose change from my pocket and show the man my hand. “Sorry man, I don’t smoke.”

  Like I knew he would, his eyes narrow on the tiny packet in my palm.

  “Looks like you have something better.” He literally licks his lips like the lion in a cartoon as he visualizes the zebra turning into a slab of meat.

  “Not here.” Two simple words. Not one of them an invitation, but the man sticks close to me when I walk around the corner of the liquor store and let the alley swallow me in darkness. By the time I turn back in his direction, he’s so close to me the mildewed stench of his clothes burns my nose.

  “What-a-what do you want for it?”

  His eyes dart lower before raising up to mine. I can’t tell if it’s an offer or a refusal, but I’m not remotely interested in his lips on my cock.

  “Tell me more about that girl.” I urge as I shove the change back into my pocket and hold the tiny baggie between us.

  “You want a taste, too, huh?” His eyes follow the sway of the bag between my fingers as if I’m a doctor giving him a neurological exam with a pin light.

  “Do you know her name?” His head shakes, eyes still entranced with the plastic baggie.