by Amy Fecteau
“Oh, my God, you’re serious,” said Matheus, staring at him. “You… you…”
“I won’t tell you again,” said Quin, the razorblade shining in his voice.
With a shudder, Matheus climbed out of the shower. He followed Quin out of the bathroom. The air felt cold against his skin. Water pooled around his feet, soaking into the stained carpet. The motel room featured a double bed, a TV with three channels, and the lingering smell of cheap lavender soap. A cadre of prostitutes had lingered outside, calling out to them as they passed. The clerk hadn’t asked for I.D., hadn’t even looked up from his phone.
“Get on the bed,” said Quin.
Matheus looked at the polyester coverlet and felt his erection flag a fraction. “I can’t imagine the last time that thing was washed.”
Quin gave him a hard shove between the shoulder blades. Matheus landed on his hands and knees, too startled to cry out.
“On. The. Bed,” said Quin. “And now you have to crawl.”
Matheus bit back his first response. The carpet scraped his palms and knees. He stared down the matted beige fibers, hoping to God he didn’t see a flea. One jumping fleck, and he’d be done.
“On your hands and knees,” said Quin. “Put your ass in the air. Higher. Good.” He trailed his fingers along Matheus’s back.
Quin walked around the bed; fabric rustled. He glanced up at Quin standing at the window. The window that faced the street.
“Quin, no,” said Matheus, his eyes wide, worried for the first time. “I don’t―not that.”
Tilting his head to the side, Quin frowned at him. He looked at the curtain hanging over the window.
“Oh… No.” He untacked the curtain tie from the wall and walked toward Matheus. “Give me your hands.” He sat on the edge of the bed.
Matheus relaxed. He balanced on his elbows, watching as Quin circled the tie around his wrists. Quin’s cock twitched, standing amongst its bed of black curls. Matheus felt a rush of glee. Despite the chill in Quin’s voice, he had been affected as much as Matheus had.
Quin gave his knot an experimental yank. He grinned at Matheus, and doubled over one of the pillows, tucking it under Matheus’s hip. He rose, footsteps padding across the room.
From behind him came the crinkle of plastic bags shifting, and the faint chime of metal. He held his breath; every nerve danced with detonation. Quin’s shadow fell over him, diffused by the dim lighting. Matheus’s hips jerked involuntarily, his cock rubbing over the rough cotton pillowcase.
“Qui—”
Crack!
“Son of a motherfucking bitch!” Matheus yelled. A line of fire seared across his ass. He twisted around. Quin stood behind him, a leather belt dangling from his hand.
“I think ten should get the point across,” he said. He drew his arm back.
Crack!
“Oh, God,” Matheus moaned. He bit his lip, clawing at the coverlet. Quin had laid the second blow a hair below the first. The force rocked Matheus forward, thrusting his cock into the pillow.
Quin made a tsking noise with his tongue. “Every time you speak, I’m going to start over.” Crack! “One.”
Matheus ducked his head, choking back the curse waiting on his tongue. His vision blurred, going white, spirals of non-color pirouetting around the edges.
Crack! “Two.”
I’m not going to survive to ten. The thought spun around his mind, caught in the whirlwind of hormones. The lines blazing over his ass stoked the adrenaline, the cotton rubbing over his cock offered delicious friction. The belt cracked three more times. Matheus bit his lip until he tasted blood. He counted in every language he’d ever heard of, recited the prayers of his childhood, and listed the Saxon kings in chronological order. Nothing worked. The heat built in his gut, his balls tightened for release. Each smack of the belt destroyed another piece of his self-control. His hips moved of their own violation, his body seeking the relief his mind denied.
Crack!
“Six,” said Quin.
“Please!” Matheus yelled. “Oh, God, oh, God, please, Quin, please. I’m sorry, Jesus Christ, I’m whatever you want. Oh, fucking hell, please, please, please, fuck me now.” He babbled, his words descending into gibbering nonsense.
“See,” said Quin. “Now I have to start over.”
Crack!
“One.”
Matheus let out a sob of pure frustration. “Quin. I can’t… I’m going to…”
“Going to what?” asked Quin. He dragged the leather strap over Matheus’s ass.
“Come,” said Matheus in a broken whisper. “Please.”
The leather belt slipped around his neck, tightening as Quin thrust into him. Matheus screamed, the starburst of pleasure mingling with the pain. He gasped, rocking forward, Quin wrapped around him, moving inside, triggering the surges of bliss that threatened pure oblivion. Matheus drowned in sensation. Once, twice, external and internal, all consuming, three, four―Matheus broke the surface, the shock of release shuddering in his frame. He collapsed, his forehead resting against his tied hands. Quin followed a moment later, calling out Matheus’s name. The leather belt slipped away from his throat. Quin panted in his ear, his weight pressing against his back.
“You’re a cruel bastard,” Matheus mumbled. His eyes drifted shut as a soft, comfortable warmth spread over him. “I’m never moving again.”
Quin let out a soft laugh. “We need a safe word.”
“Ungh,” said Matheus. “Later.” He groaned as Quin pushed himself onto his knees, his shrinking cock slipping free of Matheus.
Quin tugged the pillow out from beneath him and tossed it on the floor. He pulled the end of the curtain tie. The knot fell away. He stretched out beside him on the bed and him on the bum.
“Nmmng,” said Matheus, inching away.
“You’ll be sore for a day or two,” said Quin.
“Bastard.”
“You’re lucky I know you don’t mean that.” Quin gave Matheus’s hair a tug. “Otherwise, you’d spend the next fifty years being fucked like you’re made of glass and rainbows.”
“How does one fuck rainbows?” Matheus asked.
“One color at a time,” said Quin.
Matheus propped his head up, blinking at Quin. “That makes no sense.”
“You make no sense.”
Matheus considered that for a moment. “Yeah, that’s probably true.” He laid his head down on the mattress. “What time is it?”
“Almost eighty-thirty.”
“Shit.” Matheus attempted to push himself upright, but his arms only laughed at him. “We were supposed to be back twenty minutes ago.”
The bed shook as Quin shrugged.
“Dammit,” said Matheus. “Help me up.”
“Nope,” said Quin.
Matheus sighed. “Okay, ten minutes. Then we have to get up.”
“I agree to nothing.”
“Fifteen.”
“It’s not a negotiation.”
“Bastard,” said Matheus.
Matheus combed his fingers through his hair, trying to get rid of the fresh-fucked look. He glowered at his reflection. A faint purple band ran around his neck. He pulled at his collar, but unless he wanted to invest in a turtleneck, the bruise still showed. Turning, he winced as his boxers dragged over his sore ass.
“Are you getting up?” he asked, giving the bed a kick.
“In a minute,” said Quin, a pillow held over his head.
“You’ve said that every minute for the last twelve minutes.”
“Yet you keep asking.”
“I’m leaving without you,” said Matheus.
“You keep saying that, too.”
Matheus gave the bed another kick.
Quin pushed the pillow aside and rolled over. “How about instead of leaving, you get back into bed, and I’ll fuck you until you forget everything you ever knew about yourself, and you’re reborn, like a phoenix.”
Matheus stared at him for a second. “I’m leaving.” He
turned on one heel.
“You know you want to be a sex phoenix!” Quin called after him. The door to the room swung shut, but not before a burst of laughter escaped.
Shaking his head, Matheus headed toward the lobby. If he’d known regular orgasms made Quin even more insane, he wouldn’t have… well, no, that was a total lie. But at least he would have been forewarned.
“You’re back.” Joan leaned against the movie theater’s side exit, her chainsaw resting at her feet. The name “Tracey” had been spray-painted along the blade.
Matheus decided not to ask. “Yes. Was there any other blindingly obvious information you wanted to share with me?”
“Most people are less grumpy after fucking,” said Joan.
“Most people aren’t dating Quin,” said Matheus.
“Yeah, that’s ‘cause most people aren’t totally fucking nuts.”
“You may have a point.”
“I know I have a fucking point,” Joan said without heat. “Milo’s looking for you.”
“Why?”
“How the fuck should I know? Go fucking ask him.”
“Right,” said Matheus. “Is everyone back from the motel?”
“Everyone except your lover boy.”
“Use that phrase again, and Tracey there is going in the river.”
Joan saluted. “Sure thing, Boss Grump.” She lowered her hand. “Alistair’s been waiting.”
Matheus squirmed. He rubbed his palm over the back of his neck, scowling down at Joan’s boots.
“He’s around back, with the Jeep,” said Joan.
“Thanks.” Matheus started toward the back of the theater, but paused. “Hey, Joan, look after things while we’re gone.”
“What do you think is going to happen? The bitch is dead.”
“I don’t know,” said Matheus. “But our luck hasn’t been stellar, so I’d rather have someone in charge in case something comes up.”
Joan opened her mouth. She blinked at Matheus, reminding him of a startled guppy. She closed her mouth with an audible gulp.
“You’re leaving me in charge?” she asked.
“I guess so,” said Matheus slowly, alarm growing.
“Fucking A!” Joan grabbed her chainsaw and shook it at the sky. She yanked the cord, cackling with mad glee.
“Joan, it’s not―don’t go about―Joan, it’s not permanent!” Matheus yelled, but he didn’t think she heard him over the roar of the chainsaw. With a sigh, he left her to her celebration, hoping she didn’t plan on disemboweling too many people. He turned toward the rear of the theater, and paused again. Maybe just a quick word with Milo to figure out what he wanted. He skirted the swinging chain and pushed open the door to the theater.
He found Milo at his bank of computers, a surprise for exactly no one. Four different video feeds filled the monitors, life frozen in mid-pulse.
“Joan said you wanted to talk to me.” Matheus leaned over his shoulder, peering at the videos. “Is that First and Kendell? That was fast.”
“I need help.” Milo scooted his chair away from Matheus.
“We all need help,” said Matheus. “I think we could keep the entire psychiatric industry afloat ourselves.”
Milo let a beat of silence pass. “This is the feed from an ATM.” He pointed at one of the screens. “This from the parking garage. These two are security feeds from the gas station.”
“I don’t see a pay phone.” Matheus frowned. “I thought they’d torn them all out anyway.”
“Most were.” Milo pointed to a spot just outside the security cameras’ range. “There are two left outside the 7-Eleven.”
“So what do you need help with?” Matheus asked.
“I need to know what I’m looking for,” said Milo.
“Oh. My father. He looks like me. Or I look like him, I suppose.”
Milo swiveled his chair, examining his face like a fax machine scans a document. Matheus had the uncomfortable feeling of being reduced to ones and zeroes.
“How much like you?” Milo asked.
“Very much.”
“He may have used an agent.”
Around them, people drifted in and out of small groups. After the madness of last night, no one seemed inclined to do much. Matheus had wheedled a credit card from Milo, which allowed people to rent rooms in the hooker motel and purchase some clothes without burn holes or bloodstains. Milo’s interest rate would have made Shylock blanch.
“I don’t think so,” said Matheus. “He wasn’t a team player kind of guy. Well, unless he’s leading the team. But he never really trusted anyone when I was a kid. I don’t think he’s changed that much.”
“Sure?”
“No.” Matheus flipped his hand back and forth. “He’s out of his mind. I can’t predict what he’d do.”
“Very helpful,” said Milo.
“I aim to please.”
“ATM recording goes back ninety days. The two on the gas station, thirty days. The parking garage gets wiped every other night.”
Joan sprinted across the room, howling, chainsaw shrieking. Two of her crew followed her at full tilt, heads hanging at their lack of chainsaws. The murmur of conversation died down, rising once her caterwauling faded down the hall to the theaters.
Matheus glanced around. He picked out the youngest based on the level of shock visible on each person’s face. Drew stared after Joan with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open. Blanche merely curled her lip before returning to her nail file.
“Things will go faster if I have some assistance,” said Milo.
“Hmm? Oh. Sure. Ask for volunteers,” Matheus said.
“You don’t need to ask.” Milo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his pinkie.
“Yes, I do.” Matheus frowned. Every time Milo made such deliberate eye contact, he had the urge to duck and sway, to see if the gaze followed him. Like one of those paintings in haunted houses.
“Do you understand what killing Apollonia means?” Milo asked.
Matheus shrugged. “I can walk down the street without worrying that I’m going to end up chained to a spike in a forest?”
A large crash came from the end of the wide hallway, followed by loud, wordless shrieking.
“Fucking cocksucker!” Joan yelled. “Watch where you’re fucking going!”
With a sigh, Matheus covered his eyes with his hand.
“It’ll grow back, you whiner. Stop being such a monkey tit.”
“I should go deal with that,” said Matheus.
“There’s something else.” Milo spun in his chair. The video feeds zoomed away, replaced with an Internet browser window. A masthead in French stretched over the top of the page, with more French in a smaller text underneath. Rows and columns of numbers covered the rest of the space.
“Milo, have you considered becoming professionally mysterious?” Matheus asked. “You could get endorsement deals and everything.”
“It’s Apollonia Parker’s bank account.” Milo gave him a look that implied that he had clearly been dropped on his head as a child. In short, his normal expression. “Don’t faint.”
“I’m not going to faint.”
“There is precedence,” said Milo. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Umm,” said Matheus. “Why are you asking me? You found it.”
“You hired me,” said Milo.
“And just taking the money would be against the rules?”
Milo inclined his head in a fraction of a mite of a nod. “So?”
“Well, I don’t want it. Divide it up. Equal shares for everyone. A share for you too, on top of your fee. And set aside shares for Gwen, Eamon, and Salvatore.”
“That’s a lot to give away.”
“I have money,” said Matheus. He glanced at the stairs up to the theaters. The shrieking had died down, hopefully not helped along by Joan. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Does it involve sea turtles?” Milo asked.
“No wildlife whats
oever.”
Milo gave another modicum of a scrap of a nod.
“What do you do with your fees? I mean, you charge quite a bit.” Matheus gestured at the numbers on the screen. “Is there an enormous bank account somewhere with your name on it?”
“I have enough,” said Milo.
“So you do keep it.”
“Some.”
“What do you do with the rest? Give it your daughter? Do you have a secret storage locker full of Disney memorabilia somewhere? Are you funding a group of South American revolutionaries?”
“I give some to Ada, when I can avoid raising suspicions. It’s not often,” said Milo, without even his approximation of a smile. “Scholarships, investments, and youth centers. It varies.”
“So the money is just a way to keep score?” Matheus asked.
“Eternity is a long time to be idle,” said Milo.
oan pouted when Matheus took away her chainsaw. She stomped down the hall, throwing obscenities over her shoulder. David, her victim, trailed after her, weaving from side to side. He’d tucked his bloody stump into his shirt.
“And don’t just dump him downtown!” Matheus yelled after Joan. “Make sure he gets someone to eat!”
He tossed the chainsaw into one of the projection rooms and walked out to the back parking lot.
Alistair leaned against the Jeep, his arms tight over his chest, staring at the cracked pavement. The flickering streetlight made shifting patterns of jaundice and shadow over his face. Black didn’t suit him. He looked his age, the nonagenarian bleeding through the coating of youth.
Guilt twisted in Matheus’s stomach. He knew why he’d gone to talk to Milo first, why he’d let Quin convince him to linger in the motel room. He cleared his throat.
Alistair glanced up, but his expression didn’t change. Matheus received a glimpse into the life of a windowpane.
“Hey,” he said. “Umm. Do you have a spot picked out?”
“There’s a place outside the city,” said Alistair. He blinked, his gaze focusing on Matheus for a second before looking away. “Freddie ran away a lot. There’s a cave he’d stay in.”
“You think you can find it?” Matheus asked. A random cave in the middle of a New England forest, with seven hours left before sunrise. Matheus wondered if he needed to swing by the 24-hour Walmart before they left and pick up a tent. He hoped not. People invented things like electricity, indoor plumbing, and beds not made of dirt and pointy rocks for a reason.
