Painter’s Obsession

4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Byron

“It’s been almost two years since the first appearance of the Laguna Bay Painter ,“ the reporter says, her voice hollow, like it’s been siphoned through static. “The latest victim was found drained of blood, the body frozen in time.”

The other reporter chimes in. “Is the killer evolving?”

The psychiatrist shifts in her chair, her gaze sharp behind thick glasses. “It looks that way. Someone like the Laguna Bay Painter could be searching for their next big piece—another muse. Or maybe they’re bored. Killers are no different from artists. Elevating their work, pushing boundaries, seeking notoriety… That’s how you make people remember you.”

The TV clicks off. The silence that follows feels heavy, as if the killer’s shadow lingers behind the screen, watching.

“Bedtime.”

The guard’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, and the cells unlock in unison with a shuddering clang. The noise rattles through my skull as I move with the others, shuffling towards our cages like cattle at slaughter. Each step echoes the countdown in my mind. One more night. Then I’m free.

Free to help my sister. Free to face whatever waits for me outside.

I step into my cell, and Luigi is already sitting up on the top bunk, sweat glistening on his bare chest. The dim light casts shadows across his wiry frame, his grin sharp enough to cut. “You gonna miss Daddy when you’re back in the real world?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

My jaw tightens, and I glare at him. He knows what I think about him calling himself Daddy . It’s not like I suck his dick or let him fuck me. If anything, he’s been my bitch— my way to survive in this shithole. But the truth tastes bitter at the back of my throat.

“No,” I lie, the word like gravel.

Luigi’s grin widens, but his eyes narrow, searching me. Deep down, I know what I want—what I can’t want—but tomorrow, I’ll prove to myself that this wasn’t lust. It was need . I’ll find some pretty little thing, a wet cunt to drown in, and I’ll bury all of this between her thighs.

Jumping down from the top bunk, Luigi moves toward me, his feet soundless on the cold concrete. He stops at the edge of my bed and tilts his head, like a wolf sizing up its prey. “One last time,” he says, sliding into my bunk without asking.

Something tightens in my chest, and my cock betrays me—heat pooling in my groin like molten lead. I clench my fists against the mattress, my voice low and hard. “Not tonight.”

Luigi’s face twists, his confidence faltering. “You’ll regret that,” he mutters, like a scorned lover, but his grin returns, crueler this time. “You know, I should’ve made you my bitch. Showed you just how much you like it.”

“I’m not gay,” I snap.

He laughs, a soft, dark sound that coils around me like smoke. “Sure. And the sky isn’t blue.” He points at the bulge in my sweats. “Your dick says otherwise, B.”

Turning his back to me, he climbs onto his bunk, pulling the thin blanket up over his shoulders like a shroud. The air feels colder now, sharper somehow.

I lay back on my own bunk, staring up at the rusted metal bars that hold his cot. The silence presses down, heavy and unrelenting, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. My body hums, restless, too wired to sleep.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk out of this cell. Out of this life. But something gnaws at me, a whisper at the back of my mind that I can’t shake. The psychiatrist’s words loop on repeat. “Elevating their work. Pushing boundaries. Seeking notoriety…”

The Laguna Bay Painter is out there. Waiting. Evolving.

I close my eyes, but the dark it brings isn’t empty. It’s filled with frozen bodies, drained and perfect like macabre statues. I see my sister—alone, vulnerable, next.

The bed creaks above me, and I know Luigi’s awake, too. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but I can feel him there. Breathing. Watching.

Tomorrow, I’ll be a free man.

But freedom doesn’t feel like salvation. It feels like the sharp edge of a knife pressed to my throat.

And part of me wonders if I’m already too late.

The morning comes, and I’m up and ready before the guard comes to get me. Luigi doesn’t say a word, but I heard him this morning, jacking off, moaning my name as he came in his hands. But I didn’t give in. I didn’t need him or the warmth of his mouth or ass. I’ll have the real thing in just a couple of hours, and I couldn’t wait.

Mercy Betty’s—the strip joint that offers more than just strippers—was calling my name. I couldn’t afford full service, but a nice baby girl to fuck in the “10 Minutes of Heaven” stall would be good enough for me. As long as I knew it was a nice-ass hottie behind that wall, it didn’t matter. Or maybe I’ll fuck the neighbor’s wife, like I do every time he gets deployed. Linda uses me, and I use her. One hand washes another.

But none of that mattered right now. The choices are endless for me.

Once the guard got me from my cell, the process to release me was surprisingly short. Now, as I walk toward the outside world, I feel nothing but a knot in the pit of my stomach.

I spot Dad’s busted truck with white paint peeling off and the bumper hanging on for dear life. Standing in front of it is Gabriela. Her hair’s braided to the side, and she’s wearing one of my old hoodies—red and black—paired with leggings and boots.

“Byron!” she shouts, walking toward the fence that’s about to open.

My sister doesn’t even wait for the gate to fully open before she lunges toward me.

“Byron,” she sobs, wrapping her arms around me. The small plastic bag with my belongings falls to the ground as I hold her.

I breathe her in. “Hey,” I say, feeling her tears wet my neck. Despite the brave face and her edge, Gabby is nothing but a soft heart.

“I missed you, dickhead,” she sobs.

I rub her back. “I missed you too, pendeja. Now let’s go to Pop’s Diner.”

She pulls away, wiping her tears with the sleeve of my hoodie. “Okay.”

I bend down, pick up the bag, and follow her to the truck, not bothering to look behind me. She hops in, and I follow.

The drive is quiet. She doesn’t bring up prison or Dad, and I don’t bring up any of it either. I’d rather not.

We pull into the diner’s parking lot. Right as we walk inside, Theresa spots us. Her brown, shoulder-length curls bounce as she runs toward us.

“Byron, good to see you,” she says, pulling me into a hug. Gabriela smiles, watching our old friend.

“Ready for some real food? On me,” Theresa says, grabbing my hand and dragging me inside.

I let her pull me along. The diner is busy with the typical breakfast rush, plates clattering, voices humming like a static buzz. The air smells of burnt coffee and sizzling bacon, but under that, there’s a faint whiff of bleach—a reminder of the many messes this place has seen. The booths are full of locals, their faces buried in newspapers or half-hearted conversations.

Then, suddenly, I hear a crash.

“Gab,” I say, looking at my sister, who’s just run into some guy in a suit.

He’s tall, his frame rigid and commanding. The dark navy suit clings to him like a second skin, perfectly tailored, too perfect for a place like this. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t flinch. His stillness makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Gabriela waves me off, her smile bright, but there’s something off about the way her fingers fumble to adjust her braid.

The man finally shifts, turning his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the sharp angle of his jaw. It’s clean-shaven, too sharp, almost unreal. He tilts his head toward Gab as she types something into his phone with quick, nervous fingers.

She looks like she just won the lottery, her smile stretching wide, but I can see her other hand shaking slightly, hidden at her side.

I don’t interfere, even though my gut tells me to. My curiosity itches like a rash, but I force myself to turn back.

Theresa pulls at my sleeve. “Hey, focus,” she says, grinning. “Sandra just had a baby.”

“Good for her,” I say, meaning it. If anyone deserved their happy ending, it’s Sandra.

But my mind keeps drifting back to the suit. His presence lingers like a shadow in the corner of my eye. I glance over my shoulder again, catching the faintest trace of a smirk on his face as Gab hands his phone back.

There’s something about him—too calm, too polished, like he doesn’t belong here but owns the place anyway.

I scoff, shaking it off, and focus again on Theresa, letting her fill me in on everything I’ve missed these past two years. But in the back of my head, the image of the suit sticks, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s something more than just another stranger in a diner.