Chapter 3
THREE
Control Freak - New Medicine
I stand in front of the sink at the tattoo parlor, washing my hands. I try to focus on the water, the coolness of it washing away the sweat and the rubber smell from the gloves. But instead, all I can think about is that man.
Ronan . The man who, after a brutal murder, walked out of the woods like a ghost straight from my past. An older, taller, more muscled version of my past, with ash brown hair and ripped abs, but still a ghost.
My hands start sweating, and my heart rate picks up. I feel like I’m trying to catch my breath underwater.
Fuck. I rub my hands harder.
“Logan!” Micah’s voice floats around me.
I turn to see him leaning against the wall. Micah is my coworker and occasional fuck buddy when I’m bored and need to shove my dick down someone’s throat. Very, very bored.
“I said…” Micah narrows his eyes. “That dude was totally staring at your dick the whole time.”
I blink at him. Was I seeing things last night? Am I dreaming?
I stare at Micah. He looks normal right now. Shorter than me, covered in tattoos, with light blond hair. I dry my hands and slide my rings back on.
“Logan.” Micah frowns. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah.” I blink. Fucking hell, focus. This is a bad episode. I rub my eyes. “I didn’t even notice.”
“Well, duh .” Micah tries to stuff down the jealousy, but I see it in the way his mouth narrows. “Surprised you didn’t care. Hot jocks are usually your thing.”
No, straight boys are usually my thing. Straight boys who can’t stand the way I look at them and who want nothing to do with me. Unfortunately for me. And unfortunately for Micah, who wants everything to do with me.
I finish washing up and dry my hands on the towel. The clamminess is still there, clinging to me like an extra skin. I haven’t slept. Not since him . Not that I was sleeping before that. This episode has been bad.
“You seem stressed. Need me to take a load off?” Micah pushes off the wall and approaches me. He’s always wanting something. Always wanting me . Doesn’t he know there’s nothing left of me to give? Never has been, never will be.
“No.” My tone is harsh.
“C’mon.” Micah bats his eyes. “You can be rough with me. Take what you need.”
I look down at him. His pupils are huge, and he looks up at me like he’ll do anything for me. Like he worships the ground I walk on. But he can’t handle what I count as a good fuck. Not that I’ve ever fully fucked anyone. But I like the transactional nature of forcing men to their knees. I like the tears that fill their eyes when they realize they can’t breathe. I like the desperation of their nails in my thighs, ripping bloody paths that remind me I’m alive, although barely.
I like things that are the farthest from sweet. Last time, Micah asked what we were after I nearly choked him to death. And that’s what makes me wrong for him. Because we’re nothing . I will never be anything for anyone again.
“No,” I say again, pushing past him to grab my stuff. The shop is still open, but I finished my last appointment today. I shouldn’t have even come. I don’t remember what I tattooed. All I remember is the feeling of the phone in my pocket. The burner phone I never use. The phone I texted him on.
I’m still not sure the man is real. I mean, I watched him fucking shoot my mark, dissolve him in acid, and drive his shitty-ass car back to some apartment a few towns away. I watched him. Then I researched him. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s finding shit online that’s a little outside of my pay grade. Whoever this ghost was, he didn’t use plates registered to his car's make and model, which dug me into some deeper research, ultimately finding Ronan Carter, age 29, a former police officer of six years.
Yeah. No way an ex-cop was out there blowing holes in people’s heads. I fucking hate cops, but that would just be stupid. Cops don’t do that. They get on their high horses and chase men like me. Chase, but don’t catch. I’m too good at what I do.
Which just verifies that I’m seeing things.
I need a distraction. I need something. Anything. I throw myself into my 67 Mustang and take off down the road. The familiar scent of old cars and leather seats both calms me and makes the phone in my pocket feel ten times heavier. Will it go off?
I don’t want it to , I tell myself. Sure, if there’s no text, then maybe I just made it up. I made up this person who met my mark before I could, killed him violently, hid what remained of his body, and then went home like nothing happened. Right. Made it up like I’m dying for a grippy sock vacation. Like I want to see the inside of a mental hospital and never end up leaving.
I’m not sure where I’m going till I end up in the parking lot. Leaves aren’t quite on the trees yet, and the lot to the city pool is abandoned. The pool isn’t open yet. I swallow, staring up at the entry to the park. How the fuck I ended up here, I’m not sure. I haven’t been here in fourteen years. Not since…everything.
This is the sign. The sign that I’ve lost it and I need to go home so I can have a mental breakdown in peace.
But I don’t. I pull my keys out, then walk through the lot, up the three flights of stairs, and to the glass doors. They’re locked, of course, and I no longer have a key, but everything looks the same. Through the doors, I can see the empty pools beyond. It looks like summer. Like my childhood.
Like something I’ll never get back. And that makes me angry.
Before I knew it, I’d walked along the fence line so I could see better. There’s a strange mix of rage and nostalgia running through me. I remember the sounds of the pop music over the speakers. The kids’ screams. The towels and sunscreen.
I hover there, unsure if I need to see him again or if that’ll make it worse. I know how to see him. His picture is on the inside of my baseball hat, the one that I’m wearing backward. The one that I always wear. And that I always avoid looking in.
Seeing that picture triggers me. It triggered this most recent kill. Well, the one I was supposed to kill. The one that I didn’t kill.
Fuck! The rage hits my system again, and now I’m shaking. The same rage that made me text Ronan’s number in the first place. How dare he? How fucking dare he?
I yank the phone out of my pocket and stare at it. There, on the screen, is a text from Ronan, and it reads:
Ronan: Who the fuck is this?