Chapter 8
EIGHT
Somebody Told Me - Motionless In White
I have never in my life been asked if I hump my walls before. Gonna add that to the list of 'what the fuck, why me, please never again' things that I have going on my notes app.
I do keep a list. Why? I don’t know. I like to remember each embarrassing moment so it’s crystal clear. Plus, if I ever want to have an existential crisis—maybe I’m craving a good night where I stare up at the ceiling for hours—I know right where to go.
I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I have no one to laugh about it with, so screaming it into the tech void makes me feel less alone.
Couldn’t be that.
At least the apartment manager didn’t call the cops. That’s the last thing I fucking want.
I get back to my apartment, turn on the TV to drown out my thoughts, and pour myself a glass of tequila. It goes down smoothly—just like nail polish remover.
I down a few more, but I still can’t dull that restless feeling. Everything has gone wrong on this kill. Fucking everything. I didn’t even jack off after killing Summerman. Killing fuckheads usually gets me off.
Fuck. Is there something wrong with my dick?
I adjust myself and think about pulling the trigger on Summerman. About the helpless look in his eyes when he knew he was mine. When he knew I was in control.
Was someone watching me while I did that? Did I fuck up that badly?
Fuck. No, focus. I close my eyes and picture hot women. Their tan bodies, big tits, and soft lips.
Barely a twitch.
Fucking hell?
I’m sure I’m fine. It’s just the alcohol.
I stare at the TV, trying to distract myself from the sense that everything is wrong . This kill, the copycat, my dick.
No. My dick is just fine. I just need to watch some porn. I snatch up my phone and open a porn browser. I’m pretty new to the porn world. My parents were ultra-religious, and I went to a religious college that blocked all porn access. Not that I tried to get into it. Big titties and fake moans were….I don’t know. I just hadn’t tried porn till my ex got me into it.
I try a few videos that pop up, but they’re not catching my interest. Trying some amateur ones, I find “He Rails Me Till I Come - Loving Boyfriend.”
Absolutely fucking nothing. Dick isn’t even remotely interested.
Every once in a while, I used to watch these hotwifing videos with my ex. I guess she loved to see a bull coming in and banging the wife while the husband watched. There were some videos where the bull gave a handjob to the husband while he fucked his wife.
I made her turn those off. I’m not fucking gay. Maybe her ex is. I’m pretty sure my ex wanted me to have a threesome with her ex, aka the guy she left me for. He looks like he could be fruity, the soft fucker.
But still, I find nothing. I find myself scrolling to the hotwifing couple. The bull is much bigger than the husband. He’s heavily muscled, with tattoos running across his chest and arms. He takes hold of her like she’s his to do with what he wants.
There’s a twitch in my dick.
Fuck yes! Back in business. I pull it out, stroking it. The more I focus on the woman though, the more annoyed I get. She’s just so…fucking not it. She’s annoying and loud.
Just as I’m about to switch videos, the bull reaches out and grabs the husband. He yanks him closer while the woman is lying on her back in front of him. I watch in horror as the huge man traces his hand down the other man’s chest, then down further to his dick. The other man moans, tipping his head back.
“That’s right. You’re gonna be a little bitch and get off to me taking your wife.”
My body feels hot. I realize that I’m fully hard, my dick throbbing against my stomach. I stroke myself, pleasure instantly shooting through me. The tingles are powerful, rushing up and down my body as if my dick wasn’t asleep two minutes ago.
The tattooed man has started stroking the other one. I try not to look, focusing heavily on the woman. She gives out fake moans and grabs her tits.
“Fuck.” One of the men grunts, and my gaze moves involuntarily toward them. It’s the husband. He’s tense, gripping into the other man’s shoulder, and he’s being aggressively jacked off.
I shouldn’t be watching this.
“That’s right. Be my little bitch and come already.”
And the man does. He spews all over the big man’s hand, letting out guttural grunts.
I rip my eyes off them, trying to ignore both of them. The pleasure curls around my dick, and I feel it stiffen even further. I brace myself, then blinding pleasure races through my body. Hot spurts of come shoot up onto my chest, pulse after pulse. The orgasm is powerful, locking my muscles up. I let out a soft moan, stroking the last bit of pleasure out of it.
Finally, my muscles relax enough for me to let out a soft breath. Fucking hell.
The moans continue on my phone, and I rush to turn it off.
Fuck. I try to ignore what I just watched. That’s not important.
I clean up, then get back to whatever was on TV. The restless energy is slightly appeased, and in its place is mind-numbing fatigue. I could fall asleep right now.
I grab Buffalo to sit with me and look around the apartment. Everything looks normal. I have my gun on the end table by the couch, pointed at the door. I’m a fast shot. No one comes through without my permission.
I spent hours at the library yesterday using their computer, researching everything I could on the copycat. I also called the records departments of the agencies handling the murder investigations, which turned out to be only one: Silent Hollow Police Department. I requested all 911 calls, which are public record, and of course, they told me it would take a few days. I got what I could from the reports, which wasn’t much. Just the addresses of the places where the bodies were found. When I looked them up, they were homes. Residential homes. He’s killing them in their own homes and getting away with it.
Although, a huge part of successful murders, or any crime for that matter, is luck. You can plan out the perfect murder, but if someone comes around the corner and watches you off someone, you’re fucked. Also, if you have to leave before your mark is entirely dead, you’re fucked. If you drop a fucking hair and the cop finds it, you guessed it: fucked. Endless things could go wrong.
Which is why I don’t have any plans for the next few months. I’m gonna kill until I’m forced to stop.
But it sure as fuck won’t be by this asshole who thinks he can kill better than me.
I think I doze off when I hear my phone vibrate on the table.
Buffalo sounds excited, ‘Oh, I bet it’s him!’
I sit up straighter. If it is, I put software on my phone to track numbers. I stumble over to the table and pick up the phone.
Unknown: Interesting porn selection.
What the absolute fuck? I blink slowly, glancing around. I know I’m alone. I’ve been alone this whole time. No way he can see me.
I type out a response:
stop hiding from me, coward.
Unknown: Do you moan when you come?
Adrenaline rushes through me. I grab my gun and shove it into my waistband. I check the peephole, then outside. I don’t see anyone.
Unknown: Why don’t you be a good boy for me and show me?
‘Oh god, I love him.’ Buffalo sounds absolutely thrilled.
Rage boils in my blood. How fucking dare he?? I press the call button. As the phone rings, my hands shake. The phone rings and rings until it goes to voicemail, which isn’t set up.
Unknown: Need my voice to make you come? Kinky. Maybe if you’re good.
Ronan: What the fuck do you want?
Unknown: Summerman was mine. You took that from me.
Dread fills me. There’s Summerman’s name, sitting on my phone like damning evidence. I worked so hard to keep this phone clean. It has to be clean.
Immediately, I check the tracking software.
Nothing. His phone’s location is pinging all over the world.
Fucking fuck! This man is prepared. Which is the worst-case scenario. I go to my phone’s settings and hit factory reset. The phone goes black.
I breathe heavily. That will wipe this phone, but text history with the phone company might stay. I know they said they don’t keep texts, unlike social media messaging platforms, but what if they do?
My thoughts are running scrambled. This person knows about Summerman. Knows his name. Knows I was there.
‘Hey dog, this man has your number. In more ways than one.’ Buffalo cackles.
“Shut up!” I pace back and forth, back and forth. This man has a drop on me. He knows who I am, and I have no clue who he is. Even with my research, all I know is that he’s a copycat going after the same man.
I power the phone back on. As it loads to the genetic background, a text pops up.
Unknown: Rude.
Unknown: At this point, I won’t even accept a BJ as an apology.
Pure rage flashes across my vision. Who the fuck does he think he is?
Ronan: I’m not gay, faggot.
Unknown: Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?
Unknown: Fuck me.
Ronan: I said no, disgusting fuck.
Ronan: Get out of my life before I call the cops.
Ronan: Bet they’d like to chat.
Unknown: You’re cute when you get mad. Puff up your feathers to look bigger.
Unknown: You and I both know you won’t call the cops.
Ronan: Already called.
Ronan: Stay the fuck away from me. Or you’ll have the same fate.
Unknown: Fate? What a dramatic word.
Unknown: ‘You’ll have the same fate.’ LOL
My face gets red, and Buffalo cackles. I’m gonna kill this fuck. I’m gonna fucking kill him. But while I think that, fatigue hits me hard. I feel so exhausted—like I’m moving through cement. I need to sleep. And I will. After I make sure it’s safe. I heave myself up and move into action, barricading my front door with chairs and pulling the couch in front of the sliding glass door to my deck. That takes just about all the energy I have, and suddenly, I feel sick. Fucking alcohol. Gets me every time. I use my last energy to grab my gun, my phone, and Buffalo and stumble to bed.
The next time I check my phone, there’s one text waiting:
Unknown: I’ll be seeing you. *winky emoji*