Chapter 7 - ETHAN
Dusk. My favorite part of the day, where lightness gives in to the dark, slowly allowing all those things that hide in the day to reveal themselves in the harshness of night.
After work I had my driver, David, stake out Leo’s apartment.
I got his information from his file earlier and I’ve been obsessing so much about him, that he’s forced me into a corner where I need to know more.
David texted me to let me know Leo had left his building, heading toward the park for a run.
So of course I dress quickly in my gym gear, not wanting to waste an opportunity to find more out about Leo.
Luckily I enjoy running, so this should be easy.
Once I arrive, I watch the countless runners in front of me, running off the stresses of their day before the weekend truly begins.
The park exhales people the way lungs do.
Joggers turning into silhouettes, dogs pulling tired owners home, the sky bruising itself purple and gold.
I stay where shadows collect naturally, where no one looks twice at a man standing still.
Then Leo appears.
Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt first, then the line of his spine, a sexy map of pure effort.
His hair curls at the edges where it’s wet, softening his face, undoing the look of concern and tiredness that he had today.
His body moves like something honest with an untrained grace.
He runs with an even rhythm, his breath working harder than it should.
Has something rattled him? Is this one of those runs to exert the energy of the mind rather than the body?
Is his wife a nag, and his only escape is the guise of exercise?
He’s not built for speed. Watching his momentum he is built for endurance. I like that.
I follow when he leaves the park, maintaining a slow jog. Keeping enough distance to not be careless but close enough to keep my greedy eyes on him and that juicy little ass.
As we move further toward the backstreets of old apartment buildings, and the bustle of the city reduces, he wipes his face with the back of his hand. I notice there is a faint limp in his left step as he’s becoming tired. I make a note of it.
Weakness is intimacy in my world that can be used to control. Whatever is going on in Leo’s life to cause this, serves my plan perfectly. It means less work. Mind games and redirection are what will direct him freely into my world where he can never leave.
As darkness has now taken over, streetlights cut him into pieces, his throat, shoulders, hands and hips, assembling and disassembling him as he moves.
We arrive at his building and he crosses the street, while I hide in the darkness of the alley opposite.
He stops outside of his building. His shirt clings to his chest. Sweat draws lines along his ribs, and vanishes beneath fabric.
I need to see his chest bare with sweat.
To touch it and taste it, imprint his scent on my brain.
I imagine the heat of him. The weight of his exhaustion.
The surrender in his posture when he thinks no one is watching.
The way his body betrays how hard he tries to stay upright in a world that keeps asking for more than he has.
Leo is so easy to read he should be scared of who is watching to take advantage.
I take note of the area where the buildings decay here.
Windows clouded with old lives. The city doesn’t bother pretending to care.
His building is small and old. Brick stained the color of we don’t give a shit.
The kind of place people live when they are running out of choices.
He bends slightly, hands on his knees, breath tearing in and out of him like he has just been pulled from deep water. For a second he closes his eyes.
There it is again, that small, dangerous stillness. Dejection. I’ve seen it before. As if he might collapse into a shell if someone doesn’t decide what he’s allowed to be.
I want to be that decision.
I want to touch the places effort has softened him. Not roughly, but with conviction.
Ownership isn’t violence. It’s a permanent reality.
He straightens, rubs his face while he looks up at the building like it has personally disappointed him. Then he goes inside.
I wait long enough to see his light turn on. Third floor, left side of the building.
I remain where I am and text David to come and collect me, while letting the craving for Leo settle into something disciplined.
I study the building like it’s an extension of him now.
Memorize the pattern of lights, the cracked steps, and the security camera above the door that I bet hasn’t worked in years.
When you take ownership of someone, it starts with knowledge. This is not a hunger that panics and gorges. It’s controlled and planned carefully. Manipulated to the finest point.
Leo doesn’t know yet that his body already belongs to memory, to my memory. Completely unaware that I know the tempo of his breathing, the slope of his exhaustion. The way his shoulders curve when no one is around.
Soon, he will learn what it means to be seen continuously. Completely.
David arrives and parks in the street while I get in and make my next move as we set off. I have an idea, but it requires research and extensive planning. I don’t like uncertainty.
That’s why I call Marcus.
He answers on the second ring, as he always does. Loyalty is predictable when it’s properly cultivated over the years we have known each other.
“I need a background check,” I tell him. “Full.”
There is a pause, which is then followed by a chuckle of amusement. “You finally found a hobby?”
“A person.”
Another pause, but longer this time.
“Name?”
“Leo Jones.”
I give him the rest of the information I have, and hold myself back from being too impatient.
Marcus and I go way back. He’s the Prez of a motorcycle club called Blackrose Saints.
Over the years he has done some off the record work for me, and I’ve provided financial assistance for the club when needed.
Those guys are loyal to the core. They have shit on me that would have me locked up for the rest of my life.
Marcus lets out a breath.
“You’re doing that thing again. Obsessing and being unfairly impatient.”
“I’m always like that. How long do I have to wait?”
“Give me a few hours,” he says before disconnecting the call.
But like the stand up guy he is, he delivers in two.
I’m already at home and eating dinner when I get an alert that the files have arrived on my phone. The long list of every issue in Leo’s life.
Money problems. Severe. Credit card balances on the edge of collapse.
Savings have run out. Recently moved from Ohio.
Is a metal sculptor and attends a workshop twice a month?
So he wants to be an artist. That detail hums through me like a low current.
Of course he does. Men like Leo always want things that don’t love them back.
But it could be useful information in formulating a plan and would explain the marks I noticed on his hands today.
Married. I pause on that word longer than necessary and sneer at it.
Sarah. Barista at a local coffee shop, a popular hang out. She is the same when it comes to finances. Also comes from Ohio. I guess they grew up together.
I continue to read more notes from Marcus. Leo has no criminal history. No close family. Father died a year ago. No real support system outside of his wife.
My lip quirks like I’m trying to smile.
This is a perfect situation for someone like me as it does not require a lot of effort. You see, people think predators seek strength because it makes for a greater challenge. We don’t. We seek isolation.
I close my eyes and briefly picture his hands covered in ash instead of cheap soap. His mouth relaxed instead of clenched around apologies. His life reduced to something small enough for me to hold.
I don’t want to hurt him.
That’s the lie people like me tell ourselves. The truth is more grand.
I want to decide for him. What he does. What he needs. Who touches him. Who he belongs to when the lights go out and the city forgets his name.
In my world control is not cruelty. It’s intimacy without the chaos.
I lower the phone and rest my hands on my lap, breathing slowly, evenly, as if I’m already familiar with the shape of him. I’m so excited at the thought of finally having him within my grasp and to watch his face as reality hits him. His fear will come later, but so will his understanding.
On Monday, I will speak to him again. Soon, he will stop thinking of his life in terms of survival and start thinking of it in terms of me.
And when that happens…
I will never let him go.
Starlight is built for forgetting.
Low ceilings. Velvet shadows. Music that slides under the skin, stroking you internally in the most erotic way.
The piano bleeds into slow harmonious notes, repetitive enough to sand down the sharpest feelings.
To make you forget whatever is going on outside of those doors in the real world.
This place is a haven for someone like me, where dark thoughts take form into something real.
Where your imagination can run so freely that it feels real, and when you leave you crave for it to come true.
So it’s no surprise that it works, helping dull the thoughts of Leo that have racked my brain all day.
It’s taken all my strength not to go to his shitty apartment and kick his door down and bring him back to my penthouse and chain him to my bed.
The things I would do to him, the things that I would make him enjoy, and make him beg for more. Turn him into an Ethan addict.