Chapter 4
Holden
Moving the volume up to ten, I tap my thumb the same number of counts against the leather steering wheel.
My foot holds the brake pedal down as we sit idle at a red light.
With bored eyes, I watch the foot traffic.
Pedestrians rush to make it across before running out of time, and the light declares green to go.
Everyone is always on the clock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
Scanning each person as they pass, my brain reminds me, it’s two points a person. My lip twitches in delight until I feel his eyes on me, causing my skin to crawl with absolute annoyance. “I don’t need your judgement. I have it under control.”
Everyone always has an opinion, and eventually they will understand I don’t fucking care.
Ten is my number. That or an even sequence, it’s really not that complicated.
And at what point did I ever give the impression that I would take the words of a man wearing a fisherman’s hat to heart, or seriously?
Tension fills the vehicle. The steady tapping of my free foot against the gas pedal creates a beat in my head.
It soothes, adding to the background noise of the radio.
Taking it one step further, I hold my foot down on the next tap, revving the engine of my Rolls.
The same Rolls that has douche canoe still keyed to the side of it.
Apparently, my car guy doesn’t understand what a fucking emergency is.
And I could have taken another one of my pompous luxury cars today, but where would the fun in that have been?
“Right, Mr. Carlisle?” I shout, still keeping my eyes focused ahead. He doesn’t answer. Asshole.
None of the passing people appear to be fazed by me. If only they knew I was hanging on by a fucking thread. Saliva builds inside my mouth while my knee shakes eagerly, waiting for me to act.
Girl in glitter club dress, bonus eight points.
Man wearing sunglasses at night, bonus four points.
Couple walking a dog, not leashed, bonus four points.
Nothing pisses me off more than an unleashed animal in public.
Where on my face does it say, Oh yes, please, you germ-filled beast, come jump on my trousers that cost more than your owner’s monthly rent.
Please, I love animals so much, fill my body with ringworm.
Then, breaking the narrative and point count building in my head, perhaps as a peace offering, he suggests, instead of apologizing, “Why wait for the light to give you permission?”
“Oh, Mr. Carlisle, you are a naughty boy, aren’t you?
” Scanning the area, it’s long since the sun has set with streetlights dimly flickered on.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, cars are lined up behind me, patiently waiting.
The area is too populated to play a game.
Then, of its own accord, my pinkie takes control, flicking my right turning signal on.
Smiling in delight, I wait for the crosswalk to clear before making my move.
The steering wheel moves, my foot releases the brake pedal, and my car is idle no more. Casually, she turns the corner and to my pleasant surprise, it’s a one-way.
Inching up the crowded road, parked cars line on either side.
“Mr. Carlisle, you are becoming a bad influence on me.” I tsk under my breath.
It’s perfect. Tall, lush hedges line one side of the parked cars, protecting me from peering eyes in the park.
A tall building is adjacent, not deterring me.
Foot traffic is at a minimum here, so I creep forward, taking my time.
The itch wants me to scratch him once more this evening.
Once was not enough for him. Sometimes he gets greedy and doesn’t know how to stop.
The last time such an urge washed over me like this was well over a year ago.
Two souls left us that evening and my body trembled in delight.
A truly tranquil experience that words can never really do justice.
It is dark, the autumn crisp air chills my skin and the annoyance of drunk degenerates leaving the bars invades my headspace.
Looking down at my watch, it’s two in the morning.
Instead of sleeping, my mind is thriving, which only further irritates me.
I am a creature of habit; I know what I like and what I don’t.
Unless I am killing, there is no need to be awake this late.
Just as I slip my hands into my trouser pockets, a heavy, large steel door swings open, nearly taking me out.
Immediately, all the blood coursing through my body ignites. How fucking ignorant.
As I go to reach forward, to push the door back into the face of the asshat who swung it open, two dickhead bros stumble forward.
Instantly, the stench of alcohol repulses me.
One trips over his own feet like a toddler, falling forward and smashing his face against the disease-filled sidewalk.
The amount of piss coating these streets should be illegal.
The door slams closed, and the fucker still standing laughs hysterically, which baffles me, because nothing about this encounter is funny.
Both wear similar outfits: baggy jeans, no belts, high-top kicks and tacky branded tees.
Backward black hats cover their hair, which slightly curls up under the edges.
Thank fuck, I can only imagine how unkempt their rat nests are.
“Dude, get up. Fuck this joint. We can get pussy elsewhere.” The fucker standing grunts. His body sways, barely able to maintain his balance.
“Those bitches don’t know what they are missing out on. Fuck them.” The twat on the ground gets cocky. Which is ironic considering what his face is pressed against.
Fucker standing finally notices me, disgusted. “What’s your problem? Walk around us. Fuck.”
Glancing around, my eyes take in the dark scenery.
Minimal lights illuminate these backstreets.
And I doubt this club has CCTV in sight.
The place seems sketchy, like these doors are frequently used to dispose of people that are unwanted in their facility.
Holding my hands up in defense, I lay on my apologies, thick, because I am everything but.
They interrupted me. “No disrespect, gentlemen. I shall be on my way.”
I don’t wait for them to respond before stepping forward.
The sound of my loafers clicks against the cold sidewalk, and instead of walking around the one still on the ground, I walk directly to him.
And why he hasn’t bothered to move is beyond me.
My foot rises to appear as if I am going to step over him.
His face turns to look toward me, drool hanging out of his mouth and a slight bruise already forming on the side of his face.
“Bro, what are you doing?” he asks incoherently through mumbles and stumbles. It only solidifies my next move.
The next step taken lands on his neck, forcing his face back down. His reaction time lacks, giving me the upper hand while placing most of my body weight onto the side, adding pressure to his spinal cord and airway. The fucker standing throws his arms up. “Whoaw, what do you think you’re doing?”
Rolling my eyes, isn’t it fucking obvious?
He steps forward, looking to confront and fight me.
I don’t react; I don’t need to. Instead, I stand idle and wait.
Fucker standing thrusts his body forward, looking to take me out at the waist. My hands are quick to react.
Wrapping them around his head, I hold and grip tightly before twisting it with all my might.
His shoulder barely taps me as I hear the beautiful snap.
Fucker standing is now fucker falling. Dead.
Collapsing on top of his nearly dead friend.
My body knew better than me. My mind guided me to where I needed to be tonight and I was scratching an itch I didn’t know I had this evening. A craving for an addiction I love and being satisfied, surprisingly, is euphoric.
Guy on the ground whimpers between gasping for relief.
If he doesn’t stop, it could draw unwanted attention our way, and we can’t have that.
Letting up from his neck, I kneel on either side, and reach forward, placing my middle fingers into his eye sockets, which is really fucking gross.
Applying maximum pressure, more cries follow.
But they quickly end as I pull his head back, cranking his neck in a way it was not designed to go.
My entire body is leaning back, my feet anchoring me from falling as they push forward, keeping the balance.
Another crack tickles my ears. I smile, releasing his head, and it falls forward, crashing back into the pissy ground.
Shit. No. Fucking gross.
Patting my pockets, I find my spray sanitizer and urgently douse myself.
Fucking pissy hands. Oh, fuck. And what if he had pink eye?
I need to disinfect my entire body. Shaken with chills and disgust, my body rises, swiftly leaving the two fuckers to be found.
Police won’t even get called. It’s more likely that the club will handle them for me, not wanting the spotlight or liability. A win-win for me. Always.