Chapter 2 #2
I grin, imagining my Dateline episode. “Promise you’ll be my star witness on the documentary?”
“You have my word. ‘Cooper Larson—beloved idiot. Last seen trotting toward death with a smile.’”
“Make sure you give my socials a shoutout posthumously.” I add. “Tell them to like and subscribe in my honor. #JusticeForCooper.”
“Oh I will," she deadpans. “#CooperWasAskingForIt. I’ll be riding that gravy train. Maybe it’ll be enough to payoff my tuition.”
We head toward the exit together, her shoulders dragging from the weight of her backpack. It would be generous to say that Ava is 110 pounds soaking wet.
Most of the time I’m convinced that she’s fueled by spite and Sour Patch Kids.
“Do you want me to carry that?” I ask, nodding at the pack.
She snorts. “Do you want me to castrate you?”
I leave my mouth open in a theatrical awe. “A simple ‘no thank you’ Cooper would suffice.”
“Whatever… you seriously running tonight?” she asks as we meet the sidewalk.
“Just a short one, to clear my head. It’ll be a casual flirt-with-death jog.” I tease.
“Cooper.”
“What?”
“If a masked man starts following you—”
“—ask for his playlist recommendations?”
She inhales deeply, like she might ascend in the air out of sheer frustration. “No. If a masked man starts following you, you run.”
“What if he’s polite about it?”
“Cooper, I fricking swear,” she groans, the patience draining from her voice.
“What?” I grin. “It’s been forever since I’ve had a man devoted to me.”
“The moment you see a shadow or another pair of feet, you better sprint your ass to St. Paul.”
“Can I at least wink first?”
She stops walking and grips my arm with an alarming amount of strength for her small frame. “Listen to me. If you get murdered, I am not testifying at the trial because I refuse to sit in a courtroom and say out loud that your last known words were ‘Hey big boy, you into cardio?’”
I chuckle under my breath. “That does sound like something I’d say.”
She gives me an exasperated groan. “Text me when you get back, and keep your location on! No turning it off for desperate hookups.”
“And if I forget?”
“I’ll call 911, your mother, and cancel you online.”
“You’re so controlling,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
“You’re so kidnappable.”
I grin, bouncing toward my bungalow down the street. “I’ll send you a dramatic selfie if I see anyone in a balaclava.”
“DO NOT.”
“Love you, Ava!”
She mutters something, but my ears are too far gone. I continue to my rented two-story bungalow, conveniently located a few blocks from the medical part of campus and only four blocks away from Riverside.
I have two roommates, Josh and Luke, both residents at the hospital. They’re kept so busy I could count the number of conversations I’ve had with either of them on one-hand.
Mostly variations of: You good? Yep. Cool. See ya later bro.
I didn’t mind having the house to myself most of the time, but it would be nice to have someone else home with all of the disappearances of late.
I make my way to my bedroom on the first floor, tossing on a pair of running shorts, and a long-sleeve reflective shirt. My eyes catch the mirror and pause—because it would be a crime not to.
I flex my biceps.
A reminder that I won’t be anyone’s prey.
Good thing I am jacked. Back in my hometown of Brainerd, I was sort of a big deal. Track star, homecoming king, the guy the chicks fawned over. Blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes, a homage to my Norwegian ancestry. Snug little muscles fit for a Viking raid.
I give my reflection a nod. “No stalker’s gonna take me down.” I say out loud, to let my ears hear it.
Then I picture myself getting tackled from behind and dragged into the woods, my heart races, adrenaline pumping into my bloodstream, displacing the oxygen.
My shorts pop a little tent.
I freeze. Then sigh. “Okay,” I mutter. “Maybe fifty percent prey. Fifty percent willing.”
I shake my head at myself, grabbing my phone and earbuds. “Get it together, Larson. You cannot be aroused by potential homicide. That’s not a kink you want to unpack with a licensed professional.”
I flip off the mirror for an adios and step into the hallway. The house is silent, except for a few creaks. Too silent. My roommates’ bedroom doors are shut, no sound or movement. They must be in the middle of a 24- or 36-hour shift.
Perfect.
No witnesses to my potential slaughter.
I make my way to the front door. Hand on the knob, I take one last breath of warm indoor air and think to myself, if this is how I die, I hope I look hot doing it.
Then I swing the door open and step into the briskness of the night.
The air bites cold against my bare skin. The streetlights appear awfully dim across the pavement. Leaves shiver in the wind.
I tug my sleeves down and start trotting on the sidewalk, my breath warming the frosty air. My body is itching to pick up speed, but I force myself to start slow—to embrace the night. To let it wrap around me and shiver the yellow marrow of my bones.
As I trot through the neighborhood, it is quiet in an uncharacteristic manner, no pedestrians, no cars zooming by too fast in a 35-mile-per-hour zone. Only the sounds of a few dogs barking and gutters groaning from the wind.
Every so often, I pass an illuminated window, the warm light spilling out onto their porch. Someone watching TV. Families eating dinner. A stranger playing their piano. All of them blissfully unaware that I’m out here auditioning for Dateline.
I keep moving, warmth and strength begin to build in my legs. The rhythm of my feet settles in sync with my heartbeat. The cold air stings as it circulates in my lungs, sharp and awakening.
I glance down one of the side alleys. Dark and empty, besides a streetlamp flickering halfway down.
I swear I feel eyes on me.
Not the casual curiosity of those from a bedroom window.
The investigatory sort.
The assessing sort.
The if I ran, how fast could I catch you sort.
A shiver rolls down my vertebrae, while a grin spreads on my face.
Must be nice, to be wanted so badly, that a man would chase you through the woods, swim across rivers, howl at the moon to announce that you are his.
His property.
To be claimed.
To be owned.
Not to kill you.
But to choose you.
To do anything for you, that he would kill upon your commandment.
I chuckle, thinking about it, the fear dissolving from my mind. A man like that doesn’t exist, it’s dark tale that lunatics tell themselves to get off.
And maybe I will later tonight…
The Cooper Larson that everyone sees on the surface is a large facade of who I really am. On the outside, I’m kind, caring, easy to talk to. A Midwest boy with proper manners. Blonde hair and blue eyes to disarm those around me.
But inside?
Inside I crave dominance.
The thrill.
The danger.
I want risk the way other people seek comfort.
I want someone stronger than me. Someone who doesn’t ask. Someone who takes while I nod my head.
That’s the side of Cooper Larson that no one sees except for Ava.
I would have been the perfect son. The perfect husband. Except there is one little problem. I like my lovers in work boots and suits. Not dresses with heels.
The hairier the better, and I don’t mind a little bit of salt and pepper.
God, don’t even get me started on Dr. Fritz, who’s teaching our anatomy and physiology course this semester.
Henrich is a steamy daddy if I have ever seen one.
He could tie me up in the library bathroom and I wouldn’t squeak a peep while he sends me to the fiery pits of blistering pleasure.
I imagine the stall shaking, one hand around my throat, the other stuffing my mouth as I moan into his fingers.
As you can probably tell, I haven’t had a proper fuck since coming back to Minneapolis. I’ve been a good boy—too fucking focused on my classes.
Back in Chicago, I might’ve had too much fun during my four years of debauchery. There were plenty of nights that don’t need any remembering.
My cock stirs in against my briefs, begging, literally spilling beads of juice for relief, desperate to make room.
Fucking Christ Dr. Fritz, you are the only reason why I can stay awake at 8 AM. You aren’t supposed to be torturing me when I’m clearing my head.
Anyways, serial killer lurking or not, nobody is going to stop me from going on my evening or morning runs. If this man stumbles upon me, I’ll choke the bastard and maybe let him do the same.
Quite the ego they have if they think they can ruin my only time of the day where my head isn’t spinning in circles, trying to remember the extensor vs. the flexor of a muscle. Or ignore the thoughts of getting dicked down by my forty-year-old professor.
As I pick up speed, my legs move with a cumbersome weight to them, sore from last night’s quick pace—acid souring through my quads. Six-minute miles, I was really feeling myself on a roll. Invincible. One foot after another, in tandem with German techno.
I knew should have slowed down a tad, but I love showing off my running stats on my page. Letting that dopamine hit as I imagine all of my followers watching me rack up all of the miles.
I couldn’t help it—I’m a slut for perfection. Or maybe the idea of it.
Because deep down, I know I’ll never be perfect. I could be the top neurosurgeon in the country, win Grandma’s Marathon in Duluth, ace my first STEP exam, but I’ll never be a family man. A guy with his own biological kids.
Cursed at birth.
Cursed to be a failure before I drew my first breath.
Knowing that I’ll never be the man everyone expects when I walk into a room. A man tainted by his sexual orientation. Their eyes light up when they realize.
Fuck, Cooper. Nobody gives a fuck about who you want to bone or get boned by.
Rationally, I know that no one else cares. My dad doesn’t, or anyone in my family. Thank God, they are the kind of Catholics that only go to church on Easter and Christmas.