Chapter 17 #2
We're at a crime scene in Ten Park. It was a domestic violence incident that ended in a shooting of the abusive partner by the police.
The victim has been taken to their family.
The police have cleared the scene and the body's been removed. Roxy is doing her thing as I keep watch. It’s then that I see him.
A man in his thirties, expensive camera around his neck, tech-bro aesthetic with designer jeans, vintage band t-shirt, carefully styled hair. He's photographing the same scene, probably for some urban exploration blog or Instagram account.
And he's noticed Roxy.
"Hey," he calls out, approaching her. "Nice camera. You shooting for a project?"
Roxy looks up, startled, her eyes quickly find mine, but before she can respond, I'm there as I step between them.
"She's not available for conversation."
The guy blinks, taken aback by my tone.
"I was just…" he starts to say, a look of confusion on his face as he looks to Roxy before looking at me.
"I know what you were doing. And I'm telling you she's not interested."
"Dude, I was just being friendly."
"Be friendly somewhere else, before you don’t have a tongue to talk with."
His eyes widen before he looks at Roxy again, maybe expecting her to contradict me or tell me to shut up.
But she stays silent, pressed against my side, snuggling into my neck, understanding the dynamic.
I can feel the itch under my skin, the temptation to take a knife to this guy’s smug face.
It’s overwhelming and the only thing stopping me is having Roxy pressed against me, bringing me the calm I need to control the urge.
I can’t do that shit anymore, especially here in daylight. But, fuck, am I tempted.
"Whatever, man, I don’t want any trouble," he says finally, backing off with his hands up in defeat. "I didn't mean to intrude."
He walks away and I watch until he's out of sight, picturing things I would love to do to the asshole. When he’s gone, I turn to Roxy.
"We're done here. Let's go."
"Dom…"
"Now."
We walk back to the car in silence, holding hands. I can feel the rage building in my chest, not at her, but at the situation. It’s not even the fact he may have been trying to hit on her, it’s the fact she has been noticed, that a stranger has spent long enough in her presence to remember her.
Once we're in the car, I turn to her.
"Don't talk to anyone about the work," I say, my voice hard. "All of it stays between us until we're ready to share it."
"I wasn't going to, baby."
"I know, but I'm telling you anyway. No one gets to know what you're doing. No one gets to see the work, you’re mine and I don’t share any part of you with anyone."
She's quiet for a moment, studying my face. Then she reaches over and puts her hand on my thigh.
"Yeah," she says softly. "I'm yours."
The anger starts to fade, replaced by something this toxic possessiveness and obsession I have for her. I hate that he spoke to her, and how he looked at her. Jealousy is not a good thing for someone like me, as it will lead to dead bodies left in my wake.
I drive to a quiet side street with no pedestrians and park. Then I pull her across the console into my lap, my mouth finding hers in a bruising kiss.
"Mine," I growl against her lips. "Say it."
"Yours."
"This body. This mind. All of it belongs to me."
"It’s all yours."
I bite down on her neck, hard enough to leave a mark. She gasps, pushing her body into me, and I do it again. And again. Marking her visibly, claiming her for anyone to see. She whimpers with her bite, and I know she must be soaked.
"Everyone needs to know you're taken. That you're not available. That you belong to someone."
"I do. I belong to you."
I pull her shirt aside and bite her shoulder, her collarbone, the top of her breast. Hickeys bloom across her skin like dark flowers.
"Perfect," I murmur, admiring my work. "Now everyone will know."
She's panting, aroused, her hands fisting in my shirt. "Fuck me. Please."
I lift her enough to unbuckle my belt, free my cock. She’s wearing a short denim skirt today, so I pull her wet panties to the side with my finger and then I'm inside her, claiming her, owning her completely.
"This is where you belong," I say, my hands gripping her ass hard enough to bruise. "Mine. My woman. My artist. My dark angel."
"Fuck I love you," she moans.
"I love you too, baby. Now, say it."
"I'm yours. All of me belongs to you."
"Good girl."
I fuck her hard, my hips pushing up into her tight warmth, sweat covers the back of my neck from the exertion. Just as I feel myself about to cum, I quickly rub her clit with my thumb, and she cries out at the same time as I cum. That’s better.
"I like it when you're jealous," she says quietly into my ear.
"You do, huh?"
"Yeah. It means you care. It means this matters."
"You’re the only thing that matters."
She kisses me softly. "You’re never getting rid of me."
"Good, because I’d never let you leave."
The next day brings the hospital.
Clark Memorial's loading dock sits at the back of the complex, hidden from public view by a concrete wall and a row of dumpsters. The place where bodies arrive and depart without ceremony.
We park two blocks away at 2:47am. The scanner's been quiet for an hour, which means the coast should be clear.
"Five minutes," I tell Roxy as we approach on foot. "In and out."
"You don’t have to keep reminding me, I already know."
I can already see the hunger in her eyes. The way she's gripping her camera like it's the only thing keeping her grounded.
The loading dock is bathed in harsh bright light, those typical hospital lights that make everything look corpse-pale and clinical. A metal door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sits closed, but there's a window beside it, large enough to see through.
Large enough to photograph through.
Roxy moves toward it immediately, her camera already raised.
"Careful," I murmur, keeping watch on the access road.
She doesn't respond as she's already lost in it, the need to capture this space where death is processed like inventory. Corpses are dealt with like a daily monotony, no real care or interest in whole these people were and what they lived. But that’s humans for you, they become desensitized with routine exposure. Empathy leaves the fucking building.
I have a peek through the window, and I can see stainless steel tables.
Gurneys. Equipment I don't want to identify.
The room is empty right now, but the aftermath of what happens here is everywhere.
In the clinical cleaning smell that seeps through the door seams, from the industrial drains built into the floor.
Even in the way the fluorescent lights hum with a frequency that feels wrong.
Roxy's camera clicks. Once. Twice. Three times.
"That's enough," I say quietly.
"Just a few more."
"Roxy."
She ignores me, adjusting her angle to capture the far corner of the room. I notice her breathing has changed, becoming faster and shallower. The way it always gets when she's seeing something that calls to her inner dark.
Click. Click. Click.
The smell of formaldehyde drifts out from somewhere, mixing with the bleach. It's chemical and wrong and it makes my stomach turn, but Roxy leans closer to the window like she's trying to breathe it in.
"This is where they prepare them," she whispers. "Before the families see. This is where the emptiness lives."
"I know. But we need to…"
A door opens somewhere inside the building. Footsteps. Heavy, and they’re getting closer.
"Roxy. Now."
I grab her arm and pull her away from the window. She stumbles, her camera swinging on its strap, but I don't let go. I'm already moving, dragging her with me toward the shadows behind the dumpsters.
"I didn't get the wide shot!"
"I don't fucking care."
We press against the concrete wall just as a security guard rounds the corner.
An older guy, maybe sixty, with a flashlight and a radio clipped to his belt.
He's doing his rounds, checking the perimeter.
He stops at the loading dock before taking a quick look around.
His flashlight beam sweeps across the area where we were standing thirty seconds ago.
Roxy's breathing hard against my shoulder and I can feel her pulse racing through her jacket.
The guard lingers for another twenty seconds, then he moves on, disappearing around the far side of the building.
We wait two full minutes before moving. When we finally make it back to the car, I'm shaking. Not from adrenaline, but from anger at how careless she was.
"Get in," I say, my voice tight.
Roxy climbs into the passenger seat without arguing. She knows. She can hear it in my tone.
I drive three blocks before pulling into an empty parking lot behind a closed grocery store. Then I kill the engine and turn to face her.
"Someone almost saw you."
"I know, I’m sorry."
"We can't afford that. Not now. Not ever."
"I know, Dom. I said I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just be careful." I run my hand through my hair, trying to calm down. "We're supposed to be hiding, remember? That means no trace of us and no witnesses."
"I’m sorry, I just…" she says defeated, looking down at her camera, her fingers tracing the lens. "When I'm there, in those spaces, I forget everything else. It's like the work is the only thing that matters."
"I get it. But you matter more than the work. You understand that?"
She looks up at me, her eyes dark and serious. "Yeah."
"If you get caught, if someone identifies you, this whole thing falls apart. The portfolio, the gallery submissions, the new life…all of it."
"I know."
"So we have to be smarter. I scout first. And if I say it's not safe, we don't go. No arguments."
"Okay."
The anger is draining out of me now, replaced by understanding. I reach over and cup her face, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to protect you."
"And I need that. I need you to pull me back when I go too far."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Because when I'm in it, I can't see anything else. I need you to be the one who sees the danger."
I lean across the console and kiss her. Slow and tender.
"We're a unit," I say against her lips. "You and me. We do this together."
"Together."
"I watch your back. You trust me to pull you out when it's time."
"I do trust you."
I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hand sliding to her throat. She responds immediately, her body leaning into mine despite the awkward angle. It doesn’t last too long before I break the kiss.
"Tomorrow we try again," she says.
"Yeah. But we do it right and you listen."
"Okay, I promise."
I kiss the top of her head, finally feeling back to normal. "Good."
The next scene is an overdose victim discovered in an industrial area.
I scout the location first, alone, making sure it's safe, but there are two other people here. They look like photographers, but not professionals, my guess is they probably do this shit for social media likes. And people would say I’m the sick fuck.
I need to get rid of them, so I approach them.
"You need to leave."
"Excuse me?"
"This is a crime scene. You're contaminating evidence. Leave."
"We're not doing anything wrong, it’s a public space."
"I said leave, or do you wanna become a problem for me?” I say, my voice deep and cold as I step closer, letting them see the monster in my eyes. The understanding that I'm not someone to argue with.
They both look at each other, coming to an understanding as they walk off. Not many moments later, Roxy arrives, and I'm still fired up. All of this human interaction is grating on my nerves.
"What happened?" she asks.
"Other photographers. I got rid of them."
"What? What happened to not drawing attention to ourselves."
"What can I say? I’m a hypocrite. The assholes needed to leave, only threats work on pricks like them. Now, do your thing, baby," I say as she smiles and gives me a hard kiss on the lips.
For the rest of the day, that’s how it goes, moving from a couple of scenes we picked up on the scanner, to locations where there is life moving around us so she can draw. All while I protect her and keep her space safe.
When we get home, I take her against the wall in the hallway, unable to control myself any longer.
"Mine," I growl.
"Yours," she gasps.
"Always."
"Always."
After two weeks, we have a solid routine. Her portfolio has grown considerably, with so many amazing pieces for her to choose from. Everything is starting to settle into place.
One evening, Roxy's in my lap on the couch, both of us exhausted from a long day of searching and our bellies now stuffed with pizza. She turns to look at me, her eyes serious.
"Thank you for making this possible. For protecting me and letting me be exactly who I am."
"You don't have to thank me, baby."
"Maybe not, but thank you."
I kiss her softly as she snuggles in closer to me, her breathing settling to a content rhythm. We have finally cracked the code of what we needed to make our lives possible, to be worth living. To be able to maneuver our lives that comply with social norms around our darkest secrets and desires.
Together, we're unstoppable.