Page 107 of Strays
The climax rips through me like fire, sharp and blinding. My cock throbs as I spill into her in long, hard pulses.
I collapse over her, bracing myself on my forearms as I lower down, our bodies still joined. She wraps her legs around me again, her chest rising fast beneath mine. We stay like that for a while, trembling together.
It’s different without the rut fog. Just her and me, fully aware.
“I love you,” I whisper.
She sighs softly, tilting her head to press her forehead against mine. “I love you too, Kory.”
I carry her upstairs, still buried deep inside her, only pulling out when we reach the bathroom. Her scent is now sweet instead of spiced, inviting me to sleep, to rest. I clean us both off, then take her to the nest and settle her beside Jay. Then, I lie down next to her and finally pass out.
The next morning we’re up right after five. I’m a little groggy with sleep, but it was definitely worth it to stay up late last night. No complaints.
We get into the truck, and less than an hour later we hit Gerusse Street.
The neighborhood’s half-awake. The seafood place sits mid-block, narrowand worn, with the lights off and a handwritten sign hanging inside the glass door.
We park two buildings down and step out. A refrigerated truck rolls past and parks across from us, right in front of a bricked-over building with no signs, the hum of its compressor low and steady. A dented sedan with fogged windows sits next to the truck.
We spread out naturally, like we’re just passing through. Shane cuts toward the end of the block, slipping around the corner to get eyes on the back entrances. Jay takes the alley route. I move along the storefronts to get a line on the restaurant’s front.
Jay’s voice comes through low in my earpiece. “Back door’s padlocked. Dumpster’s empty. Whole alley’s clean. There’s a trace of shrimp and bleach, but it’s old.”
Shane answers from the other side of the block. “Place looks dead.”
I stop at the front door and find out why it’s so clean. “The sign says closed for renovations,” I say through my comm.
We regroup beside the truck. The silence sits heavy. I was so sure this place would lead to something. That seafood bag in the evidence photo looked like a real connection. But there’s nothing here.
“Let’s head home,” I say. “Maybe we can still catch breakfast with Jo.”
We’re getting back into the truck when something catches my eye: the refrigerated truck across the street, still sitting there, compressor still running.
Jay sees me watching it. “What?” he asks.
“That truck’s been sitting there since we got here,” I say. “Freezer’s on, so it’s loaded. What the hell is a loaded refrigerated truck doing in a place like this?”
We stay put.
A few minutes later, we see movement: someone stepping out from the side lot. It’s a man in a company polo. He looks exactly like someone making a legitimate delivery, no rush, no hesitation. He heads straight for the truck, climbs in, and starts the engine.
We all clock the details. Cab number. New Jersey plates. Company name stenciled on the side. Shane lifts his phone and snaps a few quick shots of the plate and the logo like he’s just checking messages.
The truck pulls away from the curb and drives off.
Then, two men exit from the same side lot. One is in a hoodie, sleeves shoved up; the other wears an oversized windbreaker and dark sunglasses. They head for the dented sedan. Jay’s already on the plate.
I jot the time and log the make and model. Jay gets one more angle before the sedan pulls off and disappears down the street. We stay still a little longer, but no one else comes out.
Shane glances toward the side lot. “Let’s check where they came from.”
We cross the street. The side lot’s wide open, no fence, just crackedpavement, a mess of weeds and overgrown grass. Toward the back, wild bushes crowd the corner where the building’s side wall meets the fence line.
When we get close to the building wall, I hear a low hum, steady and mechanical, bleeding through it. The kind of sound you miss unless you’re trained to hear it. It’s not HVAC, it’s too focused, too insulated. And unmistakable now that we’ve caught it: it’s a freezer. Industrial type.
I look at my brothers, and they both have focused expressions. We press palms to the wall. Jay crouches low. Shane knocks in intervals, but we find nothing. There’s no visible entrance from the side lot.
We circle the building twice more before we call it in.
