Page 41 of Crawl
CHAPTER 10
Cash
Living in Key West for as long as I have means that I know the properties inside and out, even if I don’t own them. From the restored, historic homes to the modern condos, I’ve worked on them all. And Dean, the ex-boyfriend, lives in a small, two-bedroom cottage developed by the Winstone Company, which means he has the same hatch to his crawl space and the same wide wall cavities as Remedy. It would be amusing, but I’m too impatient. I want to kill himnow.
By the time the sun sets, I pick the lock at his cottage, letting myself in. The evening is quiet, and though the civilian paranoia means that I have fewer options, I tell myself that I enjoy the change of pace. Everyone is afraid. I’m their boogeyman, and my reign stretches over the city.
In the second bedroom, which he’s arranged as his office, I sift through the drawers and filing cabinet. Schoolwork. Essays. Attendance records. Outdated textbooks. It reeks of stale books and ink. There’s a large window facing the street on one wall, and on the other, a bookshelf is stacked to the brim with textbooks and binders. But in the desk’s top drawer, a red satin thong lies crumbled under some paper clips.
Blood simmers in my veins, my heart rate skyrocketing. He’s taunting me. Does he want to suffer? I grab the clump of fabric, paper clips and all, crunching it in my fist, and sniff them deeply. More sour than tangy. I relax. It’s not her.
But that means he lied to Remedy. He’s not the abstinent ex-boyfriend who deserves a second chance. He’s been sleeping around.
But that doesn’t matter.
After I investigate the property, I find a space in the master bedroom closet, leaving the door cracked open for the view. If Dean keeps to his typical schedule since I’ve begun watching him, I won’t have to wait long.
And on queue, he drifts into the house reeking of beer and floral perfume, his sweater vest clutched in his hand. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, loosening the buttons, then takes off his clothes, slinging each article onto the bed. A shaved chest. Muscular, like he plays in an adult sports league. Styled hair. He collapses on the bed, and though I can’t see much now, I can see his dick in one hand and his phone in the other, like he’s jerking off to porn. But no matter how hard he pumps, his dick stays flaccid in his palm. Foster mother number seven was like that. If you got her to drink, she’d pass out, and so I put a tube in her unconscious mouth, funneling as much as her stomach would take. No one blinked an eye when she died of alcohol poisoning.
They’re all the same.
He groans and twists in his bed until he finally flops on his back and passes out. It’s not even seven o’clock yet, and the bastard is already drunk with whiskey dick. Is this how he treated Remedy? Getting so drunk he can’t even fuck himself, expecting her to be okay with that? I creep through the closet door until I’m standing over his unconscious body. I poke my cleaver under his chin, moving his head so I can inspect him. A chiseled jaw. Light eyes. There’s a dip in his cheek, like he may have dimples. No wonder Remedy liked him. There’s no denying he’s attractive, though he’d have more character with his face carved up.
But I’m not here to fix him.
The cleaver pricks his skin. He swats at it like it’s a housefly, but the blade slices into his palm and he widens his eyes, focusing on me.
“What the—”
I swing down on his wrist; the hand cuts clean from his body, the bones frozen in the shape of a claw. Dean screams, shaking the nub in the air, too shocked to fight back.
I like to give choices. Options give people hope, and I enjoy watching that hope disintegrate before they die. But as I lift the cleaver, blood shining on the blade, I know Dean doesn’t deserve that. He blubbers and whines, but I don’t hear him. I hear Remedy:You don’t think I’m crazy?
I chop the cleaver down again on the other wrist, dismembering it too. Blood squirts around us and I hurl the blade down again and again, each swing filling me with a satisfaction I haven’t felt in a long, long time. And I tell myself that this is for my plan. When Remedy’s ex-boyfriend shows up dead, Remedy will be one of the first suspects. I can even help the police along, confirming that I saw them in the midst of a heated argument, only days before his death.
But I can’t explain the urge overpowering me as I climb on top of him. My cock fills with blood as I drop the cleaver, taking out my pocketknife. He’s barely alive—he may even be dead; it’s hard to tell—but I fix the blade to his eyes, carving around his eyes until I hit that hard, unmistakable boney socket. I pull out his eye. Stringy red tissue twists around the optic nerve, and with a swift drag of my knife, I cut through the vessels. Then I do the same with the other eye. I hold them up in my leather gloves, admiring them in the shadows, the vessels and nerves hanging from each of them like scraps of seaweed decorating the beach. Even in death, he will never look at my little cure again.
Blood covers me, warm and wet. I hop off of the bed. He’s hacked up, his sheets red, his flesh pulped. His face looks more like red clumps of dirt than a human skull. But I want more.
Using the cleaver, I cut off his head. His creamy white spinal cord pokes out of the meaty flesh, but as I hold up his head by his matted, textured hair, I’m pleased with myself. He looks so much better like this. Real. Like the fucked up human he is. I whistle a tune, then place it down on the bed so he can watch me get rid of his body.
I check his phone, curious about his jerk-off material. A picture message fills the screen; a co-ed in red satin lingerie posing on her bed.See you in class,the text says. I roll my eyes. It’s predictable to a fault. If I hadn’t killed him, he would have eventually been fired for the forbidden affair. And he claimed he wanted to commit to Remedy.
Killing him is practically a favor.
With my mask on, I cover the rest of his body in primer, then insulation foam, stuffing him into the crawl space. I even toss the eyeballs on top of it. A trail of blood covers our trek from his bedroom to the closet, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care if the police find out. Maybe it’s better if they find him sooner. With their protocol, it’ll take at least a few days before they even consider doing a wellness check.
I do one last sweep of the cottage, cleaning up hastily, but well enough. Then I grab his head by the hair again, his eyelids closed, bloody, and flat. I let his head drop into a thick black garbage bag. Even though it’s only the head, it’s heavier than you’d expect, like a bowling ball slung in a duffel bag. I put the garbage bag in the trunk of my sports car, then slam it shut.
Once I’ve showered, I drive to Remedy’s rental house. I fix my sleeves as I stand on her front porch. She opens the door and my jaw drops. A lacey dress clings to her body, a dark thin material underneath barely covering her breasts and pussy. The lace sleeves circle down to her wrists, and the hem of the dress hangs past her thighs. Still, even with the lace coverage, it’s revealing as hell. A hint of skin between each piece of lace teases me, making me salivate. Her blood-red lips are different from her usual purple paint, but it works. Black stilettos are strapped to her feet. A wide lace choker covers her neck, and for once, I’m not pissed that she’s hiding them. It’s for her mother, and damn it, the choker is hot on her. She’s a mix of trashy goth and high-class escort, dripping with sex in a black cocktail dress. Ready to kill.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I say. She curtsies like she knows how good she looks, and that makes my dick even harder.Fuck.She’s a pistol, and I’m anxious to tear her apart. I open the passenger door for her and she slides into the seat.
“You know Pirate’s Bistro?” she asks, her dark red lips pursed.
I nod, then head toward the shore. I’m dressed in my usual style: the rolled-up sleeves of my button-up shirt, pressed trousers, a leather belt, and a watch—an outfit fairly typical for men of my stature in the Keys. But Remedy? She’s completely overdressed for Pirate’s Bistro, and that pleases me. She’s taking control of her appearance, a last little jab at her mother. Mommy wants a double date, nagging until she gets her way? Remedy’s response is to bring her messed up, sadistic, blackmailing boss-with-benefits, while dressing like she belongs in the red-light district. I glance at her and she blushes, tucking hair behind her ear. My shaft strains; it’s unlike her to be nervous, and I want to explore that. The urge makes the seconds tick by slower. We need to suffer through the double-date so we can get to the good part, when I can destroy her. I squeeze her thigh, then focus back on the road.
Though the Pirate’s Bistro is full of touristy tack on a building designed to look like an old, partially plundered port town, it’s on the water with decent food and a fantastic view, which makes it a popular spot forallwalks of life, even a double-date between four locals. A woman with dyed brown hair and green eyes stops before us, her eyes lighting up as she sees Remedy. Age shows itself in the lines around her eyes, with a golden-brown tint to her skin, a deeper tone than Remedy, but it’s obvious that this woman is her mother. As they embrace, their contrast is striking. A cheerful, cream dress with large red hibiscuses, against a skimpy black lace dress.
