Shattered Glass(86)

A white set of teeth and small crinkles at the corners of his eyes said he approved of my answer. “My car’s on the east end of the park.” He pointed directly across from where we were. I kept running. Thinking. Running.

Fantasizing.

My heart beat more rapidly from envisioning his mouth wrapped around my cock than the physical exercise.

It was established that Peter and I weren’t exclusive. He’d given me the same idea. We barely knew each other. But I wasn’t ready for casual hook-ups if I was embarrassed by just admiring a guy. Instead of letting my cock lead the way, I mentally kicked myself and said, “I think I’m taken, man, sorry.”

Mr. I’m-Interested just smiled and jogged on as I slowed.

Goddamn Peter for being the one I wanted.

My eyes never strayed from the path after that. I stretched my usual hour run into nearly two hours. Thirty minutes of which I sported a woody capable of impaling anyone who ran into me. It was not a comfortable feeling. At least my sweat cooled against the summer sunrise. When my legs began to protest, I turned out of the park and walked the remaining blocks to the townhome. Letting myself into Joe’s house, I returned the key back into my sock and took a look around.

For three young men living together, the house was remarkably clean. Cai’s paint cans were the only clutter in sight, and even they were semi-neatly stacked in the far corner. The TV was maybe a 32” screen, at least five-to-ten years old. The furniture was threadbare, and bits of paint dotted its pilled, green-plaid surfaces. On the battered coffee table, a fan of men’s magazines was on display next to a stack of cork coasters. I hadn’t noticed these things the first time, because I had been so blown away by Cai’s artwork. Now that I could see the furnishings, I was puzzled.

With as much money as Joe had supposedly pulled in, his belongings would have been rejected by secondhand stores. Weird. If Joe was raking in money from his illegal activities, it wasn’t spent anywhere in his home. I had to check out the diner’s books. Which meant I needed to get out of there quickly.

I stopped in the kitchen briefly, picked up a box on the counter and tilted my head at the aroma of cinnamon. It was strong enough to seep through the foil covering the pan on the counter. When I lifted the aluminum out of the way, a tray of cinnamon rolls answered every question I had about Peter’s scent. I grabbed one, polishing it off before reaching the bank of doors in the hallway.

I opened each one, trying to find Peter’s room. It was in the far back, connected to the yard by a large picture window. The room was spartan—a desk with a computer, a simple double bed, a dresser and a bookshelf. All had seen better days. Standing at the threshold, I considered spying—because that’s what cops do. It would have been creepy though. Looking for evidence was not the same as prying into Peter’s personal life for my own edification—which I would have been doing. And which I deeply longed to do. I’d have to settle for what was out in the open.

The paintings on Peter’s walls, which I could attribute to Cai, danced with a purity of colors. There were no scenes or discernable images. Just bright swirls of green, purple, red mixed with indigo and black. I likened the murals to the backgrounds of a children’s book. Cai had painted joy on these walls.

Other than Cai’s paintings, the room was bare of personality. No pictures. No vases. No memorabilia—unless one counted the unfinished liquid near Peter’s computer. Some dark-twisted evil percolated in that coffee cup near the keyboard. I steered around it, while shaking the box of cat treats I’d found in the kitchen.

The moment I opened the box, something crawled out of the depths of the crumpled comforter. I immediately backed up and stared at the thing.

Demons should not be that small. Were demons small? Or gargoyles. Was it a gargoyle?

I was being facetious, but really, seriously, “What. The. Fuck?”

While I debated whether to leave it here, Begone stretched onto her back and fell off the side of the bed. She grappled wildly until one claw saved her from an ass-meets-floor encounter. The thing dangled there far too long for me to believe she could figure out how to extract her claws on her own. But I didn’t want to touch it—her— it, to help.

For one thing, the…cat?—looked maimed, or burned. Her random tufts of fur were indiscriminately stuck between bits of pink skin. It was like a four-year-old had used dust bunnies from under the bed to create a collage of fur on a burlap canvas.

Begone also reeked. The thing was a walking biohazard of stale tuna seeped in sun-soured milk.

As if the smell, scarred flesh and bent tail weren’t enough, the poor creature had an ear missing, and a marbled white and grey scar from the top of its head down to its black nose.