Talking Dirty(3)

I need to make a choice.

I need to decide what to do with the other names.

I need to, but I don’t want to. What I want to do is bury all this shit deep down inside, and forget about it for five fucking minutes. I press my palms to the tile, watching the liquid trails race down my body.

My hands ache. Even wrapped, I still managed to tear them up. Once I started hitting the bag, I just couldn’t stop. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to. But no matter how hard I went at the bag, that release I was searching for wasn’t there.

I know what could give me peace, if only fleetingly. I know how easily she could erase it from my mind for a few blissful minutes. I remember her taste, hot and sticky on my tongue. And the husky tone to her voice as she moaned my name. I can almost feel her fingers grazing my back as she guided me closer.

My eyes close and I stroke my hardening cock. I want to jerk off—pump one out just for my sanity’s sake—but I don’t. I grab the body wash and soap up. I don’t deserve to feel good. I don’t deserve to forget.

That’s the difference between Aaron and me. I didn’t kill in cold-blood. It wasn’t a choice I made lightly. And I won’t allow myself off easily.

I murdered a man. I killed him and I shoved his body into a trunk that I purposely drilled holes in. And then I watched it sink beneath the cold, murky river water as the sun rose.

I hate myself for it. As I should.

I hate myself more for the shame and guilt ripping me apart inside. He deserved it. He deserved to die. I did the right thing. I did it for her. I did it for Livie. I did it for all the Livies. All the Rockys. All the Links.

I should feel justified.

Instead I feel vacant.

And it shouldn’t be any other way. Life is sacred. It should be cherished. Destroying it should not be easy.

At the same time, I know I’m not done.

I’ll do this again. I have to. My whole life has revolved around this for too long. It’s the only path I know.



***



I’m sitting in my car, parked across the street from Anthony’s insurance agency. But unlike my other visits here, I’m not watching him. I’m not waiting for him to slip up. I’m staring at my phone.

It’s amazing what information social networks offer.

Finding Steve Morrison was easier than I thought it would be. I was prepared to hire a private investigator, but a few clicks on my phone, and there he was.

This is something I should include in my classes. Always keep your social media pages private. Or hell, just stay off of them altogether like Carter Bates. Apparently he doesn’t have a Facebook page and I can’t find shit on him. But Steve Morrison—he’s an open book. All laid out in one place. The jackass even has a picture of his home—house number included. Locating him isn’t going to be difficult at all. Especially since he’s gone out of his way to make it so unbelievably simple by geotagging his photos.

I stare at Morrison’s profile picture. I look into his cat-like eyes, and I force myself to recall the details of the night he hurt Liv. How he held his hand over her mouth. How he stood behind her, his arm pinning her to his chest.

I see his face next to hers. Her eyes wide with fear. His unfocused and glossy. He held her so tightly, imprisoning her. If he had just let her go…

Maybe...

Just maybe...

I try not to allow that thought to surface. There are too many maybes. The list is endless. But once it takes hold, its grip is unmerciful.

Maybe if I hadn’t insisted on the movie.

Maybe if I had taken her to eat before the movie. Or taken her to a different place. If my phone had been charged and I called the order in. If I had taken my car.

If I had just stayed in that night.

If I was stronger.

If I had never insisted she follow me to college.

If I had never dated her.

If I had never met her.

Maybe I hate myself because I know I’m just as responsible for what happened to her as the men that killed her.





Four

Rocky



Maybe I should have asked Link to define soon. Once I went into the office, I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. It made concentrating pretty damn hard. Every time someone popped their head inside the door, I expected it to be him.

That much disappointment in one day is frustrating as hell.

I glare at the computer screen as I punch the keys. After I finished organizing and making sense of all the files Link had piled on the desk, I started slowly bringing him into the twenty-first century by transcribing the files electronically. It’s such a time-consuming task, which is exactly why I chose to do it, though he didn’t ask me to.

The door opens, the wood groaning in protest. I don’t even bother to look up this time. I stay in the zone, focused on this menial chore. I hear the leisured footsteps coming closer and can just make out dark shoes from my peripheral vision. The hair on my neck prickles with awareness and my fingers falter.