I know, I know… another animal metaphor.
Man, I need some sleep.
Trudging upstairs, I make my way down the hall, to the bedroom in the far back. Everything about it is impersonal, no distractions—plain white walls and a California king bed with the best mattress money can buy, the kind of memory foam that just cradles you, that embraces you like it loves you, cloaked in expensive Egyptian cotton, but none of that makes a bit of difference when it comes time to fall asleep.
After setting the shoes down on top of the only dresser, I peel off all of my clothes, discarding them on the floor, and fall right into the bed on my back, naked. The ceiling fan above me lightly spins around and around and around. I track it with my gaze. It helps me relax, like some strange version of counting sheep, or maybe I just get so dizzy that I eventually pass out, but regardless, I usually catch some sleep that way.
But not today.
No, even as I watch the spinning blades, instead of shutting down, my mind starts to wander, thoughts of a petite brunette with wild hair creeping in. The smirk on her red lips right before she ran that last time, the smug ‘I got you, motherfucker’ smile, like she was gloating, invades every part of me, like an infection settling in, eating away at my insides. She has no idea who she’s messing with, but she’s going to learn. Little Miss Scarlet Letter robbed the wrong motherfucker. I’m getting my money back, every single penny of it, and she’ll be damn lucky if I don’t take her last breath as interest.
I wonder if she’ll smile then, with me pinning her down, my body on top of hers, keeping her locked in place. I wonder if she’ll smile when I wrap my hands around her throat, squeezing, pressing against the carotid artery, making her look me in the face as I wring her neck. I wonder if she’ll smile as the color drains from her cheeks, as the spark diminishes in her eyes, because I sure as fuck will.
I get hard just thinking about it.
Nothing turns me on more than seeing someone struggle, fighting for survival. It’s feral, instincts kicking in. They give it all they’ve got, because they know if they don’t, there will be nothing left. I’ll take it all. I’ll take their dignity. I’ll take their money. I’ll take their family, too, if I want it. I’ll take their life in every sense of the word. Desperation at its core, exposing those raw nerves of self-preservation. There’s nothing more powerful than holding someone’s life in your hands, knowing they’re not strong enough to overpower you... knowing their only hope is you being merciful.
Closing my eyes, I grab my cock, roughly stroking it. Hard and fast, not trying to savor it, needing the release to ease my tension, hoping like hell it’ll put me to sleep. It takes less than thirty seconds before my abs clench, my cock pulsating as the orgasm strikes me like a punch to the chest. Gritting my teeth, stifling the groan, I feel it as cum spurts out, hitting my stomach and the bed sheets. Warmth spreads all through my body, tingles coating my skin as my cock twitches. I stroke a few more times, breathing deeply as my muscles relax.
Finally.
Sighing, I let go, keeping my eyes closed, not bothering to clean up the mess. Heaviness settles into my limbs, numbness spreading.
But still... still... sleep won’t take over.
“Fuck this,” I grumble, climbing back out of bed, staggering, swaying, as I head for the shower. “Another day awaits.”
“I thought you were going to bed?”
My brother’s still in the living room.
His girlfriend is still with him, too, the two of them on the couch together, cuddling. That’s all they ever seem to do. Kiss, and cuddle, and whisper, and fuck, a lovey-dovey cycle, day in and day out, like an old married couple.
“I did,” I say, stalling in the doorway.
He blinks at me. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“It’s only been an hour, bro,” he says, “if even that long. There’s no way you went to sleep.”
“I didn’t say I went to sleep,” I point out. “I said I went to bed.”
“What’s the point of going to bed if you don’t sleep?” As soon as he asks that, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“Never mind what?” Melody asks, glancing between us. Nosey as shit.
“Don’t even ask,” Leo grumbles.
Her brow furrows. “Don’t ask what?”
“He doesn’t want you to ask about me tugging one out upstairs.”
“Tugging one—oh!” Her eyes widen. “Geez.”
Leo groans. “I told you not to ask.”
Shaking my head, I lean against the doorframe, my gaze going to the window. In the past hour, as I showered and dressed, waking up again, the snow slowed to a barely-present flurry, the conditions much more manageable. “So, how long do you think it should take to find someone in the city?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” Leo says. “Couple of days... weeks... maybe. How long did it take Ignazio to find who he was looking for?”
“Damn near twenty years,” I say.
“Well, there you go,” Leo says. “Two decades.”
Two decades.
In case you don’t know who Ignazio is, let me give you the Cliff Notes version of him: guy with a gun and a grudge looking for a girl to make him feel better. Took him way too long to catch up to her, and when he finally did, nothing went according to plan, which is reason number one-hundred and sixty-nine why I tend to work on the fly. I’m the kind of guy who will run into a burning building without thinking of the flames... especially since, you know, chances are I set the fire to begin with.
Am I making sense here?
I don’t know.
I’m still kind of tired.
Point being, I don’t have twenty years to wait. “I’ll give it twenty more minutes.”
Leo gives me a peculiar look as I pull out my car keys. “You’re not driving today, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously? You? Driving?”
“Yes.”
“With everything being all white and icy?”
“Yes.”
“Are you feeling suicidal?”
I laugh at that question. He doesn’t want me to answer it. I seem to forever exist in a gray area of life, caught in a web somewhere between homicidal and suicidal, and he knows it, no matter how much I try to shove rose-colored glasses over the boy’s eyes. He’s not blind to reality.
“As titillating as this conversation has been, Pretty Boy, I’ve got to go,” I say, turning away. “Things won’t do themselves, you know.”
There’s a sex joke in there somewhere, I know, but get your mind out of the gutter. There’s still work to do.
“Good luck finding... whoever she is,” Leo calls out. “Don’t kill yourself! Or anybody else...”
He doesn’t mean that in the intentional sense. Don’t get it twisted. He just doesn’t want me to skid off the road or plow into somebody.
I’m already shivering by the time I make it to my car in the driveway. I start it up, cranking the heat full blast, before reaching into the glove box, where I stash a spare pair of glasses.
The drive into northern Brooklyn should take fifteen minutes, but damn near half an hour passes before I pull up in front of the brick townhouse. Strolling to the front door, I bang on it. I bang… and bang… and bang…
Why the hell isn’t anybody answering?
It takes a few minutes before the door is pulled open. Seven stands there, half asleep, dark hair a mess, wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts with elves on them.
Elves, Christmas ones, the pointy-eared little fuckers that work for Santa. He’s got elves on his shorts, holding little packages, the words ‘Merry Elfin Christmas’ written all around them. I tilt my head to the side, staring at them.
Have I mentioned it’s nearing the end of January?
Seven blinks rapidly. “Boss? What’s going on?”
My gaze flickers to meet his as I shake it off. “Have you found her?”
His brow furrows. “Who?”
“The woman I told you to find.”
“I, uh... what?”
“Have you found the woman?” I ask again. “How much more clear do I need to make that?”