. . . I love him.
It swept up on me, then and there—this painful need to kiss him till his lips were one big bruise, bite his tongue and drink his bloody spit. Slap him barely conscious, then go at him till he opened those narrow eyes wide—do him so rough he fought me back, fought me with everything he had, then keep right on and do him some more. Hurt him like I hurt. Break him down.
Show him I was his, and make him mine.
The truth, plain and simple, a razor in my heart: That’s love, to me—all I know, all I’m capable of.
I could get used to this. And I guess I have, in my own way. Got used to this love, like insects swarming in and on me, everywhere at once—this love, a cage of sick shivers. This love, the stink of my own quick rot. Gangrene hot flash, indistinguishable from envy, from anger, from anguish. This Goddamn love I bear for the fine fellow officer whose head I slammed against the tiles, whose ribs I broke to hold him still, who I fucked hard up the ass till he screamed out loud, clawing and squirming, smart mouth gone dumb with pain. No lube, no finesse, no climax for anybody but me—no respect, no dignity. No mercy.
Just love, love, love.
I lay there, thinking it. Wanting it. Which was bad enough, all told.
But then I got up, drove to Beck’s house. And actually did it.
* * *
Morning came, barely. Too early for Lee Earle—I leaned back against the alley wall, collar up. Caught a flas
hing red light from the corner of my eye: Cheap cop symbology, a jolt to the spine, reflexes obviously still in the process of dying hard. Two radio cars, one unmarked—Beck’s, probably.
Ritual Crimes, parked outside the Cyprian Temple.
I followed along, made myself scarce. Saw him come out, flanked by uniforms—Herson and company hanging back at the top of the steps, a shadowed red mass. Watching.
Not interfering.
Beck gave orders, headed for his car. Then stopped, as I stepped from the shadows.
Five paces left between us, give or take. My hands cold, palms wet; heart a stroked lesion, a ticking caffeine fit.
His dark eyes turned on me for the first time in six whole years. One look, one single glance—watchful fear vs. barely-controlled hate, with only a slight procedural correctness chaser—and I was already up and running, aching to fuck or fight. Or both.
Staring him down, hair-trigger; a potential breath away from death, and just about ready to come in my pants.
Quiet: “I have a gun, David.”
“Well, good. Wouldn’t want you on the job without one.”
He looked at me. I waited. Got no response. Took another step, tentative:
“Beck, I—”
He pivoted down, drawing quick—safety off, locked and loaded. Two-hand stance, held steady. Voice shaking, just a little bit.
“You just—stop. You . . . just stand right there.”
My own hands up, empty. “Okay. See? I’m doing it. This is me, standing. See?”
“There, David. I will shoot, believe me.”
“Baby, I’d probably thank you if you did.”
We looked at each other again. Me still, him calmer. After a moment: “Mind if I ask some questions?”
“As long as you don’t call me baby.”
Glance back at the Temple—doors shut, now. A soft red light in every window.