“Is there a reason?” I stepped closer, highly aware of the fact that I didn’t have pants on. “What makes you want to kill?” Itouched his chest, and he looked at my hand before laying his over mine.
“Don’t know.” He mouthed something else, but I couldn’t distinguish the words. My frown must’ve told him I was confused because he wrote it down.
Urge. Can’t explain. Need to do it.
I understood, in a way. I’d never killed anyone, of course, but the urgency to do something reminded me of the short time when I danced as a kid. Whenever I was happy, I danced. As soon as my thoughts went to the past, I shoved the memories aside. I refused to think about those days when I was happy, where no one could shut me up and all I did was talk. I’d never expected to be here—homeless with a personality that had hardened from years of festering hatred.
I waited for the fear, the dread of knowing I stood in front of a man who bashed people’s heads in, but like before, nothing came. Was I dead inside? While I wasn’t horrified at the thought of what he’d done, exhilaration made my fingertips tingly.
“How often do you need to do it?” I leaned a little closer and breathed in his scent again. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the soothing lavender. How long would he let me stay before I was back on the streets? I knew too much now. Either he’d kill me or keep me around. I hoped it was the latter.
When I need to.
His puckered brow told me he didn’t know the answer. I wanted to ask him more questions, but I knew when I’d reached my limit. An annoyed line had crinkled his forehead and helooked more interested in my half hard cock than answering any more questions.
“Do you have another pair of sweatpants?”
“Yes.”
4
SAM
We slept in my queen-size bed together last night, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Ezra had tossed and turned until he’d pressed against me. His arm had wrapped around my hips and he’d snuggled so close I felt every one of his ribs. He was too skinny, and somewhere deep in my mind, I decided I was going to fix that.
I got up earlier than usual and dealt with some morning chores before I made toast. I reasoned that it wouldn’t upset his stomach because, if I hazarded a guess, he didn’t eat much. Ezra walked down the stairs just in time, with the toast popping the moment he entered the kitchen.
I waved at him in greeting.
He yawned, jaw cracking. I cringed at the sound. “Good morning.”
Passing him the toast on a plate, I gestured to it when he gave me a confused frown, then made a gesture toward my mouth. “Food,” I mouthed.
“For me?” As if eavesdropping, his stomach growled loudly. He flushed a pretty red and fell onto a seat at the dining table.He took tentative bites, but I wasn’t sure if he was afraid the food would disappear from between his fingers or if he thought he might vomit if he ate too fast.
I took the seat beside him and tapped his arm. “Yum?” It took me two tries mouthing the word before he understood.
“Yeah. Real great. I can’t remember the last time I had toast.” He licked his lips.
I reached into the pocket of the coat I’d slipped on earlier. It was a Friday, which meant I had work today and I was ready to go. Pulling out the notepad I carried with me, I wrote out my thoughts.
Started you off with dry food. Didn’t want you to be sick.
He grinned. “Good idea. I don’t think my stomach could handle much else. Though, I ate whatever I could find in the garbage of restaurants on bad nights. You’d be surprised what they throw out.”
No, I wouldn’t. My parents used to own a burger joint. I’d mentioned their waste to them when I was a teenager and suggested taking it to the homeless, but I got nothing but hostile laughter in return. My mother had muttered something about the homeless being cockroaches. I’d learned back then when to drown out her filthy hate speech. If it wasn’t about the homeless, she’d start on homophobic and racist rants that made me embarrassed to be her kid.
When Ezra finished, he brushed his hands on his clean sweatpants. The soiled pair from last night was still in the hamper in the bathroom. The thought of what I’d done with him made my stomach twist and neck heat up.
I didn’t know what had come over me. I didn’t lie to him. I wasn’t gay, or at least, I wouldn’t exactly call myself that. I didn’t know what I was. I’d only had one girlfriend and she lasted a few months. We’d had sex, but it was very clinical and I didn’t think she enjoyed it. Neither of us did. I hadn’t touched another person like that before last night. I’d moved on instinct, the urge to touch him becoming so strong that all I could do was listen to the sinful whispers in my head that coaxed me into touching his dick.
I didn’t tell him any of that, though. I didn’t know who Ezra was other than a homeless man who’d been beaten. His bruises had deepened in color overnight, with the swirl of murky purple and sickly green dark against his pale skin.
I ran a thumb over the bruise on his cheek and it made him wince away from me. “Hurt?” I mouthed.
He touched his face gently, the pads of his fingers caressing the obviously tender flesh. “Yeah. I kept rolling on it last night. It’s fucking painful.”
Do you think you have broken bones?
