Page 51 of Miserable Marionette

I don’t miss the wince in her words when she says his name. It dawns on me that she still thinks he was the one who attacked her the other night. That she has no idea her underwear is still tucked into my nightstand across the street. Great, maybe that’ll work in my favor, not that I left anything incriminating behind, but I’d be lying if I said this was my most thorough work.

“I can drive you,” I offer, all but thrusting my bleeding hand back into hers so she’ll fuss some more.

She takes it immediately, rolling her eyes as she drags me into the hall for the first aid kit. “It’s okay. I’ve got Dad’s truck—"

“That barely runs,” I add.

She smirks, pressing a little harder than necessary with the dirty towel as she tries to stem the bleeding.

I smirk back because I’ve just decided her truck, in fact, will not start in the morning.

Damn the luck.

Gideon, Present Day, 1994

I wait until I hear the door to the shower slide home before I reach out with my damaged palm, flexing against the bandage my Audrey set for me. It stings, but no more than the desire to see her right now. There’s not much thought behind the action, just burning, scalding need as I test the doorknob to the bathroom, biting back a groan when I find it locked. My head thuds gently against the door, listening to the water run rivers along her pale, freckled skin before it splatters to the floor. The air in my lungs thickens as if they’re being subjected to the steam trapped inside. Panting, my aching palm grazes my thickening cock, testing it out just enough to add a frustrating layer to my desire for her. Time moves like seconds, and I can almost taste it, taste her. The cheap soap she uses and her sweet flesh as she lathers herself in it. I’d bite, maim, and score every inch of her flesh, horrified by the idea of even a centimeter remaining untested by me. If she cried or fussed under my musings, I’d kiss the tears away. I’d show her that her best friend can be soft.

That I can be whatever she needs me to be.

I can mold and chisel away at the blackened husk that makes up my very being until it suits her. It wouldn’t even be hard to shed and molt for Audrey.

Her humming finds me under the door as I shift, pressing my lips to the wood. My cock straining against my pants as I jerk my hips. My balls tighten as I listen, pleasure flooding my stomach like a whip. The kisses I press to the door and the woman beyond it are far from careful. They’re desperation personified, hungry, starved. My hand tests the doorknob again, harder this time, and the humming stops.

We’re tied in a moment of silence before my perfect girl breaks it. “Gideon…”

It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. Rutting against the door again, dragging my lips down the pane.

Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey.

Her soft gasp finds me before a heavy splattering of water, her humming resuming as if she’s content to torment me, pretending I’m not clawing at the door begging to be let in. I press harder against the frame, rubbing my cheek along the wood until my ear is flush. A soft moan is nearly my undoing. My hand snaps away from the knob, slamming to grip my cock, squeezing tightly to stop myself from spewing. That belongs to my perfect girl, and I won’t waste a drop. Her breathing quickens; the sound of the detachable shower hose scraping the wall of tile has me jerking forward, fucking into my fist. She’s using the shower head, the steady stream applying pressure between a mass of perfect curls. In my mind, Audrey pitches forward, her breasts heaving as she braces herself on the wall, the showerhead positioned underneath her. In my mind, Audrey’s hips jerk in tune with mine as she grinds over the stream, her lips parted, and her eyes squeezed shut as I strangle my dick.

“Fuck,” she curses underneath her breath, so low I nearly miss it. “Fuck, fuck.” The next two are louder, almost a pleading whine, and I don’t… I can’t hide my answering groan. I slam my head against the door, making a sharp yelp sound from the other side as I try the lock again. The entire door shudders under the weight of my incessant twisting.

It doesn’t budge.

My chest is heaving, my mind blank as I release my aching, throbbing cock and jerk back, ready my shoulder to cave it in when her soft… delicate humming finds me again, albeit this time shakier, breathless. A gust of air leaves me emptying my lungs as my back collides with the far wall, making the nondescript landscape picture there rattle on its nail. It takes me a few deep breaths, and a few times running my hands through my hair and down my face, dragging the skin roughly, before I can leave the hallway.

The cool night air brushes my heated skin, all of my thoughts on the girl inside the house as I make my way blindly down the porch. I don’t need the light to find every inch and cubby inside or out of the two houses at the end of a dirt road on the edge of Swindon, Michigan. I spent my entire childhood wandering and mapping each corner, be it out of necessity, boredom, or fun.

My burning palm finds my cock again, adjusting it in my pants before I lift the heavy hood of her father’s truck, disconnecting some very crucial wires underneath. I’ll fix it for her, of course, after things calm down. Once my girl settles back into life with me. I know how much this truck means to her, how much its former owner did too, despite him not deserving an iota of her admiration. Admiration that could’ve been better spent on me, but all things in due time.

I’m about to let the hood slam closed before the sound of an approaching car and headlights grab my attention. My brow furrows as I stay just out of sight behind the hood.

Some kid hoping to get a look at the crime scene?

The car pulls to a slow stop in my driveway across the street, not as close to the house as it should, but back by the sign. Consider me curious. I slowly walk from behind the hood, still hidden by the shadows as my back meets the cool, chipping, faded metal of the truck. Crossing my arms, I wait.

They hang out in the car for a moment, as if they’re waiting for someone to step out. Nobody will; there’s nobody left in that building aside from the cat and Audrey’s ghosts. Until tomorrow, that is, when the ME up city releases Bryan Jordan back into the care of the local mortician.

Me.

The whole thing would’ve taken much longer had I not offered my professional opinion to the very overwhelmed and under-funded Swindon PD. The overworked and uninterested ME that had to cart the body over two hours away for this.

The irony isn’t lost on me, but the novelty of caring for the people I kill wore off a while ago.

Finally, the door swings open, a tall man stepping from the cab, his movements practiced and smooth, if not hesitant. Not in the way a teenager would walk into their first job interview, but the way someone who has been on the edge of danger walks when they’re anticipating more of it.

The black car is cared for, maintained but nondescript. Nothing that would stand out.