The Hunted (7 page)

“I want you.”

The man has me ready to drop to my knees and fucking beg him.

“I have work to do,” he replies.

I’m not sure if it’s the tone of his voice or the message he sends, but I listen to him and shut and lock the door, fighting to ignore the brutal sting of rejection.

Paint. I need to paint and get this energy out of my body. I still feel his stare and see him pounding Honey. Art. I need art; it’s the one thing I’ve always turned to and leaned on for support. Losing myself in my work is an addiction and the one thing that is sure to wash away the memories of tonight.

Setting up two canvases side by side, I decide on painting my experience with Gannon and the one with Van. Every time Van’s name pops into my head, I get turned on and remember his devilish tongue inside me.

Dark paint splatters over the canvas as I swirl and move my brush in the same jerky movement Van performed tonight. Desire grows within me and I want him again. I want his hands, fingers, and lips all over my body, destroying me.

I stand to turn on some music, hoping it will distract me a bit and just let me paint. An old school boom box sits in the corner that I rigged up with a piece of tin foil as a makeshift antenna. I scroll through the stations until I hear the Steve Miller Band. My feet dance back across the floor while my hips sway to the relaxing song. I pick up the brush and paint how I feel when I’m with Van. It’s complicated with an array of colors bleeding into each other.

My hand moves to the canvas next to it and splatters all sorts of warm colors on it, intertwining them with grace and class, forming a gorgeous piece of art, but it’s typical and normal. Just like Gannon, who looks as if he’s strolled off the cover of a trendy magazine. Easy on the eyes, but that’s it. My insides don’t swirl nor does my tummy turn. I just smile at it.

My view darts over to the canvas covered in murky colors with no rhyme or reason. It’s a piece the eye wants to stare at because it’s just not right but gorgeously stunning and for all the wrong reasons, causing my tummy to dip. Then I remember the tattoo on his arm and change it up a bit. Tilting the canvas sideways, I paint out the words “His not him” in bold yellow letters. There’s something about Van that my body, mind, and soul can’t get enough of. I continue to paint and paint on his piece.

In the bottom corner I add a brilliant display of color, signifying the fireworks of pleasure that exploded from within me watching Van and another woman. Stepping back, I look at both paintings and realize they couldn’t be any more different if I tried. One representing Gannon and the other Van, but the thing that scares me is the one my eye keeps going to. It’s wrong on every level of life.

My stomach growls as I wipe my paint covered hands down my shirt and when I look at the clock, I realize it’s six in the morning. The normal time I should be waking up. It’s not the first time I’ve lost myself painting, letting time and all other aspects of life fly out the window.

Might as well have breakfast and then catch some sleep before the big date with Gannon. The microwave goes off and I gently lift the bowl of steaming oatmeal from it and sprinkle brown sugar on the top. Ever since the day at my mom’s house, I’ve craved fresh air and a bit of sunshine.

The sun is barely peeking over the buildings, and the streets are still quiet at this time of the morning, so I take the bowl to my front steps and try to enjoy the city filled air. Being an artist, I attempt to use my imagination by shutting my eyes and willing the environment of my mom’s back deck to invade my senses as the warm bowl heats my palms. Every once in a while, I open my eyes to take a bite.

Footsteps interrupt my peaceful morning, sending my body into a high alert, near panic mode. Looking up, I see Van walking up the sidewalk dressed in the same clothes as the night before. No cigar or cigarette teetering from his mouth. He stands before me–beautiful, bold, and strong.

“Are you fucking crazy, Bay?” He stops right in front of me, tapping the toe of his white Converse on the sidewalk. My eyes focus in on the sprays of blood covering his sneakers.

“Um.”

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I can’t get past my name rolling off his lips. It does things to my insides that I know it shouldn’t.

“Eating breakfast.” My thumbs clutch to the edge of the glass bowl while my fingers tremble.

He walks up the three crumbling steps to me and throws open the door. “Get the fuck inside now.”

I crane my head to look up at him.

“Three more dead bodies were found within a mile of here. Go enjoy your fucking oats in your house.”

His tone of voice and demeanor hovering above me instantly piss me off. “I’m a freaking adult. Thank you very much.”

I plop a big ol’ lump spoonful of now chilled oatmeal in my mouth and try to digest it.

“When your body shows up dead, I won’t be worried then.”

I give him the most ridiculous little kid told you so face on planet Earth since oatmeal is still glued to the roof of my mouth. I can’t help but stare as he saunters away from me; he takes his three stairs in an easy stride standing at his door. I wonder where’s he’s been all night and how many women he’s been with. The thoughts give me chills all over my body, and now I force feed myself.

After several moments, he takes a seat on his front steps and peers over at me. I look left and right and notice no one else out on their steps. In this long row of one-story apartments, it seems Van and I are the only ones sitting outside.

“Have a problem?” I ask, but I really want to ask him if he’s hungry and then tell him he can have me for breakfast.

“You’re fucking dumb. I’m not going to leave you out here alone.”

“You left me last night.”

This time my words cause me to grow insecure, as all joking tones have evaporated into thin air.

“I work at night,” he grunts.

“Fine, I’ll go in.” I can’t stand sitting near him. Even though a good fifteen feet away, his scent attacks me.

I stand on wobbly legs and turn to go inside. “Did you know them?”

“Know who?” he asks, standing as well.

“The girls who were killed.”

“No.”

“Why do you leave at night?”

He only lets out growl and goes inside his apartment.

As soon as his door shuts, I scramble from the top step and turn the doorknob, spooked by the words he spoke. However, being a stubborn little shit, I didn’t want to give into him or let him think he could boss me around.

The chills become pimple sized as I recall his words about the deaths. There have been murmurs of this and even my mom’s friend said something about it. Finally, curiosity killed the cat, and I decide to search the Internet on my phone to read the latest articles. The words trend on my screen: Florida Serial Killer, Young Females Tortured, Dark Hair, Early Twenties.

My stomach wretches in disgust as I read each word. Blurred pictures of mutilated bodies appear in the articles and the only connecting feature is they’re all young females with dark hair. Their bodies tortured before their throats are slit. I read the last description of the latest victim.

Molly Johnson, 21, found dead in the alley between First and Elm. Her body severely cut up with the only identifying feature a tattoo on her forearm. Her family is pleading to anyone with any knowledge to come forward. The sheriff’s department believes this crime is related to the other five since the distance is within a mile and all victims were female.

The number five swirls around in my mind, female victims, cut up bodies, and same area causing my oatmeal to threaten me with one final warning call before I feel the burn of bile rising in the back of my throat. My body barely makes it to the toilet before all contents of my breakfast are swirling around in the toilet bowl.

“And there are three more new victims,” I whisper to myself. Van’s shoes. He’s gone at night.

“No.” I shake my head. The one word echoes around the cold tiled bathroom of mine.

Note to self: don’t read the local news anymore and never sit out on my crumbling steps. Resting my head back against the counter, I see my new paintings sitting out on the easels and something about them calms me a bit. It’s ironic to think that the dark one, the one that’s wrong in all the right ways makes me feel the most at ease when he had blood on his damn sneaker.

I run my hands through my hair, gathering a huge clump of messy curls and shake my head no. It can’t be Van. He would’ve killed me by now. Wouldn’t he have?

S
tanding up
, I grab a fresh canvas and begin outlining the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. A strong jawline is prominent with a long scar along the right cheek. I get lost in time as I contour the lines of his face from memory onto my canvas. I feel a definite ease sink in through my fingertips down to my toes. The painting does something to me as do the eyes that stare back at me.

The old boom box in the corner howls out a Tom Petty song, making me even happier. The static that mixes in with the melody doesn’t even bother me as I’m absorbed in my work.

My phone goes off with a loud beeping sound, causing me to jump back and startle a bit. It’s a text.

Gannon: See you in thirty minutes.

“Holy mother loving shit of all things holy.”

I toss my paintbrush down and quickly wrap up all the paints in plastic wrap before tornadoing through the shower, finding somewhat fresh clothes, and wrestling the fuck out of my hair. After it’s tame and I’m satisfied with the curls, I spritz on my most cherished perfume that I only use for special occasions because of its price tag.

Gannon: I’m here.

Me: Be right out.

I bolt through the living room, snagging my purse, and literally sprint the rest of the way outside, not wanting Gannon to see any part of my barren apartment. Halfway down the sidewalk and I hear a voice.

“Lock your damn door, Bay.”

Van’s voice stops me dead in my tracks, and I hold a hand up to Gannon and turn to see Van, who is shirtless and in boxers smoking on his front steps with a cold bottle of beer in his hand. His hair is ruffled with sleep bathing all of his features.

“Motherfucker,” I say under my breath.

I stomp back to my door and am met by the nearly naked Van.

“I’d hate for you to get flustered before your date.” He nods in the direction of Gannon’s car.

“It’s not a date.”

My words shock me as I stand up all-defensive to Van.

“Well, you smell like you’re going on a date.”

I whack him with my purse. “It’s none of your business and why are you over here?”

“To make sure you lock your door.”

I roll my eyes in his direction and go about locking my door. “I got this.”

“What time are you going to be home?”

“That’s none of your business.” His scent distracts me from being a bitch as my gaze wanders down to his V and admires his olive tanned skin.

“Like what you see, Bay?”

“Shut up.” I try to push past his strong chest.

“Your fingers seemed to like what they saw last night.” He speaks so close to my ear I can feel his breath tickle my skin.

“You’re an asshole, Van.”

“What time are you coming home?”

“I don’t freaking know.” I spit out through gritted teeth.

“Fuck. You’re just asking to have your throat slit.”

He grabs my phone from my purse and punches in a number.

“What are you doing?” I plant both of my hands on my hips. “And how do you know their throats were slit?”

“I can fucking read that’s how I know.” He takes one final long drag of his cigarette before tossing it over his shoulder.

I look over my shoulder and am thankful that as we stand here so close, we are out of the line of sight of Gannon thanks to the large oak tree in front of the sidewalk.

I push past him as the conversation has grown uncomfortable. My body wants to pull down his boxers, jump his bones, and explore all sorts of firsts with him and then, on the other hand, I want to break his perfect nose and make the blood fall.

“I have your number now and will be in contact.”

I keep walking down the sidewalk.

“Bay.” I stop, spinning to face him. “Don’t let him taste you. That’s mine to savor.”

I bite my bottom lip so I don’t moan and yell at the asshole. I flip my hair and bounce down the sidewalk.

Who is he to tell me when to be home or question a date I’m on when he fucks strippers in dark hallways?

“You look amazing, Bay.”

It’s the perfect greeting as I sit down in the front seat of Gannon’s very sleek black sports car. It’s what girls my age crave coming from a god like Gannon.

“Not too shabby yourself, Gannon.”

“Was that guy harassing you?”

“Naw, just a pesky neighbor.” I wave him off. “What are the plans tonight?”

“I told you it’s a secret.”

“Well, now it’s show time.” I giggle at my ridiculous words, relishing in the light and comfortable environment but missing the tense brooding mood that streams from Van.

“Show time, huh? Doesn’t that mean the backseat for us?”

My face instantly flushes crimson red, remembering the things he did to me in the back of Ivy’s car.

“Just kidding, Bay, thought dinner and a movie.” He places his large palm on the top of my leg.

His hand feels awkward on the top of my leg and does nothing to my body. I fight the feeling and force all thoughts of Van from my mind and focus on what’s in front of me.

We fall into easy conversation the rest of the drive and at dinner. He must have picked up on the copious amounts of pizza I inhaled the other night because he takes me to the same exact place and orders two large pizzas.

I admire his tall, lean stature as he pays and waits for our drinks. Gannon sent me to secure a table since the little pizza joint is hopping tonight. I don’t miss the other half dozen girls ogling him from a distance and even the bold ones going up and making small talk.

It’s like an insane daydream that I’m sitting here waiting for the man who could walk out of a magazine to sit with me.

“You have quite the fan club,” I state as he slides in next to me. Gannon isn’t shy about closing the space and wrapping his arm around me.

“Oh yeah.” His lips brush mine. “Funny thing is, I only notice one girl in this whole joint.”

“Who?” I ask, drunk on his scent.

“This girl who has no idea how gorgeous she is.”

“Tell me more.” I shut my eyes as I feel his lips rest on mine and then they begin to move as he tries to talk.

“She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, her voice is sweet as the day is long, and her laughter does something to me.”

His lips quit moving in speaking form and take on the aggressive attack mode as he kisses the hell out of me. And as if on cue, I let him control me, tilting my head to the side, allowing him to deepen the kiss as his tongue sinks into my mouth. He explores every single part of my mouth, running his tongue along the outer edge and then diving deep down into it.

Someone in the distant clears their throat. “Your food.”

We both look up to see a waitress holding a pizza in one hand and a pitcher of brown liquid in the other. My fingers brush my swollen, bruised lips as she lays down our food and another waitress behind her sets down the other pizza. I remain frozen, relishing in the touch that’s all Gannon as he situates the food and serves me up a few slices and fills my glass.

“I’m…”

I try to find the right words, but it seems everything is jumbled inside my brain and in my body that nothing can come out. My mind goes back to the two paintings at home, and I struggle to brush them aside.

“I’ve never done any of this, Gannon.”

“Ate?” He looks at me with a slice of cheese pizza hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

I can’t help but roll into a fit of laughter. “No. Kiss a boy, make out in the back of my best friend’s car, let a hunk kiss the hell out of me in a public restaurant.”

He interrupts me, tilting my chin further into his direction. “I told you there’s going to be lots of firsts. Eat up, you may need your energy later tonight.”

“You sure know how to entertain a girl.”

Then the thought of Gannon surrounded by women on campus invades my thoughts. I mean there’s no way in hell he’s all studious sitting in a corner sipping on Earl Gray tea studying twenty-four seven.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” I ask.

“I see the worry covering your face about what I don’t know. Just stop.”

“Tell me something about you, Gannon.”

“Mmmm, I’m not that interesting at all. Let’s talk about you.”

“Homeschooled, hippy mother, nervous tendency, awkward, wannabe artist. Sums it up.” I hold up a finger as I list off each of my amazing traits.

“You’re such a little shit.” He taps the tip of my nose with his pointer finger.

The longer we talk and joke around, I sense that same eager feeling attack my body. His touches begin doing something to me. His lips tasty and yet confusing.

He wraps an arm around me, pulling me in tightly. While chowing down on his pizza, he tells me all about his father who passed away years ago from a heart attack. Then to his mother who’s never had to work a day in her life, but is the best person he knows. It’s intriguing to listen to him talk about normal situations and how his life hasn’t been perfect, yet it is so close to being perfect. Raised by both parents, born into a wealthy family, blessed with the most perfect genes and the list goes on and on.

I stop him mid-sentence. “Gannon, what’s your major?”

“Architect.”

“You like drawing?” I peek up at him.

“Live for it. Lines and angles get me all sorts of excited.” He bucks his hips up in the cramped booth. “You being an artist totally turned me on.”

“Can we skip the movie?”

He looks down at me, swiveling my to face him. “And?”

His strong facial features hold me captive for a moment as I study his perfection. His symmetry is dead on as is all of his proportions–he was really sculpted from absolute perfection. In this moment, I declare he needs a statue made in honor of his glorious beauty.

“Backseat?” It comes out as a question, but what I really want to say is take me back to your car, rip my clothes off, and have your way with me. Tension builds deep within me, and I rub my thighs together a bit to relieve my need a tad. I shouldn’t be doing this with two men, but I can’t stop either. I remember Van’s words about me being his. I’m testing it. Pushing all the damn boundaries.

“You liked that, huh?”

“Gannon, you bring something out in me that I’ve never experienced before. I mean, what we did in Ivy’s backseat is something I’ve never done or hell, thought I’d ever do.”

“Does that mean you like me?”

His question makes me uncomfortable. Of course, I like him, but it’s Van who I always see when I close my eyes. Does that mean anything? Before I have a chance to answer, we’re interrupted.

“’Sup, Gannon?” A very tall and dark haired man stands before us with quite the group of college-aged kids behind him.

“Taylor, my man.” Gannon stands from the booth and does the whole guy shake thing as I take in the rest of the crowd. The number of women outnumber the men and the way they’re dressed looks as if they may work the pole.

“Party tonight at Easton’s; stop by. It’s going to be off the chain with tons of fresh ass there.”

The way the man talks sounds like he’s banging out a rap song instead of having a steady conversation.

“Naw, I’m good.” Gannon nods his head in my direction, and I want to die of embarrassment. Here this stranger is practically trying to drag Gannon away and score him a piece of ass while I sit here. He’s a party boy, that’s for sure.

I fumble with my fingers under the table and make a decision. It may be a dangerous one, but it’s made. I’ll finish the night with Gannon and whatever follows with him, but I’ll also take anything Van throws my way. The nasty thoughts and words flow through my mind, but I choose to ignore all of them and live life my way.

“This is my date, Bay.”

“Bay, just call me T-Dog.” The man flashes his pearly whites in my direction. My nerves go into overdrive as I tuck a stray curl behind my ear and just nod again. It’s like all the words are frozen in my body as terror shoots through me. And this is typical Bay when she meets someone. Unintelligible, clammy and absolutely ridiculous as a full ass grown adult not being able to meet new people.

I watch as Taylor or T-Dog or whoever the hell he is leans in and whispers in Gannon’s ear. It’s on my side, so I try to listen to what he’s saying.

“Got a new batch in. Need a bag?”

Gannon slowly begins to nod his head up and down while a huge smile creeps across his face.

“Bay, I’ll be right back.”

And before I have a chance to get a word out Gannon is gone with the group, and I’m left sitting in the booth. I pick at the long strings of cheese streaming from the pizza and replay the man’s words over and over in my head, picturing Gannon’s face upon receiving the news. I’m not an idiot. I have been around my fair share of drugs as my mom never kept anything from me.

I begin tapping my phone as the minutes tick by and I sit alone.

Not in a million years would I have pegged Gannon to use drugs or even be associated with them. My stomach takes a dip just thinking about it and then memories flood in regarding the effects and trash that comes with drugs. The stories I could tell from my mom and her friends tripping on ’shrooms.

I slide out of the booth and head out to find the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face, I stare back at my reflection. It’s a blank stare with no signs of terror, confusion, or even happiness. Stereotypes are shit. Complete shit. I pegged Van as a serial killer because of his looks and attitude but yet Gannon a god.

“Bay, I’m back. Where were you?”

I feel his hand on my shoulder when I near our table where our pizza sits half eaten and drinks hardly touched. Van would never leave me or at least, that’s what I’d like to think.

“Ready to go back to my place?” he asks with all of his pearly whites showing.

“What about dinner?” I question.

He only shrugs and answers his phone when it goes off in his pocket. He signals to me with a finger and takes off again. My once hungry stomach is now disgusted and over the whole situation. It’s obvious I’m the third wheel and totally holding up his typical lifestyle. After several more lonely minutes of sitting in the booth, I tamp the pending anxiety about to bust wide open in me.

I hear my phone go off in my purse. I pull it out and there’s a text from Gannon. Strange? My shaky finger slides open the message.