46. Love is the Drug

46

LOVE IS THE DRUG

LESTER

"My father was the first man I ever killed."

Daisy lies in my arms in bed, listening intently to me spilling my guts. Her soft hair is draped over my arm and her head is placed on my chest, where she listens to my heartbeat. She traces soft circles over my bare stomach and tickles my leg with her toenails.

I don't think I can survive without her soft touch anymore. Something that once seemed torturous has now become one of my favorite things in the universe.

She knows who I am. I don't have to keep anything from her anymore. Whatever she wants to know, I'll tell her with all the honesty I possess. She asked me why I started killing, and I'm slowly working through telling her about the trauma that made me.

"My father―he didn't care about me. I was no more of an inconvenience to him than dogshit on his shoes. My brother was his only son," I go on, looking at the ceiling. "He threw me to the wolves. Left me inside their den while they tore me apart."

"What did they do to you, Lester?" she asks on a whisper, moving her head to look up at me.

"‘What didn't they do' would be a better question."

I tell her about the parties, about all the rape and abuse. Saying it out loud is somehow not as hard as I thought it would be. It feels freeing, like a weight is being lifted off my shoulders. "We never knew when these parties would take place, so we couldn't prepare and hide. I couldn't tell anyone or ask for help. A lot of the men who frequented these places were in positions of power."

By the time I'm done, tears stream down her face. She sits up, looking down at me as she takes my cheeks in her hands. "I am so sorry that happened to you. I don't even know what to say. I thought I knew everything about you, but it turns out there are many more layers to pull back."

"I killed them all. That chapter of my life has ended a long time ago." The sentence leaves my mouth on a painful breath, because that is a lie. The chapter may have ended, but it will always be part of my story. It will always be how I was made.

She sees right through me. "It's okay if it hasn't. I know they still visit you in your nightmares sometimes."

"And how would you know that, little nymph?" I cock an amused eyebrow, because I already know the answer.

She sighs, her cheeks flushing. "Because I have been watching you sleep for a very long time." She looks up at the ceiling, where the window is placed right above my bed. "What the hell is that about, anyway? Why does a murderer have freakin' windows on the ceilings all over his house? It's also how I found out about the secret hideaway behind your closet. I was just smoking some grass, watching you work, and there you went, into fucking Narnia."

I rub my fingers through my eyes in utter disbelief. I must be the most foolish killer on the planet. I always thought I was so invincible, and this is how I get caught.

Fucking comical.

"So much makes sense now, though," she continues. "Your past… That's the reason you reacted the way you did when I told you about Dr. Beaumont. That's why you killed him."

My hands drop from my face, onto the mattress. "You knew it was me?"

She rolls her eyes. " Duh . Come on, Professor. Of course it was you."

"And you weren't angry with me?"

"No." She scoffs, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on my lips. "I thought it was romantic. You killed for me."

My mouth falls open. "You scare me, Miss Burton. I murdered your therapist, someone you confided in for years. And you thought it was romantic ?"

"Well, yeah." She climbs on top of me, straddling my crotch. "Therapy didn't fix me, anyway. You did."

"I don't think you ever needed to be fixed. I think you just needed to be with someone who understands."

She melts into me, burying her face in the crook of my neck. "You're the only one who ever can. And I'm the only one who can ever understand you . We're inevitable, remember?"

"Inevitable," I repeat as my fingers disappear into her hair, massaging her scalp.

She sighs deeply, sadness in her eyes. "You've never had a childhood, Lester. As soon as all the crap in our life is over, we're going to do everything you've missed out on. Including going to Disneyland. I don't care that you're an old man."

My mouth drops open in offense. "You little brat. I'm not that old."

"Well…" she trails off amusedly. "Weren't you born in the 30s?"

"Christ," I groan. "'39. Basically the 40s."

She ends the conversation with a giggle before she turns serious again. "I want to hear more about you, Lester. I want to know everything I could never uncover." She moves her hand to my scar without looking, knowing exactly where it marks my skin. "Did this happen at one of those parties?"

I suck in a breath, then nod. "One of the last ones. My friend―" I cut myself off, because it hurts to talk about her. "I made a friend there. Rosemary. We met when we were both ten years old, at the first party. The same things happened to her, but worse. On her final night, five years later, I tried to fight off the man who had bought me for the night, to help her. I couldn't even see her in the ocean of men around her, until it was too late. They killed her."

She stares up at me in shock, her eyes red from her tears.

"The man stabbed me in the side when I wouldn't listen. I didn't even feel it. All I could feel was my heart shattering into a million pieces as I watched the lifeless body of my friend." Tears prickle my eyes all the same as I continue, my voice catching in my throat despite trying my best not to let it show. "I killed every single man. The parties were underground, so only the people who were invited knew about them. I was never even a suspect when all those men ended up dead. I avenged Rosemary and I got revenge for myself."

"All alone?" she asks, combing her fingers through my hair as we switch positions.

"Not entirely. My brother helped me work down the list of names. But I was always the one who pulled the trigger. A realization hit me when Landon and I made it to the fourth name." I pause, swallowing. "In order to defeat the monsters, I had to become one. And that's what I did. My hand no longer shook when I aimed the gun at another one of my rapist's heads. I didn't feel anything besides accomplishment and justice."

The feeling of her fingers in my hair grounds me as I spill more truths. "After they were all gone, I focused all my time and energy on school. I became the best at sculpture and I graduated with honors. I started making good money and made a life for myself. But there was always that same lust for blood inside of me. Eventually, the Sculptor of Death was born." I scoff. "Stupid fucking name if you ask me."

"I love the name, actually," she quips, shrugging her shoulders. "It's groovy and mysterious."

"Well, look what it got me. I have a copycat now."

She nods. "I know. I knew that kill from last week couldn't be you. But why? What does this killer want from you? Has he contacted you in any way?"

I shake my head. "The staged corpse in the forest was a message, but I'm not sure what it was supposed to be. Telling from the fact that he did it in my own city, I'd say it's a threat. He threatens to destroy everything, and I need to find out who he is somehow and stop him." I sit up, resting on my elbows. "You need to stay with me. I know the copycat has been watching me, which means that he has seen you, too. You're in danger, and I can only protect you if you stay with me at all times. I'm going to need you to move in with me."

"Oh, no," she mocks, giving me a taunting smirk. "What a disaster… I have to move in with the love of my life."

I sit up straighter and grab her shoulders to make her see me. "This isn't funny, Daisy. It's dangerous for us everywhere now. I don't know how I'm going to protect you all the time when I'm practically banned from the university until further notice."

Her lips straighten, her smile gone. "Aren't you mad at me? You've not said a word about it. It's my fault you got fired. All because of that damn polaroid. I should've left it here, with the others. I just wanted to look at us when I was at my dorm." She groans, shaking her head. "Fucking Jace. I can't believe he spread those copies for some type of twisted revenge, all because I rejected him. Fragile masculinity at its peak. I'm sorry, Lester."

"It's not your fault."

"But―" she tries, but I place my finger over her lips to shush her.

"I'm the one in the position of power, Daisy. I'm the one who should've known better."

She arches an eyebrow and crosses her arms. "Are you, really ? Didn't I show you that I'm just as powerful as you? Should I tie you up again, Professor?"

I curse under my breath. "None of that matters in this situation. I was your professor and you, my student. The power imbalance of that was all on me. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway. But you know what?" She waits patiently before I continue. "My job at the university was one of the things I valued most in my life. But I couldn't give two shits about it anymore. Because I've got you now."

"Swoon…" she hums contently. "Crap. Did I say that out loud?"

I reach for her and bury my face in her neck, covering her with kisses. She squeals, giggling as she tries to push me off. When she finally succeeds, she says, "The dean and the schoolboard have requested a meeting with me to talk about our relationship. But I'll call in sick this week. That's a problem for later." She groans, her hands balling into fists. "I'll also think of a way to make Jace pay for what he did. But you were already working on that, weren't you? I can't believe you planted coke in his locker. You're diabolical, mister."

I just shrug. "If I had my way, I'd have just slit his throat. Prison seemed like the next best thing."

"You're getting me so wet right now. Tell me more about your taste for murder." She wiggles her eyebrows and I laugh. "All I want right now is to just enjoy you. Tell me everything I don't know yet. Tomorrow is a new day, and we'll start figuring out who the killer is."

It's Saturday. Five days since the staged corpse in the woods was discovered. Four days since I lost my job. And four days since the insane night with Daisy―the night I thought I was going to die but came alive instead.

We can't do anything until the copycat sends another message, and until he does, we're locked inside my house.

And what do we do to pass the time?

Fuck.

On every piece of furniture, in every damn sex position in the book. I think we even invent new ones, and every nook and cranny in my house is going to be defiled by the time we're done.

In my Red Room, she calls me ‘sir'. Any other place in the house, including my studio, I'm Professor. Sometimes she just calls me Lester. And right now, in my most sacred space in the house, I'm Sculptor.

She looks like a little kid at the candy store, looking at all the options before her with wide eyes as we stand in the secret room she keeps calling Narnia. Displayed before us, behind a thick veil of glass, are my masks all lined up beside each other, in the right order. From left to right on the highest shelf are my masks dated from 1965 to 1968. On the shelf below, '69 to '73. I'm still working on filling the one below that, which only has two masks so far, the latest being my kill from last summer, the murder of Archibald Caddell.

"They're so beautiful, Lester. It's all just so unreal." She shakes her head, then bursts out into giggles as she claps her hands together. "I can't believe I get to choose the one I'm gonna get fucked in! What a trip."

I chuckle, circling her waist from behind, putting my chin on her shoulder. "Which one do you pick, angel?"

"I don't know. I don't want to miss out on the others if I pick one." She sounds so conflicted, it makes me grin.

"Pick one for now, and I promise I'll wear every single one eventually. I'll completely ravage every inch of you each time you pick another. Deal?"

"Fuckin' A," she lets out happily. "Deal."

She ends up going for the mask from '71, which is shaped and painted like a skull, with hollow black holes at the eyes and long rows of white teeth. It's not my most original work, quite frankly, but the details I put into it are what make it a remarkable piece of art. It's heavy, because it's made of marble that I carved with expert precision, then painted shadows and shapes on with a special kind of paint.

By the time I have her tied up and suspended from the ceiling, we get started. Beautiful black ropes cover her chest and lower stomach, and her hands are tied behind her back. The ropes above her chest are connected to a wooden panel on the ceiling, as well are her legs. Those are also bound to the panel, but higher, so that her head is upside down and her legs high up in the air.

My girl shares my madness, and it was her idea to roleplay one of my kills. This past week has felt like my most depraved fantasy come to life. I still pinch myself sometimes to make sure it's truly happening.

I sink to my knees to meet her pretty face, her long hair flowing down like a stunning waterfall. "You're so fucking beautiful, angel. You're ethereal. Too perfect to be real." I move my arm up and trail my fingertips over her skin where the rope cuts into her. "I can't wait to see all the indents in your flesh when we're done. It's like I've carved into your skin as if you were a sculpture, just by using the ropes."

Her lips part and her eyes close as she wallows in my compliments, letting them wash over her like the warm waves of the sea. I pull up my mask so I can kiss her. Licking her bottom lip, I let my tongue mingle with hers. I can still taste the strawberry ice cream she ate before we came here.

When I pull back from her, I reach my arm back and take a knife out of my pocket. "You wanted to know what it's like to be my victim," I state tauntingly, holding it up in front of her face. "The way you're tied up right now―that's exactly how I tied Mr. Benedict Young. I won't hurt you like I hurt him, angel. I'll never do that. Though I can describe it to you. All my kills are locked inside my brain. All the vivid details, all the tools I used along with the sounds they made as I carved into their bodies. Mr. Young was a screamer."

"This is so exciting," she squeaks, blinking her eyes rapidly as she looks at me upside down. "And you look so fucking hot right now. The Sculptor at work…" she trails off, admiration painted all over her face. "What a dream."

I huff an amused breath, trailing the tip of the blade over her bare stomach, not deep enough to let her feel anything more than a tickle. "I first sliced into his skin here. Just a little cut to give him a taste. I decided against sedation that year, so he felt every single slice I made into his skin."

I take a step back to look at the expressions on her face, checking if she's still into this. All that stares back at me is a girl who is in complete awe. The only thing I see is admiration, a shared love for the most horrific of arts.

"This empty space I left on your stomach―that's what I did to him, too, for a reason. It allowed me room to slice open his stomach and tear out his guts."

She swallows, nodding. "And then you hung his bowels over the wooden rail and the suspended ropes, as if they were garlands." She lets out an adorable giggle. "Like a Christmas tree."

I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress my disbelieving smile. "Exactly."

"He was still alive through all this?"

"Yes. But not for long. He lost blood rapidly, and his organs stopped functioning shortly after. But not before I said, ‘Confesssss'…" I let the knife clatter to the floor, then reach my arm upward, rubbing my hand between her thighs. A feral growl escapes me. "Christ. You're soaking wet."

"Yes…" she moans as I slip two fingers inside of her pussy at once, stretching her. "Seeing you in action is pure porn to me."

There's a large bandage on her thigh, where she cut our initials into her skin. The cuts weren't deep enough to need stitches, but I took my time cleaning them thoroughly to prevent infection. I do my best to not touch it when I push my fingers deeper inside of her pussy.

More moans spill from her pretty mouth as I bring her closer to the edge. The sound of my fingers going in and out as the floodgates prepare to open nearly makes me sink to my knees with reverence.

I'm not in the mood to taunt her, so by the time she's begging me to let her come, I let her. She squirts, even in this position, her cum leaking down her stomach and past her chest, dripping onto the ground. She cries out as she releases and I move my hand over her cheek. "I'll never get enough of the way your tight little cunt cries for me, little nymph."

Through her erratic breaths, she chokes out, "Now you. Give me your cock, Sculptor." She gets a mischievous glint in her eyes and her lips curl up before she runs her tongue over her lower lip. "I want to suck off a murderer."

"You don't have to tell me twice." I unbutton the fly of my black trousers and take it out, moving to stand in front of her face. Her mouth is exactly at the right height, and my cock slaps against her lips as soon as it's freed from its confines.

She widens her mouth invitingly, drool already leaking out. Thrusting my hips forward, I slam inside of her throat in one go. She gags loudly, choking on it before she relaxes. Her pleased hum vibrates against my cock as I find a nice, steady rhythm.

My fingers disappear inside her hair, pulling the strands at her scalp as leverage to go deeper. I pet her flushed cheek with my free hand and I pull out all the way to allow her a deep breath.

"Fuck, Lester," she gasps. "I can't get enough of you. I want you to fuck my face. Hard. Fucking use my mouth and fill it with your cum." She opens wide but quickly closes it again to say more. "Or paint my face with it. Whatever you want. Oh, and slap me, please."

"Christ," I curse. "Such a filthy slut." I don't hesitate to do what she asks of me. My hand lands on her cheek, her skin immediately red. I do it again, her head slamming to the side from the force of it. Her whole body moves in the air as I do it a third time, and once she's steadied, I force my cock back inside of her mouth.

I watch her take me and my orgasm slams into me before I can help it. I pull out at the last second with a growl of pleasure, grabbing the start of my cock as I jerk it right in her face. "Fuck, angel… Fuck. Such a dirty girl for me…"

White, hot spurts of cum cover her like paint on a canvas, landing inside her opened mouth, her chin, and the tip of her freckled nose. I yank on my throbbing cock until every last drop is out, then proceed to put it back inside as I make her suck the tip clean. She does so eagerly, letting out a satisfied moan as she swallows my cum down.

"Good girl," I praise, sinking down on my knees to face her. My fingers gather up the cum from her face and I rub all of it over her lips like lipstick.

Her tongue trails over it, licking it up before she swallows with a grin. "Delicious. Now untie me and fuck my ass."

"You know, I used to have nightmares, too. I even drew them so I could make sense of them later. Would you like to see them?"

"Of course I would." I nod, and she gets out of bed right away, reaching for the sketchbook in her bag on the floor. She returns quickly, searching for the right page.

She plops down onto the bed, her bare leg resting against mine. "I used to dream about my birthmother at Crimson Manor," she starts, trailing her fingers over a drawing made with soft pastels. "I don't know if you knew that about me―that I was adopted."

I shake my head. "I didn't."

"My dad used to be in Crimson Manor, too," she continues. I did know that. "And Annie, my birthmother, was his friend. She got pregnant with me after my dad was already out. Some guard knocked her up. When he found out about her pregnancy, he tried to kill me in her belly. But she killed him first."

She sighs, her eyes lost in the drawing. "Long story short, she was locked up in the high-security ward. And according to my dad, it was eerie and lonely in those basement cells. She managed to escape. I don't know how or why, but I used to have these vivid dreams about her time there. Dreams about doctors and nurses surrounding her and cutting into her stomach to get me out."

Sitting closer to me, she points at the drawing, which depicts exactly what she just told me. A stale, dark room behind iron bars and a white woman with a round stomach laid flat on a table, knives digging into her as blood leaks onto the ground.

"I couldn't be able to remember anything of that time, right? I think it was just my anxiety. Not knowing who I was, fear of the unknown. My parents told me pretty late in life."

"What was she in Crimson Manor for?" I ask, brushing her bare arm with my fingernails.

"Nymphomania," she says on a pained breath. "If I'd been born at the same time she was, maybe I would've been locked up in the nuthouse, too. It's why I felt like I was crazy for years, wanting the things I did. I mean, I am crazy. But I don't think it would be fair to lock someone up for liking sex too much."

"It's not fair. It's appalling," I agree, my lip curling up in disgust.

She turns the page and shows me another drawing. "I'd also dream of prisoners reaching for me from out of their cells. I'd lie flat on the ground, helpless because I was just a baby. I couldn't get away. I never knew what it meant or if it even did mean anything." She groans as she turns the page again. "None of it matters anyway. I haven't had those dreams in a long time."

"What happened to her? After she escaped?" I inquire. "Do you know?"

"I saw her once. At a Pillow Minds concert with my uncle Abel. She was a groupie." She chuckles. "My uncle was in love with her. Or is . He takes trips sometimes, but I know he lies about where he's going. He's visiting her, I just know it. Where, I don't know. But he could never fool me. He fell in love with her when he was in Crimson Manor himself and he never moved on. They're together somehow."

She trails over another sinister drawing, the tips of her fingers stained with red dust from the pastels. "One day I'll confront him about it."

Closing the book, she puts it to the side on the mattress. "Anyway. I just wanted to show you you're not the only one with bad dreams. We're not alone anymore, Lester. I'll wake you up with my lips and bring you back to life when one visits you at night. You no longer have to fight them alone."

She ends that statement with a kiss, and I melt into her as we fall into a deep sleep.