15. Cutting Tension

"Do you ever wonder why we hold onto things that would be better left behind?" I ask Johnny with my cheek pressed to his cold, hard pec. I had pulled out his tray because I couldn't stop thinking about him. There's a hole in my chest as if I've been missing something. My eyes kept getting pulled to his freezer door, lingering there.

I'm unsure how I got into this philosophical talk with him after crawling on the rollout tray and curling up next to him. This was after I devoured the white chocolate-covered strawberries. They were delicious but sunk to the pit of my stomach, weighing me down with guilt because they came from Brandon. It felt like cheating, in a way. I had to find a way to make it up to Johnny, follow the doctor's orders, and abolish my peculiar compunction. So here I am, thinking of my path in life halfway to thirty and wondering if I could change it. Or if I'd want to.

"My parents always wanted this business for me," I peer up at the tiles of the drop ceiling as if I could see past it to the stars and moon lighting the sky. "But sometimes I feel like leaving this place and starting over. New. Begin again. I know the funeral home brought you to me, but maybe I could take you with me. I could figure something out." I understand it's nearly impossible, but dreams aren't meant to have limitations. Dragging my gaze down his body, I focus on his groin. His cock, with his fist still wrapped around it, is now deflated and sad-looking. A body will stay rigored until you massage it. Even though it was only twice now, my vagina seems to have worked him into a softened state. "We will fix that, too. Don't worry, Johnny, I'll have you all fixed up."

The alarm on my phone rings, alerting me that Brandon will arrive any moment. I need to get rid of any incriminating evidence. I should act as if I'm working or reading. Anything rather than getting caught with the dead body I've claimed as my own. The same body I told Brandon I had incinerated.

Unfurling myself and crawling off the table, I wrap the blanket around my neck like an oversized shawl. After pushing him back into the freezer, I race down the hallway and unlock the door for him. I don't wait for him to come in. Even if it's a few seconds or minutes, I want to postpone meeting his eyes. Quickly, I scurry back to the morgue to claim my seat behind the desk. After the baseball bat and strawberry fiasco, I came back to several missed calls from Brandon. I was too embarrassed to call him back. I'm more ashamed I was so worked up over nothing. At least no one was here to witness it. I open the novel I've been working on for a month and wait for the berating comments over not answering my phone or not getting enough sleep. Brandon tends to think I don't get enough rest working nights. Since I missed his call, he'll think I passed out on the job.

It's maybe thirty minutes before I get tired of sitting and begin fidgeting.

"What the fuck is taking him so long," I mumble in frustration, just in case he's right outside the door.

The key I made for Brandon is perched on the desk where he can find it. Its brassy color gleams under the fluorescent lights in an almost taunting manner. I'm bouncing my leg almost violently from my jittery nerves. I pull my ponytail holder out and fluff my hair out. I'm massaging my scalp when Brandon barges in, banging the door against the wall. All my movements cease. Time, as always, is a lingering presence, prolonging uncomfortable situations. Brandon's face is distorted with a scowl, unlike anything I've seen on him before. Dark purple bruises under his eyes can't be confused with a sleepless night because there's also a white strip over the bridge of his swollen nose.

The desk chair rolls back from underneath me as I slowly rise. I nervously tuck a random strand of hair behind my ear. "Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. Whatever," he states, slightly rude and brushing me off, but he doesn't make eye contact. This is different. Who took away that soft, kind-hearted guy and replaced him with whoever this is?

"Brandon, are you sure? We can talk about it if you want?" I insist, actually concerned about my assistant.

He straightens and squares his shoulders. His eyes are dark, and his jaw is set in a hardline when he meets my gaze straight on. "No! Just leave me the fuck alone!"

My body freezes at his loud, vicious tone. He's never spoken to me like that before. I'm not sure what to say. This new side to his personality has me really worried. And who did this to his face?

"Okay." My reply comes out soft, almost a whisper, as I close my book on the desk and wrap my blanket tightly around my shoulders. I'm unsure if it's to keep the chill-out or protect myself from the weird vibes he's giving off.

He holds my gaze for a few fleeting moments but then disregards me and gives me his back. I slowly make my way to the door, with the cautiousness of someone trying not to spook an injured animal. My fingers are on the handle when I turn toward him. He's sitting at the desk, furiously typing on his phone. His lips are turned down with chiseled lines etched above his brows.

"Thank you for the strawberries," I whisper, more for myself than anything. I probably shouldn't have eaten them, but I couldn't resist. They had a sour, sweet, and almost salty taste, unlike anything I'd had before. I wanted to ask if he made them himself, but with his hostile mood, I didn't want to push my luck.

I don't wait for his response and close the door behind me.

There'sa dip in the bed and a punch to my gut.

"UGH, fuck, Egor." I peek beneath my lids, and I'm attacked with a string of sloppy kisses. "Okay, Okay," I scream with a hint of a laugh, "I'm getting up."

While lying in bed, I had stayed awake, wondering what kind of life Brandon lived outside this place, so much so that I pulled out my old laptop. It's one I bought for my birthday one year to research the medical devices I found in patients during autopsies. Now, I'm using it for something I never thought I would, such as looking through Brandon's social media. I'm not sure what I was hoping to find. Maybe he's in an underground fight club or spends his nights as a vigilante. Both are illogical guesses, considering he wouldn't advertise that online. Nope, everything I found was normal. He's pretty bland, and he's good-boy material in my eyes. Whatever or whoever broke his nose is definitely something he'll keep private. I wasted half the morning laying in bed looking into Brandon. Which was a waste of time since I didn't find anything useful.

My favorite slippers slap against the wood floors as Egor bounces on his paws, eager to get outside as usual. He whines loudly with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and I pet the top of his head. He's usually fairly chill, but once I open the back door and see it's nightfall, I can see why he pounced on me. The urge of the wild—or rather the bathroom—was calling his name.

"Be quick, Egor. Brandon isn't going to be happy that I slept so late," I announce before closing the door. "Especially after the way he acted this morning," I mumble.

He's never acted like that toward me. Never raised his voice. Whatever he got into last night has definitely put a dent in his well-preserved armor.

For some reason, I feel like dressing up a bit is the answer to all my problems. Preparing for my shift, I can't stop thinking about Brandon. It's a constant gnawing on my brain that has my mind hardening as if the empathy is being drawn from my being. I need something to help with caring so much. He doesn't want to let me in. I shouldn't pry and really shouldn't care. I'm his boss. Looking in my tiny closet, there's the usual hoodie, jeans, and black tees, but then my sight lands on a long skirt. It's flowy with embroidered lace flowers.

I assess my appearance in the mirror. The plain black crop top looks great paired with the skirt. Typically, I tie my hair in a ponytail, but today, I have an odd compulsion not to expose my neck, so I keep it down. The curtain of pale blond hair frames my face, and wisps flit around my shoulders. In some weird way, this makes me feel more protected and more secure. With my eyes coated in black eyeshadow, I'm a woman ready for battle. Let Brandon fuck with me now.

Egor follows me to the door as he usually does, and I make my departure for the night. As I march through the chapel, my hips sway with confidence. The dress swishes about my calves, stoking the proverbial fire within me. Passing the shiny wood pews, I skim my finger along the pristine furniture. I feel like I can face anything, even Brandon's ire.

When I open the door to the visitation area, Brandon is leaning against the wooden French doors with his hands in his pockets. His eyes clash with mine, and they are filled with burning intensity. I'm not sure what I've done to be on the receiving end of this, but I won't let him bring me down.

"Finally, you show," he snaps, pushing himself from the door.

"I'm sorry. Do we have a problem?" I give him an attitude right back.

His lips pull into a hardline, and I cross my arms over my chest. Another layer of protection is enacted. "Yeah. I don't think we should cross paths anymore. I'll be leaving an hour early and coming in an hour later from now on."

"Okay." I shrug and cock my hip to the side. "I'm sorry things aren't working for you." My words are professional, but my tone has a bite to it.

"You're right. They aren't." He sneers before turning toward the door.

I'm still not sure what I've done to deserve this. Maybe his father dislikes me even more than I thought. Perhaps he's the one who gave Brandon the broken nose. Regardless, I can't let this go.

"Wait," I call, grabbing his arm as he opens the front door, allowing the night to seep in the small opening. He doesn't look at me, but he does stop. At least, that's something. "I'm not sure what I did to make you angry or what's going on with you, but you don't have to be an asshole."

He pulls from my touch as if I have the plague or something. "Just be happy I'm not quitting," he mumbles, stepping out and closing the door behind him.

I'm left speechless, staring at the empty space where he once stood. Like, what the fuck is happening? A storm brews inside my chest, and my eyes prick with tears. He seems mad, but surely it's not me he's mad at? I just so happen to be the nearest person to take it out on. I'm taking his shitty mood personally when I shouldn't.

"Ugh," I groan, dropping my fists to my sides. I throw my head back and gaze up at the popcorn ceiling. If only the ceiling was covered in stalactites and a few broke off, they could take me out right now.

I slow my breathing and close my eyes. There's no way I can go another night without finding some kind of release or distraction from this newfound stress. What to do? What to do? With my fingers uncurling, I gaze in the direction of the morgue. That could make me forget all my problems. I'm gliding on a cloud with visions of Johnny in my mind until I grasp the handle like a life raft. This is the answer. Regardless of what the doctor ordered, I need this.

I'm walking in a dreamland. My head is swimming. My body is on autopilot as I skip to the freezer door, open it, and pull out the tray that holds my cold, dead lover. His eyes are even more sunken into his skull, and the skin around them is a deeper, darker blue. The bruising around his neck is even more noticeable than when I brought him here. My heart squeezes with immense sorrow at the display of inevitability. Gliding my finger, I trace his tattoos until my palm cradles his face.

"If I could keep you forever, I would," I whisper, "But eventually, I'll have to give you up." Tears build in my eyes, blurring my vision. "Fuck," I breathe. I roughly swipe at my cheeks with the back of my arm, pushing the sadness down. With my hand still cupping his face, I rub his cheekbone with my thumb. "We'll make tonight the best it can be," I promise.

I push the tray to the middle of the room next to the table housing the embalming machine. The formalin solution inside the large transparent tank sits stagnant on a pump generator. Once my tray of tools is in front of me, including the hollow needles ready to inject into Johnny's arteries, I know I'm ready. The concoction will harden his muscles, all except for one. Looking at his flaccid cock, I know I'll have a little problem, but I may have something that could help.

I take long strides through the hall and chapel until I'm in my apartment, standing in front of my black leather chest at the foot of my bed. My chest moves rapidly as I breathe heavily, but I don't let that hinder me. I'm working through tunnel vision as I pull it open and push my toys around. There has to be something here I can use. Moving aside the dildos of various shapes, sizes, and colors, the multiple plugs and vibrators, I find a clear plastic pump and a purple silicone cock ring. Both came free with a purchase from a random online sex shop. They always send some cheap shit you have no use for. I didn't need them then, but thankfully, I didn't throw them away because they'll be quite useful now.

Clutching my gadgets tightly, I run back through the funeral home to the morgue. My hair clings to the nape of my neck from the perspiration that coats my skin. The cool air from the morgue quickly dissipates, cooling my heated flesh. Setting the toys beside Johnny, I grab the remote to the surround sound speakers.

"We need some tunes, don't we, Johnny?"

The playlist begins with the last song I played. A toxic mixture of lust and ethereal power courses through my veins as the music flits around the room. I close my eyes and sway my hips to Yael Naim's voice. With my hands at work, I position the contraption over Johnny's shaft in preparation.

"I think we are both going to enjoy this," I whisper and continue to let the rhythm divine take control of my body while I hook him to the machine.

I sink the hollow needles into his femoral arteries with ease. The embalming fluid will restore his clotted blood, giving me a chance to pump up his cock again. Then I'll use the cock ring to hold it in place. That's right. This should work perfectly.

Then, a peculiar sensation has me pausing. The hairs on my neck stand on end, and there's a heady pressure behind me. An ominous wave washes over me as if the shadows are thickening and coming to life. A deep rumble cuts into the seductive tune playing from the hidden speakers. My ears perk up, straining to drown out the music completely. I'm frozen in place, terrified that I've been caught in the act of trying to revive my dead boyfriend just so I can make love to him one last time. My brain's telling me I'm overreacting, just wanting to hear things that aren't there, but I could've sworn I heard a low growl. Breathe, I urge myself, but the oxygen in my lungs has stilled, almost as if the temperature in the room has frozen them into two heavy blocks of ice in my chest. My pulse pounds loudly in my head. No one is here, No one is here. My words scream within my skull, but I can't move. Something like dread holds me in place. There's no fight or flight, only freeze.

A glint flashes in the corner of my eye, catching my attention. The instinct to grab my scalpel burns in my muscles. Grab it, just in case. I move my hand toward it slightly. That's it. I coach myself through the fear.

Before my fingers can touch the cool metal of the handle, the wind is knocked out of me. Someone grabs a fistful of my hair and forces me down, bending me over my Johnny. My scalp burns with little pinpricks of pain. I'm staring at the pump that's covering my dead lover's penis, and a chill races down my spine.

I'm caught…I'm going to jail.

Is this a cop?

Did he somehow find out and put me under arrest?

Maybe Brandon came back to take his anger out on me. Whoever it is, I need to end them now. My life, as I know it, depends on it.

I wiggle in my captor's grasp, attempting to stretch my arm closer to the blade on my tray or even move my body enough to throw him off of me. However, the more I move, the tighter my hair clenches in this person's fist, reminding me of Chinese handcuffs. I'm biting into my bottom lip, trying not to scream. This can't be happening. I change my angle and grip the table's edge, contemplating my options. A groan of frustration claws from my throat. My valiant efforts of trying to break free are for naught.

"What's this we have here?" A rich deep voice taunts me as its owner presses his hardened length against my ass. There's a hum of excitement just below the fear, equating to thunderclouds rolling overhead. Just like all the times growing up, I would dance in the rain when the sky turned black, knowing lightning could strike at any time. It's all I ever needed to shock my system and make me feel alive. All the while knowing danger lurks above, but that's a risk I was willing to take.

That voice, though It's familiar. It's darker and raspier, but I've heard it. My brain is a heady mixture of endorphins and possibilities. Between my dead boyfriend's dick and the lust dripping in the man's tone, it's even more tempting than a bag of dark chocolate Reese's. It takes me a minute, but when a set of forest green eyes pierce the hazy concoction in my mind, I stiffen in his grasp.

Oh fuck… it's him.

The fucked up doctor that fingered me on his table while examining me.

The one who jerked himself off to completion even after I barged into his office.

The very man I stood up to while adamantly refuting my dirty little secret.

A low throb builds in my needy clit. All those times, I ran from the living. The one thing I've always fantasized about is coming to fruition. My lip, which I've been biting, splits, and a burst of copper lands on my tongue. This is beyond any naughty dreams that had me soaking my panties in the middle of the night.

His hand grips my throat roughly at first before adding pressure and releasing it in time with the music. It's as if he's trying to coax the screams loose from my vocal cords. That does no good, though. It only causes the fire within my core to blaze with unwarranted desire. I move to clench my thighs together, but he's quick to insert his leg between them, aiding me in my search for fiction. He knows what he's doing. The dress I decided to wear for Johnny bunches around my waist, and my captor's knee is pressed to my weeping sex. I want to grind down on him, but I also want to fight him. He chuckles in my ear, laughing at my foolishness for trying to hide my desires.

I clench my teeth, hating myself for liking it, and spit out, "Let me go."

I'm hoping the words come out more as a threat than one of the pathetic girls in those horror movies who try to escape. I push up, attempting to break his hold, but it's useless. He uses my body's momentum to get a better hold of my hair and, with that advantage, pulls my back flush against his front.

"Oh no, you don't." His ski mask scratches against my cheek.

This asshole must not know that when you cage a rabid animal, they tend to strike back even harder when they're released. So, let him think I'm some poor helpless girl all he wants. As soon as he gives me a little slack, I'll put him on my table right next to Johnny but with a scalpel in his heart.

"I knew you were a dirty, filthy corpse fucker, but I didn't expect it to be with the one I killed… my twin."

He. He. He killed?

His words hold a twinge of humor, but I don't think this is a joke. Johnny has a twin, and his brother has an all-too-familiar voice. No. He had a twin.

A gasp escapes me at the pure shock of this newfound information. "No. No. No. This can't be real. This isn't real." My pulse races in my ears, and adrenaline pumps its addictive chemicals through my bloodstream. With widened eyes, I search for a way to escape while my body demands the opposite.

The vibration of his words comes from his chest and hums across my skin when he growls, "I knew the moment I saw you spread open for me on my table that I needed to make you mine."

His words only confirm when everything went sideways for me. My love for Johnny is my downfall. If I wouldn't have kept him and fucked him then I would've never met Jax. Like Alice, I've fallen down the rabbit hole, and I'm not sure what's authentic or what's a figment of my imagination. This just doesn't seem real.

An ache pulses between my legs at the reminder of how he coaxed my orgasm free with his fingers. I swallow, knowing I'm thoroughly at this man's mercy. He has me tightly wound in his web, and he's not letting me go.

His nose grazes the sensitive spot behind my ear, inhaling deeply. "Now that I have your undivided attention, little Dead Girl, let me ask you a question. Do you want both of our dicks?"

Instinctually, my thighs clamp down on his knee, seeking pressure to relieve the throbbing in my clit. His hardness presses into me again, reminding me that he's just as turned on as I am. That's what he's walked in on, and it isn't something he'll report to me. No, this is something he's into.

Regardless, a tremble takes over my body. I shouldn't want this. I should be shocked. Appalled. What the actual fuck? He killed my Johnny. What are the odds? The same doctor who cornered me in his office after making me climax on his table also murdered my Johnny.

The pounding in my ears is so loud that I'm terrified I mistook his words for something I would've wanted him to say, but he quickly erases all doubt from my mind when he continues, "How about you take us both at the same time like the depraved little slut you are. One in your pussy and the other in your ass? Or do you want to choke on me while sitting on my dead brother's cock?"

I'm still processing this information as my thoughts spin like a merry-go-round.

"No, no, no, no, no." I attempt to shake my head, but my movement is limited thanks to the hold he has on my hair. My breaths are quick, shallow pants as panic clouds my vision. This can't be happening. Does a killer have me restrained and bent over his victim?

Dr. King takes my moment of confusion the wrong way and laughs. "Ahh, don't be shy now. Show me how you make this fuck doll Frankenstain work for you."

My heart is ready to burst like an overfilled water balloon as a result of its constant pounding against my ribcage. There's poison in his words, an edge of underlying hate for his brother. He can't hurt my Johnny. I won't let him.

"No! Stop, please," I cry, pushing back from the table and throwing him off balance, but he stays on his feet, keeping me in his grasp.

Tears spring to my eyes at the thought of anything happening to my Johnny. I have to get him away from this man. His arm holds my middle, preventing me from moving closer to my love. Warm breath fans over my neck, and Dr. King's tongue licks the shell of my ear.

"Mmmmm," he groans and pushes his hips against me again, reminding me how much he's enjoying this. "You're going to look so dirty sucking on my dead brother's dick while I fuck your ass."

My selfish pussy clenches at his perverted degrading phrases. There's no denying that the trauma I grew up with, all the name-calling and hushed whispers from the public, have transformed into something that can be pleasurable in the right circumstances. My nipples harden, adding to my sick and twisted need, but I've never had sex with a living human before.

Johnny was my first partner, but his brother may be my last.