11. Rae

It's late—almostmidnight—and the Galloway House blocks the moonlight. The tattered curtains are stagnant in the upstairs windows. I try to picture my father standing there, peering at the empty desert. Did he bring my mother here? It would have been risky, bringing his mistress to his home, especially if his wife could have caught him. But there would have been a thrill to it too. The chance of getting caught and watching the chaos unfold. That feels familiar. I'll have to ask my mother about that.

I unlock the padlock with my copy of Ned's key and stuff the bulky lock near a cactus bush. It's late—hours past the mall's closing time—but you can never be too careful about who's watching.

I stand in the entryway and shut the front door behind me. I should go upstairs and see if there are any clues about my father's life and death, but Crave won't be up there.

He's the reason why I'm here.

In the basement, I don't hide my footsteps this time. The stairs creak. Crave leans against the wall, a dim light hanging from the ceiling above him, illuminating his rugged form and his eyes shrouded in black cloth.

My body tenses, every muscle ready for anything Crave throws at me.

A need fills me. What will he do next?

Is that what Crave is to me? A sexual fantasy?

No—he's more valuable than that.

I swing my purse around, making sure that the lens is aimed at him.

"You know I record everything in my apartment, right?" I ask. He doesn't know that the cameras don't film while I'm sleeping. "I have footage of you breaking in. I know you looked at my purse."

He clicks his tongue in amusement, like this is a game between the two of us. My stomach squeezes, each butterfly crushed into a pulp.

"Always the blackmail," he says. "There are worse things. You should just kill me."

Kill him?

I shake my head automatically. "I don't kill people. I'm not?—"

"What?" he cuts me off. "You're not what, exactly? You're not stupid enough to kill? You're not smart enough? Or are you too good to get your hands dirty? Are you too dumb to get away with it?"

His lips pull apart, revealing gleaming teeth. "You're not like me," he murmurs. "That's what you were going to say, wasn't it? But you'd kill in a heartbeat. You're just scared of getting caught."

I roll my eyes and exhale. "That's right, Crave. I'm not like you."

"You wish you were like me." He grins. "Tell me something, little girl. If you found your ‘father's killer'"—he lifts his fingers in the air, mocking me with air quotes—"what would you do to him? If you had the chance to kill the man who stole your family from you, would you do it?"

"All I want is to find out what actually happened to my father," I scoff. "This isn't about murdering anyone."

Crave's boots clunk on the floor, each step reverberating in my chest, his shadow creeping over me like a burned layer of skin. I hold my ground and force myself to stay strong.

"You really think Michael Hall is—" Crave stops, laughing to himself. "No—you think Michael Hall was your father?"

I scrunch my nose. "Why wouldn't he be my father?"

"Did your mother show you a picture of him, or are you doing all of this on hearsay?" His voice gains pitch slightly; he's entertained by his own words. I ball my fists at my sides. He goes on: "You know, your bitch mother must be a liar, keeping secrets too. A whore who spreads her legs for anyone who can make her feel something. Like mother, like daughter."

I don't care if he calls my mother a bitch. It's a word. It doesn't change anything.

But why does Crave think I'm a liar? Does he know about Vegas? About getting fired?

How could he?

I search his bondage mask. My mind travels back to the night I was fired.

Who the fuck is Michael?I screamed.

Your father,my mother whispered.

Was my mother lying to me?

No. Crave is wrong. He's just messing with my head so that I question everything. I know I'm right. For my entire life, I've wanted to know who my father is, and my mother kept it from me like she was holding a treat over my head. Now that I'm this close to finding him, I'm not going to back down.

I'm not a violent person. I'm aware of my size disadvantage compared to Crave, and yet I can't stop imagining punching him in the face. Tearing off that stupid leather mask. Bruising his eyes until they're puffy and red. Laughing in his face and saying, Who is the little girl now?

"Do you even have a DNA sample?" Crave asks.

I grit my teeth. "What are you saying?"

"Your mother probably didn't even know who she was fucking. Just like you."

And that's the last straw.

I race toward him, my fists swinging. I connect with his chin, but then he darts to the side. I stumble forward. My shoulder impacts the wall, and he grabs me from behind, pinning me to the wall's surface.

"Feisty," Crave teases, his motor oil scent surrounding me. "Is your mother like that too? Or did you get that from your father?"

I swing my neck around as much as I can and spit into his face. The glob of saliva lands on his leather cheek, clumping like an egg white. He snarls.

"Fuck you," I hiss.

His fingers curl into my ribs, digging between the bones. Pain spreads across my body, and I swear it's like he's stabbing my lungs. I curl into myself, and he throws me to the floor. I flip over, struggling to crawl, the cement biting into my knees. He grabs my foot and pulls me back, my shirt bunching up under me. The brittle floor scrapes my skin.

"What the fuck?" I scream.

He climbs on top of me, twisting our bodies until he's on top, holding me in place. Metal cuffs—where the fuck did he get those?—bite into my wrists. He locks them above my head. He stands up, and I roll over, pushing myself up on my bound wrists?—

Whump!His steel-toed boot smacks the side of my stomach. I cough. He steps on my fingers, and the pain surges to my temples. I wail.

Leather and fabric slide against skin. Is he taking off his mask? I quickly look up.

He changes into a new pair of black gloves. I pant. Frantic nerves swell in my head. I have no idea what will happen next.

"Roll over," he says.

"What am I, a fucking dog?" I snap.

"Roll. The. Fuck. Over."

"You're standing on my fingers."

He lifts his boot. Blood rushes to my fingertips, filling me with warmth. I start to twist my body, complying with his orders. Then I push myself up again, ready to run for the stairs?—

He grabs my stomach, pulling me back. Metal pins spike into each point of contact with him, and I squeal. He turns me around, manipulating me until I'm on the ground underneath him again.

"The hell is that?" I cry.

"Spread your legs," he demands.

My neck stiffens. It's stupid to refuse the demands of a murderer, but I know he won't kill me. If he was going to, he would have done it last night, or the first night, or even ten minutes ago, but he hasn't yet. I shake my head furiously. Crave grips my thighs, pulling them apart. Thin spikes breach the sheer fabric of my stockings, jabbing my skin.

"Spread your fucking legs," he murmurs. "Or I will bleed you dry right here."

I whimper. My legs spread. My brain is empty, stuck on survival. On primal instincts. On lust.

Get him to fuck you,I tell myself. If he fucks you, then you'll be safe.

But how does that even make sense?

A blinding light flashes. I squint my eyes. After a few seconds, my pupils adjust.

Crave holds my phone over me, the flashlight on the maximum setting. The bright bulb illuminates his mesh, turning his eyes into hollow globes.

He rips off my stockings and thong with his free hand, leaving the skirt bunched up at my waist, then he lowers the flashlight, illuminating my pussy. I bring my legs together, and Crave smacks my thighs with those spiked gloves.

"What? You don't like it when you're not in control, little girl?" He tilts his head. "You only like fucking people when you can use them. But you can't use me. I'm the one who uses you. I'm the one who owns you now. Isn't that right, little girl?"

My cheeks flame. "I don't use people."

"No, you just steal from them."

Chills cover me from head to toe. How does Crave know that? Has he been watching me without my knowledge?

He unzips his pants, stroking his pierced cock with the same needled gloves, the metal jewelry shifting across his hard length. My mouth salivates, my pussy muscles clenching.

He wants me so badly that he's handcuffed me. He's kneeling on the ground and using a flashlight to see my pussy.

I'm powerless and powerful at the same time.

You're fucking crazy,I think to myself. You can't be turned on by something like this. He's fucking with you. Using you. Tricking you. You don't hurt people. He does! He's hurting you right now. Messing with your head.

I have to be angry. He has no right to do this.

"Are you stalking me now?" I hiss.

"Me stalking you?" He drops the phone, and the flashlight beams toward the ceiling, giving us extra light. "Is that what you call those surveillance cameras you put up in your own apartment?" I twist to the side, refusing to face him. He continues, "What, little girl? Are you afraid a big bad man will steal from you, just like you stole from him?"

He leans down, licking my clit, slurping it up. The sensation sends shivers up and down my body. He lifts up, still leering at my pussy.

"God, what a selfish little cunt," he murmurs. "You're the one who fucked those idiot men and stole their credit cards, who doesn't see people for anything more than objects. But you're an object too, aren't you, baby? You're just a little toy to be fucked and broken by a man like me. And one day, when I have no use for you, I'll throw you away. Kill you like the rest of them. And you'll love it, won't you? An object discarded. At least your death will give me some amusement."

Desire incinerates all the logic in my brain, replacing it with tension. At the same time, my blood pressure rises.

"Fuck you," I say.

"You may hate me, Rae. But this little thing?" He pinches my pussy folds between those spiked gloves. The sharp pain jolts through me. "This meaty little thing needs me. Wants me. Yearns for me." He traces a finger down my slit. "You're sopping wet, little girl."

"Go fuck yourself."

"That's what this pussy wants, isn't it? A little cunt like yours, desperate for my rough hands." He adjusts his touch, pinching a new area of skin, and the pain trickles through me again. "You're so used to controlling everything, dictating every consensual thing in the bedroom, that now that you're with me—a man who takes what he wants—you can't help it, can you? You're so wet, it's disgusting."

My insides churn with so much molten rage and desire that I can barely think.

A spiked leather finger pushes inside of me and scrapes against my flesh. He's cutting my insides. My brain is blinded by swirls of white and black shapes, a Rorschach Test changing inside of me. Right to wrong. Pain to pleasure.

This is wrong,I think. Wrong. So wrong. You're going to get hurt. You're going to?—

"You can't do this," I cry. "What if I get an infection? What if?—"

His finger curls, those tiny daggers of pain increasing with intensity, the pressure mounting as he hits that tender spot. Warmth floods my veins, my toes curling.

"Do you think I fucking care?" he snarls.

The needled thumb teases my clit, and his inserted finger massages my inner nerves.

"Please," I whisper. My voice is weak. I don't know what I'm trying to ask for.

"Admit you want to kill people, and I'll make this all go away," he says in a low voice. "Say that you want to kill me. To kill strangers. That you want to kill simply to see what it's like. Admit that you're a killer, Rae, just like me. You just haven't had the opportunity yet."

Fire bursts through me, my body tightening in anger. I don't want to say that. The phone is still there, and the camera device on my purse—wherever it is—is recording this.

My face is boiling. I'm overwhelmed.

I don't want to kill him. I want to him to fuck me.

I don't want to kill him. I want him to hurt me.

I don't want to kill him. I want to destroy him.

I don't want to kill him.

I don't?—

"I don't want to kill you!" I shout. "I wouldn't risk my life for your death. You're not worth it."

His laughter is instant, raw, deep, and it quakes in my chest. He inserts a second finger into my pussy, and I squirm, those needles digging into my flesh.

"All right," he says. "We'll do it my way instead."

"What?"

He inserts a third gloved finger. My core muscles spasm, and I swear he's scooping out my pulp.

"The fuck is that?" I squeal.

"These are vampire gloves," he says. "They aren't meant to be used like this, but I knew you'd enjoy them."

He takes his other hand, pinching my folds around his three fingers. The needles pierce my skin.

I bite my tongue, tears stinging my eyes. "I?—"

"Such a meaty thing, isn't it?" he mutters. "It's surprising you don't get embarrassed by it. Or is that why you're so desperate? You thrust your meat hole out onto any dick that will fuck you."

Summoning the anger inside of me, I thrust my hips forward.

"At least I don't hide my average genitals behind metal," I snap.

His tongue snakes across his teeth. Winged-creatures flutter in my head, spinning in circles, trapped in a cage.

"Oh, little girl," he says. "My sweet, sweet little girl. My dick may be average, but you liked the way I ripped your throat apart, didn't you? So much that you rubbed your ugly little cunt on my boot."

He adds a fourth finger. The spikes are smashing against my inner flesh. The sensation is full and sharp, the pressure splitting me at the seams. Liquid drips down my face, and I can't tell if it's tears or sweat. A bead of something streams down between my thighs, and I lift my head. Is it blood? Arousal? Sweat? I can't see what it is. Crave's four fingers, bundled together, are all I see.

He's going to fist me with those gloves on, isn't he?

"Get off of me." I squirm, shoving my feet toward him, but my legs spread wider.

"This giant meat hole didn't even have to warm up to take my four fingers. But we can't have your pussy blood staining my custom gloves." He salivates, then spits a glob into my wet, gaping hole. Tears blur my vision. He shushes me. "It's okay, baby. You can make this all go away if you just admit who you really are."

I close my eyes, willing this to disappear. To wake up with relief that this is just some fucked-up, wet dream.

But I like it.

"I bet this used-up pussy can take more," he says. I open my eyes. Pleasure flames inside of me while pain radiates from my core to my head. My whole body quakes. He readies the final finger for insertion.

"You can't fit that thing inside of me!" I scream.

"I can. And I will," he says. "Relax, or this will hurt."

He pulls his fingers back enough to add his thumb. I suck in a breath. I count in my head to distract myself from the pain. I quickly lose track.

I could tell him what he wants to hear. I can admit that I want to kill too. Words don't mean anything. They're just sounds. It doesn't mean I will actually kill someone.

His knuckles push through, crowning over my pelvic bone, his wrist bruising my hard muscle. My brain expands, every drop of blood inside of me rushing to the surface of my skin. My vision goes white. A garbled noise, something like a grunt and a cry, bursts through me.

"Is it in?" I wail. "Oh god, please, let it be in?—"

"Look at how easy that was," he laughs. "What a good little cunt, taking a fist like this. No wonder you're so desperate for attention that you fuck any man who takes an interest in you. They probably can't feel anything."

That's not true. He knows it. Men like fucking me.

Don't they?

"I hate you," I scream.

"They'll never know you like I do," Crave says. "They'll never be able to take you like this. You need someone like me. A killer who doesn't care about what you want. A maniac psychopath who will rip you apart and force you to endure every fucking second of it."

He leans forward, his lips so close to mine, I can smell his scent. Burnt. Oil. Musk. The slightly sweet taste of his breath.

"You're mine, Rae." He moves his fist, his knuckles like insects eating me alive from the inside out, the sensation stunning me.

Is it pleasure? Pain?

"You're not a person; you're a possession. My fucking possession," he says. "Nothing more than my flesh. My blood. An object to use however I want."

The pleasure seeps through me, and I convulse. A contorting body, muscles spasming, squeezing around his gloved, spiky fist, my body pulsing with fire. He bellows, his howls like the cracks of a cannon. My mind can't concentrate. I am pure sensation.

Eventually, the tension recedes.

Crave removes his fist slowly. As his knuckles caress the opening, I whimper, curling into myself. The spiked gloves should hurt, but I'm so over-sensitized that I don't feel anything.

I turn to my side. I wasn't supposed to like that.

He pulls my hips until I'm lying on my back again. Then he pulls out his dick and fucks my gaping hole. I can barely feel him.

"You're so goddamn loose," he says, still pounding into me. "A sloppy little cunt."

His head throws back at those words, and his cock explodes inside of me. He switches hastily to his hands and knees and licks between my thighs, eating each drop of depravity that leaks out between us. My hips twitch forward. It feels good. Almost soothing.

When he lifts himself up, clear fluid and spots of red mark his lips. My cum, his cum, my blood, his saliva.

He spits it all into my mouth. Without thinking, I swallow it. His lips part, his tongue skimming across his bottom lip. Heat rushes between my legs.

Why does this turn me on?

He unlocks the handcuffs, and reflexively, I curl into myself again.

"Don't hide from me," he growls.

"Go fuck yourself."

He grabs my face, pulling me until our eyes are locked. Maybe it's my eyes adjusting to the darkness, but I swear I can see those black, cavernous eyes staring down at me, warning me with a single look. I'm so lost in his gaze that I'm numb to the pressure of his needled fingertips on my cheeks. My stomach rolls with nerves.

"You may have video footage against me," he says. "But you want me, don't you?"

Without hesitating, I nod. I do want him. I know I do. He's the only person I can't figure out. And maybe that's all he is—a challenge, a game, a puzzle—but I can't get enough of him.

Crave stands, then goes to the corner of the room, removing a small water bottle with a broken seal. He lifts it to the dim light. The liquid is tinted yellow, like an electrolyte drink. I doubt Crave wants me to stay hydrated though.

"What is it?" I ask.

He hands the bottle to me. "Poison."

"So this is your way of killing me?"

He snickers. I roll my eyes. I take the bottle, holding it up to the light to see the toxins.

It's a clear, yellow-tinted liquid. Completely unthreatening.

"I'm not going to drink that," I say.

"You wouldn't use a knife. Not a baseball bat. Not even a gun," he says. He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him again. "But poison? That's more like you. Watching someone die on the inside. The agonizing waiting period of knowing that you didn't have to lift a finger. They'll disintegrate before your eyes, giving you their power."

He closes his mouth zipper, then ascends the stairs, his shadow disappearing. I study the bottle, my nervous system in overdrive. An overwhelming urge burns inside of me. I want to tell him to stop. To explain what he means. To confirm my own thoughts about whether or not he's right.

Would I poison someone?

Would I enjoy watching them die?

I imagine my mother drinking from the water bottle, watching her fall to the ground in the hotel lobby, the tailored staff members rushing to her side. Would she call out for me with her last breath? Would she suspect I had poisoned her, the daughter of a killer?

I imagine Ned drinking it too. Collapsing in the food court. Death by food poisoning. Literally.

By the time I center myself, the stairs are empty. I hastily stuff my underwear and stockings into my purse, fix my skirt, and rush to the front and back doors on the ground floor. Cacti and rock formations loom in the darkness. The stars light the sand for every nocturnal predator, but there's hardly enough visibility for people like me.

The desert is empty again. Crave is gone, and yet, I can feel him staring back at me.

I don't want to kill Ned or my mother. That's not me.

But as I look into the darkness, I imagine it.