“W e need to get out of here,” Ethan said. “But before we go, I want to tell you about my first time.”
Sheila’s fingers traced slow circles around his nipple. Her face looked the way it always did after sex, flushed and lazy. Her naked body was contoured against his, covered in a light, musky sweat. If Ethan closed his eyes, he could almost imagine they were back in room sixteen at the Ivy Motel.
Finally, finally, Sheila was his. The thought filled him with the deepest sense of contentment he’d ever known. Abby’s face drifted into his mind then, but he pushed it away.
“I don’t like thinking of you with other women,” Sheila said.
Her frown told him she was sincere. He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. It smelled like wildflowers from the shampoo he’d bought her. “Do you love me, Sheila?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.
“All of me?” He pulled away slightly and looked into her dark eyes. They were soft and full of promise. “Even the bad parts?”
She intertwined her fingers in his. “Do you love me, even with my bad parts?”
She was right. Nobody was perfect. Maybe that’s why, with Sheila, it felt so easy. Unlike with Abby, where he always felt he had to pretend.
“I need you to hear this,” Ethan said, looking at the television. It was tuned to CNN and muted, but the time was displayed on the lower right-hand corner of the screen. They didn’t have long. They’d be after him soon; he could feel it.
But this was important.
“I want you to know everything about me,” he said. “I want you to be sure about me. Because once we leave here, we can’t come back. And then it’s just you and me.”
“I’m already sure. I can’t wait to start my life with you.”
She settled into the crook of his arm, and he began to speak.
He was sixteen when they met.
She’d been sitting under a tree in front of their high school, bare legs tucked under, long hair glistening like silk in the thin rays of sunshine that filtered through the leaves above.
He had noticed her immediately, partly because she was beautiful, but mainly because she was alone, like him.
She caught him staring and met his furtive gaze with a steady one of her own. His mouth went dry. Before he could lift a hand to wave, the bell rang.
Weaving around the swarm of students trying to get to class on time, he followed her, making sure to stay a few paces behind. Her short, flared skirt topped a pair of coltish legs, and her cropped sweater revealed a hint of tummy. Her beauty set her apart from everyone else at this bum-fuck school. She didn’t belong here.
He wanted to know her.
He made it all the way to her classroom door, trying desperately to think of something funny and clever to say. Before he could put it together, she abruptly turned to face him.
“Are you following me?” Her cat’s eyes flashed, narrow with suspicion.
“No,” Ethan said indignantly, despite being caught off guard. “This is my class.”
“Since when?”
School had only started two days before. “I enrolled late. Is that okay with you?”
She blinked at his tone.
“You’re very suspicious, you know,” he said. “Do you really think you’re that good-looking?”
He moved past her shocked face and into the classroom, taking a seat at the very back of the room. She sat a few rows ahead, and he stared at the back of her hair, imagining what the silky strands would feel like in his fingers. He had no idea what class he was in and didn’t particularly care. It turned out to be American history, a class he’d already taken at another school. It didn’t matter. As soon as the bell rang, he headed straight for the guidance office to officially register.
He saw her every other day for five weeks before she spoke to him again. The class had just received their midterm papers back and her eyes were on him when the teacher reached his desk. He’d received an A on his paper, the grade marked in red at the top corner of his title page.
“Nice work, Ethan,” Mr. Bristol said with a smile. “You’re writing at college level. Keep it up.”
She was waiting for him by the door after class.
“Walk me home,” she said. It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
“Walk me home,” he said, and she smiled.
Ten minutes later they were at his house.
“Are your parents here?” she asked as they entered through the side door. She shrugged out of her light cardigan and looked around the small but well-decorated space.
“George and Helen are my foster parents.” His eyes darted to her face to gauge her reaction. “They both work till seven.”
She smiled a smile he couldn’t interpret. “Wish I had foster parents. I’m staying in a group home.”
He knew that already but nodded politely. “You want something to drink?”
“Not really. Where’s your room?”
Thirty minutes later, books open and cast aside, she was naked from the waist up.
She lay underneath him on his bed, her long hair fanned out over the pillow. She smelled of lilacs and rain forest and he couldn’t stop kissing her. Her lips were a wonder all to themselves, at times soft and yielding, at times hard and demanding. In the background, the radio was tuned to a rock station.
He was propped up on top of her, eyes squeezed shut, humping her with his pants still on. He didn’t ever want to stop kissing her. His palms massaged her bare breasts and he was delirious with joy and desire. When he opened his eyes a moment later, he saw that she was staring at him, a small smile on her face.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, slowing down.
She nodded, but her expression hinted at something different. Placing both her hands on his chest, she pushed him gently off her.
He sat up on the bed, confused. Had he done something wrong? Were they finished? Had she changed her mind?
“Don’t worry,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. “Just getting into position. I want to get closer to you.”
She pulled her jeans down, then her underwear, motioning for him to do the same. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dark thatch of hair between her legs as she climbed on top of him. When he tried to lie back on the bed, she shook her head.
“No, stay like you are.” She sat on him, reaching down to help him slide inside her. A groan escaped his lips. The wetness and warmth were beyond words.
Sitting up, locked together like this, his face was right against hers. He kissed her deeply and another groan escaped him as she started moving her hips. Her hair was so long that the soft ends tickled his thighs.
He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands-at the moment, they were around her waist, pulling her to him, but did she want them somewhere else?
She stopped kissing him long enough to ask, “Is this your first time?”
He nodded. “Should we-I can go see if George has condoms…”
Without slowing down, she reached behind her, taking both his hands in hers. Her eyes were fixed on his when she placed his hands around her throat.
“Squeeze,” she said.
He stared at her, his hips still rocking under hers. “What?”
“Squeeze.”
He obliged her and closed his fingers around her delicate neck, but gently. He understood what she wanted, but he didn’t want to hurt her.
“A little harder,” she said. “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me, I’ll tell you when to ease up.” Her eyes were focused on his and she kissed him, her tongue searching his mouth urgently.
There were no words for the exquisite pleasure, no words to describe the incredible feeling of connectedness he had with her at this moment. It was better than anything he could have imagined. She threw her head back, thrusting into him faster. Almost without thinking, his fingers tightened.
A few seconds later, he pulled his hands away from her throat, scared he’d hurt her.
She took his hands and put them back. “Don’t worry.” Her eyes were locked on his and her voice was patient. “I’ll tell you when it’s too much. Really, I like it. It intensifies it for me.”
She tilted her head back again, placing her hands behind her, palms resting just above his knees. Her thrusts were long and deep. Leaning forward, he devoured her breasts. His hands stayed around her throat as she wanted, squeezing. It wasn’t long before he began to lose himself in her again, and he only vaguely heard the DJ on the radio announce the next song.
“Creep,” by Radiohead.
“I love this song,” she whispered, extending an arm toward the stereo to turn up the volume. “It makes me feel so…”
She didn’t finish her sentence, but he didn’t need her to because he knew what she was trying to say.
“Creep” was about obsession, unrequited love, and self-pity… feelings he understood all too well.
She didn’t slow her rhythm and his orgasm quickly approached. He tried to hold it off, tried to think of something else so it wouldn’t be over too quickly. He conjured up images of the foster father who smacked him around, the kids at school who snubbed him, the home for boys he’d lived in for two years after his mother died.
And all the while he kept squeezing. But inevitably, an incredible warmth began to spread throughout his body and he gave up. Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes and went with it, squeezing her delicate throat harder and harder.
He dimly felt her writhing in his hands, bucking and smacking at his face and scratching at his arms, but between the heady music and his approaching orgasm, there was no way to stop.
He felt himself let go, felt the pent-up release of weeks of watching her, waiting for her, dreaming of her. He came so hard he shook. Thrusting his hips upward into hers, he milked every moment, the pure bliss washing over him, controlling everything, controlling nothing.
When he opened his eyes a moment later, she was slumped in his arms, her forehead on his chest, still as a rag doll. He kissed the top of her head, spent and exhausted, but she didn’t move, didn’t speak.
He said her name gently, rubbing her back, feeling a small sense of pride at having tired her out this much. Not bad for a first time. She didn’t respond. He spoke her name louder twice more, but still, there was no movement.
Tilting her head back to look at her, he saw that her eyes were closed and her lips were slightly parted. A line of saliva ran down the side of her mouth to her chin. He wiped it away, confused. Then he saw the two deep red marks around her throat.
Thumb-size marks, made by his thumbs. He’d squeezed so hard he’d bruised her. Alarmed, he shook her, but her head lolled back onto his chest with a thump.
Pressing his index and middle finger to the side of her neck as he’d been taught to do in health class, he tried feeling for a pulse. He couldn’t find one. When he placed his head against her breast, he couldn’t hear anything.
If she was breathing, he couldn’t tell. If she had a heartbeat, he couldn’t hear it.
The music reverberated through his bedroom as “Creep” reached its climax, falsetto voice against heavy guitar.
He pushed her head back again and moved her hair off her face, which was slack and unnaturally pale in the late-afternoon light. Her naked torso was shiny with sweat, no doubt a mixture of both hers and his. Her naturally rosy lips were almost colorless.
He stared at her in shock. Silent and limp and unmoving and… dead. And he was still inside her.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
And as he traced the line of saliva that trailed slowly out of her mouth with his finger, he felt himself begin to grow hard again.
He stopped speaking.
Sheila lay beside him, unmoving, not saying anything. After a few minutes, the silence in the room was more than he could bear, and Ethan opened his mouth to say something. Anything. But she beat him to it.
“You liked it,” she said, but her voice held no trace of accusation. She was simply stating a fact.
He looked at her. “Yes. I liked it. I liked how it made me feel. Powerful, in control, dominant. Do you know what I mean?”
She nodded.
“Do you think I’m sick?” He found himself afraid of her answer.
“Yes,” she said, and her eyes closed for a brief moment. Then they opened again. “But it’s okay. I can help you. If you want my help.”
He nodded, too overcome to speak.
“But you’re right, we need to get out of here.” Sheila’s fingers brushed his cheek. “We need to start over someplace new.”
He nodded again, then rolled on top of her. Her lips met his eagerly, full of passion and desire, and a surge of bliss went through him.
Sheila accepted him. She loved him despite everything, and it was all going to be okay. They were going to have a new life together. His hands moved down her naked body and she moaned. Sighing, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to get completely lost in her.
He didn’t realize she had the gun until he felt the cold steel barrel press against the base of his throat.
He felt his eyes widen in surprise, and he looked down at her.
Sheila’s face had changed.
“Get the fuck off me, motherfucker,” she said. Her eyes were black and cold. “Or I’ll blow as many holes in you as it takes to make you get off me.” Her eyes never wavered from his face, and they were serious. Deadly.
He rolled off her in disbelief, never taking his eyes off the gun. Sheila sat up, pointing the weapon at his face, the light from the muted TV flickering over her naked body. Her cheeks were flushed, and not from the kissing.
He couldn’t help but think she looked magnificent.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, her flush deepening. “Don’t admire me, you sick fuck. You think I can help you? I can’t. I want to shoot you so badly I can’t stand it. You’re a monster, and you’ve always been a monster, and you deserve to rot in hell.” Her free hand pointed toward the door. “Even if I don’t do it for me, I would do it for all those women you killed, you twisted son of a bitch.”
Ethan stared at her. She had played him. She had totally had him believing that she loved him, that she wanted to be with him forever. She had won. Checkmate.
She was going to kill him, and she didn’t care if that meant she’d starve to death in the basement. She wanted him dead.
He found himself strangely aroused.
“But I didn’t kill any of them,” he said calmly. “I’m not a killer, Sheila. Never have been, and don’t plan to be.”
She frowned. Those weren’t the words she’d been expecting him to say, and in her moment of confusion, the gun wavered slightly.
He went for it.