Dark Reasons Ch. 10-11

I'm hoping for the next chapter of A Tiger's Love to be out soon. I had it half way done and my computer blew up and I lost four pages so I had to rewrite them. I think they came out better this time than the first time. Thanks for being so patient.

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Chapter Ten

He slowly closed the door to his home, leaning against it and waited as he stared down the dingy hallway that led to where she was. It would come, he knew it. First it would be her voice, yelling and degrading. Then she would stumble into the hallway, daring him to speak back to her, daring him to argue.

He wouldn't, it didn't matter how much he wanted to or how wrong she was. Or how very much her words hurt him. He would listen and nod his head. She was always right. She'd told him so often enough.

But tonight, just this one night, he wished she would leave him alone. He dropped his bag by the hall closet, grimacing at the seemingly loud thump. He knew she'd have heard that. His ears strained to hear her ponderous footsteps getting up from her chair where she was watching her "programs". She never missed them, and if he interrupted her, oh boy-o, there'd be hell to pay.

When it stayed quiet, he snuck forward, his boots squeaking in the silence of the apartment on the sticky linoleum floor. He winced and slowly kicked them off, his socks showing whitely against the dirty floor, picking them up to take them to his room. A place for everything and everything in its place, she'd always told him, making him put away his things before she'd rip out dresser drawers and dump their contents on the floor and the cot that was his bed.

She'd stood over him, making him refold everything, making sure the corners were perfect, the edges neat, the piles tidy. She watched him close the final drawer, his shoulders slumped, his arms shaking. She'd patted his cheeks gently, smiling in approval before turning and ripping the blankets and sheets off his cot. A slap to his face and a well aimed kick to his butt had sent him to work, trying to remake the bed exactly right the first time so he wouldn't have to do it again and again until she was satisfied.

But she was never satisfied.

"Did you get my black licorice, boy?" her voice rang out from the front room, harsh and uncaring.

He patted his pockets, suddenly uncertain if he had or not. He thought he had. He remembered going into the store but had he actually gotten the candy? His heart raced in fear until he felt the paper bag crinkle under his searching fingers. He pulled it out with a quick sigh of relief and hurried in to give it to her.

She was sitting in her chair, a padded straight back that was as ratty as the huge dress she wore, her mountainous buttocks overflowing the edges, the wooden arms pressing deeply into her sides. It groaned wearily as she shifted, as if it, too, were as anxious for her to be gone from this world as he was. "Well? I asked you a simple damn question, boy. Did you get me my licorice?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, holding the bag out from as far away as he could get. He couldn't believe how much he hated her. She'd haunted him, harassed him, belittled him and abused him for as long as he could remember.

"You think my arms grew while you was lollygagging today? Bring me the damn bag, boy, now!" Her chin wobbled when she yelled and her arm came up as if she would strike him. He hurried and dropped the bag into her hand, managing to get away before she could hit him.

"I wasn't lollygagging, Grandma," he said as he watched her tear open the bag and sink her too big, too white false teeth into the first piece. He never knew how she managed to eat the sticky candy with her fake teeth, but she always did, smacking her lips over each piece. "I was working."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. You're so important now with that big job of yours. Maybe I should call down there and tell them what kind of person your really are. Maybe I should tell them what you do at night. What do you think?" She turned and glared at him with her mouth full of half masticated candy, waiting for him to say something, anything that would give her an excuse to hurt him. "You ain't fooling me like you fool all the rest of them. I know what you are inside. You're a dirty little boy who thinks he's so much better than all us regular people."

He shook his head slowly and started backing away from where she sat. He wanted so badly to argue with her, to tell her how completely wrong she was. But the words were caught behind the lump of fear in his throat.

"Where you going?" she hissed the question at him. "Yeah, you're too good to be in the same room with me, too high and mighty now. I bet you got some girl now thinking you're so wonderful." She cackled and black spittle flew from her mouth landing on the massive dress covered bosoms. "I wonder if she'd think you were so wonderful if I told her how you wet your bed, how you're just a pathetic and miserable excuse for a man who can't even hold his own bladder. Think she'd want you then?"

He backed away faster, his head shaking furiously, the words straining against lips that would never utter then. He could almost feel the sharp sewing scissors she'd kept in a drawer in her room, scissors that she would get out and make him hold while she stroked and petted his penis, pulling on it until it hurt. Then she would make him take those scissors and lay his penis across the open blades, her hand coming down over his smaller ones until the blades would pinch and slice his flesh, leaving small cuts that would bleed down his thighs and drip onto the floor.

His stocking feet hit the threshold of the room, his hand scrabbling back to find the old glass door knob, now filmed with age and dirt. He pushed the door open, running down the hall to scoop up his boots before turning into his own small room. Only then, his back against the closed door, did he feel safe. Only here, in the dark and quiet of his own room did he once more feel in control of anything in his life.

He sank down on the same small cot he'd slept in since the day his parents had died when he was four, leaving him with only one surviving relative to take him in. She'd done so, stressing familial duty that her daughter hadn't felt the need to do. She'd made him remember everyday that he was a charity case that she paid his bills and he owed her his life.

Curling into a ball, he lay down on the too small cot, his body shaking in the cold room. The blanket was too thin, the pillow too miserly. But they were what he was used too. He'd managed for a while to free himself of her, going to college, getting a degree, making his own way.

He'd met a girl, fallen in love and thought about marriage. They dated for three weeks before he got the nerve to kiss her, two months before he let himself go into her apartment after a date. It was almost six months before he spent the night with her, losing his virginity.

Afterwards, he'd made excuses and gone home, going straight to his shower. Scrubbing with hot water and bleach hadn't seemed like enough. Instead he went to the kitchen sink and found his Brillo pads, using them on that part of him that seemed so dirty. That part of him that had enjoyed what they had done so much.

Amazingly enough, he'd married the girl, learning to hide his repugnant feelings about what they did in the bedroom though he'd never gotten over it. And then he'd gotten the call. His grandmother had gotten sick, she needed him. His grandmother had pulled him back, using his secret against him, threatening to tell, to ruin the façade of his life if he didn't take care of her. He'd gotten a job and a divorce. And then somehow, his grandmother found out his other secret, his dark secret.

How she'd found out, he didn't know and it didn't really matter. She'd told him details, the nights that he hunted, the prey he'd taken. She'd laughed and shown him newspaper clippings, the ones from college, the ones from his time of freedom, when he'd tried to deny her accusations. She'd always known, she had said. It was what he was made of, this desperate need. And she would help him to continue. He just had to take care of her.

So, he came home. He slept in this same room that held such dark and terrible memories. He lived with her cackles and her abuse. And he hunted.

He tucked his long hands between his thighs, warming them against his groin. Images of her came into his head, the dark hair that seemed to dance with blue fire, the eyes that saw into him and accepted who he was. The piquant face with its sharp chin and lush smiling lips. She never accused or abused. She never made him feel less a man or laughed at him.

And last night, as she'd writhed under him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her eyes pleading with him to continue, her mouth begging for the pleasure only he could give her, he'd been a man he could be proud of. A man his parents would have been proud of. A man who could stand up to the grandmother, who could wrap his fingers around her flabby neck and squeeze until her lifeless body flopped to the floor, her eyes bulging and those too white false teeth pushed out by her swollen tongue.

He smiled at the image, seeing himself standing straight and tall as he stared down at the corpse of the woman who had made his life an unimaginable hell. His mind superimposed the other, the image of her over it, her hands beckoning. She was naked and smooth, her white thighs already open and ready to accept him, eager to love him. He was her hero, her knight. He was the man who made her feel things she'd never felt before. Who gave her pleasure she didn't know existed.

He remembered the way she'd felt around him, supple and silky. The resistance of her body when he'd pushed into her had been nothing compared to the way she'd felt, soft and hot, sleek satin around him. He'd taken her fast and furiously, calling her name out in whispered ecstasy, telling her he loved her. And when he'd filled her body with his seed, he swore she'd screamed out his name with her own sweet joy. It was only after, only when his arms gave out and his body slumped next to hers that he felt the blood.

And then what little light from the clearing shone on her face.

It wasn't her, only a cheap facsimile. She'd cheated him again, running from him when they could have been so happy, could have run from the Grandmother together. His fury propelled the knife he didn't know he had in his hand, and he slashed and hacked at the already dead body. Her life had pooled out in the blood that soaked the earth beneath her from the first slash of his knife as he'd dragged her to this clearing. She'd died as he raped her, her struggles and cries growing weaker with each frantic beat of her heart that pumped the blood from her body.

After the fury had been fear. The fear of being caught. The predator no longer felt strong and sure, in control and in charge. He was now the prey. And one small mistake, one tiny missed detail and they would find him.

Afterwards, once the cleaning up had been done, the body left to be found, he ran back to his small cot, lying under the thin blanket to shake with cold and fear. He always promised himself no more. No more death, no more girls. He had to prove himself, he had to be someone that she could love, someone that she could care for.

Then he thought of his rival ...

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Chapter Eleven

Justin walked down the long hallway that lead to the elevator in Jenna's apartment, his hands full of Chinese take out boxes. The smell that wafted up to him, spicy vegetables, sautéed chicken and beef, sweet and tangy sauces, made his mouth water.

He could only hope that Jenna would accept this for what it was, a kind of apology for this morning, for making a fool of himself in her bathroom. Even though he'd never forget the way she'd felt in his arms, her petite form pressed against his chest, her breasts soft and naked but for the towel that had been the only barrier between them.

"Damn," he cursed as he felt his body start to stir, just from the memory. "Down boy," he ordered as he pushed the button for the elevator with his knuckle. This wasn't about seduction. This was about making amends.

The doors slid open and he stepped inside, turning and knuckling the button for her floor, watching the doors slide shut slowly. He stood at the back of the car, watching the numbers slip slowly upwards as the elevator crept its way towards her floor.

Leaving the elevator, he hurried down the hall, knocking on her door with his knee.

"You're early, Ethan..." Jenna started to say as she pulled open the door. Her hair was wet and she was wrapped in her robe. She stared with confusion at Justin. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, geez, thanks for the warm greeting, partner. I guess I'm not who you were expecting." He stepped past her, dropping the box of Chinese on her kitchen counter. There were pots bubbling on the stove, the spicy aroma of spaghetti sauce, garlic and onions, basil and oregano, filling the air with mouth watering aromas. "I didn't think you could cook," he said, looking over where she still stood by the open door.

"You never asked. It was the one skill my mother made me learn, and truthfully, I never minded. But you didn't answer me. What are you doing here? I told you I was having company tonight."

Justin lifted the lid on the red sauce, pulling open a kitchen drawer with the ease of familiarity and taking out a small spoon. He dipped it into the sauce, blowing on it before tasting it. "Needs more salt," he said, putting down the lid. "I guess I forgot. I thought we could have dinner and do some work tonight." He dropped the spoon into the sink, staring at the red stain that splattered on the white porcelain.

He heard her close the door with a small click and then sensed her move into the kitchen. He could feel her eyes upon his back as she waited for him to turn and look at her.

"Justin..." she said, "we need to talk."

He smiled as he stared at the red stain. "But now's not a good time, is it Jenna?" He turned, lifting his hand and touching her cheek. "You have a date to get ready for. We can do this some other time. You keep the Chinese. You could eat if for leftovers tomorrow or something." Justin managed to keep the smile on his face though he wondered if it looked as strained as he felt. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, partner. Have fun tonight." He walked past her and towards the door. "Don't forget the salt," he said, opening the door and slipping through.

Jenna felt the single tear slip down her cheek and wiped it away angrily. He had no right to come in here when she was trying to have a personal life and make her feel guilty. No right at all. And then to just walk out on her, she turned and glowered at the boxes of food he'd left, murdering them with the glare she wished she'd been able to use on him.

When they just sat there, instead of boiling over and flaming in response to her ire, she grabbed them and pushed them into her fridge. Slamming the door, she turned to the food she was preparing. "Needs more salt, damn him. God! He can be such an asshole!"

She lifted the lid on the sauce, dipping her own spoon in and tasting it. She closed her eyes and sighed, reaching for her small bowl of salt and adding some before stirring it again and then putting down the lid.

She turned down the heat and then went back to her room, reaching into her closet for something comfortable and sexy, but not too sexy. She didn't want to seem too eager, but after her coffee date with Ethan today at the hospital and the kiss he planted on her lips before she left, a kiss that had curled her toes, she knew how she wanted tonight to end.

Settling on satin pants and a soft cashmere sweater, both in a shade of green just a few shades lighter than her eyes, she slid on matching underwear and pulled the sensuous material over her skin. The sweater's v-neckline left a great deal of skin exposed and clung to her curves as if it were a lover's hand. She ruffled her wispy curls with her hands, shaking her head to make them fall into place then applied a light coat of makeup.

Leaving her feet bare, she hurried to the intercom when it buzzed.

"Yes?"

"Hi, Jenna." Ethan's smooth, sexy voice sounded over the intercom, and Jenna couldn't help but smile.

"Come on up," she said, pushing the button for the door.

Jenna hurried to the refrigerator, pulling out the bottle of wine she'd picked to go with her dinner. Leaving it open upon the counter, she went to the door and waited.

When the knock came, she mentally counted to twenty then reached out and turned the knob. He stood just outside the door, his eyes roaming over the picture she made. "Wow," he breathed. "You look absolutely stunning." His eyes took in every detail, including the bare feet. He handed her the single white rose he'd brought her. "I thought I'd be slightly more traditional this time. Maybe we won't have a murder investigation interrupt our evening."

She smiled, accepting the rose and reaching up on tiptoe to place a light kiss upon his cheek. "And I've already fixed dinner, it's ready any time you are, Doctor."

Ethan inhaled, breathing in her scent, a mixture of floral perfume and spicy woman. He let his hand rest lightly against her lower back, feeling her skin against his fingers where the sweater pulled up as she reached for him. Her breasts brushed against his chest and he smiled, enjoying the way she felt against him.

"So what did you make?" he asked lightly, following her in and watching as she got a bud vase down to put the rose in.

"Spaghetti with my father's special sauce and his secret garlic bread. I had to blackmail the recipe out of him and it wasn't easy." She took the vase over to the table and then went back to the kitchen, pouring the wine she'd gotten out. "Oh, no. I forgot to ask, are you on call tonight?"

"Nope, I'm all yours, for however long you want me," he quipped, taking the glass she handed him. He raised the glass, tapping it gently against hers, "To a beautiful woman, a lovely dinner and a night that can go anywhere," he said, taking a sip of the wonderful wine before letting his lips find hers for one intimate and incredible moment.

Her face was flushed when he pulled back, her eyes bright and he had a hard time trying to keep it at that one kiss for right then. Not when he wanted more, when he wanted to taste her mouth and see if her flavor was sweeter than the wine or dark like passion. He wanted to touch her skin, slip his hands under the clinging fabric of her sweater and see if she was as soft and warm as she seemed.

"That was..." Jenna stopped, unable to come up with the word.

"Yes," Ethan said, smiling down at her. "It was."

She laughed as he'd meant her too and then went into the kitchen, adding the finishing touches to the dinner and rescuing the seasoned bread before it burnt. Then they sat and she beamed as he raved over her spaghetti, laughing at his jokes and listening to his stories of the ER.

He asked questions about her cases, understanding when she couldn't get into detail about ongoing investigations. But he was interested, genuinely, which was something she wasn't used to with any date she'd gone on.

"So how long have you and Justin been partners?" he asked, sitting back a little and picking up his refilled glass.

"Almost five years now," she said, sipping her own wine. "He trained me when I started homicide. I must have driven him nuts with all my questions and that puppy eagerness you see in the newbie detectives. I was so damn proud of that gold badge, I think I stuck it in anyone's face that would look at it." She pushed her plate to the side, leaning her elbows on the table. "He even held my head when I saw my first torn up body."

"You sound like you two are close." Ethan felt a little flare of jealousy. He tamped it firmly down, arguing with himself that if she were interested in Justin, he would be here, not Ethan.