The Next (6 page)

“Stop,” the blond boy forced out as if he were being strangled.

Jessie did not stop. He pulled the band of the underwear down the shaft like a flag lowered reverently down a pole at sunset. The boy’s dick jolted forward onto Jessie’s face, but Jessie remained with a stillness that betrayed either the terror of a crouched doe before the pounce of a lion or the predatory assuredness of the lion readying to pounce. With the thick red meat pressed against the side of his nose and the vibrating knob half an inch from his eye, Jessie was frozen, waiting for some cue from the standing boy to proceed or withdraw.

The standing boy growled under his breath, brought the knife down with deliberate intent to Jessie’s cheek, and held it there. The only movement was the boy’s penis twitching as it engorged even more, the blood rushing through the shaft and slamming into the head in steady forceful surges.

Jessie remained suspended at the point of the knife for a full thirty seconds. Then his tongue emerged from between his plump red lips and extended toward the shaft. When its tip finally touched the side of the boy’s erection, the standing boy drew in an enormous breath.

Then with the suddenness of a rattler strike, the boy grabbed a handful of Jessie’s dark hair and pulled his head back, shoving his stiff rod into Jessie’s mouth until his lips and nose were smothered in the boy’s pubic hair. The boy’s primal grunts echoed off the bark of the tree, the cool of the rock, the green of the brush, the ripple of the water. Drool and precum leaked out of the side of Jessie’s mouth as he suctioned the boy’s dick. The undulation grew more savage. Jessie’s eyes were pressed shut, and he snaked his hands up the convulsing boy’s thick hamstrings, cupping his hard ass and squeezing. The red shaft appeared and then disappeared into Jessie’s mouth with mounting speed as the boy thrust faster and faster, grasping Jessie’s hair like a jockey holding a horse’s mane.

The knife the boy gripped sliced Jessie’s cheek. Blood dripped down from the point and flew into the air with every motion of the boy’s hip. As the knife gouged into his cheek, Jessie’s motion changed. He moved his hands to the front of the boy’s hairy thighs, and tried to push himself away from the knife, but the boy’s hold was too firm. More blood dripped off the point of the knife, spattering Jessie’s neck, the white skin of his chest, and the hair leading down to the pink hole of his belly button.

Jessie gasped unintelligibly, his protests, muffled by the triangle of blond pubic hair repeatedly slamming into his face. The standing boy moaned gutturally, fiercely, both audibly and stifled as if screaming into a pillow. His pistoning becoming violent. He arched his throat and thrust his mouth to the sky, his red face streaked white with tension, eyes strained shut.

He released his load into Jessie’s mouth ferociously, jetting with rage into the back of Jessie’s throat. His entire body stiffened—his calves, thighs, hips, abdomen, chest, arms, shoulder, neck, and skull convulsing in spasms as if reacting to sharp electrical shocks.

Hot white thick creamy cords of cum spurted out of the corners of Jessie’s mouth. The white globs mixed with spittle, pooling on his neck and shoulder with the smears of blood. The standing boy let out a final scream of anger and release. Tears formed in the corner of his closed eyes, and his mouth was opened wide as if calling to the skies. The boy opened his eyes. Breathing heavily, he focused on something in the close distance.

That something was me…

Yappity yap yap.

Minnie snapped me out of my zoning.

A bleeding nipple on a cold shivering skinny white twinkie boy…

I turned my head sharply away from the Couch Potatoes, two sloths that had no idea what their innocuous routine conjured in me.

Yap yap yap yap.

Shut the fuck up, Minnie!

Knock knock.

The hell!

I could see the dark lumps of two shiny shoes through the crack beneath my door. My vault was being breached yet again.

Chapter Six

Sergeant Marzoli stood at the doorway with a white paper bag, a cocky smile, and a devious glint in his eye.

“Me again. You looked like you could use something organic.” He withdrew a sandwich from the bag. “Free range turkey, organic baby green shit, cranberry, multi-something-grain bread. Good for you. May I?”

No.

He opened the door all the way and entered.

He crossed to the window and looked out. The last rays of the sun settled on his rugged face, highlighting the perfection of his nose, his cheeks, his eyebrows, his forehead, his stubborn chin. He was a complete stranger to me and utterly unwelcome, yet his apparent insistence on developing a rapport beyond checking the box on a list of tenants neighboring his missing person appealed to my fundamental rejection of propriety. My monotonous mental self-flagellation needed to be interrupted, and I had no idea how much until I heard myself offering this stranger a drink.

“What’ve you got?”

“Fresca.”

“Wine?”

“Fresca.”

“Water, please.”

I poured the little fucker water and handed it to him.

Wine? Was he off duty now?

“How did you get through the lobby door?”

“Not happy to see me?” he chided with a wicked glint in his eye, commencing the completely ineffective man-flirting once again.

“Happiness is not quite my thing at the moment.”

“Lock’s broken.”

“Oh, but that makes me fucking overjoyed.”

Marzoli had already moved on to exploring something new, giving my sarcasm no purchase. He was scanning the apartments across the way. His body language was still. His eyes were as bright and focused as a laser. I could feel the massive kinetic energy of his brain taking in and relating and associating and calculating and concluding and storing and discarding. As smart as I gave myself credit for being, I was in the presence of a loftier IQ. Brilliance radiated from his deep brown eyes. Within seconds, I started imagining squashing him like beef through a meat grinder. Not only was he a lady-killer, he could make smart men feel inadequate without even speaking. Why the hell did this man have to return here? And what the hell was he looking for?

After being ignored to the point I doubted he was aware he was in my apartment with me waiting, I asked, “Didn’t I answer all your questions?”

“I made fun of your relationship earlier with what’s her name.” He paused, keeping his eyes steady on the outside, “and I feel I should apologize.”

“Bullshit.”

“Did you kill Nathan Ridges?”

God, I despised how much I liked his noodle.

“No, sir. But you said he was missing, not dead.”

“I lied.”

“I see.”

And I did. Had I been the killer, my defenses might have been a bit more lowered had Nathan been presented as only missing. Marzoli looked me squarely in the eye, his big brown eyes and feminine long lashes contrasted with the masculinity of his jaw, five o’clock shadow, and muscular neck.

“He was found in the Hudson river. Throat slit.”

“I haven’t left the apartment in months.”

“I know.”

Did he? How? Who told him? Who’s been tracking my activities for months?

“Then what do you want from me?”

Marzoli looked at his notes unnecessarily to indicate he was about to quote something, “Maybe I just wanted to insert my penis into one of your cavities?”

Man-flirting. He must still need information from me.

“Sergeant, whatever you want to ask, I’ll tell you the truth.”

The man looked out the window and, once again, proceeded to disregard my very presence. Giving up trying to coerce him into being forthcoming, I got behind him so I could see what he was looking at.

The buildings glowed in the setting sun. Refractions of light hit the metallic detailing of the window frames and kept my eye from settling on any one place, until the Beached Whale flopped onto her side to watch television, her large pendulous breasts stretching down under her thin cotton white shirt toward the futon.

“That’s the Beached Whale.”

Marzoli sized her up. I could see a faint look of disappointment in his eyes. It wasn’t until he spoke that I realized the disappointment was directed at me.

“Not a nice name. You don’t know anything about her.”

Nice? Was he shitting me? After the way I talked to him in just the few minutes I’d known him, did he really think I’d be
nice?
And why would he be forming expectations about me at all, let alone be disappointed if I didn’t meet them?

As I was pondering this, our eyes got redirected to a flurry of motion from the Perfects. Mr. Perfect was packing suitcases as Mrs. Perfect dressed the kids in warm ski clothing. They must be off to one of their country homes for a weekend in the snow. Each person seemed to be dashing in and out of bathrooms, bedrooms, the kitchen, closets, and the hall in a whirlwind of activity.

Below and to the right, the Broadway Dancer still surfed the web and the channels in his underwear. He seemed more focused on his computer screen, reading with agitation. Irritated, he suddenly tossed the computer to the side, stood up and placed his hands on his hips as if searching for something to kick. His face went from irritated to sad to self-pitying. I could only assume he just received a “Thanks for auditioning, but you’re too tall, too short, too young, too old, too blond, too boy-next-door, too gay acting, too straight acting, too little ballet background, too little tap background, too, too, too…”

He’d probably been receiving emails like this for a lot longer than his landlord appreciated. He pulled on thick sweatpants and a fur hooded jacket, snatched his keys, and exited. It was the kind of angry exit that precipitated a night of drinking vodka cranberries at the kind of bar that appreciates frustrated out-of-work dancer hotties. Bartini’s. The Ritz. Therapy.

The door opened in the Couch Potatoes’ living room. A delivery boy handed them two brown bags of groceries. They paid the boy and closed the door. One Potato kicked off his shoes, palmed the remote, and clicked on the television. The other Potato darted him a look of slight irritation while he hefted the groceries down the hall toward the kitchen.

I stood two feet behind Marzoli. I suddenly became aware I was breathing in his scent. It smelled of cedar wood and nutmeg mixed with the slight pungency of sweat. From his deodorant? From his cologne? From his shampoo? I had no idea, but the soft fragrance filled my nostrils and smoked my brain, my throat, and my groin.

I knew the fragrance. I didn’t know how I knew it, but I recognized its presence in my life like a dusty childhood book found in an attic. I knew that men who smelled of it emanated power and sternness and fearlessness. Loneliness and heartbreak. And violence. The cedar wood and nutmeg grabbed hold of my gut completely by surprise and, with quick escalation, made me feel…made me feel overwhelmed…emotional…something too much…I didn’t know...I didn’t understand…I couldn’t feel my legs…my hands began to feel cold…then my forearms…then my biceps…then my shoulders…

I had to close my eyes.

Grandfather grabbed hold of my hand and squeezed until my fingers turned white.

My breathing quickened.

Mozart. A cold black gun under a folded white linen handkerchief.

My shoulders tensed, my stomach cinched.

Paul! Jesus Christ, Paul!

I opened my eyes quickly.

My mouth was dry, parted as if about to scream. Had I said anything? Had I screamed anything?

Refocus...refocus. Steady. Breathe. Steady.

I pressed my left thumb into my right wrist and massaged that pressure point. Breathe.

Suddenly I began to perceive I was being eyed. I’d been completely unaware Marzoli had turned his head my direction. Not staring. Not looking critically. Not concerned. Just gently observing.

The scent still wafted toward me, but I blew it back with a deep slow exhale.

He said nothing. His thick eyebrows relaxed, forming the gentlest of looks I’d received in a great long while. I could feel the setting sun soothing the sharpness of my memories. Marzoli reached his hand out without any hesitation or awkwardness and rested it on my shoulder at the base of my neck. He squeezed lightly.

Why does that feel so good?

I hardly knew this Puerto Rican Sicilian, but he managed to comfort me in a way nobody had in decades. The success of this connection had nothing to do with his hand on my shoulder, but everything to do with his lack of inquiry. He asked no question. His soft expression said that he had no need to understand anything beyond what I would or would not volunteer. He remained generously silent until I was able to take a swallow of air and breathe steadily again.

I hadn’t realized how utterly isolated I’d been until a complete stranger succeeded in reaching out, even though he was really doing nothing.

My eyes welled up.

Shit.

Marzoli sensed I was becoming self-conscious and removed his hand, turning back to the view of the courtyard. I was as grateful not to be observed as I was to be observed. The son-of-a-bitch paid me the politeness of focusing on something completely divorced from my own shit.