Page 13 of Nocturnes & Nightmares

I wish I could say the same. In fact, I wish I could’ve blown one last load before setting her free, but life is too short to waste on someone so eager and willing to please. I don’t want a silver platter. I want the chase. The target and capture, and to get hard from the mere thought of conquer. I want fight and resistance, and all the things for which I’ve deprived myself the last decade.

“I’ll forward payment immediately. Goodnight,” I say, turning away from her.

Up the staircase and through the door that locks behind me, I make my way back to the kitchen, where I down a shot of bourbon, then head to my office.

On the desk sits an old wooden metronome, with a pendulum that I release as I pass by. The incessant click, click, click beats against the tension in my muscles, and I slump into the leather, office chair in front of the window facing Church Street, letting the sound calm me. Staring off takes me back to the days when my mother played piano, those brief and blissful moments encapsulated in seventy beats per minute, before my grandfather came home and tainted the mood with his overbearing temper. As a child, I suffered from terrible headaches, the kind that left me clutching my skull on the floor with tears in my eyes, and in her effort to soothe the pain, she would often play something soft and quiet. I loved watching her play, while those ticks matched the natural rhythm of my heart.

Only seconds later, I feel the warmth of the bourbon and the ease of my muscles slipping into a more relaxed state.

My phone blinks with a new message. I open it to an email from my CryptMail account. It’s an encrypted email, evident in the string of numbers of my address that keeps it anonymous. I created the account back when I lived in Chicago and advertised on Tor as a hitman for hire. Haven’t been active on the site in nearly a decade, and I can’t begin to imagine how someone might’ve stumbled upon it after all these years.

The message reads: Want to play a game?

“These motherfuckers,” I mutter, shaking my head. With a huff, I click reply and type: Sure. Solitaire? Go fuck yourself.

No sooner do I set my phone down than the damn thing chimes with another message. Asshole must be at his computer waiting for my response.

For kicks, I open it.

I need you to fix a problem for me.

I don’t fix other people’s problems anymore, I type back.

The mailbox blinks a new message. Twitchy must have his fingers hovering over the keyboard, for chrissakes.

Are you familiar with the The Sandman of Chicago?

What is that, like a musical? Nope, I reply.

Perhaps the name Carl Jenson rings a bell?

Blood cold as ice, I stare down at the name. Of course it rings a bell. A loud, blaring obnoxious bell that I silenced nearly two decades ago, to the date, when I pushed him off the old bridge behind my grandfather’s estate—the most unsatisfying death I ever witnessed.

Who is this?

Our conversation becomes more of a chat, as he continues to respond within seconds. He’s found a new toy. Pretty thing with pretty brown eyes.

Becoming a hitman wasn’t entirely by chance, and neither was my innate proclivity for sadism. I learned from the best, the twisted thrill of watching things die running through my veins since I was a boy. Carl Jenson was, by far, the most sadistic psychopath I ever met, which is saying a lot coming from a man who works for an agency that tortures high profile criminals. He was also the uncle I got stuck with after my mother died.

Where?

Your old stomping grounds, of course.

As tempting as all of this may be, I’m not interested in returning to the shithole neighborhood where I grew up. Carl Jenson is dead.

Perhaps. But if you’re wrong, then brown eyes will make a stunning addition to my collection. I’m prepared to wire twenty thousand in Bitcoins to the address indicated on your website.

For what?

To find me. A fun little game of cat and mouse.

I don’t play games. And neither should you.

You used to enjoy the games we played. Don’t you remember?

Pain throbs in my skull as I grind my teeth, my thoughts carrying me back to twenty years ago, when I was at the mercy of my sadistic bastard of an uncle, who enjoyed tormenting me for fun.

I killed him myself. Watched his body carried off by the river’s rapid current. To hell with this asshole. For a split second, I wonder if it’s Jackson, messing with me, but no way he’d risk my retaliation after what happened this afternoon.