Page 23 of Morsel

“Wait,” I say. “I’m supposed to?—”

“Oh, love,” she coos. I swallow hard and ignore the warning bells screeching in my skull. She strokes my arm. “You’re the one indulging me, remember?”

My stomach flops, turbulence rising to the surface. Mona isn’t supposed to be the dominant one, and yet she’s paying for our meal. She leads the way every fucking time.

Then she grabs my hand, and I let go of those thoughts. I can do this. I can be the man she wants me to be, as long as she’s my meat.

I tuck my boxed steak under my arm as I follow my human steak to her car.

Chapter 9

The SUV crunches over the dirt, each bump is like a hook lodging into my lungs. My throat constricts, but I need this. Even if she thinks she’s in charge, I need a sexual connection with someone for once.

We both do.

Mona parks, then grabs her purse and camera. I hold up my hand.

“Wait here,” I say.

For once, she obeys.

I stuff the foam box in the fridge, saving it for later, then I run to the generator at the back of the home and flip it on. The flies buzz from the pit and whine for more flesh. I swat a hand at them. They dance around me, a mob chanting for a feast. They’re more active than usual tonight. It’s almost like a sign they like her too. She won’t be coming to the backyard though. The flies would probably scare her away.

I run back to her car and open her door. “Welcome.”

She beams at me. “Such a gentleman.”

I open the front door of the house too, then usher her inside. Right across from the entrance, the grandfather clock ticks.

“The time is off,” Mona says. “Is that on purpose?”

I lift my shoulders. I don’t use the clock to tell time. I keep it there because of the noise. It reminds me of the clock my mother used to keep in the kitchen. It’s there to keep me company, like a beating heart.

I don’t tell Mona that. I pull her deeper into the house, and she runs her hands over the frayed edges of the floral wallpaper. Her garlic-pepper breath mingles with the stale air, as if she’s already seasoned for me.

My tongue thickens. I’m eager, so fucking eager, that if I’m not careful, I may burst with hunger.

I can’t let that happen.

Mona readies her camera. Each click of the shutter rings through the house, another mechanical heart beating with the grandfather clock.

“It looks like you haven’t done any renovations in years,” she says. “Is there a reason you’re keeping it locked in this condition? Did someone die here?”

The mobile home holds up in the rare desert storm, and if a fire comes and swallows it, I won’t lose anything of sentimental value. The flames would even potentially cook the offal pit, and I could eat that later.

“Probably,” I say.

I find Mona squinting at a black-and-white photograph on the wall. It’s an older image of a young woman, framed by a bulky silver frame. Now that I think of it, that picture frame is probably worth a lot of money. I can sell it and use the money for a premium cut of grass-fed beef.

“Is that your mother?” she asks, her voice quiet. She raises the camera and takes a shot of the picture. “You must’ve been close.”

“That woman wasn’t my mother,” I say.

I lick my lips and stare at Mona’s mouth.

“Why do you like cannibalism?” she asks.

I lower my eyes, humiliated under the weight of the question. Somehow, this question is different. Pointed. Ready to gut me. She’s asking why, as if there’s an easy answer. At the same time, I know I could probably say it’s hot, and that wouldn’t be a good enough explanation for her.

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