Page 7 of The Club

I close the file, unzip my jacket partway, and stuff the folder inside. I zip back up and snag my cup from its saucer.

I should feel calmer right now, but my knee just keeps bouncing. I hate it. I want everything in me to quiet. It did fora moment yesterday, when Dominic was taking control of me, fucking my throat, making me focus on him so completely.

But that was yesterday. It’s not doing me any good right now.

***

I might have taken too much.

My heart is racing, and I’m hard as fuck. Of course, I’m often like this, so who the hell knows.

I know the idea was for me to study the perp. I usually do. Sometimes, I can drag it out for a week.

That’s not possible for me right now. I need this.

After meeting with Noah, I went home like a good boy. I tried playing the piano. I tried jacking off. I even cleaned my fucking kitchen.

Then I started on the pills.

Then I started looking at the file.

Then I went through my knife collection. (That was probably the most fun thing I did today.)

And now, here I am with six knives strategically hidden in my combat boots, black tactical pants, and black leather jacket. I am officially open for business as I stalk through the shadowy alleys of a very nasty neighborhood.

Does my crazy show somehow? Nobody has fucked with me all night, and I’ve walked a long way through the city. Sam Perkins—28-year-old white male, blond hair, brown eyes, 5’11”, 185 pounds—has three known hangouts. I’ve already checked two.

Here’s the thing.

I feel like I’m capable of good decisions right now. I really do. I mean, when I reach my destination and see Sam Perkins, drug dealer, murderer, and rapist, with another guy, I conceal myself. I wait. I’m actually able to do it.

Good decision.

Display of self control.

But when the other guy leaves and Sam Perkins is alone in the alley, when I step out of the shadows and stalk his way? I have a brief, clear moment ofoh, shit—because I’m about to fucking lose it.

FOUR

Dominic

I watch, fascinated, as Rafael emerges from his hiding place. As he walked miles and miles across the city, I had no fucking idea what he was doing. Even when he reached an alley occupied by two men and vanished into the shadow of a dumpster, I still had no clue. But one of those men just left—and Rafael is stalking toward the other.

Rafael grabs the guy from behind, clamps a hand over his mouth, and stabs him in somewhere in the torso. Then he slams the guy into the wall and stabs him again.

Keeping my headlights off, I roll forward for a better view.

Rafael yanks a gun from the back of the guy’s pants, tosses it away, and steps back. The other guy charges, slashing with a knife of his own. Rafael ducks and slashes back, slicing the guy’s forearm. Next, it’s a leg.

My cock stiffens as I watch Rafael play with his victim, drawing it out. It’s too dark for me to catch every detail, but I can see that Rafael is a little less smooth than usual, almost jittery in the way he ducks and spins. Even so, he’s damned fast. Ruthless too.

I rub the heel of my hand against the hard length of my dick. It feels good. I want to keep going. But I don’t want to miss any of the show, so I make myself stop.

Rafael cuts his opponent across the face. He gets his hands next. Then he pins the guy against the wall and knifes him in the groin.

It gets ugly after that. Thigh. Groin. Belly. Groin.

The guy is still, probably dead. Rafael doesn’t stop.

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