Page 98 of The Club

It’s so ugly that anyone but the three of us would gag. Even Noah couldn’t handle something like this.

Bit by bit, they make him not human. Because he’s not. He might look like an ordinary man, but he actually isn’t. They simultaneously reveal that fact and take away any power he’s ever had.

His voice fades from my head as my focus shifts from him to Dominic and Dante. They work so beautifully together, even though their intensity feels totally different.

Dante looks detached. I know he’s not. He’s cool and steely and precise, but he’s feeling a lot, and his work is easing the pressure inside him.

I’m happy to see that. I know he needs this. The Collector might not have a direct connection to him, but he represents something for all of us.

Dante and I have been doing this together for a long time, finding a sort of release by destroying representations of the past.

Noah taught us how to do this. He taught to save us.

Dante almost killed his father. He would’ve killed someone else eventually. His rage is … immense. He needs this outlet. So he can stay calm. So he can function.

I never had his control. I was only fifteen when I killed the therapist that Noah thought could help me. That’s the only kill I’ve made that I feel bad about. I didn’t mean to kill her.

Noah understood that. And he understood from that, that I could never live a normal life. I would end up dead or in prison.

So he saved me and Dante the only way he could. By teaching us to seek deliberate, controlled release.

Dominic wasn’t as lucky as me and Dante. He didn’t have Noah, who tore up his own soul to save us. He had his father, who was maybe the worst abuser of all.

Dominic’s father sent him to the Island. I cannot imagine how that fact sits inside him. And when Dominic’s father brought him back, though the assaults on Dominic’s body might have changed in nature, I’m sure they didn’t end. And Dominic never escaped, not until his father died.

Really, though, not even then—because people can set locks and traps and chains inside you. Then can keep speaking forever if you don’t find a way to silence them.

I know Dominic still hears his father’s voice. I can see sometimes, how he’s listening to it.

But I think he’s learning to speak over it, to drown it out. I think he’s starting to realize, little by little, that he’s free.

I see it now as he strips away the Collector’s skin like he’s stripping away the past.

Dominic has killed plenty of people, tortured plenty of people, but I think this is different. This is personal, indulgent even. This is for him—and for me.

I’m glad I chose to watch instead of work. But then, I’ve always been a bit of voyeur, and there’s no one I’d rather watch than Dominic.

He’s covered in blood. His arms gleam red. His clothes are splattered. There’s a smear on his cheek.

He’s been checking on me periodically throughout the whole process, but when he looks at me now, something is different. Maybe in him. Maybe in me.

He smiles. Not a little tug of his lips but a real smile. God, he is beautiful.

I smile back.

He shifts to the side, boots sticky in the pool of blood. He opens his body, inviting me. I slide off the table.

Dominic’s eyes drift to my groin. I’m hard. I have been for while. He is too. So is Dante.

No one is upset about it. No one wants to do anything about it. We all just accept how our bodies react. It’s okay.

At my movement, Dante looks up. He doesn’t smile. I don’t think he smiles for anyone but Tristan. But he does step aside.

There’s a rope around the Collector’s neck, tugging upward to keep his head from drooping forward. I pull off the blindfold and tug out the gag. He’s still alive but just barely. He’s well beyond seeing me, well beyond speaking to me.

“Do you want us to remove his face?” Dominic asks.

They’re the first words that have been spoken since we stepped in here.

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