Page 36 of Desperate Desires

Hell, I’d intended to draw this whole thing out.

But not anymore.

I was no longer interested in spending time in that filthy fucking place.

“Ono, come on. You know your father wouldn’t want this,” Freddy begged.

“My father’s dead, Freddy. Things are different now. But you can bring him your grievances when you see him in Hell,” I said right before I put a bullet right between his eyes.

“Fuck did you do?” Carmine shouted, sitting up and rubbing his jaw.

“You can clean this up, you prick. Next time, don’t fucking interfere,” I warned and left.

A feeling of urgency filled me, and I hurried to the SUV. I’d call Carmine Sr. on the way.

This shit needed to get buried. Now.

I had plans that didn’t involve these sorry sons of bitches. Plans to see my girl.

I’m coming for you, Doc.

Chapter 11-Shelly

Music poured through the speakers that had been haphazardly mounted on the crumbling cement walls. It was good. But not great.

Maybe I really was too old for this shit. Thirty was not twenty.

Damn straight.

I’d forgotten how crowded and unsanitary these pop-up dance clubs could be, but as I navigated my way through the haze of flickering neon lights with the thudding bass to guide me, I was rudely reminded.

The smell hit me first—a pungent mix of sweat, cheap perfume, liquor, and something metallic. Rusted pipes, I hoped, and not blood.

The walls, once some kind of industrial concrete, were chipped and stained with graffiti. It was New York chic, but the layers of old flyers, and the unmistakable grime of years of neglect made my nose twitch.

I stepped over the remnants of a crumbling wall—likely broken down to "expand" the dance space—and I nearly stumbled on a pile of debris that looked like it had been there for decades.

Horrifyingly, right next to it, a couple was sprawled on the floor, oblivious to the filth around them.

The guy had his arms wrapped around the girl’s waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, their mouths locked in a frantic kiss.

I couldn’t tell if the dark smudges on her legs were from dust or bruises, but I was certain of one thing.

The small, brown pellets just inches away from their feet weren’t crumbled snacks—they were rat feces.

It was shit.

Actual rodent shit.

Gross.

My stomach churned, and I felt an involuntary shudder roll through me.

Ew.

That was definitely not hygienic.

And yet, I found myself oddly envious of the two of them, mauling each other like lovesick teenagers.

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