Page 57 of Last Breath

Don’t ask why he loves them, but Salem loves M&M’s, the peanut butter ones. We don’t find them everywhere, but when I do, I grab a few bags at a time.

“You found them here?” he mumbles absently. He’s still staring at the cop, and I doubt that me stroking his cock and giving him M&M’s will deter him, but I’m trying.

“Yeah.” I try to sound cheerful. “I grabbed all the bags they had. Come inside and we’ll watch another round ofMASH.”

Looking over his shoulder at me, finally, he gives me an almost imperceptible smile. “Okay, Mal, okay.”

Removing my hand from his pockets and feeling his semi-hard erection pushing against the confines, I revel in the knowledge that I was able to pull him from the door. It’s only one lone police officer, probably just out seeing to the diner’s stupendous homemade apple turnovers.

As Salem steps away from the door, I move to close it. Seeing that the police officer is indeed staring up here, I smile and wave. No use in drawing unwanted attention by not seeming cordial.

While still staring me down, his eyes narrow slightly as he talks into his shoulder walkie. I slowly close the door, not taking my eyes from his. I watch as he wanders off to his patrol car before I lock the door. I turn back to see Joy sprawled out on the bed, cracking into a package of chips, and Salem popping in his sweets, one by glorious one.

“Is he gone now?” Salem asks. He’s not acting nervous, but I know. He’s agitated.

I sneek a peek out of the curtain. “Nope. He’s still there.”

His eyes haven’t left our room, and it’s becoming slightly unnerving. If you’d asked me a few years back was or am I afraid of death, I’d answer no. I expect to live forever. After years spent in the arms of a man who enjoys blood as much as he does his M&M’s, I’m a little less presumptuous in my odds for a long life. Ignoring the cop for now, I turn to the bags and grab my treat of choice—Funyons. Peeling the top open and crunching that first one, I know there’s no stopping until I lick the bag clean.

Hopping up on the bed, I scoot Joy over until she’s resting in between my open legs with her back against my chest, then pull Salem in beside me. Some days I feel like the only sane one in the group. She’s close to sane, but in a contest of who’s more fucked up, the Joker from Batman would lose. The Mr. Sandman song that she sings is her way of keeping what shred of sanity she has left intact. She was a tortured soul long before we reached her, but it was us who tipped the scales.

And Salem. Oh, my Salem. I think if his abusive father hadn’t torn down the sweetest soul I know, he would have been a completely different man. The psychotic, Jeffrey Dahmer, Son of Sam man I love, wouldn’t have accepted blood as his bathwater of choice.

Settling in for the marathon television from the seventies, I find myself slowly drifting off to sleep. Absently stroking her thighs and playing with his hair, I drift into la-la land in no time at all.

It wasn’t until the banging on the door that I roused.

I wish I could have slept more. The dream I was having was perfect.

Unfortunately, the nightmare was about to begin.

Chapter 31

Malachi

“Mal!” Shaking my shoulders with urgency and quietly shouting my name, Joy startles me from my sleep.

“What?” I snap. I’d fallen asleep and had been dreaming a sweet fantasy. We owned a house in the backwoods of Idaho, where there were deer that visited the stream in the spring. I could see them munching on the sweet grasses that grew around it, and our daughter was lazing around in a tire swing, reading a book. Ella was nine and the spitting image of her mother and father. Beauty beyond compare. The dream was surreal until that fucking dog barked.

Wait. That’s not a dog?

“Mal, that policeman is at the door.” Looking over, the shadow of the Sheriff's hat is visible as he leans on the railing.

“Hang on a second,” I call out, sounding groggy.

Standing in the kitchen area, sorting through the drawers, Salem is in a tizzy, chomping at the bit to do something drastic. It’s in his eyes—cold, calculated, and menacing. Thankfully, his knives are in the car and the kitchenette has limited supplies. There’s only plastic utensils and worn spatulas. Anything other than that and he’d have already rushed the door with the intent to kill the officer and ask questions later. I remind him time and again that you can’t ask the dead questions, but he always smiles and says, “I beg to differ.”

Untucking myself from the blankets and placing the almost empty bag of Funyons on the nightstand, I straighten my attire. Before answering the door, I turn to Joy. “Go in the bathroom. He doesn’t need to know you’re here. Maybe he only remembers me and Salem.”

She bounds off to the bathroom and closes the door behind her. Once she’s out of sight and quiet, I turn to Salem. “Best behavior. Let me deal with this, okay?”

He doesn’t look me in the eyes at first, transfixed by the outline of the cop. Snapping my fingers, I grab his attention. “Sal. Let me,” I implore.

With his face tight, he nods, but it only makes me feel slightly better. Salem doesn’t lie to me, so I know he’s telling the truth, he’ll wait until I don’t feel the situation is good.

There’s a chance we’ll be okay.

Proceeding to the door, flicking the deadbolt and sliding the chain, I turn the handle with a grin. My scars have a way of making a smile seem sinister, but I do the best I can with what I have.

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