Page 4 of My Bloody Valentine

ADRIAN

Iwatch Gabe pour another whiskey, the amber liquid catching the low light of his jazz bar after hours. The same ritual we’ve shared since childhood—him behind the bar, me nursing depraved thoughts.

“You fed her the special blend.” Gabe’s voice is not judgmental but observational. He knows me too well.

“Her synesthesia makes her perfect.” I roll the glass between my palms, feeling the small etches in the tumbler. “You should’ve seen her face when the flavors hit. The way her pupils dilated.”

“And now what? You’ll do to her what you did to your other victims?”

I shake my head, studying the way light fractures through the crystal. “She’s different. She’s not cruel like my victims. Maya can taste what I create.Reallytaste it.”

“Careful, Adrian.” Gabe wipes down the bar with practiced moves. His hands move with surgical precision. “Getting attached is dangerous in our line of work.”

“Says the man who plays jazz for his victims before killing them.”

He shrugs. “Music soothes the soul. Makes it easier for them to let go.”

“At least I make something beautiful from death.” The whiskey burns my throat. “My chocolates bring pleasure. Your kills just feed your need for control.”

“We all have our methods.” Gabe’s eyes darken. “But this girl—she could expose everything. Your special ingredients aren’t exactly FDA-approved.”

“She won’t.” The certainty in my voice surprises me. “She tasted what I gave her and wanted more. The darkness beckons her.”

“So you believe that ‘like recognizes like’ then?”

“Exactly.” I smile, remembering Maya’s flushed cheeks and how the delicate pulse point in her neck jumped. “She’ll come to me willingly. And when she does...”

“Just don’t let this obsession cloud your judgment.” Gabe pours himself a drink. “We’ve kept each other’s secrets for twenty years. I’d hate to have to clean up your mess.”

I slam the glass down, whiskey sloshing over the rim. “Clean up my mess? I don’t make messes, Gabe. Every drop of blood, every scream, every last breath—it’s all precisely measured. Like my recipes.”

The familiar tingle spreads through my fingers as I picture Maya’s lips parting for my chocolates. The way her throat moved when she swallowed. Perfect control.

“You think I’d let this slip?” My voice drops to a whisper. “I’ve crafted every moment. The review she wrote? I knew she’d taste the emptiness. Knew she’d come looking for answers.”

Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone and scroll through my collected photos. Maya leaving her apartment. Maya at the farmer’s market, sampling fresh berries. Maya writing in her notebook at that pretentious café she loves.

“Look at her.” I shove the phone toward Gabe. “The way she closes her eyes when she tastes something exquisite. She’s meant for me.”

The image of her tasting my work and detecting the death I add makes my skin prickle with excitement. To have someone who can genuinely value the complexity of fear, the subtle notes of terror, the rich undertones of desperation I infuse into each piece...

“She’ll help me make a masterpiece.” I trace patterns in the spilled whiskey. “The others were practice runs. Basic ingredients. But Maya?” A laugh bubbles up from my chest. “She’ll help me create something transcendent. Every batch will be perfect because she can taste the emotion my murders inspire.”

“Adrian—”

“Don’t.” I cut him off. “You do your thing with jazz and quick deaths. I prefer to savor my art. And Maya?” I clasp the glass more firmly until my knuckles whiten. “She’s already mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

The last patron stumbles into the Chicago night, leaving behind the lingering scent of bourbon. Gabe flips the sign to “CLOSED” and dims the stage lights.

“Did you catch that blonde in the red dress?” I lean back in my seat, watching him stack chairs. “The way she kept eyeing you during your set?”

“Not my type.” He wipes down tables with practiced efficiency. “Too eager. The desperate ones make sloppy victims.”

“Since when are you picky? Last month, you took out that insurance salesman.”

“He wouldn’t shut up about his commission rates.” Gabe’s mouth twitches. “Did everyone a favor with that one.”

I pull out my phone, scrolling through local news. “Speaking of favors, that food blogger from The Chicago Palate has been writing hit pieces on small restaurants.”

---