Page 10 of Edge of Control

No matter how intrigued I’d become by this. No matter how strong the thrill that still buzzed through my veins.

Back on the street, the rain had picked up again, leaving the city glistening under the streetlights. I pulled up my collar, blending into the flow of pedestrians. I needed to refocus. Jace was a complication—one I couldn’t let interfere with my plans.

But even as I disappeared into the night, I couldn’t shake the image of the detective’s eyes, the way they’d looked at me with equal parts desire and curiosity, how he felt inside of me, how I momentarily forgot about all my worries and obsessions.

A lethal combination after playing a dangerous game.

Chapter 4

Jace Holloway

I couldn’t shakethe euphoric sensations, even after having to wait for the delayed train and the short walk through the drizzling rain to get back home. My thighs still shook as I stripped out of my clothes and jumped in the shower. I rinsed off and stood under the warm water, eyes shut, body feeling the after-shocks of one of the best orgasms of my life. I wasn’t sure what the hell was in the air or what kind of magic ass Theo had, but I had to jerk off again. It didn’t take me long to finish, either. All I had to do was picture the broody-eyed and tattooed man back on all fours for my orgasm to hit.

Cum swirled down the drain as I held myself up against the white tiles.

“Fuuuuck,” I hissed out. That was good. Normally, the bathhouse was a hit or miss. I found some good times there, but it wasn’t always guaranteed. And now I imagineddisappointment would likely follow me every time I roamed those dark halls and didn’t bump into Theo.

I finished off in the shower and pulled on a pair of briefs. I walked out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam following behind me. My apartment wasn’t large—New York, after all—but it worked well for me. It was a studio with a bomb-ass bodega down the street. There was an office building next door that obstructed the view, but I didn’t entirely mind. Everyone went home after five, so I could walk around naked with my window open and not give a fuck who saw me. I had neighbors that only got into the occasional shouting match and had zero problems with rodents or roaches.

So, overall, I felt like I was winning.

I was too buzzed to go to bed. If I lay down now, I’d probably end up needing to stroke another one out. I went to my desk instead, pulling back the worn red chair. The wooden legs tugged against the beige carpet. I opened my laptop and leaned back. I tried to ignore the way my dick twitched between my thighs.

Goddamn, what did that man do to me?

I wasn’t normally this horny. Especially after I started on my antidepressants. They were truly a lifesaver and had pulled me from the dark depths of my mind, but the side effects of being happy and hopeful meant having a dick that didn’t work all the time. I didn’t mind it at first. Not when it felt like I was getting my life back. I was no longer spending days in bed, struggling to find a motivation to get up and succeed at something. I was actually able to enjoythe struggle of work and life. And I wasn’t idealizing ending it all. My depression had become severe and led me to some life-threatening moments, moments I never wanted to revisit again, so I was fine with having a lack of a sex drive. When it did kick up, I’d end up going to the bathhouse or finding a random hookup on Grindr, but that wasn’t all that often.

Yet something had clicked with Theo. The pure passion and intense chemistry unlocked a door that had long been closed. I wanted to see him again, to fuck him, to feel him wrapped around me, taking every inch of me, begging me for my load.

But I also had to work.

I knew of a sure-fire way to dampen my sex drive. I unlocked my laptop and opened up my case files. I uploaded the photos I took from today’s crime scene, all thoughts of Theo and his perfect ass dissolving into thin air.

My focus zeroed in on the bloody, winged enigma filling my computer screen. There was something beautifully messed up about how the black feathers seemed to sprout from the victim’s back. No matter how many visceral photos I examined, I never truly got used to them. Yet, I couldn’t deny the morbid fascination these images held. It was as if the killer had taken painstaking care to place each feather just right. A thin wire had been inserted through the top feathers, allowing them to lift off the victim’s back.

And that poem today… it was clear this had something to do with “The Raven,” but what exactly? Was it just a sick obsession, or was there a deeper meaning? I was inclined to believe the latter.

A thought struck me. Both of these men were found within about a seven-mile radius of each other, and both appeared to have been caught unaware during some kind of hookup. They were likely on the apps. Could they have known each other?

I closed out of today’s photos and opened Facebook. Searching for Ricky Walters, I found a profile that was pretty bare-bones. Scanning through his public friend list, I didn’t spot the other victim, Jesse Sanderson. Not surprising—guys in their early twenties rarely used Facebook these days.

But Ricky had his Instagram linked. That seemed more promising.

I jumped over to a much more populated profile. Rows upon rows of photos showed Ricky modeling, all appearing to be shot by the same photographer. Maybe that explained the camera in his bedroom? I looked through his friends list and still didn’t spot Jesse. But then I clicked over to the photographer’s profile.

His name was Andres Jackson. He specialized in no-frills photo shoots, likely done from his own apartment. There was a tall, arching window where most of the models sat, wearing only their underwear, photographed mostly at the same time of day when the warm orange glow of the sun was most appealing. Some of the models slouched in a blue leather chair; others leaned back on a tall, velvet black headboard. All of them were men of various body types and ages.

I found Ricky on the third row, and just a few photos down from his was Jesse.

Bingo.

I’d found a link. Good.

I went to the contact info and typed up a quick email. I couldn’t find a phone number, so I hoped my request didn’t land in spam; otherwise, I’d have to find another way to reach the photographer.

Maybe they had met after spotting one another on the photographer’s profile? Or perhaps something more sinister was occurring. Maybe this page had become some kind of catalog for the killer to pick his next prey.

Whatever thread I’d just discovered, I was determined to see where it led.

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