That Sik Luv

Briony

I watch in silence, collecting myself, as he pulls black gloves from his back pocket.

They just appear, as if this man called them to be.

Grabbing a cloth from somewhere in the dark corner of the confessional, he cleans the gun, wiping it down before placing it near the now deceased deacon who tried to murder me.

Two people.

Two bodies that I know of.

Aero has blood on his hands because of me, and nothing drove me more to the point of absolute lust than this disturbing realization.

He is my protector. My teacher. My source of the absolute pleasure I’d been taught was the end to my eternal salvation. The kind I’d never known until him. I’m still figuring out all that is the masked man who has seemingly come into my life overnight, but this display of unabashed obsession has me overcome with emotion. Emotions I shouldn’t feel for someone I know nothing about. I hate that I like it.

“They’re going to know someone did this. The bullets, the trail…it will come back to us…” I mutter nervously behind him, readjusting my skirt.

My nerves have my stomach twisting into a knot. He stills with his back towards me as I take in his tall, broad form in the shadows, his clothing stretched to accommodate his sculpted shoulders and the toned musculature of his back. He’s really an intimidating man when standing over you the way he does, all dark and imposing, but even so, I feel I can push him in a way few people get the chance to do.

The whole stint using Saint’s name in my confession… He wasn’t wrong, I was protecting him, but in the same breath, I got a rise out of the maddening jealousy he seemed to portray. Saint gets under his skin like no other, and the reasons for that are entirely unclear.

He seems to own this claim to me that I don’t understand. I can’t say I’m ready to let this man take what he wants from me anymore, even if I’ve grown to crave the feeling of his thick, veiny organ inside me, that piercing coaxing out orgasms from the very base of my core.

This sex, or whatever it is we’re doing…it’s mind-blowing. It’s otherworldly. It’s indescribable. It’s a strange release of this tension I’d built over the years, contemplating if I was sick in the head, sinful, or destined for despair. Indecent thoughts plagued me since his arrival, as if he opened the gates to sexuality as a whole. Aero makes me feel like the expression of the sex between us is innate, entirely natural, and completely necessary, like the oxygen we breathe.

I should feel guilty about my transgressions. I should yearn to confess and work towards finding Christ and the light again, seeking his forgiveness. But the worst sin I’ve committed was not feeling guilty for my sins. I knew I was destined for damnation, and this deranged part of me was okay with that. I’d accepted it in exchange for the pleasure my physical body had found. The trembling and the light reverberating hum of the excited energy that flowed through my veins at his touch; it was a glimpse of the wonders of the Holy Kingdom right here on earth. A virtuous life, wasted at the promise of a Heaven I’d found so easily obtainable.

He turns towards me in the small space, and I squint to see the black paint smeared across his face, noting the dishevelment of his dark hair hanging down across his forehead. His eyes sharpen to slits, his disposition entirely cold, as he grips the hoodie of his black sweatshirt and tosses it over his head. Grabbing a bag from the corner I hadn’t seen before, he slings it across the front of his chest.

I can still feel his cum dripping out of me, sticking to my thighs, seeping from the confines of my damp underwear. It’s entirely impure. It’s dishonorable. It’s twisted, indecent, and yet, these reasons are what bring the appeal.

“We need to go,” he demands.

I release a sigh, frustrated at his lack of explanation for anything, but nod anyway. I have to put my trust in him at the moment, as much as I don’t want to.

He leads me by my wrist with his large, glove-covered hand, back out of the confessional and towards the Sacristy, the preparation room where only the clergy or altar boys come to dress in their robes and other relics remain. Just the fact that he knows his way around this place so well has me filled with endless questions.

“A guy…” I say, pausing in place behind him, pulling my wrist from his grasp as he continues trying to lead me through the room. “A guy saw me when we came in here. I’m the last known person to have seen the deacon!”

Slowly, he cracks his neck while facing away from me. Back and forth, his head rotates from side to side as his fist presses against his chin until I hear the popping of his frustration. He turns to glare at me over his shoulder. A single hazel eye burns through the smeared black paint on his face, searing through me, with the heat of a ruthless killer. Disgust, disappointment, and detestation emit from him, the direct look, causing me to swallow and take a step back.

“You have no idea who I am and what I’m capable of,” his gravel timbre vibrates within my chest.

I shrink into myself, my chest heavy and my legs weakened. His statement fills me with terror of that unknown he speaks of.

“But—”

“Now shut the fuck up and follow me,” he says through gritted teeth.

He’s just such a sweet and caring soul.

I shake it off, and unfortunately, put my trust in the only person I can. Walking behind him, that thought marinates in my mind. The only person I can trust.

Aero is entirely calculated, his past a complete mystery. Either he gives me more of him, or I’ll be forced to act out recklessly in defiance, like a child, attempting to get some answers for myself. It seems my only option at this point. He needs me to go along with his plans, assumes I will blindly trust him. But this man has another thing coming if he thinks I’m just going to continue down this unknown road without so much as a last name from him.

I watch as he pulls something resembling a folded up paper from the bag clipped over his chest. Grabbing a Bible from a shelf above the deacon’s desk, he flips through it with his black leather gloves before finding the page he was looking for. He slips a paper into it, before closing the Bible and delicately sliding it back on the shelf.

All part of his plan. A planted suicide story, perhaps? But the broken grate separating the booth… The first shot to the opposing wall…

He continues across the room towards the exit, giving me a silent head nod.

Guess that’s my cue to follow.

We sneak out into the alley outside the back door of the church where a Jeep sits, waiting.

It’s Saint’s Jeep.

“W-what are you..?” Words fail me as his palm grasps my upper arm, yanking me roughly around the car to the passenger side door. Throwing me on the seat with a bounce, he takes the time to buckle me into the seat, pulling the belt tightly at the top until it practically cuts into my chest. I see a sliver of his exposed arm, noting the fresh cut near his wrist from the knife I used. Before I can feel too guilty about cutting my oddly attractive, psychotic, murdering stalker, he slams the door, making me flinch.

Peeling out of the alleyway, he hits the road with his hood over his head and both gloved hands gripping the wheel. He drives and drives, using every side road in our tiny town until he makes it out into the country.

The sprawling hills roll past us as I consider putting something on the radio just to drown out the white noise between us. I have a feeling Aero’s not into pop hits or Christian rock. I would like to imagine in another life Aero was a man who sipped his scotch while listening to classical music, maybe even reading novels for his enjoyment. He seems to be the age of a man who appreciates expensive liquor and spending his nights alone in the solace of his home. His defined and cut jaw reeks of hardened maturity, unlike the boys I’m familiar with. Maybe in his late twenties, if I had to guess?

We haven’t passed any homes or farms in a while, and the surrounding woods grow deeper, the road narrowing, and the shadows of the thick forest close in on us.

“Where are we—“

“My place,” he interrupts. “Where it’s safe.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek. I can’t just hide away at his place. I have an entire life outside him that I need to figure out. “I need to…grab some things…”

He turns to me quickly, and I absorb all the elements of his mysterious face that I can see beneath the distortion of paint. “Everything you need is already there.”

How could he know what I need?

“What if Mia or Baret, or my parents need to reach me? How will they contact me?”

All I see is the edge of his nostril flare from the brim of the hoodie and his hands tighten on the wheel, almost to the point of depriving it of life had it been breathing.

Dipping his hand into the bag strapped across his chest, he pulls out my cell phone. Tossing it onto my lap, it lands on my skirt. With a shaky hand, I check it over, noting the battery is gone, as well as the SIM card. My eyes widen as the fear threatens to strangle me.

“You’re searching for your”—he closes his eyes tightly as if the next word pains him before reopening them—“parents in the bush. The illumination of your recent activities had you panicking, seeking some sort of maternal reassurance.”

He made up an entire story for my disappearance. I’ve disappeared.

“Stop the vehicle, Aero,” I say calmly. My eyes are closed and my hand is on the seat belt buckle.

He turns his head in my direction before facing the road that’s now become entirely gravel. With a click, I hear him lock the doors.

My pulse spikes.

He has no right to run my life without me having a say in it. If this deranged man has taught me anything, it’s that I won’t allow another man or institution to dictate who I am or how I chose to live, even if he seems to think he knows best.

“Stop the car,” I demand through a clenched jaw, breathing harshly through my nose, feeling caged. “Stop the fucking car, or tell me what the fuck you’re trying to do here! Stop the car!” I scream, my hands balled into tight fists.

He does nothing to stop. Just continues speeding down the gravel road.

“You need me way more than I need you, Briony. I’ve told you this,” he says with a wolfish grin, as if he gets off on my anger. “Especially now. I mean, let’s think about it,” he continues casually, sitting back deeper into the seat. “Your fingerprints are on the Governor’s safe. You’ve been flaunting your slutty little ass all over the school, all while trying to blackmail sweet, wholesome Saint Westwood with your own creative form of sextortion. You’re the last known person to see the recently murdered deacon, and you’re probably already knocked up with the spawn of Satan himself.”

He turns his head to face me, the most demented smirk I’ve ever seen on his black-smeared face. For some reason, in this light, he looks familiar. He reminds me of someone. Who?

He’s blackmailed me into needing him. The sickest form of obsession. He’s manipulated me into only being able to rely on him and him alone for my safety, protection, and guard of the integrity of my reputation.

Fury builds within my chest as it all comes together, my heart racing as the stuff confines of the stolen Jeep cave in. Fingernails are piercing into my clammy palms as the anger of betrayal burns.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he coos in a deep raspy tone, his hand finding my upper thigh. Fingers slide beneath the hem of the uniform that screams innocent, squeezing into my milky white flesh with the black leather of his glove. “I’ll pray for you,” he finishes in a mocking tone before his smile widens towards the gravel road, and the sharp points of his canines shine in their delightful terror.

I grip onto his ring finger from my lap and bend it sideways as hard as I can beneath his glove, hearing a crack or some popping noise as I do it.

“Fuck!” he curses out, quickly pulling his hand from my lap while carefully pulling the glove off. He raises the hand before his glowing eyes, viewing the finger that’s now bent at an entirely unnatural angle, surely broken at the tip.

He chuckles to himself. “You dirty bitch,” he curses, staring at his finger with a hauntingly beautiful smile.

It’s strange. His enjoyment of the pain I inflict upon him. I take the opportunity to slide my hand to my seat belt buckle, but his eyes peer over at me immediately.

“Don’t,” he commands harshly. “Don’t even think—“

Before he can finish his sentence, I unfasten my seat belt, unlock the door, and open the passenger door.

The gravel digs into my side as I hit the ground with a thud, rolling to a stop. I’ve knocked the wind from my chest, and the fall will surely bruise my ribs. The Jeep swerves to an abrupt stop, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake.

Pushing up off the ground, I take off into the woods nearby, sprinting as fast as my torn-up little legs will take me. Where I’m going, I don’t have a clue. I could tell you I’m terrified of this man, but the truth of the matter is the blood running through my veins runs feral for him.

I’m not running from Aero. I’d never get far. I know he’ll never stop. He’s relentless in his mission to make me his, and secretly, I admire it. His peculiar obsession has begun my own.

I’m running from the idea of myself. The old, naïve, shriveled bud of Briony, in search of her truth. The girl who became a woman by the man who pushed her in all the ways she never thought she wanted.