Morsel

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The office doors swing open, and that pony-tailed idiot walks in, his eyes like saucers as he takes in our bodies in the midst of sex.

Artemis draws his head back sharply. “What the fuck are you doing?” Mona jumps off the desk, and Artemis lifts his arms, his eyes bulging from his head. “You’re fucking her while she’s at work? When she’s in a wheelchair? When she’s clearly hurt?”

“What we do is none of your business,” I snarl.

“Mona, tell him to get out,” he yells.

“Kent,” Mona says. Her voice is pleading, right on the edge of begging me, and for once, it’s not a performance. She keeps her eyes on the ground, deferring to Artemis.

Irritation simmers under my skin. He has ripped the control I had over Mona away from me, when I was so close to holding it in my hands. It’s fucking bullshit. If she had dumped him after that threesome—if she had listened to me—we wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

I hate how this feels.

A situation like this takes more time though. I can’t be hasty with how I carve my meat. If I want Mona to be mine until the day she dies, I have to respect her words. And if she wants to listen to Artemis right now, then I have to too.

“You don’t have your car,” I say. “We drove my van, remember?”

“It’s fine.” She nods at Artemis. “Arty can take me home.”

There’s a blanched quality to her expression, almost like sadness, or fear, or maybe dread. Like she doesn’t want me anymore, and she’s afraid to say it.

A sour taste crowds my mouth, and my scalp tingles with pins and needles. I wait, staring at her turned cheek.

She finally looks at me. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Call me,” I order.

She nods, then the double doors close behind me. Their argument penetrates the walls and rumbles into the hallway.

“You’re overreacting,” Mona says. “I know what I’m doing. He’s harmless.”

“He’s not fucking harmless. He stabbed you in the cervix!”

“The doctor compared it to a love bite. He’s doing this because he worships me?—”

“This isn’t just about him, ” Artemis shouts. “I don’t trust you with him! You’re going to get hurt! Not just a fingertip. Not just a toe. Not just a cut on your cervix. You’re going to take this too far, and neither of us will be able to fix it. I can’t let that happen.”

I shake my head and walk down the hallway. Artemis is right, in a way. Mona and I are dangerous together. We are hunger and self destruction in the carcass of love.

Harmless. Gentle. They’re offensive words, especially coming from her.

I focus on the good though. She’s sticking up for me.

The elevator fills with bodies, the stench of mustard filling my lungs. Too many men. They smell as bad as they taste.

Once I step outside, fresh air fills my nostrils. I head toward the parking lot with a bounce in my step, because my morsel is upstairs, defending our love.

A woman steps on the walkway and blocks my path. She’s half my size. Scars circle each of her wrists like bracelets or handcuffs. Can handcuffs dig into a woman’s skin and leave a permanent mark like that?

Her clothes are white, and her skirt is impossibly short, her tits hanging out of her top. Floral perfume rings out from her skin. It’s technically a naturally occurring scent, but fuck me, it’s so strong, it’s nauseating.

“You hurt me,” the woman says.

She keeps her eyes on the ground, as if she’s working up the courage to look me in the face.

A chill races over my shoulders. Who the fuck is she?

“I don’t even know you,” I say. I step to the side, and she steps in front of me again.

“You raped me!” she shouts.

Several smartphones light up in my periphery. I scan our surroundings and notice about ten to fifteen students using their recording devices like shields, capturing our interaction.

I grit my teeth like a predator, although inside, I feel small and attacked, like I’m pinned to the corner of the room with a knife in my hand. I’m desperate to defend myself.

Control yourself, Kent. Control, control, control ? —

“I don’t know you,” I say, raising my voice.

“You chained me to your bed. Kept me locked in a dog cage. You told me you were going to kill me and eat me. ‘Meat doesn’t talk.’ That’s what you kept saying, right? Every time I told you I didn’t want to do it anymore, that’s what you told me! I was meat to you, and I didn’t get to speak.”

My lips pull back in a grimace as the memory comes rushing back. It wasn’t an oven, was it? She was scared of being tied to the oven, so I compromised and tied her to the cage next to my bed. Desire, the sex worker. Desire, whose real name was Desiree—the dumb bitch told me she switched her stage name to Desire, because she couldn’t keep herself organized. The whore who wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Who wouldn’t stop crying when I gave her breast a superficial cut. Who sobbed like an infant when I untied her whiney little ass from the cage. Who limped away and rubbed her hands together, like she was so fucking destroyed, even as she carried double the cash of what I owed her.

I told her what I wanted. It’s not my fault she didn’t listen.

All I’d have to do is take a crowbar to the bitch’s head, and she’d never be able to speak again, like real fucking meat. Then she’d finally listen to me.

She should be grateful that I didn’t kill her back then.

The millions of recording lenses keep me restrained. Phones. People. Strangers. Online viewers. Everyone is watching me.

Her body trembles with rage. “You don’t remember me, but I’ll never forget you.”

The urge to tear her throat out and stomp on her spinal cord lashes against my fingers, and I curl my knuckles in agitation. I’d eat her heart like a steak, straight from the bitch’s body, raw in my fucking hands. Like Mona ate the filet in the restaurant.

I squeeze my fists at my side. I’m stronger than this. I have Mona now. I don’t need a paid little cunt like this bitch in front of me.

And I’m not going to let her accusation fuck me over.

I peer up at the building to Mona’s office window. Mona and Artemis look down at me, their expressions blank.

Mona knows me. She knows I would never hurt her like that, and that’s enough for me right now.

“You got your fucking money,” I snarl.

“I’m a person,” Desire says, tears and snot dripping down her face like she’s a fucking dog. I want to punch her in the fucking face like I should’ve done when I had her tied to my cage, and it seems like that’s what she wants. To get a reaction out of me, like that shaved-headed man at work. To let these people catch me in the act of hurting a woman, like that frightened brunette recording me in the break room. To put me behind bars, when I’m so close to getting the only thing I’ve ever wanted for myself.

Of course you’re not a rapist, Mona had said.

I’m not a rapist. I’m not. Desire knew what I wanted. She knew, and she cried, but fuck her. She got her money. It’s not my fault she changed her mind. It was too late for that.

“You knew what was coming,” I say.

I stomp toward the parking lot, muttering to myself. Control yourself, and you’ll get what you want. I repeat the mantra, but I can’t stop thinking about the sex worker.

I told her, didn’t I? I told her exactly what I wanted.

She chose to stay.