The writing itself was very enjoyable as I'd never attempted composing anything nearly as dark as the previous writers' stories necessitated. It was also refreshing to step away from my first two novels (still works in progress) and let myself write something completely different.
Just a few notes quick notes, 1) it’s unedited, 2) I face great challenges with tense (see item number one), 3) this is my first attempt at third person (both of my books are in first person), 4) kindness is always appreciated (unless we’re talking about the bedroom *grin*), and 5) I in NO WAY advocate violence - sexual or otherwise - outside the realm of FICTION!
He pulled at the hoodie’s dark drawstrings as he stood in the chilly, shadowed passage, hidden from view by the aromatic dumpster.
He didn't notice either the cool night air, or the stench wafting from the heaping garbage can; his focus was on one thing - Billy.
Tonight was the night. The night he’d dreamt about for more than two years. The night he’d planned for since…since Mario. Absently, he fingered the scar hidden beneath his well-groomed beard and was confident he wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Billy as he had with fucking Mario.
It hadn’t been Mario’s fault, really. The blame lay in his own stupidity and he knew it. Then again, he knew a lot of things he hadn’t two and a half years ago. Yeah, the fucking mess that had been Mario taught him a lot.
He now knew not to keep weapons - or anything sharp - within reach of the cage…the damn scar still hurt like hell in the mornings. He knew the chain and collar, secured in the middle of the cage’s floor with an I-bolt, would ensure his new toy couldn’t get anywhere near the bars of the entrance door. And, lastly, the one thing he didn’t need a lesson on was what not to do if Billy ever did manage an escape.
Yeah, he’d overreacted with Mario - probably due to the searing pain of a knife slicing open his skin. But, what was it his worthless father used to say? Something about fucking hindsight. No, he couldn’t bring Mario back to the Land of the Living, but he could make sure he did things right this time around - with Billy.
Movement in the Dance Studio’s storefront bay window caught his eye. Billy! Well, Billy and his girlfriend. But, the street, which lay between him and his prize, provided enough distance that he easily blotted out her inconsequential shape.
Billy wore his usual workout clothing, and Baz didn’t need to actually see him to appreciate the sinewy muscle hidden behind the outfit. No, he knew everything about Billy; from the curve of his body, to his shoe size, to his love of heavy metal bands, to his addiction to Skittles, to his dream of becoming a famous contemporary dancer, to what his father looked like.
Not any of those things were important to Baz. In fact, they were completely meaningless to him, and they’d become meaningless to Billy after a few years, too. Well, except what his father looked like.
Senior looked just like his son - just as handsome as Billy - only 25 years older. Baz decided if money could buy something, it was looks - in the way of good nutrition, regular visits to the dentist, and designer clothing. And Senior’s looks were important because Baz wanted someone who would age well; Billy would be his last and final catch - Baz was planing long term.
His future captive went thought the motions of bundling up for the chilly night air and Baz knew his own painfully long wait was nearly over. The beginning was nearing - his beginning with Billy. His palms began to sweat.
Rubbing them down the front of his jeans, Baz fingers grazed over the tiny lump in his pocket. He dug his moist fingers in and pulled out the two pills. One was Billy’s - the benzodiazepine - and the other - an antipsychotic - was his.
Separating them, he stuffed the smaller of the two back in, and then dry swallowed the larger one.
He hated the fucking pills, but he realized long ago there wasn’t a choice. They didn’t make him normal - not normal like everyone else - but they sure the fuck kept him from eating his own gun like his shit-bag father had.