Primal Pursuit

I take a sip of my gin, letting my lips hover at the edge. “I really don’t like women touching you.” I frown. “Or men.”

He grins. “Not my thing, but…good to know. I’m going to have a shower. I don’t have a TV. I’m not here enough, but there are books if you want to nose around.”

I nod, and he walks off. That’s when it dawns on me. This place is the most Davian place I’ve been to, but even so, it’s too clean, too impersonal.

The comfortable, minimalist style is him, but the rest? There’s nothing.

The most Davian thing was the steak we ate.

And the gin he clearly didn’t know he had, so it’s not something he drinks.

A spark of jealousy surges, but I squash it down. I’m the only girl he’s had here, he said. And there’s no reason to lie about that. But it doesn’t change the lack of anything personal in this place. He’s, what? Maybe fifteen or so years older than me? He wasn’t a kid when he killed my parents, so he has to be in his thirties, pushing forty now.

Where is his life?

My place doesn’t have that much, either, in terms of my past, but that’s because I had to leave all that behind. Ihave photos of my parents in a box in my closet. The box has my birth certificate, my old teddy bear I took with me. The one I still loved at twelve but had announced I was too grown up for. The bear that has a splatter of blood. I can’t look at it, can’t let it go.

And the jewelry box. In it is all the stuff Mom and Dad gave me, and some junk jewelry I got over the years. The last piece of the jewels I stole from my aunt and uncle when I ran is also in there.

I hate it. The thing’s ugly. But I’m keeping it in case I ever need quick cash.

But the difference is I’m twenty-two.

He isn’t. He’s lived more than me, but where is the proof of that?

Davian comes walking out of the bathroom butt naked, ropes of muscle under tanned and tattooed skin, a V that’s lickable, and a cock that could probably win awards.

“Need a fresh towel,” he says as he saunters into his bedroom and back out again.

“Davian,” I say, and he stops short. “Why don’t you have photos of people?”

“Maybe I’m such a monster they all leave.” There’s a note in his voice I should probably listen to, but I don’t. And I go on.

“I haven’t seen your bedroom, but there’s nothing. It’s like you just…hatched.”

“Jesus, Rabbit. Mind your own fucking business. Maybe I did. Maybe I’m an orphan. You know what I am.”

“A murderer.”

“Curiosity kills the cat. Do you think it kills rabbits, too?”

I just stare at him.

He fluffs the towel between his fingers. “I keep a wall of all my kills in my room. It’s through there. I’m having a shower.”

And with that, he disappears into the bathroom.

I almost follow him in. Almost.

Instead, I poke about. But there’s nothing here. The only thing I find is a study that’s neat. The drawers aren’t locked, but they’re empty except for some receipts for restaurants, some expensive running shoes, and pens. There’s a pack of cigarettes that haven’t been opened and have that sticky dust of neglect, like they got tossed in the drawer and forgotten.

The laptop is both password and fingerprint protected. Of course.

There’s a safe on the floor with a dead potted plant on top and it looks solid like a bank vault. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to crack one. And it’s, of course, locked.

I pass the bathroom, and the door’s open. I can see him, a perfect specimen of manhood, and all those tattoos everywhere. With a swallow, I force myself to keep walking and go into his bedroom. There’s a huge balcony outside the sliding doors, but I don’t go out. Instead, I look around and poke about in his walk-in closet.

Everything’s neat, all neutral colors, and not even any dirty laundry of either the figurative or the literal kind.