Chapter 11: Blood on Silk Shirts
The whiskey-soured breath hit them first, a humid cloud of decay and cheap bourbon. The closet door swung open, revealing Marcus’s hulking silhouette backlit by the dim bedroom lamp. He was bigger than Joanna remembered, a bear of a man gone soft in the middle, his thinning hair mussed from sleep.
His eyes, bleary and unfocused, took a second to adjust. They landed on Riley first, a dark, unknown shape kneeling by his safe. Confusion wrinkled his brow. Then they slid to Joanna.
Recognition dawned, slow and ugly. A grin spread across his face, revealing stained teeth. “Joanna fucking Levin,” he slurred, his voice a gravelly rumble. “To what do I owe the—” His eyes dropped to the tape cases clutched in her gloved hand. The grin vanished. “You thieving bitch.”
Riley moved. She unfolded from her crouch in one fluid motion, placing herself between Joanna and Marcus. She said nothing, her body a taut line of readiness.
Marcus’s gaze flicked to Riley, dismissive, then back to Joanna. “Brought your bodyguard? Cute.” He took a step into the closet, the space instantly shrinking. “Those are mine. You know what they cost me?”
“They were never yours,” Joanna spat, the words finding strength from somewhere deep, fueled by the cold weight of the knife handle in her other hand.
“Everything you did was mine,” Marcus growled, taking another step. The lust in his eyes was plain, mixed now with a vicious possessiveness. “I paid for those tits. That face. I owned that cock.” His gaze raked over her, lingering on her chest straining against the dark sweatshirt. “Looks like you’re still putting on a show. For her?” He jerked his chin at Riley. “What is she, your new director?”
Riley’s voice was a low, calm thread in the thick air. “We’re leaving. You’re going to step aside.”
Marcus laughed, a short, barking sound. “Or what, darling? You’ll rough me up?” He looked Riley up and down, a cruel appraisal. “I like a girl with spirit. Maybe I’ll keep you both. For old times’ sake, Jo.”
He lunged. Not for Riley, but around her, a meaty hand shooting out to grab Joanna’s arm.
Time fractured.
Riley’s hand snapped up, intercepting his wrist, twisting it hard and down. There was a sickening pop. Marcus howled, more in shock than pain, his other fist swinging wildly. It connected with Riley’s shoulder, knocking her back a step into the racks of silk shirts. They cascaded around her like grotesque curtains.
Joanna dropped the tapes. The knife, forgotten in her fist, felt alive. Marcus, cradling his injured wrist, turned his rage on her, his face a mask of drunken fury. “You cunt,” he snarled, and charged.
Instinct took over. Joanna didn’t thrust. She raised the blade, holding it rigid as Marcus barreled into her. The impact drove the air from her lungs, slamming her back against the safe. He grunted, a wet, surprised sound, his forward momentum doing the work. He looked down, dumbfounded, at the four inches of steel buried in the soft flesh of his abdomen.
His eyes met Joanna’s. The rage drained, replaced by a childlike confusion. He stumbled backward, pulling himself off the blade with a horrible, sucking sound. He looked at the dark stain rapidly spreading across his silk pajama top. Touched it. Looked at his red-smeared fingers.
“You…” he whispered, before his legs buckled. He crumpled to the plush carpet, a heavy, sighing heap.
Silence roared in the closet, broken only by Marcus’s wet, ragged breathing. Riley was already moving, stepping over him. She grabbed the knife from Joanna’s limp hand, wiped the handle on Marcus’s shirt, then pressed it back into her palm, closing her fingers around it. “We don’t leave prints,” she said, her voice terrifyingly even. “On anything.”
Joanna stared at the man on the floor. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, overwhelming the vanilla and musk. She felt frozen, distant.
“Joanna.” Riley’s hand was on her cheek, forcing her to look away from Marcus. “Look at me. We have to go. Now.”
“Is he…”
“He’s alive. But he won’t be for long if we don’t get out of here.” Riley’s eyes were chips of obsidian, reflecting no light. She snatched up the dropped tape cases. “Move.”
They stepped over Marcus’s body. His breathing was becoming a shallow gurgle. Joanna’s boots slipped a little in the blood beginning to soak the carpet. The world had narrowed to the sight of Riley’s back, the feel of the knife handle slick in her grip, and the overwhelming need to not look behind her.
They retraced their path through the dark house, ghosts fleeing a crime scene. The open patio door gaped like a mouth. They slipped through, into the cool, clean night air.
They didn’t run. Running drew attention. They walked, swift and silent, up the hill through the scrub, their headlamps off. Only when the truck was in sight, a hulking shadow in the thicket, did Joanna’s knees give way. She stumbled, dry heaving into the dirt.
Riley was there, pulling her up, guiding her into the passenger seat. She threw the backpack and the tapes in the back, started the engine with a quiet rumble, and eased the truck back onto the service road without lights.
They drove for twenty minutes in absolute silence, putting canyons and ridges between them and the house. Joanna stared at her hands, clean in the dashboard glow. She could still feel the jarring impact, the terrible give of flesh. She could smell the blood.
Riley finally pulled over on a deserted lookout point overlooking the vast, twinkling grid of the city. She killed the engine. The silence was immense.
For a long time, neither spoke. Joanna’s teeth began to chatter. Shock. Riley reached behind the seat, pulled out a worn leather jacket, and draped it over Joanna’s shoulders. Then she got out, walked around the front, and opened Joanna’s door.
“Come here,” she said, her voice rough.
Joanna unfolded herself, her limbs stiff and alien. Riley pulled her into a crushing embrace, right there between the truck and the cliff’s edge. The hug was devoid of anything gentle. It was a consolidation of force, a mutual bracing against the universe. Joanna buried her face in Riley’s neck, inhaling the scent of sweat, night air, and the faint, lingering petrol from the garage. No blood. Riley smelled only of herself.
“You did what you had to do,” Riley murmured into her hair. “He was going to hurt you. He was going to take everything. He already had.”
“I killed him,” Joanna whispered, the words feeling unreal.
“Maybe. Probably.” Riley’s arms tightened. “He was a cancer. You cut him out.”
She pulled back, holding Joanna at arm’s length. Her eyes searched Joanna’s face in the moonlight. “Look at me. You’re not a killer. You’re a survivor. And you’re not alone.”
The conviction in her voice was an anchor in a swirling sea. Joanna nodded, a faint, mechanical motion.
Riley’s gaze softened, then changed. A fierce, desperate heat flared in her eyes. The adrenaline wasn’t fading; it was transmuting, seeking a different release. Her hands came up to cup Joanna’s face. “I need to feel you,” she growled, the words vibrating with intensity. “I need to know you’re here. Now.”
Before Joanna could answer, Riley kissed her. It was a claim, a confirmation of life, a brutal erasure of the last hour. Joanna kissed back with equal ferocity, clashing teeth and tongue, pouring the shock and terror and vicious relief into the connection.
Riley walked her backward until Joanna’s back pressed against the cold metal of the truck’s door. Her hands were everywhere, yanking at the dark sweatshirt, pushing it up over Joanna’s head. The night air pebbled Joanna’s skin. Riley’s mouth left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, licking over her collarbone, before taking one of her breasts into the fierce heat of her mouth through the thin fabric of her bra.
Joanna cried out, her head thunking back against the window. The sensation was a lightning bolt, grounding her violently in her body. She tangled her hands in Riley’s short hair, holding her close. Riley sucked hard, then bit down on the nipple, making Joanna arch off the truck.
“Tell me you’re here,” Riley demanded, her voice muffled against Joanna’s skin.
“I’m here,” Joanna gasped.
Riley’s hands went to the button of Joanna’s pants, wrenching them and her underwear down her hips in one urgent motion. The cold metal of the truck door seared her bare skin. Riley dropped to her knees on the gravel, her hands hooking under Joanna’s thighs, lifting her, spreading her.
There was no preamble, no softness. Riley’s mouth was on her, tongue thrusting deep, licking and probing with a relentless, hungry focus. She ate Joanna out like a woman starved, like she was trying to consume the memory of the night, to replace the scent of blood with the taste of Joanna’s arousal.
Joanna braced herself against the truck, her fingers scrabbling on the slick metal roof. Pleasure, sharp and shocking, cut through the numbness.
Pleasure, sharp and shocking, cut through the numbness. Riley’s tongue worked her over with a furious, dedicated rhythm, lapping at her folds, sucking her clit, driving her higher with each wet, filthy stroke. Joanna’s cock, already hard and neglected, throbbed against her stomach with each jerk of her body.
“Fuck, Riley, yes,” Joanna gasped, the words torn from her by the relentless pressure.
Riley’s answer was a low groan against her, the vibration shooting straight to Joanna’s core. She hooked Joanna’s legs over her shoulders, holding her open, leaving her utterly exposed to the night and the ravenous hunger of Riley’s mouth. Joanna could feel herself unraveling, the coil of terror and violence in her gut transforming into a different, blinding tension.
“Gonna come,” Joanna warned, her knuckles white where she gripped the truck.
Riley redoubled her efforts, her tongue plunging deep, then flicking rapidly over her swollen clit. The orgasm seized Joanna, a silent, breathtaking convulsion that ripped through her, leaving her shuddering and gasping against the cold metal. Riley rode it out, drinking from her until Joanna’s thighs trembled and pushed weakly at her shoulders.
Only then did Riley pull back, her chin glistening in the moonlight. She stood, her own breathing ragged, and captured Joanna’s mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and Joanna’s own essence. It was possessive, final.
“My turn,” Riley breathed, her voice husky and raw. She turned Joanna around roughly, facing the truck. “Hands on the hood.”
Joanna obeyed, the aluminum cool under her palms. She heard the rasp of Riley’s zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then Riley’s hands were on her hips, pulling her back. The blunt, insistent head of Riley’s cock pressed against her, still wet from Joanna’s own arousal.
“You’re so fucking open for me,” Riley murmured, biting Joanna’s shoulder. She didn’t ask. She pushed.
Joanna cried out as Riley filled her in one deep, claiming stroke. The stretch was exquisite, a bright counterpoint to the dull ache blooming in her soul. Riley set a brutal, punishing pace immediately, each thrust jolting Joanna against the truck. The sound of skin slapping skin, of Riley’s guttural grunts, echoed in the vast, empty night.
“This is you,” Riley gritted out, one hand fisting in Joanna’s hair. “This is me. Nothing else.” She drove in harder, deeper. “Forget his blood. Feel mine.”
Joanna did. She focused on the heat of Riley inside her, the rough grip on her hip, the total physical domination that felt like an anchor. Her own cock, trapped between her belly and the cold hood, leaked steadily with each powerful thrust.
Riley’s other hand snaked around, her fingers wrapping around Joanna’s hard length. Her strokes were rough, perfectly synced with her pounding rhythm. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a feedback loop of intensity.
“You gonna come again?” Riley demanded, her breath hot on Joanna’s neck. “Come all over this fucking truck while I fuck you full?”
“Yes,” Joanna sobbed, the pressure building again, terrifying and glorious.
Riley’s pace became frantic, losing all rhythm, just a deep, hard pistoning. “Then do it. Now.”
The command triggered her. Joanna’s release exploded from her, a hot jet splattering against the truck’s hood as her body clamped vise-tight around Riley’s pounding cock. The convulsions triggered Riley’s own climax. With a raw, shattered cry, Riley slammed home one final time, pulsing deep inside her.
They collapsed against the truck, a mess of sweat and spent breath. Riley’s forehead rested between Joanna’s shoulder blades, her body still trembling. Gradually, the world seeped back in: the distant city lights, the chill of the metal, the sticky wetness between Joanna’s legs.
Riley pulled out slowly, softening. She helped Joanna turn, pulling her into a loose, exhausted embrace. For a long minute, they just stood there, holding each other up.
“We need to move,” Riley finally said, her voice flat. “We need to clean up. For real.”
Joanna nodded, the wordless understanding settling between them again. They dressed in silence, their movements efficient. Riley produced a water bottle and a cloth from the truck, wiping down the hood where Joanna had come. She tossed the cloth into a plastic bag.
The drive back to the garage was a ghost ride through sleeping streets. Inside the familiar, oil-stained space, the events of the night crowded in, dense and suffocating. Riley locked the door behind them. She took the backpack and the tapes to the deep sink.
She filled the sink with hot, soapy water. One by one, she submerged the three plastic tape cases, scrubbing them with a stiff brush, removing any trace of their fingerprints, of Marcus’s blood, of the night itself. She dried them with a clean rag and placed them on the workbench.
Next, she took the knife. She cleaned it meticulously, under the nails, in the grooves of the handle, until it shone. She held it over the industrial gas burner, letting the blue flame lick the metal for a full minute. Then she placed it back in its sheath, a tool once more.
Finally, she turned to Joanna, who stood watching, shivering despite the jacket. Riley approached, her eyes scanning Joanna’s face, her clothes. “The sweatshirt,” Riley said softly.
Joanna peeled it off. Riley took it, along with her own dark shirt, and stuffed them into the same plastic bag with the cleaning cloth. She added their gloves. She walked to the small incinerator she used for burning oil rags.
She did not look at Joanna as she opened the hatch. The whoosh of the igniter was loud. A moment later, orange light flickered behind the small quartz window. Riley fed the bag in. They watched the synthetic fabric blacken, curl, and vanish into flame.
The tapes sat on the bench, innocent now. Riley picked one up, turned it over in her hands. She walked to a heavy vise bolted to the bench, inserted the cassette, and cranked the handle until the plastic case gave a sharp crack. She repeated the process, crushing each one, then used pliers to pull the magnetic tape free, unspooling it into a tangled, glossy heap.
She doused the pile with lighter fluid from a can. A single match turned it into a brilliant, sizzling pyre that burned fast and hot, leaving only a smear of foul-smelling ash.
“It’s done,” Riley said, staring at the residue. Her voice held no triumph, only a hollow finality.
She turned. The garage was suddenly just a garage again, a place of work and quiet. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a vast, silent exhaustion in its place. Riley’s shoulders slumped, the unshakeable armor finally showing a crack.
She walked to Joanna and simply leaned her forehead against Joanna’s. No kiss, no grab. Just the pressure of bone on bone. Joanna closed her eyes, breat
Just the pressure of bone on bone. Joanna closed her eyes, breathing in Riley’s scent of smoke and sweat and motor oil, the only solid thing in a world that had just fractured. They stood like that for a long moment, two pillars holding up a crumbling sky. The silence was no longer empty; it was full of everything they had done, everything they had burned.
Riley pulled back first, her eyes scanning Joanna’s face. “You’re in shock,” she stated, her voice flat and clinical. “You need sugar. Sit.” She guided Joanna to a dusty mechanic’s stool, her touch impersonal now, a first responder’s touch.
She rummaged in a mini-fridge, pulling out a bottle of orange soda. She cracked it open and pressed it into Joanna’s hands. “Drink it. All of it.” Riley watched, arms crossed, until Joanna had drained half the bottle, the syrupy fizz cutting through the taste of bile and adrenaline. “Good. Now come on. We can’t stay here.”
“Where?” The word was a croak.
“The loft. We need to be somewhere… normal.” Riley gathered the crushed remnants of the tape cases, the bag with the knife, and moved toward her truck. She moved with a tired efficiency, every motion precise and devoid of wasted energy.
They drove through the gathering dawn, the city bleeding from black to bruised purple to a sickly gray. The familiar streets were a silent film playing outside the window, disconnected from the reality inside the cab. Joanna stared at her own reflection in the side mirror—a pale ghost with hollow eyes.
The loft felt like a museum of a different life. The morning light was soft on the silk sheets, mocking the grit under their nails. Riley locked the door behind them, engaged both deadbolts, and methodically checked every window. Only then did she sag, the rigid control finally cracking.
She turned to face Joanna. “Shower,” she said, a command laced with exhaustion. “We stink of it.”
In the stark white bathroom, under the scalding spray, the first cracks appeared. Riley scrubbed at Joanna’s skin with a coarse washcloth, as if trying to erase more than dirt. Her hands, usually so sure, trembled slightly. Joanna watched the water run grey, then pink, then finally clear down the drain.
She took the cloth from Riley, her own hands moving slowly. She turned Riley under the water, washing the soot from her neck, the tension from her shoulders. Her fingers traced the angry red rope burns from their earlier passion, now a lifetime ago. Riley leaned her forehead against the tile, her breath fogging the glass.
No words passed between them. The water beat down. They dried each other with rough towels, the coarse fabric scraping over sensitized skin. In the bedroom, Riley pulled a clean, soft t-shirt over Joanna’s head, the fabric smelling of detergent and nothing else. She dressed herself in similar anonymity.
They stood facing each other in the quiet room, the air between them charged with something too vast for language. The need wasn’t for sex, not exactly. It was for verification. For proof they were still human, still capable of feeling something other than revulsion and cold fear.
Riley reached out, her thumb tracing the line of Joanna’s jaw. Her eyes were dark pools, stripped bare. “Tell me you see me,” she whispered, her voice rough.
“I see you,” Joanna answered, the truth of it hollowing her out.
“Then make me feel it.” Riley’s request was stripped of all dominance, a raw plea. “Make me feel anything else.”
Joanna nodded. She pushed Riley backwards until her knees hit the edge of the mattress. Riley sat, her expression unguarded, vulnerable in a way Joanna had never seen. Joanna knelt on the floor between her legs. She pushed Riley’s t-shirt up, exposing the taut plane of her stomach, the trail of dark hair leading downward.
She leaned forward, pressing her lips to Riley’s lower belly, a soft, solemn kiss. She felt Riley shudder. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of Riley’s sweats and pulled them down, along with her briefs, freeing Riley’s half-hard cock. Joanna took the heavy weight of it in her hand, feeling the familiar heat, the solid pulse of life.
She didn’t take it in her mouth. She bent lower, her breath warm, and kissed the tight sac beneath, nuzzling the coarse hair. She licked a slow, wet stripe from base to tip, tasting clean skin and salt. A low groan escaped Riley’s lips.
Joanna took her time. She used her mouth not with practiced porn-star enthusiasm, but with a deep, aching tenderness. She licked and sucked, exploring every ridge and vein, bringing Riley to a full, throbbing hardness with a patient, relentless focus that was all about sensation, about grounding. She cupped Riley’s balls, rolling them gently in her palm, feeling them tighten.
“Fuck, Joanna,” Riley breathed, her hands fisting in the sheets. Her hips gave a shallow, involuntary thrust.
Joanna took her deeper then, relaxing her throat, accepting the length until her lips met the coarse hair at the base. She held her there, the pressure intimate and complete, feeling Riley’s muscles tense and tremble around her. She pulled back slowly, her tongue flattening against the underside, and began a slow, deep rhythm.
“I’m gonna come,” Riley warned, her voice strained.
Joanna shook her head, pulling off with a wet pop. “Not yet,” she said, her own voice husky. She stood up, shedding her own shirt. She climbed onto the bed, straddling Riley’s thighs. She took Riley’s slick, hard cock in her hand, guiding it between her own legs, pressing it against her opening.
She looked down into Riley’s eyes. “Look at me,” Joanna commanded, and Riley did, her gaze locked. Slowly, Joanna sank down, taking Riley inside her inch by agonizing inch. The stretch burned beautifully, a clean, bright pain that erased every other feeling. Riley’s hands flew to her hips, fingers digging in.
When she was fully seated, she paused, breathing through the intensity of being filled so completely. Riley was panting, her eyes wide and wild. “Move,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Please.”
Joanna began to ride her. It was not frantic or punishing. It was a slow, rolling tide, a deep and deliberate claiming. She leaned back, bracing her hands on Riley’s thighs, arching her back so Riley could watch where they joined, watch her own thickness disappear into Joanna’s body again and again.
The sight seemed to undo Riley completely. “Oh, god,” she choked out, her composure shattered. “You’re so fucking perfect. So tight.” Her hands slid up to squeeze Joanna’s breasts, pinching her nipples hard.
The pain-pleasure made Joanna’s own cock jump, neglected and leaking onto Riley’s stomach. She increased her pace, the slapping of skin becoming a steady, wet rhythm. She could feel Riley swelling even further inside her, feel the tension coiling at the base of her spine.
“Joanna, I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” Joanna gasped, driving down harder. “Come inside me. Fill me up. Make it all go away.”
It was the permission Riley needed. With a guttural cry that was part anguish, part release, she bucked upwards, her body arching off the bed as she came. Joanna felt the hot, urgent pulses deep within her, each one triggering a convulsive clench of her own muscles. She rode her through the last waves, milking every drop until Riley collapsed back, spent and trembling.
Joanna didn’t stop. She was still achingly hard. She shifted forward, positioning Riley’s softening, slick cock against her own. She took them both in her hand, sliding their lengths together in the mix of Riley’s come and her own pre-cum. The friction was filthy, intimate, overwhelming.
Riley watched, dazed, as Joanna stroked them both, her grip tight and fast. “That’s it,” Riley murmured, her hands coming up to cover Joanna’s, guiding her pace. “Make yourself come. Use me. Cover me in it.”
Joanna’s climax crashed over her like a wave finally breaking against a ruined shore. She cried out, a raw, ragged sound, as her release shot over Riley’s stomach and chest in hot, rhythmic spurts. She kept stroking, through her own sensitivity, until she was spent, collapsing forward onto Riley’s chest, their hearts hammering against each other.
They lay there for a long time, sticky and breathless, the morning sun warming their tangled legs. Riley’s arms came around Joanna, holding her close. The silence returned, but it was different now. Softer. The ghosts were still there, but they had been pushed back, just for a while.
Eventually, Riley stirred. She pressed her lips to Joanna’s temple. “I’ll clean up,” she murmured, her voice sleep-slurred.
“Later,” Joanna whispered, burrowing closer. She listened to the strong, steady beat of Riley’s heart beneath her ear. Outside, the city was fully awake, the distant sounds of traffic beginning to rise. The world continued, oblivious.
But here, in this sunlit room, clinging to the one person who knew the precise weight of the darkness they now carried, Joanna knew a single, unshakable truth. There was no going back. There was only going forward, together, into whatever came next. She closed her eyes, and for the first time since the closet, she felt something other than terror. She felt anchored. She felt, against all odds, safe.