Grim

SKIN TRADE by Myra McEntire

Naked flesh should’ve had more of an appeal.

The girls in the club showed off theirs like trophies, and while Locke understood they were proud of their purchases, he could go the rest of his existence without ever seeing another one of them “dance like no one was watching.”

That was all a bunch of bullshit, anyway.

They wanted everyone to watch.

He stretched out his arms on the back of the booth, the purple vinyl tugging at his bare skin. His bandmates gathered in the VIP area, behind a literal velvet rope, filling up on protein to fuel their energies for the evening. Their set was over, and now they had a purpose.

To get inside a female.

Locke had landed the job of designated driver for tonight’s engagement, as well as scouting duty. He’d discovered four fresh prospects and mentally cataloged the rest. All were forgotten when he saw her.

As usual, an electromagnetic pulse cleared the space between them. Locke knew she felt it, too, but she didn’t make eye contact, nor did she stop the sway of her hips. Her body moved in perfect rhythm to the downbeat, rather than the obvious bass that shook the floor and ceiling. Various shades of hair color popped up and down as the other girls in the club bounced around. Not her. Keeping her knees bent and her hips low, she set herself apart.

Inside the music and her head. Comfortable in her body. Dancing for her own pleasure, but aware of him. This girl. She swayed all the wrong in his life to right, and he’d never even touched her. But if she asked, if she hinted, he’d leave everything behind for her.

The crowd parted as Calen and Helm made their way to the corner booth. The tenuous bond remained, a silken thread growing more twisted by the second.

Calen slid a plate of skewered meat across the table, while Helm poured deep red liquid into a flat-bottomed wineglass. Neither would quench the hunger Locke felt, but he ate and drank his fill, keeping the mental connection alive while the conversation at the table grew more and more lewd.

“That one.” Calen, a drummer with a wicked tempo, had his eye on a brunette with full curves and smooth skin. “She’ll taste like apples.”

“Granny Smith?” Helm teased. He used a clean, oversize wooden pick to trace a line from the crook of his elbow to his wrist. It left an angry welt and a bead of blood. He licked it off. “Or something sweeter?”

“Honey crisp.” Calen’s teeth shone fluorescent in the black light.

Three girls walked past them, their intentions obvious. They wanted to leave with the band, or at least they thought they did. Calen and Helm stared, but Locke had already scoped them out. “Only one qualifies, and getting rid of the others will prove to be a bigger pain in the ass than any of us wants to deal with tonight.”

“You drew the short straw. That means we take the wheat, and you deal with the chaff.” Calen’s hand waved in a dismissive gesture. “Helm? Anything to your taste?”

Helm’s exploits might’ve left the world astounded, but they left him satiated. If he wanted a female, he didn’t have to speak. Eye contact, a smile—one simple touch—and they’d follow him anywhere and agree to anything. He liked to give pleasure before he inflicted pain, which meant that nine times out of ten, smiles came before the screams.

“There. Delicious,” he murmured as his eyes caught sight of enticement on the dance floor. “I want to sing her to sleep.”

Locke searched out Helm’s choice.

No.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

“She’s mine.” Locke leaned forward. His wide shoulders shifted.

Helm didn’t take his eyes away from the target. “What I want, I take.”

Everything in Locke tensed, from the tendons in his neck to his fists under the table, to his heart in his chest.

“Back off, brother.” Helm kept his voice lucid but anger pulsed underneath. “We’re all here for the same reason.”

“Not her.” Locke stood to leave before things got physical. “I mean it, Helm. Lead singer doesn’t equal boss. I told you, she’s mine.”

Locke stormed away. Helm snuck a flask of his special brew from the inside pocket of his coat, took a long drink and settled back into the booth.

“I can’t believe you singled her out.” Calen swiped the flask from Helm’s frying-pan hand. “She’s got him tied up in all kinds of knots, and you know she wants him, too.”

“Of course I know. That’s why I want her.” Helm watched Locke’s legs eat up the dance floor between their table and the girl in question. “All wrapped up in a perfect bow.”

She smiled when she saw Locke.

Big body, wide shoulders, strong thighs. A row of six metal studs climbed up the cartilage of his left ear, but no other piercings were visible. No ink, either. Unusual, as the rest of the band had plenty.

A shadow of scruff marked his chin, and his dark hair stood up as if he’d had a run-in with a windstorm. At first she thought it was the result of hours in front of the mirror, but over the weeks of watching him, she learned it was because his hands were constantly in his hair.

She understood the urge.

Tonight was the second time Skin Trade had played at the club, but they occupied a booth almost every night, reveling in the attention.

She’d stayed close to the shadows since meeting him, keeping tabs on what made him look twice at a girl, and noting the things that turned him off. He’d shoot a quick glance at a short skirt or a lot of cleavage, but his eyes lingered on bodies that were more conservatively clad, as if he was seeking out the truth underneath. His eyes had lingered on her many times.

He’d never left with anyone, though he’d been approached plenty. The other two members of the band did, sometimes with multiple girls. They always came back alone.

Locke only drank the wine that his friends brought to the table, and never enough to appear to be affected by it. And he’d never, ever danced. But somehow, he stood in front of her on the floor, music pulsing around them, his brown eyes curious and his lips set in a determined line. She took his hand and pulled him to a dark and quiet corner.

“I was starting to wonder if you remembered my name.”

He reached up, cupped her cheek. Ran his hand down the side of her neck. Slipped his fingers under the collar of her sweater. “Britt.”

He’d never laid a hand on her. Her skin goose-pimpled at the familiarity in his touch, but she didn’t move away.

Locke stared now, taking in the graceful limbs, the blond halo of hair. “I remember your name, and the way you saw through me, and the way you didn’t run.”

“Not from you,” she said.

She’d known exactly what they were. He’d expected her to disappear and never come back, but she’d been at the club every night.

“Come home with me.” He traced her collarbone before slipping a finger under the thin strap of her bra.

She wanted what he offered. To hide it, she closed her eyes. “It’s late.”

“It’s early,” Locke said. “We just got here.”

“I don’t know where you live. And...I just... I can’t.” She wanted time to prepare to be alone with him.

He lowered his lips to her forehead before moving them to her ear, his cheek brushing against hers. “Why? I know you aren’t afraid.”

She was afraid of herself, and the things he made her consider.

“I’ve waited.” She didn’t know what else to say. She’d told him after the first night that she wouldn’t pursue him. “What made you decide on tonight?”

The curiosity in his eyes changed to fear.

She frowned, reminding herself of the promise not to ask him questions when he came to her. It had never been a question of if. “I mean, instead of last night, or tomorrow.” She was making it worse.

“I didn’t want to give anyone else a chance to get close to you.” His eyes flickered over to Helm and Calen at the table.

“I wouldn’t have gone anywhere with either one of them. You know that.” She took in the planes of his face, shadowed in the flashing lights from the dance floor. “You called them off.”

“I did.”

“Don’t be that guy. I don’t need a watchdog.”

“I didn’t want you involved in this.” His answer was simple, yet tangled. “But I need you.”

She bit her tongue. Asking for too many answers would negate her control, and she wanted the upper hand. At least as much as she could have with someone like Locke.

“Come home with me,” he repeated.

“Not now.”

“Later?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes.”

Locke stood at the window, staring down at the stand of oaks that lined the clearing. He’d left a path of ash. It glowed white through the darkness. Britt would come through those trees. If it blew away before she could find him, he would consider it fate.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the warmth of her skin, and the way it felt under his fingertips. The way her breath caught.

He wanted to make it catch over and over again.

Britt drew a bath, lacing it with lavender and rosemary, and rinsed her hair with rose-scented water. All her plans, all her wishes—the steps she’d taken to be with him—everything was finally in place. She pulled on a simple cotton dress and set out.

It was only when she found the path of ash and stepped into the darkness that worry pricked her conscious.

The moon shone behind the trees on the horizon as Britt reached the end of the path. A towering mansion made of stone and wood loomed before her. It looked medieval in comparison to the club’s urban aesthetic. Two torches burned on either side of the wide front door, but no lights shone from inside.

Reminding herself she wanted this, Britt crossed the wide expanse of grass to the house. She placed one fingertip on the iron door handle, for one second wishing to find it locked.

It swung open.

The hallway was dark, but the parlors to either side had roaring fires in their hearths. She didn’t smell smoke, only the faint scents of wildflowers and freshly overturned earth. Once she discovered the parlors were empty, she made her way past the stairwell and down the hall. A house this large had to have servants, but she couldn’t find any.

He had said he wanted to be alone with her.

Faint music echoed down a corridor, and she followed it to a bedroom. He was there.

Flickering candles made his skin glow like warm honey. She walked across the room, slid her hands underneath his shirt and tugged up. Her hands skimmed his chest, the outline of muscles, the waistband of his jeans. She worked his belt buckle free.

“Britt?” He took two steps back, sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I know, Locke. Everything.”

“Then you’re sure?”

Two buttons and her dress hit the floor.

He leaned back on his hands as his eyes moved from her face to her feet, drinking in pearl silk. No tattoos. No markings. Just smooth, perfect skin.

“Flawless.”

“All this skin.” She followed him to the bed. “And all this time.”

They were somewhere between dreaming and waking when they heard the sound of motors and slamming doors. Locke sat up before jumping to his feet and scooping up her dress. He handed it to her as a knock sounded. “Hurry.”

She covered herself as he spoke to someone on the other side of the door. He reached out for her hand.

“Go with Doris,” Locke said. “Do what she says.”

He opened the door. An old woman with milky eyes stood in the hallway. Locke kissed Britt again and ran toward the commotion, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. Before turning the corner, he looked back at her.

He didn’t smile.

Doris reached out with one hand. Britt saw that her fingernails were crusted with dirt and dried blood. She let the old woman lead her. They descended a set of narrow stairs into the smell and sight of rotten earth.

“She’s so young. Fresh. Pretty.” Doris’s hand grazed the side of Britt’s breast and then went to her waist. “They always choose the prettiest ones. Not plump. They’re usually plump. Maybe that means they aim to keep her for a while.”

“I’m sorry?” Britt stepped back, bumping into a bucket that sloshed behind her. “Who do they aim to keep?”

“Her.” Gnarled hands reached out and tangled in Britt’s hair.

Me.

“Bless her.” The woman pressed her thin lips together before making the sign of the cross. “She doesn’t know.”

A cauldron simmered in the corner, steam rising to the ceiling. The heat made the wretched smell even worse.

“She should go home. She should run, run and not never look back.”

Voices sent Britt scrambling into the shadows. She dropped down behind a barrel and pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as a raucous noise filled the room. All she could see between the barrels were two sets of heavy boots. A pair of slender feet dangled between them, only one with a shoe.

Muffled screams, crying. Laughter.

“Uncover her head.” A male voice. Helm. He sang the next sentence like a song. “I want to see if what we caught is as pretty as what we thought.”

A pillowcase fell to the concrete floor. Britt saw a young woman in a short black dress being tied to a metal table. A gag covered her mouth, and tears poured down her makeup-stained face.

“She may be lovelier.” It was Calen now, trailing one finger along the skin exposed at the bottom of her dress. “We should make her more comfortable.” A knife appeared. In one swift movement, he’d slit her dress from hem to neckline. He pulled it away, laughing as she struggled and cried. “No, no. No tears. We’ll be good to her, won’t we, Helm?”

The girl wriggled on the table, trying to keep the skirt over her legs. Strong hands pushed away the cloth until her thighs were exposed. Helm licked her from ankle to knee. “Honey crisp.”

Calen acknowledged the old woman. “Is it ready?”

“Yes, sir. I put on the water.”

He settled in the corner to watch, and Helm took over.

“Bring our guest the white wine, please, Doris.” The old woman handed Helm the glass, and he bent over the girl. “White, for purity.” He held it up, and she stared at him as he tipped it into her mouth. When the wine was gone, Helm licked her lips. She moaned in fear, not pleasure.

Doris held out another glass.

Helm took it. “Red, for sacrifice.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face before he put the drink to her lips.

The liquid in the last glass was gold. “For renewal.”

The girl finished, and her body went lax. After all his sweet ministrations, Helm dropped her head without care. It thudded against the table. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t breathing.

Helm set down the empty glass and walked toward the stairs. “She’s all yours.”

Calen approached the body with the knife, his eyes slits of pleasure, his mouth stretched into a predatory grin.

Britt heard the slick wetness of skin being peeled away, the crunch of the saw, separating ligament from bone. The blood circling the drain in the middle of the floor.

When the water ran clear, and the room went silent, she wiped away her tears.

Where was Locke?

Helm fisted the sheets and pulled them to his face. Closing his eyes, he breathed deep. “You had her.”

Locke didn’t move.

“You saw her skin.” Helm’s eyes opened, but he still held the sheets to his nose. “How perfect is she? How pure?”

The growl started low in Locke’s gut. It erupted under his ribs, shot through his sternum and landed at the base of his throat. He couldn’t let it free. If he did, Helm would know the truth, and his obsession with Britt would be even more fierce.

“Where is she?” Helm shook the sheets, flung them away and then dipped his head to check under the bed.

“She went home.”

“No, she didn’t.” Helm laughed. He stalked the room, seeking out its shadows. “The hood of your car was cold when I got here, and the wax on these candles is still warm. Sweet as she is, she’d be in your bed right now if we hadn’t interrupted. So where are you hiding her, Locke?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t let his eyes wander toward the hallway or the floor.

“Doris.” Helm knew. Just like he knew everything else. “If Doris has her, then your girl just got an eyeful. We picked Calen’s apple and cut her up real nice. He’s sleeping off the meal.”

Locke’s peripheral vision went black. He gritted his teeth, his mind spinning with urgency. Do not react. Do not react. Do not react.

“Did you want a piece?” Helm took a step back, in the direction of the door. “Or did you want to wait for dessert?”

The footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Britt huddled deeper into the corner, the concrete block cold against her back. She hugged her legs tighter to her chest. Locke. Please, let it be Locke.

Helm’s voice. “Doris! More wine. We have a second course.” He circled the room, his huge hand slamming the top of each barrel. “Come out, princess. I’m still hungry.”

Locke rushed through the doorway, and one word burst from his lips. “Me.”

If Helm moved his gaze ten inches to the right, it would land on Britt. Instead, he turned to face Locke. “You’d take her place?”

“I’m clean,” Locke said between heaving breaths. He was still shirtless, and the light from the fire shadowed all the dips and curves of his muscled torso. “You know how much I could bring in. True?”

“Men are less careful with their bodies. Unmarked flesh like yours...near priceless.” Helm walked to Locke and held out a glass of white wine.

Locke took it and downed it in one gulp. “Purity.”

Helm crossed the room to take the red wine from Doris. As he turned his back, Locke met Britt’s eyes and mouthed the word run.

Her heart pounded, equal parts terror and gratitude.

Locke tore away his gaze and reached for the red wine. “I’ll sacrifice for Britt but only if you spare her.”

Helm smiled. “You can hope I will, brother. But sacrifice is a moment, not a lifetime.”

“Do you want the golden now, sirs?” Doris asked, but she didn’t move.

“No.” Helm wanted to peel back Locke’s skin while he was alive.

Locke moved to the metal table. He pulled a switchblade from his own pocket and held it up. “Take it.”

Helm stared at the sharp blade. “You’ve used that knife plenty. Did your sweet Britt know when you tasted her flesh that you wanted to use your teeth?”

“You and Calen are the ones who make meals of your prey.”

“That’s what hunters do. Living off the sale of their skin doesn’t make you noble.” Helm reached out and plucked the knife away from Locke. “Does she know you tried to leave us because of her?”

“I’ve wanted to stop for a long time. She wasn’t the reason, but she was the deal breaker.” He’d found his humanity the night he met her.

Helm leaned back against the wall, his attention fully on Locke. “Give me an incentive to let her live longer than a day.”

Britt heard the swish of the blade, and before she could look away, Locke brought it down on his own hand. Blood dripped to the floor and crept toward the drain.

“That’s a start.” Helm smiled. “Doris? Leave us.”

The old woman shifted her position until she was in front of Britt. When she began shuffling sideways, Britt shadowed her. “I’ll step outside,” Doris said. “Strip the marrow from the bones.”

Britt lurched out the back door. She sucked in fresh air, averting her eyes from the bloody tarp on the grass. A jangling noise caught her attention.

Doris held out the keys to Locke’s truck.

Britt acted without thought, racing across the yard on her bare feet, hoping the slickness of the grass was dew and not something more menacing. When she reached the vehicle, she launched herself into the driver’s seat. Jamming the keys into the ignition, she started the engine and revved the gas. To get their attention. To stop Helm and the movement of the knife.

She prayed Locke would anticipate her intent. She shifted into Drive and crashed the truck through the window.

Headlights met glass.

Locke dove out of the way, while Helm stood frozen. The truck stopped moving. Locke pushed through debris, and Britt climbed out the passenger’s side. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her, running his uninjured hand over her skin to make sure she was safe.

“I’m fine.” She stood on her tiptoes among broken glass to kiss him back. “Your hand—” She took it gently in hers. His ring finger was almost severed.

A deep groan sounded in the far corner of the room. Helm, impaled by a thick shard of glass. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, tears from the corners of his eyes.

If Locke had any sympathy, he’d put Helm out of his misery. As things stood, he couldn’t find any to spare. He let Britt go. After picking his way through the wreckage, he took the switchblade from Helm’s hand, closed it and tossed it into the fire. He stared at the flames, watching the plastic handle as it began to melt.

Behind him, Britt trailed a curious finger through the blood on Helm’s chin. His last breath left him as she held it to her lips.

And licked.

* * * * *