Free Beyond the Pale Motel by Francesca Lia Block

I asked. Or maybe a coyote?
    â€œGet an alarm,” Cyan evenly said.
    I got back in bed but couldn’t sleep so I jammed my hand between my thighs and tried to rub away the tension of the night as I thought of Skylar’s hot baseball coach licking me. Cyan’s face appeared in my mind just as I came. I slept fitfully after that.
    *   *   *
    Cyan had to hit the road the next morning, after a cup of green tea and a promise to send me the pictures of Palm Latitudes for Love Monster; he had some photography jobs in Santa Barbara.
    â€œGet an alarm,” he said again before he left. “I’ll check in to make sure you do, okay?”
    At work I told Bree about the sound I’d heard in the night. I didn’t mention that Cyan had stayed over.
    â€œSo you’re not sure what it was?” she said.
    â€œMaybe an animal. It really freaked me out, though.” Stu had come in for his buzz and was watching us so I lowered my voice. “With those killings, and Dash gone … I guess I’m more jumpy than usual. I called the alarm company. Maybe I’ll finally get another dog.” But the guilt was too much. Pinkie would have protected me to the death. And I had basically killed her.
    â€œDo you want to stay with us tonight?” Bree asked.
    â€œNo. I’ll be okay. You should get an alarm system, too, though.” Bree and Skylar only lived a short distance from me.
    â€œExcuse me, ladies, I don’t want to interrupt your convo, but I have a meeting at noon in the Valley,” Stu said, cracking his knuckles. I guess he had heard me after all. “And I’m the one who’s obsessed with that serial killer?”

 
    #5
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    A week later Stu was back. “Where’s Bree?” he said, not looking at me.
    â€œShe called in sick. Didn’t she let you know?”
    â€œAw, fuck.” He spun on his heel. Then he turned back around and ran a hand over his scalp. His arms were too short but his hands were big and dangled from his wrists. “You want to give it a shot?”
    While I was buzzing him, Stu told me about a new show he was producing called Hook Up, where the audience got to choose which contestants would sleep together.
    â€œBree should come on it,” he said. “That woman is so hot. Must be tough, huh? You must hear it all the time.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    â€œAlthough maybe there are some guys who aren’t into skinny women with big tits and flawless skin.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    The news was on. Stu picked up the remote and hit the volume. A solemn female newscaster with a dimpled baby face and a deep voice was standing in front of the HOLLYWOOD sign as words appeared on the screen: Hollywood Serial Killer’s Third Strike?
    â€œThis is the third mutilated female body that’s been found in this area. Police still have no leads.…”
    When I’d heard about the ones before, I’d had hope to distract me—my husband, my desire for a child. That day I had only pain from which to be distracted.
    How could someone kill and mutilate? As if these women were things? Pieces of bloody trash. I felt that way myself. I didn’t want to admit it, it sounded self-important, narcissistic. What Dash had done to me was nothing like this. But somehow it brought up that tossed-aside-ness, that vicious severing.
    â€œI wonder what he did to this one?” Stu’s said. His voice sounded like he was biting the inside of his lip. “Arms, legs. Maybe head this time?” It was like I wasn’t there. Then I wondered if I’d imagined him saying it?
    The chill that went from the nape of my neck down my arms to my hands was not just from the cold air blasting out of the vent. In spite of it the armpits of my T-shirt were soaked through with sweat. A girl’s face appeared on the screen. Wide-eyed, tan, and full-mouthed like the others.
    â€œThe victim has been