Free Fight by Sarah Masters Page A

and weak, and Carl smiled, pleased at the bastard's decline.
    Taking in a deep breath, he left his bedroom and walked downstairs to the kitchen, standing at the closed back door. He regarded Kevin again through the dirty square of glass, the wrinkles on the old man's face evident at this closer vantage point. Did the guy have any remorse? Was he sitting there now, thinking of what he should have done? What he could have done differently? Would it matter if he was sorry for the past?
    No. It doesn't matter. What's done is done.
    Carl swung open the door, the hinges giving their familiar whine, and stood on the threshold. Kevin sat upright, the hammock stilling as he planted his feet firmly on the ground. His eyes widened as he peered at Carl, then he shot out of his seat and threw down his smoke.
    "What the fuck are you doing here, kid?” Kevin adopted his usual pose—hands on hips, legs at ease—and his chest expanded.
    Carl almost laughed. “Came back like I said I would."
    Kevin chuckled. “Let me see now. What was it you said? That you were gonna apply the same thing to me as I'd done to you.” He chuckled again and moved toward Carl, hands by his sides, fists bunched. “Well, we'll see about that."
    Turning, Carl went back into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer, taking out a carving knife and holding it behind him. Kevin entered the room a moment later and slammed the back door, his ruddy face belying his anger. He flicked his head in an attempt to shift the lank lock of hair that had streaked across his face, but it didn't budge. With a huff, he brushed it back with his hand then took two paces toward Carl.
    "You got a belt, kid?"
    "Nope."
    "Well? Don't you need one?"
    "Nope."
    "So how you gonna apply shit on me?” His laugh puffed out of that stinking mouth with its stained teeth and tongue yellowed from years of tobacco. Kevin stood like a wrestler, his arm muscles now soft from lack of exercise.
    Amazing how a man can stay in shape from using a belt too often.
    Carl gritted his teeth.
    "You not gonna answer me, kid?"
    Carl stared at him, at the bulging eyes that indicated Kevin teetered on the precipice, anger about ready to boil over.
    "You'd better fuckin’ answer me, or so help me God..."
    Carl lunged forward. The blade whipped across Kevin's throat before the old man had a chance to register Carl's movement. Blood arced from the knife, splattering the filthy cream wall and the fingerprint-smudged fridge to their right. Kevin's eyes widened, and he staggered against the back door, hands raised to a gaping, blood-filled throat. His fingertips sunk into the wound, and he slid down the door, his chest and vest front crimson. Gargles issued from the old man's throat, those ugly teeth bared in a grimace of pain. Carl watched, fascinated as the blood went from spewing to oozing with the stopping of Kevin's heart. He stepped toward his father and drew the knife back and forth over the unsullied, lower half of the vest, then turned and calmly exited the house. Knife still in hand, he strode across the road and unlocked the pickup, getting inside as though what had occurred hadn't. Tossing the knife into the back seat, he started the truck and pulled away, intent on finding an out-of-the-way motel.
    He headed back toward home—his real home—and pondered on how long it would take for Kevin to be discovered. Days. Possibly a week or two. A smile touched his lips on imagining the stink of the old man's body as it bloated and began to decompose. Whoever found him had better have a strong stomach.
    Carl laughed and picked up speed. He had the urge to fuck and fuck hard. He'd pay cash at a motel then venture into the next town in search of a clubber who needed release as much as he did. Fuck yeah .
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Chapter Eight
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    I didn't have much of a choice. Vic stepped back, putting an appropriate amount of distance between us again. Oddly, the warmth his proximity had lent remained. I