Free The Manhattan Hunt Club by John Saul Page B

friends. Part of it was Jimmy’s smile—the way it made him feel inside. He hadn’t felt anything like it since his mother left. He and Jimmy started hanging around together right away, getting drunk and doing some drugs. Jimmy didn’t have a room, so Jagger let him come and stay with him. He’d even given him the bed, and started sleeping on the sofa himself. Jimmy told him the bed was big enough for both of them, and that almost wrecked everything. For a second he felt like killing Jimmy, but then got himself under control. “I ain’t no fag,” he said, his voice trembling with barely contained fury.
    Jimmy’s smile had faded away. “Hey, man, I never said you was. All I said was the bed was big enough. No big deal, okay?”
    And it had been okay—it had been okay right up until they met Cherie. “It’s spelled the French way,” she said right off, like he cared. “It means sweetheart.” She smiled at Jimmy when she said that, and Jimmy smiled back at her.
    That was when Jagger knew she was going to go away with Jimmy, just like his mother had gone away with Ted. But he hadn’t let it happen. He’d known when they were planning it—known that whole day. The way they were looking at each other, and talking to each other when they thought he wasn’t listening. But he’d known exactly what they were up to.
    He’d even told Jimmy: “You’re goin’ away, aren’t you? You’re goin’ away with her, just like my mom went away with Ted.”
    “What’re you talkin’ about, man?” Jimmy asked, but there was a look in his eyes that told Jagger he knew exactly what he was talking about. “Why’d I wanta go away with her? You’re my bud, Jag. It’s you and me!”
    Jimmy had smiled at him, and Jagger had wanted to believe him—had wanted to believe him more than anything. But he hadn’t, and that night, while they were smoking some dope that Cherie had picked up somewhere, he started seeing things really, really clearly.
    He kept looking at Jimmy—looking at his eyes, and his slim body, and the way he smiled.
    He started thinking how pretty he was.
    Almost pretty enough to kiss.
    He’d cut that thought out of his head. Where the fuck had it come from anyway? He wasn’t a fag!
    But the more he tried not to think about it, the more he kept thinking about it, even though he knew it was all wrong.
    Jimmy was a guy, for Christ sake. He had a dick!
    But if he didn’t, and if he had boobs . . . boobs like Cherie’s . . .
    He sucked in another hit on the bong they were all sharing, and then things started getting kind of hazy. He couldn’t remember what happened after that, except that he wanted to touch Jimmy. Wanted to touch him really bad.
    But it was wrong—it was all wrong! He was a guy, just like all the rest of the guys.
    But then he figured out how to make it right! All he had to do was fix things.
    Fix Jimmy.
    Cherie had fallen asleep, and now Jimmy was smiling at him again, smiling the way that made Jagger’s stomach feel all queasy, and his balls start to ache, and his dick get hard.
    “Come on,” Jimmy whispered. “Come on, Jag—you’re my bud. You know what you want. So come on and get it.” He’d lain back on the floor then, and Jagger knew that Jimmy wanted him to do it.
    Jimmy wanted him to fix it so they could be together.
    The knife slid into Jimmy easily—just slipped through his shirt and between his ribs and into his heart. It didn’t hurt Jimmy—Jagger never would have wanted to hurt him. Jimmy just looked sort of surprised for a second, and then he lay real still, stretched out on his back, his eyes fixed on him.
    And he was still smiling at him, so Jagger knew it was okay.
    He slid the knife into Cherie next. She didn’t even wake up—she just lay there, but her boobs stopped moving like they had when she was breathing.
    He undressed both of them, being really careful not to disturb Jimmy. Then he cut Cherie’s boobs off, and carefully put them on Jimmy’s