The Man: a dark romance story

Part Two

The light from the doorway shines faintly on Peter's form as he rounds the back of the vehicle, casting his frame in pale yellow illumination.

He's tall, but not overly so, and moderate of build. His arms and upper chest are well-muscled, but again, not overly so—not in a body builder sort of way, but the kind of toned you can achieve if you—

— lift bodies on a regular basis, my mind finishes as he leans into the trunk and hoists Tyler's lifeless form out in a singular movement, hauling him as effortlessly as a sack of potatoes.

Blood trickles down Peter's arm to his torso, coloring the wife beater that he had on underneath the dress shirt. He stripped all the way down to his undergarments, which are—interesting, to say the least.

'A flair for the dramatic' is almost an understatement, as he is not only wearing black boxers adorned with multi-colored polka dots, but a matching pair of socks, as well. In any other context, it would be comical, but this...

This is grotesque.

I give him a wide berth as he enters the room.

There is a moment as he moves past me that I reconsider the possibility of escape. All I would need to do is make it to the office I saw earlier with the neon VACANCY sign around the front of the motel. With the door wide open and his back to me, there's a chance I could make it. It's not like he would murder me in front of the motel clerk, right?

Or maybe I could get to the road and run until I find the nearest town. Even if I was killed, at least I would go out fighting, rather than sitting here in his clutches, waiting for... waiting for the unknown, unspoken consequences.

My body tenses at the thought, and just as I'm steeling my nerves to bolt, to get away from this man, consequences be damned, I shoot him a last minute glance and quickly change my mind.

He's paused in the middle of the room, eyeing me with those mysterious dark brown eyes, brow pinched together in a hard line...silently warning.

"Shut and lock the door," he commands. I do.

"Now get in the bathroom."

Peter had me put down plastic sheeting before retrieving the body—the kind painters use to keep paint from splattering everywhere—across the floor where it leads to the mouth of the bathroom.

I will my legs forward, my feet slipping for purchase as I walk across it, the thick plastic crunching and crinkling under my weight as I make my way to the small room.

Tyler's blood has already marred the surface where Peter is standing and waiting for me, and I purposely step around the splotches of blood as I move past both of them. I make an effort not to look directly at Tyler as I pass, not ready to truly see him...if I ever will be ready for it.

I feel Peter fall in line behind me and a moment later, we're both standing next to each other in the bathroom. It's your typical motel bathroom; small and stiflingly cramped. I'm so close to him I can feel the heat from his skin.

He tosses Tyler into the tub as carelessly as he would a bag of refuse. His corpse lands in the tub with a sickening, hollow thud. My stomach does a somersault.

Peter had me put my soiled shirt back on, insisting that I would need it. And I was beginning to understand why.

"Take his clothes off."

"What?" I whisper, taken aback by the request.

"We need to take his clothes off so they don't get in the way. Everything but the underwear, please."