Switch Blade Romance

Lovers

Loving someone is never easy. There are the quiet mornings and the screaming nights. Everyone carries flaws-they snore like a chainsaw, pick at their teeth with dirty nails, guzzle milk from the carton like an animal, leave the toilet seat up as a quiet act of war. You swallow it all because the good moments feel worth the rot.
But what if the person you love kills? Could you still crawl into bed beside someone who's ended lives-your friends, your family... maybe yours one day? Could you kiss the same mouth that whispered threats, the same hands that squeezed until something broke?
Andrew Grant slumped in the passenger seat of his Ford Escape, humming low and tuneless, the sound leaking out when sleep and waking blurred at the edges. His mother used to snap at him on family road trips: "Andrew Lamar Grant, stop that humming right now. You should've slept when the rest of us did-your sister's still awake because of you."
Those trips had been bright once. This one felt like descending into a grave.
A hand shook his shoulder. "Baby, why the humming? You okay?"
Andrew jerked awake. He knew the voice too well: Aiden Pierce. Or Charles Grady. The name that fit the monster underneath.
Six months ago, at the University of Texas at Arlington, "Aiden" had been all charm-dark eyes, easy laugh, a touch that promised safety. Andrew had fallen fast. People started vanishing after that. Andrew told himself it was coincidence until the coincidences piled into bodies.
He blinked at Charles now. "I'm fine. Just tired. We've been driving forever. Where are we even going?"
Charles smiled, thumped Andrew's nose like he was a pet. Andrew flinched hard.
The smile faltered. "What's wrong, baby? Still think I'm going to hurt you?"
Anxiety edged Charles's tone-thin, dangerous. Andrew forced the words out. "No. I know you wouldn't. I'm just... jumpy."
Charles exhaled. "Okay. Good."
Andrew glanced at the handcuff chaining him to the steel pole welded into the passenger floor before they fled Arlington. "When can these come off?"
"When I trust you again." Charles kept his eyes on the empty highway. "You tried to run last night. That hurt my trust."
Andrew's mind replayed it: the abandoned garage, the welder's blue spark, his desperate sprint toward the road, Charles's weight slamming him down into gravel.
"Please don't do that again, baby," Charles had murmured, breath hot against his ear. "It might make me angry. And you know what happens when I get angry."
A nod. Dirt in his mouth. A pat on the head. "Good boy."
Everything after blurred-hours, maybe days. Andrew guessed northern Texas, near the Arkansas line. Charles avoided interstates, sticking to forgotten backroads.
"We'll ditch the car soon," Charles said.
Andrew nodded numbly.
"Cops have an APB out. Next mile or two, we leave it, hitch a ride. I'll uncuff you-but if you run, I kill you and whoever stops. Clear?"
Andrew nodded.
"Good boy."
Rachel Edison hadn't slept more than thirty minutes in days. Unshowered, unchanged, she stared at maps and bulletins like they might cough up Andrew alive.
Sheriff Henry set coffee in front of her. "You're a ghost. When'd you last sleep?"
"Wednesday?" She laughed without humor. "Today's Friday, right?"
"Go home, Rachel. We've got eyes everywhere. We'll find him. And Charles."
Tears came fast. "We were done, but I still love him. I cheated. I pushed him right into that psychopath's arms. If I hadn't... he'd be safe. This is on me. Fuck. Fuck everything."
She screamed. The station froze. Sheriff Henry guided her out into the gray noon light.
Andrew stood beside the silver Ford Escape, now half-buried in brush on a desolate stretch of road. Charles worked methodically, almost tenderly, hiding the evidence of their flight.
Andrew scanned the dirt for anything-a rock to scratch a message, a scrap to tie to a branch. Nothing. The world felt scrubbed clean of mercy.
Charles tugged him toward the pavement. "What's the plan?" Andrew asked, voice flat.
Charles stared at the horizon. "Hitch a ride. Farther on, I kill the driver. Take their car. Keep moving."
Andrew stopped. "You promised no more."
Charles laughed-soft, almost fond. "Baby, did you really think I could stop? It's who I am. Like a snake can't unlearn biting. Like a dog can't ignore a cat running. I don't change. I just... continue."
Andrew walked on, legs heavy.
A brown Buick station wagon with fake wood paneling slowed. It looked like the one his grandparents drove-safe, nostalgic, doomed.
An older man stepped out. Late fifties, maybe sixty. "Need a lift, boys?"
Charles's smile was perfect. "Yes, sir. We surely do."
Burt and Ramona Greenwood. Homestead, Oklahoma. Heading to Burt's sister in western Tennessee. Fourth-grade teacher for thirty years. Golf-equipment salesman. Five kids. Grandkids waiting somewhere. Sunday school teachers. Kind to strangers.
Ramona turned, beaming at Andrew. "Our youngest, Patricia, is about your age, Stephen."
Charles had given them Nathaniel Curtis and Stephen Clark.
"Twenty-two, ma'am," Andrew murmured.
"My, my." She glanced at Charles's hand on Andrew's knee and blushed. "My nephew Ray married his boyfriend last summer in Mexico. Expecting a girl now."
Charles chuckled. "Stephen and I haven't set a date yet. Soon, maybe."
"I don't judge," Ramona said warmly. "The Lord loves us all. I love you boys too."
For a fragile stretch of miles, Andrew almost believed it: normal conversation, gentle laughter, the illusion of safety. Like a family trip long ago.
Then Charles checked the windows. "Burt, mind pulling over? Gotta go."
"Sure thing."
Andrew shook his head once-slow, pleading. Charles only smiled.
They stopped. The men walked into the weeds. Dread coiled cold in Andrew's gut.
Ramona smiled. "So where you headed?"
Andrew leaned close. "Listen. Get behind the wheel. Drive. Now. Don't wait."
Confusion creased her face. "Honey, why-?"
"My name's Andrew Grant. His isn't Nathaniel. He's Charles Grady. He's going to kill you both."
Ramona's eyes widened. "You're the boy from the radio. Kidnapped two days ago."
"Two days?" Andrew's voice cracked. "I thought... one."
"No, dear. We heard Wednesday in Brownsville. It's Friday."
Two days gone. Swallowed.
A wet thud against the passenger window. Burt's face smashed flat-two ragged gashes weeping red.
Ramona screamed. "Burt! Oh God, Burt-no!"
She scrambled out. Andrew yelled, "It's too late-drive!"
She reached the driver's door. A hand fisted her black hair, yanked her head back. One scream-cut short. The switchblade sawed slowly across her throat, deliberate, almost intimate. Blood sprayed in hot arcs, painting the interior, Andrew's face, his open mouth.
He screamed until his throat shredded, hands clamped over ears, body curling into the seat like a child hiding from a nightmare that had already found him.
Ramona's body dropped, blue jumper soaked maroon, pooling in the dirt.
Charles slid down from the roof, casual as stepping off a porch. He leaned into the back window, studying Andrew-curled, shaking, tears cutting tracks through blood.
"Hey, baby," he said softly, almost tenderly. He reached in, brushed a crimson streak from Andrew's cheek with his thumb. "Look at the mess I made."
Andrew stared at him-through him-eyes glassy, distant. Something inside had cracked wide open.
Charles smiled, small and satisfied. "Don't worry. You're still mine."
He uncuffed Andrew's wrist. The metal clinked to the floor.
Andrew didn't move. Didn't run.
He just sat there, staring at the bodies, at the blood drying sticky on his skin, at the man who owned what was left of him.
And for the first time, he didn't feel afraid.
He felt nothing at all.