Page 22 of A Handsome Devil

“He’s getting his hooks into me, Alessio—”

“How many boys here now?”

“He never stops, and—let me show you!”

Like the eight-year-old Tyler, he grabbed my hand and yanked me to the downstairs study. When he shoved open the door, the stink assaulted me. While Tyler breezed into the room like it was his second home—which it was—I had to grip the wall and gag. That smell brought it all back in one swoop. The gropings, the oil, the grotesque, haunting things that passed for orgasms, all that coated the walls.

“Look—look—look!” cried Tyler, spreading his arms wide. “Why can’t anyone stop this guy?”

In—fucking—deed. Why couldn’t anyone? Why was the system such a failure? Why did Denmark and I have to come into a place like this and—I was so dizzy I didn’t know what my plan was anymore.

Naked boy calendars lined the walls, along with printed screenshots of guys trolled online. Endless dicks coated the odiferous moldy paint, and a row of neatly ordered dildos decorated the desk. I thought I saw handcuffs hanging from a wall hook, but I didn’t want to see it. I shaded my eyes with my hand.

Tyler shouted, “We’re all marks, let me tell you, Alessio! It’s ten times worse than when you were here.” Darting about the dungeon, he babbled in broken sentences. “We take turns! I come in here most often to protect the younger kids. He’s a freak, I tell you! And we’re not even allowed to leave the house anymore. We can’t even go to the mall. Little Dylan once broke out and brought back a knife, a switchblade. I tiptoed up to fucking Leonard in the middle of the night, but I must’ve tripped some alarm, because he leaped at me and took the knife away!”

Tyler lifted the arm of his T-shirt to reveal a knotty scar about three inches long. His voice fell a few octaves when he said, “This is what he did to me.”

That was the thing that flipped my lid. Without thought beforehand, I found that I’d taken maybe ten long strides back to the living room. Denmark had his piece levelled at Leonard’s head as the freak struggled to his feet.

“This fucker—” Denmark explained, eyes flashing in his purple-black face.

I didn’t need an explanation. The twisted chomo was halfway to his feet when I pulled my pistol from my back pocket. “Stand,” I growled. My eyes burned with rage and must’ve looked worse than Denmark’s. That I had to shove him by his pathetic shoulder up against a wall made my head swim. Releasing the Ruger’s safety with my thumb, I shoved the barrel so far down his throat his frantic words were just gibberish.

I snarled, “You die for what you’ve done to these kids,” and squeezed the trigger.

I have to confess. The bang, the feeling of taking his brain out, and the vivid blood that decorated the wall were all satisfying to me. Although even Denmark stood there with his mouth open, I was confident in my actions.

“Nice,” whispered Tyler. Not a peep from the boys on the stairs.

If ever there was a fucker who deserved to die, Leonard Skinner was it.

The front door slamming against the wall ripped me out of my pleased stupor.

Truman stood with hands at his sides like a cowboy about to draw. It was his approval I needed most. And I somehow doubted I’d get it.

“Alessio,” he whispered.

I shrugged, wiggling the pistol in my hand. “Yeah? What?”

Truman slapped himself on the forehead. “What did you fucking do?”

Denmark shouted, “Saved a bunch more boys from being raped, that’s what!”

Tyler chimed in. “He’s a hero!”

Truman raced forward. And it wasn’t to hug or comfort me.

He tried to give that thing CPR.

CHAPTER 9

Truman

I began feeling more and more uncomfortable, sitting like a lame jackass in my car.

Of course, it was the .45 in Alessio’s back pocket that bothered me. I got out and paced the sidewalk along with Gunning. Thumbs hitched in front pockets, just like a cool teen.

I yammered, “Did you see that piece in Alessio’s back pocket?”