Page 19 of Heat Lightning

Dropped off like an unwanted pet.

“You don’t need to tell me anything,” she’d said, offering me a fruit cup. “But if you do want to talk, or if you remember anything medically important from before you woke up, I’ll be here to listen.”

I’d given her a stilted explanation of what I could remember; the warehouse—an unregulated, illicit heat club, she’d explained tightly—being drugged and forced into a heat, and then the alphas, one who I’d thought was my friend, all getting ready to—to⁠—

With a shake of my head, I’d told her I couldn’t remember anything after that. It was a lie, but not by much.

I only remembered him, and what he’d done. The demon covered in blood; the alpha in a mask who’d killed the ones that wanted to hurt me before they were able to.

All but one of them, anyway.

“Do you remember anything about how you got here?” she’d asked gently.

I’d just shaken my head again. “No. No, I don’t.”

That was true. I had no idea what’d happened to me after he showed up—everything was fuzzy and full of feelings I wasn’t ready to revisit.

Desperation. Fear. Longing. Shame. An overwhelming, all-consuming ache for a man who’d just murdered in my defense.

Not things I’d ever share with a stranger, no matter how much she went on and on about a confidentiality policy.

“Alright, Max,” she’d said. “Now, you’re in charge of what happens next. With your consent, it’s our standard procedure to do a check-up for your safety and health. This includes an examination conducted by a SANE nurse here at the clinic—that’s someone with specialized training to perform sexual assault examinations. Usually we like to do this right when you arrive, but it was safer to purge your body of the stimulants first. You were in pretty rough shape. Kaley’s going to take care of you, though, and make you feel as comfortable as possible. Is it alright if she comes in to talk more about the process?”

I’d just shrugged. I wasn’t exactly sure how I knew, but it didn’t feel like anything physical had happened that I couldn’t remember. Besides, he’d had the perfect opportunity to do anything he wanted to me while I was passed out, and he’d brought me to a shelter instead.

That didn’t track with a rapist, even if he was a murderer.

But I was so exhausted by that point I couldn’t tell if that was a real feeling or just wishful thinking. “It’s been days,” I’d said, “so I’m not sure what there would be for you to examine. But whatever.” I’d waved my hand, signifying for her to proceed. What other option was there, anyway?

She’d nodded. “Collecting evidence isn’t our priority. We’ll do a check-up for your health, safety, and wellbeing, first.”

The nurse conducted the exam, which was invasive as fuck and the opposite of comfortable, before asking if I wanted to file a report with the police. “We won’t move forward on your behalf without your permission,” she’d said.

I pictured those icy blue eyes flashing in the dark and that serrated blade coated in my own blood, instead of someone else’s.

“No!” I’d barked. “No cops.”

He’d know. Somehow, he’d know, and he’d come for me.

She’d also asked more detailed questions about what I could remember, which I danced around. A confidentiality policy was all well and good, but I wasn’t sure how far that stretched when it came to witnessing and not reporting a murder. I was already paranoid that the police would bust down the door any minute and arrest me for… something.

I wasn’t sure what crime, exactly. Logically, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was complicit, somehow. Like it was my fault because I wasn’t upset that they couldn’t hurt me anymore.

It was all so confusing.

With the clarity provided by days and then weeks and months between me and what’d happened, that guilty feeling had eased. The police never came, and I was lucky enough to move forward.

I was, however, shocked that nothing ever came of the murders.

They weren’t even reported in the news. There was barely a blip on the official Plover Bay Police website about three men being found dead in the aftermath of breaking up an illegal heat club, and nothing since.

How was that possible? They’d been sliced apart. Surely, there’d be an investigation? Eyewitness accounts? DNA evidence, maybe?

But then I remembered that vile room; the stained mattress, used condoms, and only God knew what else splattered all over the walls along with the blood.

The better question would be, whose DNA wouldn’t be in that room?

Thinking about the non-existent investigation always led to an impressively disastrous doom-spiral about what would’ve happened if the Masked Man—the name seemed more fitting than calling him a demon—hadn’t shown up, and I was the one dead and forgotten in that horrible place, and I couldn’t think about it anymore.