CHAPTER 12

If eyes were laser, he would have burned him to ashes in the blink of an eye.

He smothered a smile as his steady voice went on. "There is irrefutable evidence—witnesses, DNA, and the victim's medical report stating that the offense was done, but no certain memory from the victim since she was coming in and out of consciousness, and there are conflicting accounts from other witnesses.". The defense is contesting sufficiency of evidence, claiming there is reasonable doubt that the victim had been assaulted or if it was a planned encounter.

WENTZ's scratching grew more fervent but no pen was broken.

Pity.

"He'll send all the case materials over via email, but now, he'll be assigning randomly. If he calls your name, stand, please." He read through the less-than-random list he had. "Meyers, Jones, and Omar, you'll be the prosecution team. You'll focus on building a strong narrative of the crime, utilizing the victim's testimony, the DNA evidence, and witness accounts. The prosecution needs to prove that the defendant intentionally assaulted the victim and should be held accountable for his actions."

All three students stood up with a sparkle in their eyes. They were the smartest kids in this class and had a true knack for law. WENTZ was smart, too. On paper.

But his motives were misguided.

Not that he shouldn't be critical. He never entered law for humanitarian reasons.

"WENTZ." He pretended to read his name off his screen in a cold tone, and WENTZ slowly stood up from the chair still clinging to the pen. "You will be defending James Rutherford. Your task is to establish that there exists no absolute proof your client is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

This time around, the pen broke in his hand, and he let his lips curve into a grin as he mouthed the names of other students on autopilot, cataloging them as junior members of the defense team—all the dumb ones—and the smarter ones as jurors and witnesses.

"Your task is to consider each piece of evidence, each witness statement, and come to your own conclusion, as you would in an actual courtroom. You will receive a week's pretrial preparation. We'll start with the opening statement next week." He closed the screen. "Dismissed."

He gathered up his belongings and exited the class before the students. The majority of them fell in step to either side of him, particularly the prosecution team, inquiring about the assignment. The rest were merely using the assignment as a pretext to vie for his attention.

They were mistaken. One, he preferred women his age. Two, he never messed with a student.

Aside from the one he had caught a glimpse of from the corner of his eye standing at the front of the room and gazing at him instead of paying attention to those nearby.

Not that he was even interested in fucking him.

He was straight and had never been attracted to men.

So why then did the thought of filling WENTZ's adorable face with tears as he gagged on his cock cause his dick to harden in its prison?

Power.

Control.

Reducing someone into their subhuman form.

Those were apparently more important than something as simple as sex or lust to him.

Even though he'd never gotten hard for a man he'd wanted to destroy. Hmm. Why was it about WENTZ that was…so sinfully tittillating?

The tears streaming down his face as he was gagging on his cock? The way he sucked him hard, giving him a lot of the pain he was giving him? He was into fucking mouths, okay, but most women were delicate, and he'd always been careful not to push it too far, so he'd never actually fucked a throat that hard.

Never had rough, savage lips trying to suck his cum dry.

And he, true to God, wasn't bothered that it was a man's lips. Perhaps because it doesn't matter whose lips?

No, not right. He was consciously aware of his masculine scent, his sharp jaw, and his savage big hands.

He knew that he wasn't like the typical softness he was used to, and he…did not detest it.

Others might argue that he enjoyed it too much, so much that his cock was bulging at the memory.

But he prattled on. After he'd gotten rid of the clingy students, he finished up the rest of the classes that day and left.

He'd gone for an entire European way of life. No car or other means of transport.

Brighton Island was small to begin with, and he'd prefer to circumambulate in the BRIXTON KINGDOM's miserable windy and rainy weather anyway.

As if.

He was mostly just observing.

Like the small shit who'd been following him.

Correction: small monster.

WENTZ's warning about keeping his back covered was basically a job he volunteered for. Literally.

For the past week, he'd been following him everywhere he went.

All the time.

Like a freak.

He was even skipping some classes. He knew because one of the other fool professors that he had in the palm of his hand had expressed concern about his absence.

"He's such a bright student. It's not like him to skip. I'm worried about him."

You should be worried about your brain that he'd eat for breakfast if given the chance.

He went into an organic food store and shopped through the freshly roasted coffee beans.

WENTZ did indeed excel at being a stalker. He was always staying at arm's length, drove different cars, and even wore sunglasses and hats in order to hide his hair and face. He was able to be invisible when he had to be, and sometimes it took him a while to notice he was there.

He'd rate him four out of five stars. Dedicating one star to the lack of original content.

"Hello there." An orange-haired teenager with chipped black nail polish spoke in a sing-song tone. "Need my assistance with anything at all?"

He'd hope not. He didn't think someone like her could assist him in his distinct taste for coffee.

Just taking a gander, thanks," he said, scanning the bags and providing no smile. He didn't care how people judged him.

He lost that long ago.

"That one is our top seller." She pointed to a bag with a big red tag that had 'bestseller' written across it. Kids these days use one brain cell, he swore.

"May I smell samples?" "Of course you may." She fumbled about sorting out the tray. Her high-strung anxiety ricocheted off his skin like a ping-pong ball on a worn-out string.

If someone else was around, they'd receive some sort of sympathy or try to mend the situation, but he just stood where he was, letting her struggle like an animal in its own mind's blood.

It was curious the way her cheeks flushed as she bumbled with her word diarrhea that he effectively pruned out. Even WENTZ looked disturbed in the subtle watching of the glass, from the way he went on inserting his finger into his lips and then letting it fall to his side once more.

Three times now.

Five if they counted the two times he did so in class that morning.

His horrible vices were spilling out like a damn fucking waterfall. It was addictive.

And he found himself enthralled, totally absorbed in what other he could draw from that restive mind of his. He bought the most pungent bag of coffee beans he could find, and when he handed over money, WENTZ pulled back an inch. He was careful and could earn his living as a professional tail if he were not already a rich boy whose entire blood-soaked future was mapped out from birth.

To make his session worthwhile, he walked around the town square. And since small talk and ordinary human interactions had a draining effect on the soul, he had very long conversations about fuck knows what.

He wanted to hear that snap of a pen, metaphorically, in his brain.

Snub as many neurons as possible. Even if the whole experience bored him stiff.

By the end of the day, he would have exhausted him enough. Like a kid, he'd return to bed, probably fantasizing about killing him in the most painful way.

He grinned while walking to the large building where he was renting an apartment.

JAX stopped by the oak tree on the other side of the road like always, and he pulled out his phone upon entering the building.

Jethro

This is a walk in the park.

Him

He knew.

And he was deriving pleasure from this?

Surprisingly, yes. What did he expect to do next?

Kill himself or have someone kill him.

Don't raise his hopes.

This was totally insane, man.

He liked entertaining.

This whole exercise was a waste of time. Just go back home to the States.

Not yet.

He was still reading over his exchange with Jethro when his phone rang.

Grant, his brother, was on the line. Three times today.

He was annoyingly clingy and overwhelmingly tenacious. He'd give him that.

He pushed Ignore and stepped inside. The apartment was spacious but stripped, deliberately so, with sparse furnishings and clear lines that left no space for profiling. Floors were dark wood and highly polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting back the chill, clinical glare of the overheads. Walls were painted in muted grays and blacks and were empty, except for a few pieces of abstract paintings that were part of the house.

There was a single leather sofa in the center of the living room, its sharp angles mirroring the rest of the furniture, too clean to sit upon.

The only suggestion of warmth was the scent of lavender. It weighed down on his chest like a fuckin' burden and he inhaled it into his body before he hawked it out.

Turning on his record player, he held out until Bruckner's Symphony No. 7's calming melodies wafted into the air before entering the kitchen.

He ground the beans methodically and then carefully brewed the coffee. The strong aroma overwhelmed the lavender, covering it, and he just stood there.

Hearing the coffee dripping into the cup in sync with the music.

Drip. Drip.

Drip.

Like blood.

It was soothing—or unsettling, depending on his school of thought.

He downed the smoky coffee, poured it down the drain, and threw out the bag of beans still full. He splashed himself a glass of whiskey on ice instead and then stared out the window.

WENTZ had disappeared.

He was so anti-climactic.

He'd been waiting for him to follow through on his threat, but he was content to stay in the shadows.

Though news wasn't the right word. He believed he liked hearing everything first, but it was becoming a chore.

Dull, too.