“Own guidance,” said Deloy.
I struggled to think. When Pratt tied the chair legs, I looked down. With a nauseating shock, I saw I was wearing a football jersey. He’d done something with my wifebeater T-shirt—probably thrown it out in the rain along with my cut—and had put this ratty, spiderwebby old jersey on me. It literally smelled of mold.
I couldn’t take Deloy’s advice, though. I’d always been a rebel—which was partially responsible for fucking up my life to begin with. I’d probably known I shouldn’t have been dating Zelpha Pratt. I should’ve known she was destined to wed an elder. What was I messing around with her for? I let my hormones get the better of me, a mistake I hadn’t made since…until meeting Oaklyn Warrior.
I shouted, “The laws of God take precedence over the laws of men! It’s your twisted human depravity that makes you crave boys who don’t want you.”
Deloy’s eyes were large and round. “Levon! Stop!”
But I didn’t stop. “The laws of God would tell you not to force yourself on another human being!”
Behind me, it seemed that Pratt stopped tying. He lumbered over, breathing heavily, and jammed the gun barrel into the crown of my skull again. “Did you look ‘forced’ in that video I posted? No, you did not, my fine, hunky football player. Every ounce of your being longed to please me with your giant rock python.”
Normally, I would’ve laughed at his euphemism. The guy was a violent sexual deviant, but he felt compelled to use a term like “rock python.” The ironies of life would never cease to amaze me. And I’d met some deviants in my time.
“Think of your wives, Pratt. They’re all fine, honest women. Wouldn’t they want you to admit that you murdered Kenyon Stout?” We had no definite cause of death for that poor boy, although Dust Bunny said there appeared to be a bullet hole in his skull. I faked it. “You shot Kenyon Stout through the head.” That was a bold statement to make, seeing as how I currently had a pistol held to my head.
“Yes, I did.” I couldn’t believe Pratt was admitting it. “He knew too much. He knew where my photo studio was. I couldn’t afford a loose cannon like that running around! So Parley Pipkin and Immanuel Zabriskie came and took his dear sweet body away. Now you listen here. Let all heed my will. I am the only way of salvation. Now be ready, because it is the call of thy God.”
“Just let him,” whispered Deloy.
So I let Pratt fall to his knees, but only because I knew it would distract him. I had a plan up my sleeve.
I’d put myself into this trance thousands of times. I reminded myself it was a business—in this case a lifesaving business. I reminded myself of Deloy. I might risk my own life, but I was also risking his if I made some idiotic move. So Pratt toiled away between my thighs, and I barely noticed. It was almost as if the Rohypnol had numbed me out, and I was glad.
This trance almost felt like a coming home for me. Submitting to a force I no longer felt beholden to. I had outgrown this behavior—submitting my body for the pleasures of others—quite awhile ago, actually. It was like I’d been planning something like this move to Avalanche deep in the recesses of my psyche, but had remained unaware of it until meeting Oaklyn. I’d been ready for something new, something different. I was ready to grow up.
Like riding a bike, I fell back into the trance easily. The date rape drug helped lull me into semi-unconsciousness. I stayed aware of Pratt’s grunting and huffing and puffing, while Deloy seemed to go under into the same trance I was in. His head flopped onto his shoulder, and his hands in the wrist cuffs were limp. A smear of blood across his chin really angered me, but I stopped myself from waking up fully. It would do no one any good to blow it now, especially with the pistol still in Pratt’s hand laying across my thigh.
“What’s that?”
I opened my eyes. Deloy had said something, hadn’t he? What had he said?
He seemed to be looking at the big, dirt-encrusted window. “What’s that?” he said again.
Pratt sat up, alert. “What’s what?”
Deloy said, “That sound outside in the courtyard. Kind of like a…buzzing.”
Pratt stood. He took his gun like a gangster in a film noir over to the door, hefting it on his shoulder while putting his back into it, listening.
Deloy whispered, “Now’s the time to do whatever it is you plan to do.”
He knew me well.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
OAKLYN
It comforted me, being in the bosom of the loud, brash, macho club.