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Knock, knock, let me in. Let me be your secret sin.
‘Strictly business,’ He grins. Swiping the wad of cash from the table with a tattooed hand and depositing the bundle into the inner lined pocket of his leather jacket, Maere’s marblesque countenance tilted back, chin raised smugly. Muscular trunks wrapped in charcoal denims carry the broad-shouldered male towards the exit, inked fingers slicking effortlessly through the dark mop of hair dusting his forehead. A lit fuse, the demon took it upon himself to pay the ferryman a visit.
Storm clouds gathered, dark and foreboding. Obstructing the starless universe from view until he’s swiveling those inhumanly void of emotion optics elsewhere. A delightful young femme with ambitiously blonde hair cut just shy of her shoulders parades herself around with a drink in one hand, stilettos in the other. She’s quite drunk. An easy target if the desire to bed someone this night called to action. But alas, Maere found little interest in the slurring broad.
Settling into the soft leather he tosses the wad of cash into the Torana’s glove box, shifting the vehicle into reverse and cruising out of the parking lot. Remembering that running over drunks wasn’t his idea of a good time on the way out. Once he’s back on the highway, he kicks the Torana into high gear, letting the metal beast purr soothingly beneath him. Light flickers, casting rich shadows across his bronze-kissed flesh. A true nightmare when glimpsed from certain angles.
His cheekbones looked sharper, angrier. Pools of vacancy sweep the open road, memorizing the feel of the asphalt beneath the Torana’s tires, the stillness that lay far beyond what the eye could see. Knotted muscles tightened beneath the leather confines of that leather jacket. A simple addition to his smart-casual ensemble. A faded red sign advertising the roadhouse loomed on the left of the horizon.
Biting the inside of his cheek, Maere slows as he nears the roadhouse driveway, peeling across the loose gravel until he’s able to park. Like a poorly constructed slow motion movie, time slows. His breathing steadies. Hands squeezing around the steering wheel as he sits, letting the animalistic purr of the metal beast dwindle into the background. He shuts off the engine, takes a deep, shaky breath and climbs out, slamming the driver’s side door with more force than expected.
The roadhouse is busy tonight. A ghost of a smile curls the lips of the bartender as she eyes him from behind the bar, fixing a line of shots for a rowdy bunch of middle aged men that reeked of leather and intoxication. Giving the woman a two-fingered flick, he signals for a bottle and a glass to be brought over to his usual booth in the back, passing tables and chairs littered with patrons from all walks of life. Demons, like Maere himself, included.
Who am I? the Bedtime Spook
Meaning: “Nightmare” in Old English
Relationship Status: Single Available
Sex: Yes Male
Motel 89’s sign flickered obnoxiously over Room 804.
Maere’s feet dangled over the edge of the shabby but comfortable bed. His frame elongated across the dimpled, musty covers, face partially buried in the lump, twice folded pillow. It’s warmer than expected for this time of year, and especially around these parts. Snow was forecast from tomorrow onward but all they’d seen was rain. Icy pellets of water descending from the broken skies. It was wet, miserable nights like this that would see him sleeping undisturbed. The brutish, demonic snoring drowned out by the bellowing thunder. His unconscious state could be determined by the amount of empty liquor bottles scattered around the room; propped up on the television stand, on the bedside tables, the bench tops. Hell, somehow he’s managed to get a handful in the bathroom sink, the water left inadvertently running at a trickle.
Maere wore confidence like the Devil wore a suit. With a rise of a shoulder in a nonchalant manner, he shrugs. ‘You may call me God if you wish, but I’d much prefer Daddy.’ There’s a glint of humour behind those void-filled eyes. 😈