Marrow

KYRIE

By the time we’re standing at the gates of damnation, Jack Sorensen will beg me to throw him to the Devil. I will paint our path to Hell with his blood. With his dreams. His aspirations. His failures, each one rendered by my hand. I will leave a trail of his destruction behind us that will shine for all eternity. And I will enjoy every fucking second of his torturous journey…

Just as soon as my acceptance speech for the Allistair Brentwood Philanthropy Awards is over.

I scan the crowd. Dr. Sorensen’s absence will become a thin scar over my memory of this day, cut with the precision of a scalpel, just like he intended. Nevertheless, my smile is undimmed. I clap with enthusiasm for the other winners. When Joy Lin brings over champagne, we clink glasses and toast one another. I’m just as effervescent as the bubbles clinging to the flute. But when they slide down my throat, they burst in the heat of my rage.

“Is Jack backstage? I haven’t seen him all night. Is he actually here?” Joy asks, her eyes darting across the room of black ties and bleached smiles before her gaze lands on mine, heavy with scrutiny. I smooth my hand over the chestnut waves cascading over my shoulder as I give her a nonplussed shrug.

“No big deal if he’s not. I’m sure Dr. Cannon will present,” I reply, only allowing myself to grind my teeth when Joy looks away with a grimace.

Of course he’s not fucking here.

Sure enough, as the host sets up the award for Philanthropy in Education, it’s Dr. Cannon’s name he announces to give the introductory speech, not Dr. Sorensen.

No, not Dr. Sorensen.

Jack Sorensen, whose research wouldn’t be funded without my efforts to raise over two million dollars for his field school. Whose students have been awarded scholarships from the fund I created. Whose accolades have been stacked on the foundation that I built. Without me, Jack Sorensen would be just another brilliant academic whose work shines like a distant star in the sky, pretty but underwhelming, always battling to be freed from the black blanket of mediocrity. Because of me, Jack Sorensen shines like the harvest moon.

I am the sun whose light reflects on his cold, remote mask.

And I am the celestial fire that will destroy him.

“…and since joining the West Paine University faculty three years ago, Dr. Roth has dedicated her free time to enhancing the W. M. Bass Forensic College Field Research School, enabling the university to acquire nearly fifty acres in field research space with our newly-opened specialized laboratory facilities on-site,” Dr. Cannon says as images of students working in the pristine lab appear on the screen backdrop, stealing my attention from spiraling thoughts of murder by match and gasoline. “She has played a critical role in the body donation program, has been instrumental in creating a world-class academic conference that draws the best forensic professionals to West Paine University annually, and founded a scholarship program that supports the education of three deserving graduate students each year.” Dr. Cannon finds me beneath the spotlights illuminating the stage and smiles with genuine warmth. “I am honored to present Dr. Roth with the Brentwood Award for Philanthropy in Education.”

The crowd claps and I rise from my seat next to Joy. My smile widens, words of congratulations guiding my way to the stage. I gather the floor-length skirt of my gown as I ascend the steps and stride to the podium to shake Dr. Cannon’s hand. His sweaty, hot palm grips mine and I hold the etched glass award by its mahogany base as the event photographer takes our picture. When Dr. Cannon finally lets go and steps back, I look across the room.

My attention snags on a tall figure in the shadows close to the doors. He leans against the wall with a drink in hand, perfectly at ease in the absence of the light.

Jack Fucking Sorensen.

I force my gaze away and smile across the audience. “Thank you so much, Dr. Cannon, for the wonderful introduction. And to the Brentwood Foundation, I deeply appreciate the opportunity to not only accept this award, but also to shamelessly plug our university’s exceptional forensics program. I see you over there, Mrs. Spencer. Don’t think I’m not coming by your table before the night is done,” I joke, and the crowd laughs as the ancient woman waves, stacks of diamonds glittering on her fingers. “But in all seriousness, I owe my gratitude to generous donors like Mrs. Spencer. Since I joined West Paine University, I had a vision of what we could become: one of the top forensics research facilities in the country. Your support has allowed us to achieve and maintain that status. Our students are the best of the next generation of forensic scientists and crime scene investigators, and they are learning and honing their skills in a world-class academic environment. Our faculty is leading the field in forensic research, contributing to significant advancements in forensic archaeology, entomology, and botany. These achievements would not be possible without our donors. I’m humbled by this recognition and would like to thank my colleagues who are instrumental in our ongoing success.”

I proceed to list off every name I have memorized. Hugh Cannon. Joy Lin. Amal, Christine, Luke. Madeleine Gauthier, even though she’s as useful as tits on a rock. Brad Thompson, even though he’s often dim and sometimes a douche. Mike Mitchner, the head custodian of the labs, even he gets a shout-out.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

The one name I do not speak is Jack Sorensen.

He was going to be at the top of my list. The name that draws so much attention to our academic program. The head lecturer of our Forensic Anthropology department, whose research in human decomposition has put us on the map.

I leave him out.

I find Jack in the shadows, imagining every detail of his face, his cold gray eyes veiled by darkness. I hold his figure with a charming smile. “Now that I’ve named literally everyone but my dog and my second cousin twice removed, I just wanted to say a final thank you,” I say as the audience laughs. My eyes stay latched to the phantom at the door as I raise the award, then I slide my gaze to a table in the middle of the front row. “To the Brentwood family, who continue Allistair’s legacy of generosity and commitment to others with such a lovely event. I’m honored. Thank you.”

The audience claps. Photos flash. I smile. I wave. I descend the steps to more words of congratulations and stride back to my table.

Joy passes me a champagne flute but holds on to the stem. “You forgot someone,” she says.

I pry the chilled glass from her fingers. “I’m not sure what you mean, Joy. Cheers.” I clink my flute to hers and turn away to the sound of her sigh.

“Congratulations, Kyrie,” Dr. Cannon says as he sits to my right and picks up my award to examine the lettering etched on the glass. “Another accolade to add to your impressive collection. Will you be using this one as a bookend or a paperweight?”

“Neither. I’ll polish it daily and I might even keep it at the very center of my desk.” …Where it will surely irritate Jack every time he’s forced to walk past my office.

“I hope my introduction was sufficient. I do apologize about Jack, it must have been a pressing conflict to keep him tied up.”

“The introduction was lovely, Hugh. Thank you,” I say with a pat on his weathered hand as I paste on a saccharine smile. “Actually, I believe I saw Dr. Sorensen arrive while I was on stage. Do you think he’d have time to speak with Mrs. Spencer? She’s about due for her annual donation and you know how much she loves speaking with him.”

Dr. Cannon’s onyx gaze flows across the room as he hunts his quarry until I gesture toward the doors where Jack’s presence still lingers, a malevolent specter haunting the shadows.

“Ah yes,” he says as he pushes his chair back and stands, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as they slosh in his whisky. “Excellent idea, Dr. Roth. Have a lovely evening.”

I follow Dr. Cannon’s hunched shoulders as he weaves through tables and guests, but really it’s Jack’s form my gaze latches on to. We both know he can’t escape our boss now that he’s been spotted, and it’s common knowledge that he despises sweet-talking the old woman out of her cash.

A malicious smile blooms across my lips. I know he can see it. I feel the cold kiss of his eyes on my skin.

“Hey, Kyrie. Great speech. Congrats,” a voice says, replacing the empty space of Hugh’s absence. Brad’s hand drops on my bare shoulder as he takes the seat to my right. “Love the dress, by the way. I bet Donald Whitmore was ready to throw bags of money onto the stage.”

I barely resist an eye roll as Brad winks. “Thank you, Bradley. Having a good night so far?” I tip my head toward the glass of beer he takes a long draft from before I notice the look in his eyes as he follows movement across the room. It looks almost like suspicion, or concern. Maybe even a touch of fear.

I follow his line of sight, straight to Jack Sorensen.

Jack drifts behind Dr. Cannon on a winding path through the tables toward Mrs. Spencer. He doesn’t just walk, he stalks, like a panther hunting in long grass, his movement fluid but powerful, purposeful. Lethally beautiful, with his short dark hair and strong jaw and fluid grace beneath a sharp black suit. I shift my attention back to our table before he looks in our direction, and despite everything, it still nearly hurts to look away.

“Yeah,” Brad finally says with a brittle smile. He doesn’t sound convincing at all. When my interest in his reaction registers, he tries a little harder. “Yeah, what about you? Having fun?”

My eyes slide to Jack, his back turned as he and Dr. Cannon stop at Mrs. Spencer’s table. “You know me, Brad,” I reply as I savor every moment of tension creeping through Jack’s shoulders. “If I’m not having fun, I’m making it.” I knock back the rest of my glass and rise.

I become sucked into the swell of the evening, waves of conversation and glasses of champagne coursing through my veins. It cleanses me just a little, debriding a festering wound, leaving raw edges behind. But something else remains. A tiny thorn. A barb that burrows beneath skin, making its presence known every time it’s prodded….every time I catch sight of Brad.

That same look of trepidation from earlier seems to linger in his eyes. His fingers fidget around his glass. He struggles to converse with ease when usually it’s a mission to shut him up. Brad loves this kind of event. His easy smile and rugged professor looks make up for his academic mediocrity and his occasionally douchey comment. He’s often on the prowl for someone to fuck, and when I’m bored I sometimes oblige. But tonight he’s just…off.

“Everything okay, Brad?” I ask, my voice quiet enough that only he will hear. His eyes dart from where they’re caught on something across the room, but I’m able to follow the trajectory of his interest. I know he was just looking at Mrs. Spencer’s table where Jack still lingers, his back facing us.

“Yeah,” Brad replies. He pauses on a breath as though he wants to say more, but he raises his glass to his lips instead and takes a long sip.

“Are you sure something’s not bothering you?”

“I…” he trails off, draining the rest of his beer as his gaze flicks again toward Mrs. Spencer’s table. He glances at his watch.

He’s going to run.

It’s like blood on a trail. Like a deer crashing through the woods, trying to evade a wolf. Something is there. And I need to know what it is.

“I think I’ve had enough of this gala. Want to get out of here?” I ask, dropping a hand onto Brad’s knee beneath the table. His eyes widen and for the first time tonight, it feels like his attention is truly on me when he gives a slight nod. “I’ll go first and order an Uber. Give me ten and meet me outside.”

I flash Brad a bright smile and stand, saying a few goodbyes as I make my way to the exit. When I glance toward Mrs. Spencer’s table, Jack is gone.

Outside, the early November night is cool and clear, my breath fogging beneath the lamplight as I wait on the curb, my thin jacket draped over my shoulders. Brad doesn’t linger inside, fortunately, and joins me after ten minutes, opening the door of the Uber for me before heading to the other side of the vehicle. In twenty minutes, we’re pulling up to Brad’s home, a 1920s bungalow only a few blocks from my house.

I waste no time in going after what I want.

“What’s bothering you, Bradley?” I ask as I pull away from a kiss to gently push him down onto his bed, undoing the zipper of his dress pants and shimmying them and his briefs over his hips. I grasp his erection and he groans as I slide my grip down the shaft. “You seem distracted tonight.”

Brad hisses as I rake my fingernails over his balls. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice lost in a moan as I bend to lick the head of his cock, sucking it into my mouth. I swirl my tongue across the crown, my eyes never leaving his face as he tilts his head back. “Jesus, Kyrie.”

I take more of him into my mouth as the tension of the evening melts from his muscles. He eases into the pleasure of my touch, and I lavish him with licks and deep strokes and caresses. Brad’s breathing becomes ragged, his pulse pounding beneath my fingertips as I rest them on his inner thighs. When he seems centered on me I release him from my mouth, pumping his slick shaft as I reach for a condom in his nightstand.

“Better now, baby?” I ask when the condom is on and I lower myself onto his cock, grinding my hips for friction on my clit as Brad moans. “Tell me what’s bothering you. Let me take it away.”

I trail paths across Brad’s chest with my nails and pick up a rhythm of strokes, building my pleasure, scraping at a need that won’t be fully released. Brad’s palms find my breasts, calloused caresses roaming my flesh.

“The Bass Fields,” Brad says through gritted teeth as I reward him with deeper thrusts, spreading my legs wider. “Mason found discrepancies.”

My heart kicks into another gear and I fight to keep my rhythm undisrupted. “Mason? The master’s student?”

I hear Brad’s movement against the duvet as he nods in the dark. “First it was a body a few months ago. Donation records didn’t match with a body in that location. Mason couldn’t find the hyoid bone, though everything else was intact.”

A gentle laugh escapes my lips. I lean down to place a kiss to Brad’s neck. “You know that’s not definitive proof of anything, Bradley,” I whisper against his ear. “One of the other grad students might have messed up the records, or Madeleine might have entered the data incorrectly when she logged the locations. You know what she can be like.”

Brad’s hands roam my back. “That’s what I said.”

Something lingers in his words, hovering in the air between us. I push myself up and search the shadows of his face. “But?”

“A few days ago, Mason documented the pink teeth phenomenon on a male body. But he knew the man. Mason hadn’t told anyone, in case we prevented him from working on the body. It’s the last analysis he needs for his thesis. It was his uncle’s friend. He died in surgery.”

Surgery would definitely not result in asphyxiation, which would have caused the pink discoloration on the stems of the body’s teeth. And I do know a certain person who enjoys a good strangulation. Oh how naughty, Dr. Sorensen.

“The hyoid?”

“Intact.”

I hum a thoughtful purr, a thousand scenarios tumbling through my head. A familiar need churns low in my belly and I grind harder on Brad’s cock, pleasure unraveling with every thrust. I coo words of praise and sing Brad’s name until I come, and he drives his hips beneath me as he claims his own release. It’s over too quickly to feel anything more than a fading swirl of endorphins, and my heart rate already slows to a nearly normal rhythm by the time I’m climbing off Brad to rest at his side.

“Jack signed-off on both donations,” Brad whispers as he traces pensive patterns onto my arm. “He placed both bodies in the field. We need to look into the details, see if something is amiss with the donation records. Maybe take the most recent remains to the medical examiner and verify the identity against dental records.”

“Agreed,” I reply, nodding against his chest. “We need to be careful. If Jack is up to something, we don’t want to spook him or put Mason into a difficult position.” I push away from Brad before he can draw his arms tight around me, then I back away from the bed. “I just need the restroom, want anything while I’m up?”

“I’m good, babe.”

I turn before I cringe into the shadows, padding away into the dark, heading to the bathroom before continuing to the kitchen. I’m familiar enough with Brad’s place to make us a couple of drinks, taking the whisky on ice back with me to the bedroom. We don’t speak more about the discrepancies in the records, and I make sure to divert to other topics as we sip our drinks. But my mind roams back to the campus. To the grounds of the Bass Research Fields. To Jack Sorensen.

I stare up at the ceiling as Brad falls asleep. The mild sedative I dropped into his whisky keeps his breathing slow and even. When he starts to snore I rise, my movement silent as I rifle through his closet to retrieve a pair of his sweats, a hoodie, and his slippers. I give him one last check before I jog down the hall, changing in his laundry room. I leave out the back door and escape into the night, heading for my house, my smile sheathed by shadow.

Sometimes, the universe gives you exactly what you need. And I’m not the kind of girl to just take what it has to offer.

I’m the one to seize it.