Page 55 of Doubts of the Egoist (Egoist #3)

Yugo had been with many men. He liked them, too, and sometimes felt something like jealousy, or so he thought.

Now he knew for sure—the possessiveness of his things had nothing to do with the excruciating mental decomposition he was now experiencing.

He loathed the wanton display of Kuon on someone else’s bed and would have preferred the coup de grace of a real headshot to the suffocating impotence it caused him.

Yugo smoked, hoping the cigarette fumes would dull his senses and keep his mind cool. But the chain of puffs failed to dispel the feeling of irreversibility. Instead, it filled his mouth with the sickening taste of ash and blood. The taste of betrayal.

Just like a broken mirror, their relationship could not be seamlessly repaired.

The ugly cracks and missing fragments would forever remind him of what it once looked like.

It was impossible to look into such a mirror and ignore the harsh lines that mutilated the reflection and pretend that nothing had happened to it.

Red-hot rage won the battle in his chest. Creeping upward, it scorched his throat but had not yet reached his head. Still, Yugo was sure if he had a gun, Kuon would be dead. Rick too.

No one had ever been allowed to see his things in such a state without his permission or touch them without his consent. No one had ever disgraced him like this.

Murderous fever rekindled and flared again.

A puff, then a loud exhalation. Gray smoke briefly smoothed the outlines of the sleeping forest.

A broken mirror couldn’t be recycled either.

Parts could be reused for trinkets or rearranged into modern art, but Yugo never cared for avant-garde, and broken mirrors brought bad luck.

If so, wouldn’t it be easier to destroy the mirror?

Crush it into dust so that nothing would remain, and watch the wind scatter the diamond powder as a final farewell.

Wouldn’t that be the most satisfying ending?

He thought so, then why the hell did he hesitate?

His fists clenched, crushing the still-burning cigarette in his palm. Fire scalded. The pain sobered him, but instead of telling Greg to stop the car or wrapping his hands around Kuon’s neck, he clenched his teeth so hard that red stained his vision. Something inside him just couldn’t let go.

He dug his nails into the cigarette burn on his palm, patiently awaiting the outcome of the bloody battle raging within him.

The black python of hate and jealousy coiled around his heart, tightening its rings with each exhalation, doing nothing to ease the growing bloodlust.

Red. Black. Red. Black. Red. Black again.

An annoying, maddening flicker clawed at Kuon’s nerves.

A high-pitched sound pierced his brain like a thousand needles.

This must be what dogs feel when exposed to ultrasound.

With a groan, he opened his eyes, and the world crashed down on him, overwhelming.

Gasoline… cigarette smoke… the roar of an engine…

light and shadow… the howling of the wind going through the foliage…

the scorching glare of the stunning sun.

Sounds and smells came at him from every direction, assaulting his senses.

Palms over ears, he shut his eyes, hiding in the shadows of his eyelids.

The red and black flicker returned, drawing another groan from his throat.

His head bobbed with the car’s motion, a dull pain blooming behind his left eye. Nausea kicked his stomach up to his throat. Continuing to lie down seemed impossible. He lowered his palms and propped himself up on one elbow, hoping gravity would return his stomach to its proper place.

The road had changed; he knew it by the scent pouring through the half-open window, washing away the sweet cigarette smoke—clay, wet wood, and pine needles.

The temperature dropped, as if they had driven into the shadows after too long in the sun.

Even the annoying flicker stopped. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammered, and Kuon scrunched his face as if the bird had attacked his temple.

He opened his dry eyes, brought his fingers to his throbbing head, and found a hot sutured wound just above his temple. It was swollen, but he felt no indentations beneath the damaged tissue.

He blinked, unable to remember how he’d earned such an injury.

Searching for clues, he dragged his gaze around. Laced through the wood, the road was clothed in a dramatic patchwork of light and shadow. Shades of green and yellow flickered behind the window.

Looking outside without his shades hurt his eyes, so he turned away toward the black leather of the car’s interior.

The rear passenger seat of the SUV, where he lay on his side with his knees bent and his bandaged feet pressed against the door, was too narrow for him to fit properly.

The pressure in his neck from staying in the uncomfortable position too long gave him a headache.

Unlike Tobias’ “Batmobile,” Yugo’s car was modest and slim. Kuon couldn’t identify the model, but judging by the interior, he probably wouldn’t give it a second glance. Perhaps that was why the Black Duke chose it, because Kuon doubted he was short of money.

Two people sat in the front seats. He spotted Greg’s upper face in the rearview mirror, and the sweet smell of cigarettes gave Yugo away.

What happened?

Kuon remembered parts of last night, but they were vague, jumbled, and more like disjointed pieces of a jigsaw puzzle rather than a chain of coherent memories.

He glanced at his bare legs. The brisk breeze licked his calves, thighs, and balls, making it the most intimate contact Kuon’d had in a week.

Yugo’s jacket was thrown over his torso.

He rubbed his forehead, recalling the stinging slap Yugo had given him, the monochrome room, a shadow blocking the doorway, the barking of the puppies. And then… Kuon froze, finding gaps in his memory. Nothing…

He rubbed his face with both palms, wincing at the pain in his temple.

Well, obviously, not nothing, or it wouldn’t hurt like hell.

He scrutinized himself again. The jacket draped over his bare body neither warmed nor covered him. Kuon wondered if it was there to protect him from the cold, or to spare Yugo from the offensive sight.

How did I get here in the first place, and why don’t I remember anything? He moved his toes up and down, examining his bandaged feet, then touched his temple again. Someone must have patched me up. Where did such a wound even come from? Did Yugo hit me?

Kuon glared up. If looks could burn, Yugo’s ear would’ve caught fire, yet he didn’t flinch.

Free will is a lie. No matter where I go—all roads lead to Yugo. The thought was demotivating, and Kuon hurried to focus on something else.

As if sensing the movement, Greg glanced in the rearview mirror. Kuon read an almost childlike confusion on his usually brutal face. Not wanting to make it easy for him, he asked, “Didn’t you say I was free to go?”

A muscle twitched under Greg’s eye. He glanced at Yugo, then brought his emotions under control. His voice fell flat in the tense silence. “Sorry, lad.”

Shove your sorry where the sun never shines… Kuon thought, shielding his photophobic eyes from the abusive sun with his forearm.

He needed to talk to Yugo but didn’t trust his voice to stay calm, nor did he know what to say.

Anger returned tenfold, threatening to erupt in a chain of bitter words, and Kuon clenched his teeth tighter. Yugo would never take emotionally charged words seriously, so he waited until his throat stopped spasming.

He rehearsed the conversation in his catatonic mind.

What do you want from me? You already have Mio, so go back to him; don’t make him cry again. I wish you a happy life, you bastard. But nothing came out of his mouth. Kuon knew he had to say something better than what sounded like hurt feelings. Something that would make Yugo listen.

He looked at his captor with what he hoped was confident neutrality, but Yugo’s bland disregard for his presence only magnified his discomfort.

“I’m listening,” Kuon said, staring at Yugo’s battered profile. He looked tired, pale, and ragged. His once-white shirt had faded to gray, his left cufflink was missing, and the blood-stained cuff hung loosely around his forearm. He sported a few fresh bruises. “Yugo.”

Yugo sat with his shoulder propped against the window, one hand covering his eyes, the other holding a whiskey bottle.

A smoldering cigarette was squeezed between his teeth, thin smoke wafting into the narrow slit of the window.

The sound of Kuon’s voice set a barely perceptible tension in his shoulders.

“Is Rick fine?” Kuon pressed.

Yugo ignored him.

“Listen… I’m sorry I left without a word.

I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.

I should have waited for you, so we could talk, but I thought you’d understand even if I didn’t.

” The politically correct words he forced himself to say felt thick in his mouth.

“I didn’t leave on a whim. I thought about it for days, and I…

realized that we live in completely different worlds.

I have no place in yours. Whatever’s going on there, I…

can’t be a part of it. And frankly, I didn’t think you’d even notice I was gone…

or that you’d actually care. I’m sorry you wasted a trip, but I don’t want to go back. ”

“Shut up!” Yugo hissed. “No one asked what you want.”

Fists clenched in impotent rage, Kuon growled, “Not until you tell me what happened at Rick’s.”

Yugo grimaced as if the mere sound of this name hurt him. His upper lip curled, and a low hiss merged with the rumble of the engine, “Shut up, or you’ll spend the rest of the trip in the trunk!”

Kuon opened his mouth to retort but bit his lip as Greg slowly shook his head.

The feeling of defeat crushed him. He could have tried to push the issue, or even fight, but he knew he wouldn’t win, and spending the rest of the way in the trunk wouldn’t help anyone.

Yugo smoked cigarette after cigarette, washing each puff down with a gulp of alcohol.

The sun glared. Smoke swirled. Greg drove down the narrow road, lacing through the morning forest. Birds chirped, and this splendor rubbed Kuon the wrong way because his stomach churned with a dreadful notion. What if Rick’s dead?

Kuon closed his eyes, and the long, agonizing wait began.