12. Haunted

Dora stood in the Alibi—the old Alibi; the way her father had left it. The Alibi she grew up in, with the cracked floors, the splintered tabletops, mismatched chairs, and patchwork upholstery. The way it looked before the massacre.

The lights flickered and dimmed.

She was not alone.

Wisps of black smoke emerged from the shadows, crawled across the floor, and swirled around her ankles. In a sudden gust, all the smoke swept into the center of the room and coalesced into him. The man in the red mask.

As if to prove he was solid, he held out his gloved hand. She hesitated, looking into the glowing white eyes of his mask. He removed his gloves and beckoned again. This time she took it.

In a rush of wind, he swept her to the pool table.

He had her pinned. His body pressed hers into the table so she could not get away.

But she didn't want to escape. Before she knew it, she had taken off his mask and her lips were all over his, as eager and hungry as he was.

He lifted her onto the pool table so he wouldn't have to bend down to kiss her. He took off her glasses and ran his hands through her hair, down her arms, until he reached her hips. He slid his hand under her waistband, eager to continue.

But she pushed him away. He got the message. He stepped back, removing his boots, armor, and fatigues. Watching him, she slid off her top to catch up, but before she had tossed it away, he was back, removing her jeans, sneakers, and underwear, caressing and kissing her body as he discarded each piece of her clothing.

Fully naked, she crawled back on the table and he followed. In seconds they were entwined and lost in each other. Her hands roamed all over the scarred skin of his hard arms and back, while his hands kneaded the smooth skin on her soft chest and thighs.

It was the best she had ever felt. She wanted it to last forever, but they were going too fast. If they kept on like this, the passion would engulf them in flames and burn out too quickly. But it had been so long since she had been this close to another person. She needed this. The hunger in the way he moved told her that he needed it too.

She pushed him away to allow them both to breathe, to pace themselves, to feel each other. She cupped his face and directed his gaze at her. He was fully unmasked for the first time, but his features felt familiar, as if he had never worn that mask in the first place. His eyes were pale blue, almost gray.

His movements finally slowed and she slowed down with him. They savored the moment, and each other. She was losing herself in his eyes.

Then without warning, he flipped her over and pinned her to the table, massaging her neck and shoulders with his mouth. She felt his hot breath on her back. He was rough. The table beneath her was as hard and unyielding as he was. But she didn't mind. She loved it. The pressure was building and release was so close.

Something moved in the corner. He didn't notice, but she did.

A heavy-set man lurked by the bar. There was nothing above his shoulders. He was holding his own severed head in his hands. It was glaring at her.

With empty eye sockets. Oozing blood.

Dora shrieked and tumbled off the pool table. Her lover dissipated into a cloud of black smoke. The cloud roiled and swirled, growing into a turbulent haze that engulfed the whole barroom, casting everything in shadows.

Seven more men materialized around her to join the first, their loud breathing raspy and wet. They were ghouls, misshapen and broken, riddled with bullet wounds, and covered in blood. She recognized them all. Their faces have been haunting her for weeks.

"Go away!" Dora screamed. "It wasn't me! I didn't do anything!"

A broken man shambled forward from the crowd, holding out a gun by the barrel, urging her to take it. He grunted something apelike she could not understand.

"No, I don't want to..." she pleaded.

He limped closer, his voice hacking. He thrust the gun at her. Her father's Colt.

She looked at his face. She knew this one especially well. The bloody hole in his cheek where she had shot him.

It was him. Her first kill.

He smiled at her recognition, blood dripping from his shattered grin. Glassy white eyes leered at her exposed body.

"No, don't..." She crawled away, trying to cover herself, but she bumped into another body. She looked up.

It was Leslie, clad in a bloodstained lab coat, glaring at her from behind cracked glasses, her a face full of contempt and loathing. She shouted, her voice thunderous and deafening. "Whore!"

Dora jolted awake.

Her heart pumped so hard she thought her chest would burst. Her ears rang and she was covered in sweat.

She threw off the covers, and put her feet on the ground. The cold concrete on her bare soles refreshed her a little, and she remembered where she was. The cellar underneath the bar, sleeping on the cot. Her father's hideout.

It all came back in a rush. Putting the finishing touches on the bar. Unpacking the liquor, printing the menus, setting up the cash register. Begging promoters on social media for a mention. The bar would re-open later this week, but there was still so much to do. She had been too tired to walk back home, even though Rochelle tried to insist on getting an Uber. Dora argued that every penny counted, so she decided to crash in the cellar. It happened often these days.

Peeling off her sweaty tank top and tossing it away, she stood. At the sink, she splashed cold water on her face and chest to dispel the turbid thoughts and feelings twisting inside her. Sheer guilt and utter shame... and unrelenting arousal. Altogether she felt... dirty. The ghost of Leslie's voice echoed in her head. "Whore!"

So many people killed in such little time, while she watched—and what had she done to save them? Nothing. In some cases, she had almost prayed for their deaths. Yet, here she was, yearning, longing for the man that had killed most of them, and helped cover up the one she killed herself.

Despite her hopes that the nightmares would fade away with time, they persisted instead. It was always the same cast of ghouls, but the person berating her rotated. Leslie, Carla, her mother, Rochelle, Holly... her father. They were getting worse, and more frequent, all while the sex with Red Hood was getting more passionate, more rough, and her climax was getting closer and more intense.

The bottle of whiskey they had shared was still on the coffee table. The expensive-as-fuck Lagavulin that was older than either of them. She hadn't touched it since that night, but now she took it and gulped down a long swig.

It burned in her throat the whole way down, but she didn't mind. It hurt in the best way. It tasted like him. Its scent was on his breath the last time they kissed.

Dora washed it down with several handfuls of water from the sink. There was lots to do tomorrow and she couldn't afford to be hungover.

As she laid back down on the cot, drowsiness was already enveloping her, and Red Hood edged his way into her mind again. Shirtless, unmasked. In her dream, she had seen his face and recognized it. It was the first time ever. He had beautiful blue eyes that felt comforting and familiar to her. However, his features were already fading away. She pinched her eyes shut, trying to recall his face, but she couldn't picture him, as typical of dreams. She could never remember what he looked like when she woke up. What did it matter? She didn't really know what he looked like, it was just her horny imagination running wild, desperate for intimacy.

She didn't let it frustrate her, because still seared and permanent in her mind was the feel of his body, the smell of his hair, and the sound of his voice. She let those memories play as she slid her hand down her stomach... to the place he didn't have the chance to touch the last time they were together.

Notes

I took a personal challenge with this chapter: Just how sexy can I make this while not breaking FFN and DA's rules against pornography? Their biggest rule (in simplest terms) is against any graphic detailed description of genitalia engaging in a sexual act, which I think I avoided here. I personally think this is the cleanest sexy scene I've ever written, but those of you that have read my other work, feel free to compare and let me know. And correct me if I'm wrong, but does AO3 have less strict rules about sexual content than FFN and DA? Let me know. If so, if you guys want, I won't hold back next time.

I know this is a very short chapter (I think the shortest), but the scene that comes next was getting too long. This scene right here was also a long time coming, because I realized (almost too late) that I never properly addressed how witnessing the murders of so many people affected Dora mentally and emotionally. Maybe I'll make recurring nightmares a thing in the second draft. I'm thinking of just posting scenes as I write them, instead of trying to compile multiple scenes under a theme as a chapter. That way, you guys wait less for chapters. Thoughts?

Version 41.1