14. [Chapter Fourteen: Lovers]
This is a paradise specifically set up for murderers.
I'm not sure if coming to the club to see Lawrence was a good idea. I mean, when couples reunite after a long separation, they should definitely be passionate, either going to a hotel and making love, or going on a romantic date, kissing passionately, and spending all their time together. I'm talking about normal people; I know Lawrence isn't one of them, and I know that since we broke up, Lawrence, this wolf in sheep's clothing, has been walking among the sheep without actually biting anyone—he's been suffering terribly. I don't want Lawrence to go through that same ordeal in front of me, but to rape me after only a few words upon meeting—isn't that a bit too much?
I should have yelled at him and demanded he promise me he wouldn't abandon me again. There are countless ways to discipline and manipulate someone, yet he chose the one that would break my heart the most. But when I woke up and saw Lawrence right beside me, skin to skin, I suddenly couldn't muster any anger.
I lay in his bathtub, feeling only a dull ache, which meant he had already cleaned me up. My arm, where I had bitten, was wrapped in a waterproof bandage, and my back was against Lawrence's chest. He was gently washing my hair, and my heart melted instantly. I almost wanted him to do something even more extreme. Of course, it was just a thought; my body definitely couldn't handle Lawrence's sexual intensity right now. Even more terrifying was the fact that if I said it aloud, Lawrence would undoubtedly act on it without hesitation. I could feel him still half-erect, because I was sitting between his legs, and his erection was pressing against me.
"Are you awake?" Lawrence's hand massaged my scalp gently. I comfortably closed my eyes, leaned against his chest, and obediently hummed in response. I was almost asleep again when I suddenly remembered something important, "How did I get here?"
“After you passed out, I told the waiter through the door that there was nothing for him to worry about…” Lawrence’s deep voice was very soothing; listening to him was like listening to a bedtime story. “I dressed you in the spare suit I had left at the club, and carried you to my car…” I was half-asleep, vaguely feeling his hand exploring my lower abdomen. “We ran into Durand when we left, and he asked me what you were to me…”
Wait, his hand is reaching towards my lower abdomen. I have to stop him, but I can't bear the consequences of angering him again. I don't dare to fight back, so I can only look at him with pleading eyes. I really can't do this anymore; I won't be able to get out of bed tomorrow. I don't want to miss his new book launch.
But he hugged me from behind, turned his head and whispered in my ear, "...I told Durand that you are my lover."
My heart is about to explode. I can almost see fireworks rising into the sky before my eyes, swirling and scattering, their sparks gently crackling in the night, sending shivers down my spine. Am I dreaming? Or is this paradise specifically for murderers?
After that, I let him touch me as he pleased. Lawrence's lips traced my cheek, pressed against my ear, kissed my neck, sucked on my collarbone, and licked my nipples. His hands, meanwhile, lingered beneath the surface, caressing my inner thighs, kneading my buttocks, occasionally flicking my penis, scratching my already empty scrotum with his fingernails. Aroused by his teasing, I nestled in his arms, my body trembling slightly, but I didn't resist, letting him take my warmth to alleviate his physical hunger. Lawrence didn't push me down again; I thought that meant he was admitting his mistake. Could I really expect him to apologize? I'd rather he didn't. That wouldn't be like Lawrence.
All in all, we soaked in the bathtub for two hours. I was already a bit unsteady on my feet, and the steam in the bathroom made me even more dizzy. I couldn't walk, so Lawrence had to carry me to the bed. He sat down at his desk, legs crossed, propping his head up with his hand and smiling at me. Now I know what he was writing during those nights we stayed in motels. It was our story. He collected it into a book, compiled it into a novel manuscript, and sent it to Durham for revisions before finally publishing it.
Neither of us spoke, we just stared at each other through the air. There's a saying that when you're with someone who truly loves you, even if you don't say anything, you won't feel awkward, you won't feel the need to break the silence. Only when you're with someone who doesn't love you do you need to fill every single second, leaving no room for anything else, afraid that the other person will lose interest and leave. It's the same in a crowd; once a lively discussion starts, it must continue indefinitely, and you can't suddenly fall silent, otherwise it will make everyone feel extremely uncomfortable.
But there's another saying: being in love can cause skin hunger. At first, Lawrence and I were sitting on the edge of the bed, and I was leaning against the corner of the table. Later, I don't know who made the first move, but we drew closer and closer like two magnetic poles attracting each other, until finally Lawrence was sitting on the edge of the bed and I was sitting on his lap, and we naturally kissed.
Lawrence pulled a book from under his pillow and handed it to me. It was called *The Turnpike Killers*. Not *The Turnpike Killer*, nor *The Turnpike Butcher*. It wasn't just Lawrence's story. And the author's name on the cover wasn't just "Warner Essack," there was another one, "Ian Ramrey." This time I didn't need to do any permutations; it was obviously me. Rain Mayer had a pseudonym.
“This is the first one printed,” Lawrence rested his chin on my shoulder and tilted his head to kiss my cheek. “It’s for you.”
My face flushed red, and I nodded shyly, my heart pounding like a drum. I nestled comfortably in Lawrence's arms, surrounded by his scent, and turned to the dedication page of the book.
Dedicated to my puppy, who loves my brutality, my broken heart, my love, and me.
I smiled, silently repeating the name hundreds of times in my mind before finally turning to the character introduction page. The first glance nearly made me faint again. He was using both of our real names! It started with "Caesar Lawrence," followed by "Ray Meier," and most of the others were missing either their surnames or first names. These were all victims; Lawrence faithfully recorded how they introduced themselves when they boarded our death truck, never adding or deleting anything. This book was entirely Lawrence and my crime record, absolutely true. I couldn't even imagine the explosive consequences if it were published. This was way cooler than the "Zodiac Killer" sending coded messages to the police station with such mystique; it was something a complete madman like Lawrence would do. The "Zodiac Killer" was pathetic; the "Highway Butcher" deserved to be remembered in history.
I continued flipping through the pages, and when I came across one—a few, a few dozen—unspeakable chapters, my face instantly turned crimson, I slammed the book shut, and stared at Lawrence in disbelief. How many people will watch us make love after tomorrow's release? Hundreds of thousands, millions, tens of millions? How long will they watch? Years, decades, centuries? It's all Lawrence's fault; I'll never be ashamed to use the name "Ray Meier" again. He took it upon himself to give me the pen name "Ian Lemley," and from then on, I can only use a pseudonym like him, secretly sharing our real names—those unique, true, original names registered in heaven at birth, in purgatory after death, and forever imprinted on our souls. I'm so happy.
Lawrence said the book he gave me was about his imperfect first murder. Because he got the order wrong that time, he developed an obsessive-compulsive tendency to not allow his victims to die before being dragged away. That story was self-deprecating. Because that "self-deprecation" was so unlike Lawrence, it left a particularly deep impression on me. Lawrence is the most arrogant, vain, and proud man I've ever met. He only ever satirizes others, rarely mocking himself. He never reflects on himself, so he never suffers from internal conflict. He even never has nightmares, which is quite amazing. I also like his imperfections.
Lawrence described his pen name this way: "It was a jumbled name made up of random letters. I had just killed someone when I put pen to paper, and I was mentally unstable. There's no way around it, the first time is always a mess, whether it's murder or sex. Humans are creatures that constantly learn. So, I wrote that book in one go, gave it a jumbled title, gave myself a jumbled pen name, and submitted it. It got accepted. After that, I never had that kind of inspiration again, so I just kept killing."
"Is the first time always chaotic?" I asked Lawrence.
“Yes,” Lawrence said, “so after you shot Rodin, I helped you cut off his head. I wanted you to think that I killed him.”
I remember that Christmas, after we made love in the snow, Lawrence told me, "I'm just cleaning up for you; you've already killed him." I was so naive then, I didn't understand and thought he was joking. Turns out, Lawrence had never lied to me.
Why didn't you tell me then?
Lawrence smiled without saying a word. I could only guess. I guessed he was afraid I'd get confused and run away from him, since he hadn't put the collar on me yet.
I think I've been a bit confused all along. I was the one who shot Rodin, and Lawrence didn't do anything to him; in fact, he was helping him the whole time. If Rodin was still alive then, he would have gone to Lawrence for help, not asked me to save him. I projected my own thoughts onto him. My subconscious thought that Lawrence was more terrifying than me, and I was kinder than Lawrence, so Rodin should have escaped with me from Lawrence. His plea for help was my hallucination. It was me who was pleading for help. But I'm saved now; I'm no longer confused. I clearly remember killing two people, both for Lawrence. I'm a conscious serial killer now.
On my first night in New York, I survived, avoiding another round of Lawrence's abuse. The next day, I was woken by an argument downstairs. Carefully, I lifted Lawrence's arm from my waist and gently placed it on the pillow that smelled of me. I tiptoed out of bed and went to the window to see what was going on. Two drivers were fighting over the last parking space downstairs. I looked closer and recognized one of them as the driver who had picked me up from the airport the day before; he was supposed to take me to the press conference today. Lawrence was also woken up, irritably putting his arm around my shoulder and looking down. He recognized the other driver as his. We both leaned against the windowsill, laughing so hard we could barely stand. We quickly got ready, went downstairs, calmed things down, and then got into Lawrence's car together. I'll never forget the look of utter astonishment on my driver's face when he saw Lawrence's arm around my waist.
At the press conference, I was moved to the front row, right next to Lawrence. I was restless, not only because Lawrence's solemn, priestly demeanor, with his shirt buttoned to the top and his expression like a preacher, aroused my desire, but more importantly, because Lawrence had been so rough with me at the club the day before, my butt hurt so much I couldn't sit still. But I still managed to listen to the entire press conference and then went with him to the celebration dinner. We danced. Lawrence was truly perfect; he even danced the waltz beautifully. I was so dizzy from his spinning that I accidentally fell into his arms, and he kissed me in front of everyone. The next day, our kissing photo appeared in the *New York Times*, and I tucked that clipping into the new book Lawrence gave me. The third day, at the book signing, he gave me his first autograph. But actually, that wasn't the first autograph he ever gave me. The night he was featured in The New York Times, he wrote his name all over my body with a marker while we were making love.
I think my supervising boss must have seen that photo. Maybe they've already started looking for Sartre, maybe not. But I know we need to hurry and leave.
A note from the author:
The plot of Lawrence's first novel is adapted from the film *The House That Jack Built*, released in 2018. It's incredibly bizarre, but of extremely high artistic merit, and I consider it a masterpiece. Director and screenwriter Lars von Trier was born in Denmark in 1956, roughly the same age as Lawrence. Here's a film review that I think is exceptionally well-written:
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