Owen Minor stood in the shadows and the rain. That fact that he kept shivering had nothing to do with the cold or wet.
He was so goddamn turned on he couldn’t bear it.
Owen leaned against the alley wall behind Patty’s store, his coat pulled tight around him, head cocked to listen. Blowflies, some as thick as the last joint of a woman’s little finger, crawled all over his face and throat and down into his clothes. His hands deep in his pockets, pushed through the slits he’d made so he could touch himself. As he did now. The wind had been blowing steadily all day and into the evening, but the shivers began as soon as he’d touched her hand. The little Vietnamese woman. That broken doll with all those memories inked onto her skin. And after her, the psychic. He had so many things to play with, so many memories to devour.
First, though, was Patty Cakes. Her. Her. For sure, her.
His hand moved frantically beneath his clothes.
Her memories were wonderful. So deeply awful. So beautiful.
The shivers continued all the way through his orgasm.
Aftershocks of it lingered long after Owen Minor got into his car and drove away.