Young Writers Society

“Winslow,” Reggie slurred as Winslow sat him on the edge of the bathtub and started undoing the spy’s clothing. “Where are we?”

“We’re in my bathroom and I’m taking off your blood covered clothes.”

Winslow worked on the twisted up silk tie, sliding his fingers in between the cloth and Reggie’s reddened neck. He carefully wrapped it around his hand and then stood up from his kneeling position to soak it in the sink. The sleep deprived detective probably couldn’t remember what to do with such fancy neck wear on a normal day and he certainly didn’t know how to deal with it now. While leaning over the sink he tried to think of the rules his mother had taught to his sister.

“Be careful with that tie, Winslow.”

“Hmm?”

Winslow gave his simple non-committal sigh as he carefully rubbed out the blood spot. Or maybe rubbed out wasn’t the best way to describe the current action.

“Because it costs more than you make in a single week.”

“How do you know what I make, Reggie?”

He added a little bit of detergent to the delicate tie. Most likely this would be the only garment of Reggie’s clothing that the blood stains would come out of seeing as how it was dark enough colors. There was no way that the starched white shirt was surviving this adventure nor the neatly styled gray pants. Winslow knew that Reggie had some miracle tailors and laundrymen back home but no one could fix an expensive Italian suit soaked in a pool of blood equivalent to the amount in a person.

A shudder ran down his spine as he thought about the way that Sean had been bled on the bathroom floor. Every detail that came rushing back to Winslow showed him more and more the brutal and manipulative ways of this killer.

“You think it’s Mrs. Johnson.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a poking inquiry made after reading Winslow’s notes.

It was simply Reggie having the same suspicious feelers as Winslow did.

“How did you know that was my theory?” Winslow asked, turning around from the sink basin with his rolled up sleeves and soap bubble covered hands. “Did you go snooping through my notebook?”

“Yes, I did, but it was quite obvious from your interactions with her.”

Winslow tried to remember if Reggie was there to witness any of the interactions that he had with Queenie but then remembered that Reggie knew about all sorts of things that he shouldn’t know about. The man probably knew about how many sexual encounters that Winslow had experienced in the past year.

As if reading the very thoughts on his mind, Reggie then stated, “And yes I do know how many experiences you have had in the past year but that’s just because I’m one of your oldest friends.”

“I still don’t know if you’re my friend, Reggie.”

“Don’t you American men usually go around fucking every sister in a string in a farmer’s family?” He paused his rhetorical question, the cocky grin crossing his face but quickly slipping away when he fell into the tub. Winslow gave him a moment to recover amid a series of grunts and groans before the spy continued, “I know you all do. So really you did fuck my sister and all of her siblings including me. And you would probably fuck me again. Probably right now if I wasn’t so out of it and a babbling mess.”

Winslow walked back over to the tub, leaning into it to undo the rest of Reggie’s clothing as he foolishly explained, “Yes, I probably would fuck you right now if James was up for it.”

“Just like Paris?”

“Just like Paris.”

The detective had made his way down to pulling off Reggie’s undergarments. Up until this point, he badn’t given a second thought to undressing the man - he was just being helpful. But once they started talking about Paris he feared that it was about to become something more and that he would be unable to stop Reggie’s advances.

There was no way that he was having sex with someone who was barely conscious. He never did that. Well, he thought, I have done that before but it had been a pre-arranged scenario. Something I’ll have to repeat with James if he’s even a little bit into leather.

His thoughts during this time were often getting off pace and Winslow had to rip the image of his incapicated partner out of his head. For now, he had to focus on his internal debate of how to approach his scantily clad friend. The most courage he could work up was to ask, “Do you want me to take your underpants off or do you have enough strength to do it yourself.

In cases like these, it was always about spinning the facts to be to his advantage and maintaining his figure as being helpful.

“I think I can manage to take them off from here but thank you for being so helpful.”

“Do you need any help getting the blood out of your hair?”

Winslow was secretly hoping that Reggie would say no. That way the detective could get out of there before his internal dilemmas pulled him completely apart. But there was another side of him that wanted to jump into that bathtub right then and there and repeat the events of Paris.

The events in paris was something that he and Reggie never actually talked about. It had been one wild week of surveillance in Paris on the Nazi headquarters that had turned into a week long orgy with intermittent watching of the Nazis across the street. It was there that Winslow had some of his wildest sexual experiences though they were far from his first time enjoying “kinks”. Ever since he was young, with those first kisses, he had enjoyed darker things than other homosexuals who were collectively referred to as sexual deviants.

Every time Reggie repeated his phrase about Paris, Winslow just couldn’t stop thinking about those wild times and the wonderfully ornate headboard that held the submissive they had gagged and suspended. And that submissive had been Reggie.