The Perversion Trilogy: Perversion, Possession & Permission

by T. M. Frazier

  Sandy frowns. “Dude, calm the fuck down. I’ll wait to hit on her until she’s mobile, or at least sitting up.”

  “No, what did you say about her face?”

  He raises his hands in surrender. “Nothing, man. Just that I like beauty marks on chicks, and this one has one in the same place as Cindy Crawford.”

  “Fuck!” I roar, slamming my hands against the wheel.

  “Chill the fuck out, dude. You need to take a Xanax or something before you stroke out.”

  I press my foot down hard, pushing the gas pedal to the floor. “No, I don’t need to chill the fuck out.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t. I need to do anything but chill the fuck out because the girl you just described, the one we left with Marci and Tricks… isn’t Gabby.”

  Sandy looks as panicked as I feel. “Then who the fuck is it?”

  I see nothing but red beyond the windshield.

  “Mona.”

  Twenty-Four

  “No!” I scream through the rag in my mouth. It’s shoved so deep half of it is in my throat.

  Marco slaps my face with the back of his hand. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, right now. You think I’m going to fuck you after I know Grim has had his Bedlam hands on you and his dick inside you again?” He makes a tsk noise and shakes his head. “Not yet, puta. You’ll have to wait for me. First, you have to be cleansed of everything Bedlam.”

  He goes for the door and opens it. Three of his soldiers enter the room and stare at me with gazes dark enough to make the devil himself shiver.

  “No, Marco! Please!” I shout, but it sounds more like mmmoooo eeeeee! Through my gag. I try with all my might to break through my restraints, but it’s no use. Marco’s learned his lesson. It’s no longer rope I’m tied-up with, but handcuffs.

  I want the world to stop spinning, but there’s no pause button, not on the world and not on this moment. I need time. I have questions.

  Marci. What the fuck happened to Marci? But I can’t ask even if he’d answer. I can’t do anything. I’m a spectator of my own life, sitting in the very best seat to the very worst possible show.

  “The time for begging is over. Because I realized where I went wrong the first time. You see, EJ, you’ve been used, but you’re still wild at heart.” Marco leans over me. Bracing himself on the arms of the chair, he pokes me in the chest with his finger, blowing hot air into my face over and over again with each quick and angry breath he takes. “Do you know what you have to do to get a wild horse to submit?”

  I shake my head while choking on my gag as I swallow it farther and farther down my throat. I plead with Marco using my eyes. Hot tears stream down my cheeks.

  His smirk flattens. “You break it.”

  Marco pushes off the chair and heads for the door. The corners of his lip curl into a wicked smile. “Welcome back to the motherfucking pasture, chica blanca.” He looks over to his men who step closer and closer to my chair. “Don’t kill her,” he warns. “Buuuutttt... Disfruta el paseo, chicos.”

  I’ve learned enough Spanish over the years to get by. I understand his words all too well, although I wish I didn’t. Sickness shakes my stomach. Terror courses through my body and soul.

  Disfruta el paseo, chicos.

  Enjoy the ride, boys.

  Twenty-Five

  I won’t break.

  Not this time. Not ever again.

  It’s been days since I was tossed around like a mouse between cats, and no one has come or gone except to make sure I’m still breathing. Why they care I’m still not sure. To pass time between conscious and unconscious I exercise my mind, mentally reciting every quote about strength I can recall.

  That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.”

  - Friedrich Nietzsche

  Life is tough, my darling, but so are you.”

  - Stephanie Bennett-Henry

  Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from indomitable will.”

  - Mahatma Ghandi

  Keep ya head up.”

  - Tupac Shakur

  The one I latch onto most, the one I repeat over and over again, is what fuels me to stay alive. When I recite it to myself, it’s not my voice I hear. It’s Grim’s.

  Destroy what Destroys you.”

  - Anonymous

  Burning heat from the sun’s rays wake me. I blink rapidly against the light. The curtains are open. Why are the curtains open? My dark dungeon of despair has become a bright bastille of brutality.

  Marco enters the room in a hurry. He doesn’t bother with any of the usual violence or threats. Instead, he orders me to do something he’s never ordered me to do before.

  Clean myself up

  He uncuffs me from the chair, pulling a needle from my arm I hadn’t noticed was there. It’s an IV drip attached to a bag of clear solution hanging from a metal coat hanger looking contraption on wheels.

  “You really do want me alive,” I think out loud as Marco shoves toward the back door of the room. “Why?”

  “Don’t worry. You’re about to find out.” He pushes me into a small bathroom and slams the door. On the chipped sink I find everything I need. Shampoo, body wash, even a toothbrush.

  Hotel de psychopaths is really stepping up their game.

  I turn on the water and a wait for it to warm up before stepping into the heat. I wash every crevice of my body, scrubbing until my skin is raw. I wash my hair three times and while I’m still under the spray I brush my teeth until my gums bleed. When I’m done I linger in the shower. I might as well stay until someone comes to get me. It’s not like anyone gave me a time limit. Besides, the heat of the water is soothing and a stark comparison to the coldness waiting for me outside this bathroom, and I don’t mean the temperature.

  There’s an angry bang on the door.

  My time is up.

  I wrap a towel around my body and step back into the room.

  Thankfully, Marco is gone.

  Unfortunately, Mona’s now here.

  Mona flits about, moving from the bed to the dresser. There is a simple yellow sundress hanging from the door. Mona opens a case on top of the dresser, revealing a bevy of beauty products within.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, hesitating in front of the chair. Dread sinks in, causing my stomach to feel like it’s about to implode.

  “We’re having a celebration, and your attendance is required. I’m going to make you look—” Mona looks me up and down with disgust written all over her face. “—presentable.” She scrunches her nose as if she finds the task impossible.

  “What kind of celebration?” I don’t remember a lot of actual celebrations in Los Muertos. Parties, yes. But Gabby and I stayed as far away from those as possible. Even when our attendance was required, we stayed to the back of the crowd and kept to ourselves.

  “The kind where you celebrate,” she remarks sarcastically. She pauses with her hands in the bag, setting out brushes and lip gloss on the table. “Gabby will be there.”

  Gabby.

  “Does she know you’re here?” I ask.

  “No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t know, just like she didn’t know two years ago when I got here.”

  “Two years?” I ask. “You’ve been here for two fucking years?”

  “You think Marco took you and Gabby, but not me?” she scoffs. “Of course, he waited a little bit longer while I got an education, but he informed me of my role the second you two left for Los Muertos.”

  “And what role was that?” I ask.

  “Spy,” she whispers.

  Mona takes my brief moment of distraction to guide me over to the chair. She pushes on my shoulders, and I reluctantly sit facing the mirror. I tuck the front corner of my towel underneath my arms to keep it from falling.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my own reflection. My cheeks are sunken in. My ribs are protruding through my skin all the way up to my collar bone, which casts a new deep blue shadow on the pale ski
n underneath, even darker than the circles under my eyes. My eye color is no longer a bold mixture of blue and green, but a duller version. Like headlights of a car that have fogged up from within, casting a muddied version of the original bright light. My blonde hair is lackluster at best, the honey-blonde now more like ash, but my almost waist-length curls are still as wild as ever.

  Mona stands behind me, giving me another once-over in the mirror before fluffing and fanning out my hair. She attempts to brush it with a standard square brush, but it tangles within seconds. Mona growls under her breath while attempting to free the brush. My eyes water as she pulls hard, but regardless of the pain, I stifle the need to laugh.

  “That kind of brush is for straight hair,” I inform her, keeping all traces of humor from my voice.

  Mona huffs. “Then, what do you do with…this?” she waves her hands at my head like it’s a flaming bag of dog shit that’s been dropped on her doorstep.

  I still want her to believe I’m on her side, so I bring up the past. “It’s damp so you can just use a comb or a pick. Don’t you remember? You used to bitch that my curls were all over the room after I picked through it.”

  “Vaguely,” she mutters. She reaches in her bag and grabs a pick. It takes her a few minutes to get through my curls, and she’s not gentle. I refuse to grimace or show any weakness, so I remain silent as she works. When she’s done, she places a thick, yellow headband in the center of my hair.

  She spins my chair so I’m facing her and twists her face in concentration as she applies concealer under my eyes, mascara, blush, and lip gloss. It feels heavy and foreign on my face since I’m not used to wearing much makeup.

  When she’s done, she walks over to the other side of the room and removes the dress from where it’s hanging on the door. I take that moment to look at myself in the mirror. I look simple but pretty. She’s muted the circles under my eyes and even managed to take the sharpness from my cheekbones. I’m surprised she didn’t take the opportunity to make me look like a clown or try to embarrass me. Whatever she was primping me for, she really did want me to look presentable.

  But why?

  I don’t have time to think too much about it because Mona motions for me to stand and rips the towel from my body. I’m standing naked before her, but I don’t try to cover myself. My bruises may have faded, but they are still there. If not on the surface of my skin, then deep underneath where they will always be. She removes the hanger from the dress and tosses it onto the bed. She unzips the back and holds it open for me to step in then spins me around, zipping it closed.

  “Please, Mona. Can you tell me anything about what’s going on? Why you’re primping me like you used to primp your Barbie dolls?” I’m hoping that my mention of our shared past, a memory of my own, would show her that I did at one time care about her and somehow strike a chord, and get her to answer me. “I just want to know what I’m walking into.”

  She opens her mouth to answer me, but the room floods with music from down below in the courtyard. She smiles. “You’re about to find out. Trust me, you’ll hate it.”

  Mona reaches for the door handle, I grab her wrist. “I believe you when you say that I’ll hate it, but I will never trust you. I mean, you’re probably fucking your own brother.”

  She slaps me across the face. The only sting I feel is a sting of pride.

  “They say the truth hurts.” I lick the blood from the corner of my lip. “But, I didn’t feel a fucking thing.”

  Mona’s fuming. Her face is beet red and her nails are digging into her palms while the tendons in her wrists shake with rage. The door to the room swings open. Mal and another one of Marco’s soldiers appear with the usual large guns cradled in their arms. Mal sneers at me, his fingers lightly caressing the metal loop around the trigger as if I need a reminder that he isn’t afraid to pull it. Something else is different as well. Mal’s hair is slicked back where it’s usually falling into his face. Plus, he’s wearing a shirt. It’s a yellow t-shirt, but still, for him it might as well be a fucking tux. I wasn’t the only one required to dress up for…whatever this is.

  “Let’s go,” Mal says. “Don’t fuck this up.”

  He leads me down the steps to the front door, and when it’s pushed open, I’m blinded by the sunlight. I shield my eyes as Mona huffs her impatience, grabbing me by the elbow and shoving me into the light. I’ve gone about thirty feet before I can blink through the light and focus on what’s before me. I’m in the courtyard with all of Los Muertos circling around us. I shiver with flashbacks of the night I was unceremoniously jumped in.

  Unceremoniously.

  My throat tightens. My stomach lurches as realization sets in.

  The crowd around us isn’t chanting. They don’t look angry. Not this time. They look…almost serene. They part to give us room to walk, creating an aisle, both cementing and confirming my worst fear.

  When I see Marco standing with his hands folded at the end of the crowd, I heave, but nothing comes up. Mona pushes me forward, and I stumble next to Marco. Behind him is an elderly looking man who looks just as scared as I am. His pale wrinkly skin is lined with beads of sweat. His hands shake as he opens the small book he’s holding.

  I look around me for somewhere to escape, but all I see is a sea of people and Mal standing so close to my side I feel the prod of his gun against the middle of my back.

  “There’s my bride.”

  This isn’t some sort of Los Muertos ritual or jumping in.

  This is a wedding.

  Marco flashes me a warning smile from the end of the makeshift aisle.

  My wedding.

  Twenty-Six

  Marco smiles, not like he’s greeting a bride, but like he’s holding in a secret only he knows. I’m pushed up the aisle by Mal with help from the gun he’s holding to the small of my back.

  I’m pushed to stand before Marco. “Why?”

  I’m also wondering how. “I’m not yet eighteen. Not for another few months. It won’t be legal.”

  “There’s so much you still don’t know,” Marco says. He leans down and whispers, “The why doesn’t matter. Not to you. What matters is that if you cause a scene, I’ll make sure to take it out on Gabby later. You’re here because you want to be here. Now fucking smile, bitch.”

  I press my lips together in a tight lipped smile, it’s all I can manage considering that my lips are trembling.

  Marco glances looks over his shoulder, and my eyes follow to where Gabby is standing off to the side of the crowd. Memo stands behind her with his own large gun pressed into her back. She flashes me an apologetic smile as a tear rolls down her already bruised cheek.

  “Don’t you dare hurt her,” I whisper through my tight smile.

  “That’s on you, mi reina.” My queen.

  Marco gives the reverend the go-ahead to the reverend who begins in Spanish. I follow along well enough, although for the first time I wish I didn’t understand the words.

  Love is a circle. It has no beginning and no end…

  Love is a sacred vow…

  The bond between man and wife is unbreakable…

  Do you promise to obey your husband and the laws of his home?

  Only until death parts you…

  When the time comes, I’m prodded by the gun at my backside to say I do the words leave my mouth on a whisper.

  Marco shouts, “I do!” Loud and clear for all to hear.

  His subjects clap and cheer.

  Marco leans in and takes my face in his hands, pressing his cold lips to mine. The crowd grows louder, as my new reality sets in like a boulder upon my chest.

  “You’re my wife now, chica blanca,” Marco says, with a satisfied grin on his face.

  The reverend interjects, producing a folded document from his book. “Well, she will be. There’s just a matter of signatures, and then, I’ll file the papers with the clerk’s office this afternoon.” He passes a pen to Mal who signs on the witness line and then to Gabby who mouths
I’m sorry as she adds her signature to the document. Marco presses the pen into my hand and points to the page.

  His eyes point to a trembling Gabby.

  I take the pen and find the line over where it says BRIDE, but my printed name below it doesn’t look right. My vision is blurry from the brightness of the sun, I blink in an attempt make out the words.

  Marco growls, low and throaty, “Now.”

  I press the pen to the page and front gates burst open.

  In walks my savior. My everything.

  Grim.

  Twenty-Seven

  GRIM

  Marci’s on life support. My girl is once again in the hands of the enemy. I’m a wanted fugitive. My current plan might end in my death.

  Things are as bad as they could possibly be…until they’re worse.

  Nightmares play out until they reach the peak of terror. They don’t end until you’re fully submerged in water and just about to drown. When the lights of the fast-moving train are only seconds from away, but you can’t free yourself from the track. Right as your loved one gets shot before your eyes.

  When you walk in through the gates of Hell to find your enemy marrying your girl.

  No matter how much I will it, this nightmare isn’t going to end. Because the shit I’m seeing isn’t a dream. It’s real.

  Too fucking real.

  “You son of a fucking bitch,” I growl as guns are drawn and aimed my way from all sides.

  “You’re too late, motherfucker,” Marco smiles, his gold tooth gleaming. “It’s been done.”

  “It’s never too late,” I hiss.

  “I’d ask you to stay for cake, but, you’ll be busy dying,” Marco spits, dragging Tricks away by the arm.

  “Noooo!” she cries, pulling against him, planting her feet into the ground. He drags her with little effort.