CURVY FOR HIM
The Psychic and the Senator
by
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
IRVING
“Are you comfortable, Senator Irving?”
I raise my head and groan as a splinter of pain rips through my shoulder. My arms are tied behind my back, and I must have been in this position for a while since I’m stiff as fuck.
“Very,” I say. “Thanks for asking.” I keep my voice as calm as possible, breathing slow and deep like they taught me in the military. Combat breathing, it’s called. Control your breathing, and you control the fight. Though right now my breathing appears to be the only fucking thing I control.
I don’t know who these people are, why they’ve taken me, and what they want. All I know is that I’m tied to a chair, blindfolded, and without a shirt. Maybe I’m in a reality TV show. Sure. Let’s go with that. That’s what modern politics is, anyway. A fucking reality show.
A reality show I’ve been winning at, I think with an inside smile as I lean my head back and stretch my strained neck. I fought these fuckers when they took me, but the bastards stuck me with a needle and I went down like a bag of concrete. Remind me to fire my security detail. So hard to find good help these days.
A chuckle rises up from the darkness around me. There are at least two men in the room, I can tell. I’m groggy from whatever they injected me with, but my focus is returning quickly. Again I breathe deep and slow to control my rising panic, and I force a confident smile even though the pain in my twisted back is taking over.
“My ex-wife sent you guys, right?” I say smoothly through my grin. “Tell her this month’s alimony check is in the mail. It shoulda gotten to her by now, but it’s so hard to trust the government these days.”
Another set of chuckles rises up from around the room, and now I know there are at least three guys here, maybe more.
“Calm and composed, as always,” comes the voice of Number One. It’s deep and calm, and I know I’ll remember it forever. Put me in a room with him again and I’ll recognize that voice. Also, he’ll never leave that fucking room—never leave this room if I get a chance at a fair fight. I’ve killed with my bare hands before, and I’d love to do it again. Get down and dirty like the old days when things were so clear, when you knew who the enemy was and you knew your only job was to kill him.
And that’s what the new days should be like too, I’d told the country after I’d been elected to the Senate. Our problem isn’t that we’re involved in too many wars—it’s that we’re not involved in enough wars! To hell with this pussyfooting around, this nonsense about winning hearts and minds, about rebuilding the terrorist-breeding grounds that produce bomb-carrying assholes by the thousands. Why the hell should we spend our taxpayers’ money rebuilding the countries that we bomb back to the Stone Age?
Part of me knew I was pushing it a bit, talking out of my ass, getting carried away now that I suddenly had a platform, had some real power. Getting elected to the Senate is pretty easy, especially when you’re rich, good-looking, and have deep connections in the government. I was blessed with a tall, broad frame, chiseled cheekbones, and deadly green eyes, and I built up my body over the years to the point where the Greek Gods got nothing on me. As for riches? Well, I joined the military when I was sixteen, and so I was able to have a full career in the Service and then retire young enough to have another full career in private industry.
Well, kinda private. I became a sales-guy for defense contractors, and that paid big. Real fucking big. Big enough that the joke about my alimony was just that: A joke. My ex-wife got a one-time settlement of nine million in the divorce, and I didn’t even notice a change in my lifestyle after cutting that check.
A fist in my face knocks me back to reality, and I spit blood as I wonder if a few less teeth will result in a lifestyle change after I get outta here.
“Ouch,” I say, smiling as the metallic aroma of blood fills my nostrils. I’m still calm. Still in control. Still alive. “Do that again and I’ll cry.”
“Oh, you’re gonna cry tonight, Senator Irving,” says Number One, and this time I notice a hint of an accent buried in there. I frown as I try to place it. This man has foreign blood in him, even though he’s clearly an American or has been here long enough to talk like one. “But the country will celebrate. How many views do you think the video will get on YouTube before they pull it down?”
A chill goes through me as I pull at my bonds, testing them to see if I can wriggle out or just straight-up bust the rope. For the first time since I was taken I feel real fear, and a trickle of sweat snakes its way down the center of my muscular back. Only now does it occur to me that I was right: This is a fucking reality show. The new kind of reality show.
“Set up the camera,” says Number One softly, and I swallow hard as I wonder if this is it, if my awesome life is gonna end with my throat being cut by some American Jihaadists and recorded for all time on an iPhone.
I’ve faced death before, looked it in the eye, punched it in the fucking face. But this is different. This feels different. This is real. This is the end.
A wave of despair and helplessness rolls through me as I hear the men moving about the room like they’re getting things ready for the big show. My mind is swirling as I pull at my bonds again, try to kick out with my legs. I’m starting to say things, curse at these assholes, calling them cowards, asking them to untie me and give me a chance to fight for my life. But I hear the fear in my voice, and I know I’m starting to lose it. I’ve never felt this vulnerable before, and it’s a feeling so new I almost throw up.
As my mind twists and turns like a viper, I see my life whipping by me in still-life images, everything from my doomed-from-the-start marriage to a woman I didn’t love, to the decision I made to not have children with her, to the men I killed for my country, to that rage and anger that built up over the years to the point where I decided that the best foreign policy is just to kill every motherfucker who dares speak against America.
“This is the first of three epic episodes of the original drama, Death of a Senator,” comes Number One’s voice through my frenzied thoughts. “The grand finale will be broadcast on Facebook Live, YouTube, and our own website in exactly one week.”
My mind goes blank as I listen to Number One speak to the camera. One week to the grand finale? It’s clear what that grand finale is gonna be, which means I’ve got one week. It means Homeland Security, the FBI, the CIA, and every fucking government hacker has one week to find me, to trace the video and the websites, to run voice-recognition algorithms and identify my captors, to go back over the footage from when I was taken from my own house in the suburbs of Washington, DC.
I almost admire the idea as I breathe slow again, feeling a relief so deep it almost aches. One video of me getting killed in some gruesome way would certainly have an effect. But the shock could easily result in universal sympathy for me, with even my haters condemning the act. But building up the suspense over a week? That’s fucking Hollywood-level genius! That gives the media and the public time to work themselves up into a frenzy, to argue with each other about whether I deserve to be killed or not.
And there are plenty of talking heads out there, from both sides of the fence, who’ve openly called for my resignation, for me to be fired from the Senate (um, you can’t do that—read the fucking Constitution . . .) and even my death! Yeah, that’s the state of the circus we live in where the reaction to me calling for more heads to roll is that the peace-loving hippies want my he
ad on a stick!
But still, I got pulled into the mania of the media-circus too, I will admit. I doubled down on calling for us to openly fucking invade countries that dare to mess with us. Fuck this shit about spreading democracy and liberty. That’s fine here in the homeland. Outside the USA, I’m all for building a fucking empire just like the great kingdoms did a thousand years ago. You wanna bomb us? We’ll take over your shithole little country and become your fucking rulers.
After hearing myself talk, I actually started to believe the craziness I was spouting. And then I was rolling like a man obsessed, making fiery speeches whenever I could, tweeting incessantly using #morewars and #buildthatempire as my call-signs. At first I got some support, but that changed when the military—which I thought would have my back—distanced themselves from me, saying that I’m showing no regard for the safety of our sons and daughters who proudly wear uniforms and serve their country. Their job is to defend our nation and people from imminent threats, they’d said in a statement, not recklessly sacrifice themselves on foreign soil just so we can plant our flag for the glory of some crazy politicians who are safe behind the Capitol walls.
Safe behind the Capitol walls, I think with a grim smile as I listen to Captor Number One finish his introduction to the camera. Is this being broadcast live, I wonder, flexing my muscles as I decide I might as well look like a ripped, studly beast while these fuckers torture me on Facebook Live. I’m doing my best to stave off the panic that’s knocking on the door. If the third episode is gonna be me getting filleted on live stream, what are they gonna do for Episodes One and Two? Pull out my fingernails? Cut off my pinky toe? Tattoo “Mommy Loves You” on my forehead?
“What now?” growls Number One to one of his buddies, and I frown as I hear the anger in his voice. “Why’d you stop?”
“The website redirects aren’t going through yet,” says Number Two in a low voice. He sounds scared. “NSA could trace the feed back to us if we broadcast before the website redirects are set up correctly. We wanna make it look like this is all coming from Russia, right?”
I smile and exhale. These guys are fucking amateurs, I decide. “Russia?” I say, making sure they hear the scorn in my voice. “Nobody gives a fuck about Russia anymore. Why don’t you idiots go back to lip-synching Taylor Swift songs on your YouTube channel. I’ve got a meeting in the Senate tomorrow. I don’t have time for this amateur bullshit.”
There’s dead silence in the room, and I strain my ears to figure out what’s happening. I hear the sound of metal dragging on wood, and I frown as I try to figure out what’s happening. Someone’s picked up something from a table, I realize. Something heavy. That’s not good. Nah, that’s not good at all. When will I learn to keep my big mouth and my even bigger ego shut?
A moment later I feel strong hands cut my bonds and then hold my left arm down on the wood armrest of my chair. I struggle, but it’s too many of them, and before I can prepare myself the hammer comes down on my left hand, shattering bone and sending red-hot splinters of pain through me with such force I almost black out.
“Fuck!” I scream as the panic finally breaks through the mental barrier that I thought would hold up. The blindfold is adding to my panic, and that dark feeling of dread descends on me again like I see my own death looming before me like the Grim Reaper himself waiting to harvest my fucking soul.
“Don’t cry, Senator,” whispers Number One in a voice so calm I know he’s killed before, done unimaginable things to men and maybe even women, that he’s fucking enjoying this. “You only need one hand to tweet. Now please stop whimpering and smile for the camera. There’s a good boy.”
“I still need time to get the website redirects working,” says Number Two. “The NSA could—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the NSA, FBI, CIA, or fucking DHS,” barks Number One. “And they don’t give a fuck about us. Just do what I say, all right? Roll the cameras.”
And then it hits me, the realization coming through the pain in the most sickeningly clear way. The rest of these guys are hired guns, and they aren’t gonna make it out of this room either when it’s all said and done. This is Number One’s gig, and he really doesn’t give a fuck about the NSA or anyone else tracking him down.
Why not?
There’s only one reason.
He’s got clearance to do this.
He’s been authorized to do this.
He’s been ordered to do this.
My mind spins in a frenzy of pain and fear as I try to figure out if Number One is military black-ops. No. The military is careful not to hire psychopaths even for off-the-books jobs, and Number One is a cold-hearted psycho, a man who feels no empathy, who takes pleasure in another’s pain. Takes one to fucking know one, right?
And then the pain and despair takes over, and I hang my head down and try to move my broken fingers. I feel my life-force draining away as I realize that the government isn’t gonna be looking for me if this guy is the fucking government! I’m all alone out here. A scapegoat for something or someone that isn’t clear to me yet, will perhaps never be clear.
I’m all alone, I think again as I almost do start crying like a lost fucking puppy. Alone and abandoned, bruised and broken, a sad clown about to be sacrificed in the arena of social media.
Alone, I think as I feel my consciousness almost leave my body like I’m already dead, already reaching for the light at the end of the tunnel, reaching for someone to hold my hand, to save me, to end this feeling of despair and loneliness.
And then I see something that I swear is an hallucination brought on by the drugs and the pain, the chaos and the confusion, the madness and the misery.
I see . . . her.
I don’t know who she is, where she is, or even what she is. I’ve never seen her before, but somehow she looks familiar, somehow she looks like I know her, somehow she looks like she’s . . . mine.
She’s mine, I think as her image takes form until I’m sure I’m seeing an angel, an apparition with a cherubic round face, full red lips, curves that could only have been sculpted in heaven, a bosom that I want to rest my head against as I drift away into death.
She’s mine is the last thought I have before I let go of the real world almost like I’m releasing myself to this angel, this apparition, this figment of my imagination.
She’s mine.
2
ISABELLE
You’re his, comes the thought as I flutter my eyelids and try to focus on the family of three seated before me. Parents and a little boy. The grandfather passed away a few days ago, and the boy was very attached to him. He’d promised his grandfather he’d be there to hold his hand during his final moments. Sadly those final moments had come when the kid was in school. The boy was distraught, and so the parents brought him to me.
“Just tell him what he needs to hear,” the father had told me over the phone after making the appointment. “Give him closure.”
“Of course,” I’d said, gritting my teeth at the implication that I was a fraud, a charlatan, some gypsy with gaudy lipstick who’s pulling a fast one on the bereaved. “I’ll clear my schedule tomorrow.”
“What? No! We just need a couple of minutes!” the father had said, clearly alarmed that I was gonna hand him a bill for a million dollars.
“The spirits don’t always show up on our schedule,” I’d replied, trying to stay calm. I’ve had this conversation a hundred times before, and it always ends up the same way: With me compromising and ending up giving them more than what they pay for, sharing my gift for free—or at least a highly discounted rate. Why couldn’t I have been a soothsayer or something? A seer, fortune-teller, predictor of the future? That way I coulda just invested in some stocks before they shot to the moon and I’d be counting my cash in a mansion!
Because that’s not your destiny, I tell myself as I smile sweetly at the earnest little boy looking up at me with a mixture of innocent excitement and what I can tell is a hint of fear. We don’t get to c
hoose who we are, do we, little boy?
He blinks at me and nods like I was talking out loud, and then suddenly my mind goes blank as my consciousness reaches up into the darkness of the world within our world. My body tightens, and I grip the armrests of my old wooden chair as the energy of my gift surges through my being. It’s like diving into ice-cold water, and I gasp as I feel the spirits of the recently deceased fighting for my attention.
There’s a woman who died in a car accident last night. She’s yearning to tell her family that she’s all right, that even though she’s dead she’s all right! I grit my teeth as she’s swept to the side by a slew of others, some of them angry, some of them ecstatic, some jaded, some faded. I’ve been at this a long time, and by now I’ve learned that I can’t possibly pass on every message. Most of the time the encounters are so brief that I don’t know where the message goes! But other times, when I’ve managed to reach the ones left behind, the response has usually been negative, with most folks thinking I’m spamming them or just trying to get them into my gypsy-parlor so I can squeeze some cash out of them. Someone even threatened to sue me once! That was the last time I tried to pass on an unsolicited message.
Finally Grandpa floats into my consciousness, smiling wide as he sees his grandson through my eyes, feels the child’s love through my body. In that moment I remember who I am, why I do this, why I’m broke and alone but still happy at my core, still stumbling onward in life with an unshakeable faith like I haven’t wavered from my path, that my destiny is still within reach, perhaps reaching for me.
Tears are rolling down my round cheeks as the family leaves my red-walled room in the basement of my parents’ house (the only material thing they left me—other than this gift). Even the stingy dad seems pleased, and I no longer give a damn about whether or not he believes his kid actually spoke to Grandpa or not. The boy knows I’m for real.
And I know I’m for real.
I sigh as the emptiness of the room descends on me like a shadow. I really did clear my schedule—which is easy when you have no schedule. For all the talk about the Age of Aquarius, psychics are still viewed as no more than party tricks, something to do when you’re drunk and out with your girlfriends and you see the neon sign that says, “Walk-ins Welcome!”
Curvy for Him: The Psychic and the Senator (Curvy for Him Series Book 9) Page 1
