Taboo Unchained

by C. M. Stunich

  “Dear God,” I say, letting the anger and frustration from last night leak into my voice. I can only hope that if Robbie is awake, or wakes up during this encounter, that she won't say anything. It would look awfully horrific if she were to be found in my bed, passed out, while I stood here and lied about it. “I saw that car pull up last night when I was seeing my fiancée off.” Mr. Carrell's face lights up like a Christmas tree, and I can see how much he loves his daughter. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to let his worry simmer a little longer. As soon as Robbie wakes up, I'll send her home discreetly. For now, I have to make sure I don't get blamed for anything that didn't happen. If Robbie is found here, it will be assumed I've done terrible things to her, things that make me so sick to my stomach I can hardly breathe. Jules. I hope he dies in the hospital. “I didn't think anything of it when I saw it. There seemed to be two people in the car, but I had no idea one would be Robbie, out at that hour.” I don't particularly like playing on parental guilt, but I admit, there is some anger inside of me at Mr. Carrell for letting Robbie go out last night. It's ridiculous, but it's there and I can't help it.

  “So you saw Robbie? You knew it was her?” I shake my head sympathetically.

  “It was a girl with brown hair, but I'm sorry, I didn't take a very good look.”

  “Do you think your fiancée might've seen more?” I start to say no, but Mr. Carrell grabs onto my hand in desperation. “Could I have her name and number? Just to call and check. Please, Mr. Carter. Please. You know what happens to teenage girls who go missing.” Tears explode from the man's eyes, and all I feel is anger. Not at him, of course, but at the world as a whole.

  I give in and grab a piece of paper, scribbling down Audra's contact information from my phone. At this point, Mr. Carrell is in no shape to speak to me, so Mrs. Carrell takes the number from me, thanks me, and pulls her grieving husband down the porch steps.

  I lock the door and make sure my robe is securely belted before I head down the hallway.

  Before I can get to the bedroom door, Robbie is exploding out and running straight towards and past me. She skids on the wood floor and then hooks a sharp left turn into the bathroom. The sounds of gagging and vomiting follow. I don't stay around to listen, trying to afford Robbie some sense of privacy and dignity. I take the opportunity to strip off the robe and slip into a pair of jeans – yes, jeans, I do own a few pairs – and a T-shirt. By the time Robbie meekly pushes my bedroom door in, I'm fully clothed and waiting with the pills and the glass of water.

  “Do you happen to have a spare toothbrush?” she asks, holding out her hand but keeping her eyes to the side. An awkward silence simmers between us before I sigh and drop the pills into her hand.

  “I have six, actually.”

  “Why?” Robbie startles at her own question, shaking her head like she wants to take it back. I imagine what sorts of things might be running through her mind and decide to answer. Sometimes, the questions that seem the most arbitrary are really the most important.

  “Because, my dear,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. So many emotions are running through me right now, I'm not certain where to start. What I really need right now is some alone time, some good food, and a kitchen ringing with the sounds of music. “I have a slight case of obsessive compulsive disorder. I don't often use the same toothbrush for more than a week, so I keep extras on hand.”

  “Not for all of your mistresses?” Robbie blurts and then steps back, refusing to take the water glass from my hand. “I'm sorry,” she whispers, and the sight of her face breaks my heart. It's part shame, part terror. I don't know what to make of it. “I shouldn't have said that.”

  “It's okay,” I tell her, tilting my head to the side, “I don't break.”

  “I know, but I … I'm not your girlfriend. I'm not your anything, so I don't … have a right to say that crap.” Robbie sighs and rolls her eyes to the ceiling. Her back hits the wall and she does a slow slide to the floor, burying her face against her knees. “Thank you though, for what you did … today … and last night.”

  “Robbie – ” She interrupts me, raising her head, mussy chocolate strands dripping across her face. The expression on Roberta's face makes it look like she's about to cry, but her eyes are bone dry.

  “I know what a big risk it was, taking me in. Just let me get myself together, and I'll go.” Her words draw a line in the sand, closing down the discussion.

  I sigh again and rise to my feet, taking the glass of water over and bending down to set it near Robbie's feet.

  “Feel free to shower, if you'd like.” I start to stand up and move away, pausing again at the doorway. “And I want you to know, last night, I had Audra over.” I look back at Robbie with a neutral expression. This time, I'm not trying to hurt her, but I feel like I should be honest. There aren't many people in my life anymore who I can tell the truth to. “We slept together, and it was incredible.” Robbie cringes and grits her teeth, putting her hands over her ears. I know she can still hear me though. “But I couldn't stop thinking about you.”

  I step into the hallway and slam the door.

  “Fuck,” I drawl, listening to the sound of Robbie's shower from the comfort of the living room. I feel thoroughly and utterly exhausted. Last night was interesting, yes, but why? What does it mean? What does any of this new shit inside of me have to do with my life? Lucas Carter has a simple existence. He tames the taboo, fucks crazy women, and cooks gourmet food for one. That's his life. So how come it doesn't feel like mine anymore?

  I hold my cell in my hand and scroll through my clients, wondering if I should pay a visit to someone simple, like Leslie, a client that could give me a quick outlet but without all the excess baggage. My thumb hovers over the screen, but I just can't bring myself to do it. For whatever reason, the thought makes me tired.

  When the doorbell rings, I rise to my feet with a groan and check the peephole.

  Cops.

  Hmm.

  My mouth twitches until it's resting in its easy, neutral position. Before I answer though, I move over to the bathroom door and check the knob. Unlocked. Invitation or simple mistake? I suppose I don't have the time or luxury to test it at the moment.

  I let myself in and close the door quickly behind me, just in time to stifle a gasp from behind the curtain.

  “Lucas?”

  “The cops are at my door. If you could, please, don't come out until I give the signal.” I don't wait for a response from Robbie – either she'll do as I've asked or I'll be spending the next few weeks of my life in a police/media frenzy where I'll become the ultimate monster, the one I've always hunted and hated but never thought I was. Until Robbie. Maybe for devirginizing her, I should be punished. I tap my fingers against the door and observe Robbie's shadow, just for a single moment. I still see her as innocent, but I definitely do not see her as a child. Perhaps I never did. Perhaps … I was just trying to convince myself otherwise, give myself the ultimate obstacle to seeking out a hidden desire. I want to be eighteen again. I clench my fists together and resist hitting the wall with force, breaking through the drywall and feeling that utter sense of accomplishment that always comes with destruction. Right now, I have more pressing matters.

  “Lucas?” Robbie queries, as the bathroom door opens and the steam washes into the living room like fog. “I appreciate it.” I leave before she can say anything else, wishing I was still wearing my robe, so I could look indignant at being disturbed again. With another forceful relaxation of my muscles, I flick open the locks and spread the door wide, inviting curious glances into my home. One thing I've learned from past experience is that opening the door a small crack, peeping through like you've got something to hide, well, that convinces everyone on the other side that you're worth scoping out. It firmly and irrevocably entrenches in their mind that you are, indeed, the bad guy. And I don't want to be the bad guy.

  At least not today.

  “Good morning?” I ask tentatively, wrinkling my brows tog
ether. I don't add the stereotypical and horrendously suspicious 'officers' after the greeting. I don't ask what they're doing here, or even suggest that perhaps they're here because of Roberta Carrell. As the antithesis of normal, I've spent an awful lot of time watching people, observing their behavior. These are the moments where I shine, where my faux normalcy is often far more normal and more comforting than the average person. It's a skill; don't be jealous.

  “Hello there, Mr. Carter,” one of the officers says, getting awfully close to the threshold of my door. I'm young, but not too young, handsome, dark-haired. All of these things work against me when it comes to the missing presence of a teenage girl. The only single man in a neighborhood of families and old people? In his eyes, I must be guilty. I notice immediately that his eyes catch on the bathroom door. “Your neighbor, Mr. Carrell, his daughter is missing, and we're setting up a search party, canvassing the neighborhood and talking to anyone that might've seen something.” I nod my head, but don't interrupt. Never, ever interrupt a judge, a police officer, or a doctor, not if you want things to go the way you intend them to. “According to Mr. Carrell, and your fiancée, Audra Holiday, you saw a girl with brown hair pull up in a green Taurus with a boy in the driver's seat.” The officer pauses and looks at me expectantly while his partner sizes up my bookshelf. The one in the spare room has all my real books on it, the things I actually like to read. This one here is all for show, even though I've never needed it before. I knew it would come in handy one day. Classic works of literature sit in a dust free alphabetical world of perfection, their leather covers and gold embossed titles marking them as part of a signature collection. They've never once been read, or even opened, but there they are, marking me as a man who knows his books. Studious. Trustworthy. The second officer's eyes glaze over, and I can see that he's already written me off. Officer Number One, however, is still leery.

  “Yes, sir. I was showing my fiancée out.” I pause for a brief second, thanking the heavens above and the hells below that Audra Holiday is a perceptive and intelligent women. Now I just have to make sure I don't screw up anything else that she might've told the police. I glance away, demurely, and laugh a man's laugh. You know the one, the deep chuckle that says, 'Hey, we've both got dicks, so we must be in on something even though we both know we're really not.' “Audra wants everyone to think we're waiting until we're married, so, you know.” I shrug my shoulders and don't explain what they should know.

  Officer Number One, whose name is Barry Craig according to his name tag, doesn't seem convinced. A tough nut to crack then. It doesn't help that the shower is running in the background.

  “So, you were showing your fiancée out? And what time was that?”

  “Yes, sir. It was around midnight, if I recall correctly.”

  “And you didn't think to check on the girl, see if she was okay?” My mouth twitches. This man is pushing my buttons intentionally.

  “Sir,” I keep the word firm but still relaxed, “I have a hot young thing in my shower right now.” I glance out the door as if I'm looking for someone. Unfortunately, all I see is a red fucking Mercedes sitting across the street. I feel a vein in my forehead throb, but I press it back, letting the rage settle in my chest. I'll have to deal with Mrs. Braxton later. “And a fiancée prone to showing up at random. I don't have time to help you look for a kid that got herself into trouble. I'm sorry about the girl. She seemed sweet, but I don't hold out much hope.” I shrug, letting the anger in the two officers' faces run straight through me.

  “And the woman in the shower, could I please get her name?” Barry Craig smiles wide, showing white, white teeth. “For documentation purposes.” I laugh in his face, purposely.

  “Her name? Hell if I know. She says it's Margarite, but who the fuck cares? Twenty-six, legs for days, big tits.” I smile back at him. “I met her at a Starbucks, if you can even believe it.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Carter. We'll be in touch.” The two officers back away and disappear down the front steps of the porch.

  “When I told you I was finished with you, did you think I was joking?” I ask Mrs. Braxton, hating the way her anorexic ass is wiggling into the seat of my wingback chair. When Robbie sat there, when Audra did … I didn't feel this violent rage creeping into my fingers. The last thing in the world I ever wanted was to have my personal space violated like this. On the other hand, how can I stand in the street and have a confrontation with Clarice when the cops – not to mention a massively growing search party – are prowling around the neighborhood?

  “I felt like you'd change your mind,” Clarice coos, twisting a strand of bleach blonde hair around her finger. She's had it done recently. Even though it's still a stringy mass of dimensionless hair, there are no roots. I'm sure Mrs. Braxton paid the big bucks to be pampered and bleached in style, but you'd never know. Based on the look of it, she could just as easily have dumped a box of store brand bleach over the top.

  “Now why would I do that?” I ask, glancing back at the bathroom door. Robbie is still inside, waiting for me to tell her that the coast is clear. I hate that I feel like I'm betraying her somehow. The feeling makes me sick. I sigh and cross my arms over my chest, locking my gaze with Clarice's watery blue eyes. It's incredible how two women can have the same color eyes yet differ so much. Robbie's eyes are bright and beautiful, like the Caribbean ocean, full of possibilities. Clarice's are dead, glassy, like the eyes of a doll. I see no spirit in them.

  “Um, because I found your little present in the backyard.” Clarice smiles up at me, but I manage to hold myself together, looking at her with an impassive stare that's obviously unnerving. Mrs. Braxton wiggles in the seat, adjusting her obviously expensive but terribly tasteless pink dress. The sparkles and the glitter give it a different look than Audra's ugly evening wear, casting a juvenile light on Clarice that she really doesn't need. Put Robbie and Clarice in a room together and I'm fairly certain most people would guess the trophy wife to be the younger of the two.

  “I'm not sure I'm following,” I say, yawning and glancing over my shoulder with a smile. The ruse works and Clarice looks with me, catching sight of the steam drifting underneath the bathroom door.

  “Fuck you, Lucas.” I turn back in time to catch her stamping her feet in frustration. “There's a girl in there?” With a roll of my eyes, I clasp my hands together in false prayer.

  “Of course there's a girl in there. You were aware of my profession when I met you.” I narrow my gaze on Clarice, letting her see the sin roiling in my green eyes. “Aware of that and also of the fact that you were a client. You're not my girlfriend, Clarice. You're not even my fuck buddy. You are a client, a customer if you will. And I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.”

  “I found a dead body in my backyard, Lucas. This is blackmail, plain and simple. Continue our relationship or let me turn you into the police, it's your call.” Clarice pauses, lifting her powder blue nails up for inspection. “Don't forget, your little girlfriend was there, too. At the minimum, she's an accessory, right?” Clarice smiles at me and stands up, brushing silver sparkles onto my floor when she straightens out her dress.

  When she turns to smile at me, it takes every ounce of self-control that I have not to reach out and wrap my hands around her throat. But I know that if I do it right here, right now, I won't let go until the bitch bubbles out her last saliva soaked breath.

  “If I had any clue what the hell you were talking about, this threat may actually hold some credence.” Clarice looks unsure for a moment and then shakes her head violently.

  “No, no, no,” she says, moving close to me, so close that I can smell the sickly sweet scent of peach schnapps on her breath. Dear God. “You are not going to manipulate me today, Lucas Carter.” Clarice steps back and grabs the front door, whispering harsh and guttural under her breath. In her next words, I can see the demon bright and clear, the soul of a girl who drowned her own sister. At least in my case, the only people I've killed have bee
n murderers, rapists, and pedophiles. “If the surprise I dug up on my property really doesn't belong to you, then you have nothing to worry about.” Clarice adjusts the white wool coat she has hanging over her left arm. “Here's what I'm going to do. If you're not at my house tomorrow by six in the evening, I'm calling the police. Not your body, not your problem, right?”

  “You are a desperate, sad woman with a terrible future,” I admit, keeping a soft smile on my face. “Now get the fuck out of my house and don't come back. If I see you here again, I'm going to file stalking charges.”

  “Go ahead and try, Lucas. I have money, and I get what I want.”

  I step up to Clarice suddenly, glad that the curtains are still closed, and I rest the blade of my pocket knife against her throat. The throb and pulse of her neck makes the demons in me go crazy, crying for blood as they fight to force my hand forward, draw that first drop into their hungry mouths.

  “Money won't protect you from the wrath of a philandering psychopath, will it, Clarice?” I press a little harder, leaning into the knife with purpose. I want this blonde bitch to know exactly how much of a threat I really am. “Any snarky commentary you'd like to add, Mrs. Braxton?” Clarice swallows several times before bringing her hands up and wrapping them around my wrist. I hate the touch so much, that I actually pull back, flicking the blade back into place and tucking the weapon into my pocket.

  “Kill me now or be at my place tomorrow by six. If not, I'm calling the cops. If you want to come after me then, so be it. They'll probably give you and your little girlfriend the death sentence.” Clarice slams the door hard enough to shake the windows. That, and probably draw attention from all directions. I allow myself a scowl as I flick the deadbolt back into place.

  “Birdbrained little slut,” I snarl, letting the anger take hold for a split second. How am I going to deal with this? The obvious solution is to simply take Clarice back as a client, let her grow tired of me. The only problem with that is my complete and utter distaste for threats. I am not a whore, despite what some may think, and I refuse to be forced into sleeping with a woman I haven't chosen. Whether it's for business or pleasure, the act is my choice – as it is for all of us. Or rather, how it should be, how it needs to be.