Black and Blue (Chubby Chasers, Inc. Series Book 3)

by Angie M. Brashears

  It’s amazing that Gretchen would think this is anything but a monarchy.

  I will never understand women. There are times when I can’t make rhyme or reason out of their vetoes. I’ve tried, but it makes no sense in my mind.

  Like, what was wrong with Rita? That one still sticks with me. Maybe I’ll resubmit at a later date, see if I can eke it through. Possibly with a name change, since the Ladies seemed to especially hate that. How can being named after a heavenly sugared treat be insensitive?

  Why they didn’t care for my illustrated drawings of Chur-Rita is beyond me. A spicy Latin beauty that would come to us from Barthelona. I honestly didn’t give a blue fuck where she was really from, just as long as she had the accent and when I pulled the string on her back, she uttered Barthelona, I was good.

  Spelling error intended.

  The real cinnamon powdered sugar that she’d coat herself with every morning would shimmer throughout the day, beckoning my mouth to her sweet…

  “Too messy. With all that sugar flaking off everywhere, we’ll get ants,” Gretchen interjected.

  But I wouldn’t be swayed. When the ideas come, well, let’s just say I’m the vessel. I went on to describe her cinnamon-highlighted hair, wavy and long, complementing her outfit of flesh-colored fish netting.

  “A few strategically placed churros on the delicate areas. Made fresh daily so I could eat them out of her…

  “Uh…the churros go where now?” Sasha smirked as she vetoed at the top of her lungs. Gretchen followed, demure and ladylike, but the answer was the same. And my hopes for having a walking sugar-sprinkled pastel at my disposal, day and night, were dashed in one afternoon.

  That was one instance. But they’ve approved others, some twice… Mmm those poster girls again. I love ’em.

  But even a favorite, when eaten every day, loses its flavor.

  That’s why I have to work, make lists, prepare, create.

  Variety is the spice of life. And I love it hot.

  I don’t always get my way, but when I do, costuming begins.

  Hari, my fabric whisperer, picks patterns and designs to complement my rough sketches. I have the first choice and the final say on everything. Only my approved choices. Well, I wouldn’t say choices, more like, these are what I want, pick from these. My wants are presented to the new doll. Every choice she makes? I’ve already made for her.

  My real job at the Chubby House. There should be a sign on my pool house that reads, Idea Man, right above Money Man.

  A wardrobe is in motion before I even meet the girl. Every detail is monitored.

  I don’t miss a thing.

  Control is everything.

  The hairstyle options, already seen by me in my vision.

  Sometimes, while the hunt is on for the perfect mannequin, I’ll take a moment. To sit in the space meant for her. Breathing air that we will soon share. Finding and feeding gives my life purpose. All my thoughts, feelings, likes, dislikes, ideas, well, they all go in the Lady Book, and Gretchen’s always made it happen.

  She’ll do it. Unless she wants to be the one tied to a bed.

  Even with all my careful planning, hours, days, nothing’s worked yet.

  It never fails. Just when I make them perfect, give them life…they always start. Fucking it up. Tearing it down. All of my perfect planning, time, and energy trampled on. Trying to change things. It’s like they can’t help themselves.

  A woman’s work is never done. That and their fucking opinions.

  Rearranging outfits, wearing the wrong pair of shoes with a dress. I mean, fuck, I labeled everything, is it really that hard?

  Changing the hair. I want my dolls to look a certain way. They’re not Barbie’s, so why do they always return to a careless high ponytail?

  Maybe I’ll make a list of don’ts for Number 14.

  No ponytails.

  An etiquette sheet. My very own bible. Wow, my mind’s blown.

  Number two rule would have to address the nonstop chatter. I want their silence.

  I didn’t write them any lines. No cutesy dialogue. So why are they always talking?

  I know the shine’s worn off when I feel like screaming in my moppet’s face. I don’t give a fuck what you think!

  Yep, time for them to go. I just hate the whole breakup scene.

  I find it’s much better to end on a high note…with a present.

  The last gift. A deluxe-edition wedding playset. The dress is always the same. White and tight, to showcase its curves.

  Hari doesn’t complain, just turns them out as fast as I need them.

  Complete with shoes and a matching bag. A sparkling ring in every box!

  It’s so exciting!

  There’s always an engagement announcement, to keep the doll interested. But really, I’m just going through the motions till I can get to the feast.

  Because Muneca’s can never keep a secret, that’s when the Ladies know. It’s time to start saying their goodbyes.

  There’s never been a wedding—well besides the last—but there’s always a feast. A man needs some kind of payback, right?

  Like any wedding party, mine usually gets out of hand.

  That’s what I pay people for—Favors. The cleanup crew comes in, money, dotted line signatures, and it’s like I’ve donated an unwanted toy to charity.

  Who knows? Maybe there’s someone out there who likes broken dolls. And at this very moment is looking for just the right one to add to their collection.

  Not me, once the novelty’s gone, I need a new one.

  It’s a ritual I know by heart.

  Ahh. It would all be so perfect if they’d just do what I want. Act like the packaging advertises. Stay in their shadowbox rooms that I’ve created. Perform where I can see. Stop trying to change. It’s not broken! Nothing to fix here!

  Maybe I should bar the windows, put a deadbolt on the door.

  They might get the hint and act accordingly, like they do, in my head.

  It’s the only place I can go to enjoy time with my pretties. Arrange their hair, fix their lipstick. It’s a place of nonstop Favors. Overflowing with luscious beauties. Memories of their beautiful faces exist there and they follow the rules. No speaking until they’re told to. Sitting pretty in my outfits, complete with matching shoes, bags. Always the right ones. No mix and matching allowed.

  Eat what I give them, gagging and fighting, but they swallow every morsel. In my mind.

  They never age, don’t lose weight, don’t have dreams of leaving me, don’t get minds of their own. Don’t go to college.

  There’s no room in my collection for an Off-to-the-Dorm playset!

  I’m getting hard just thinking of them. My muñecas. Their creamy skin and blank faces. My cock is ramming into the steering wheel. Right here in the McDonalds parking lot, next to the playground. Calm it the fuck down.

  Thoughts of gaunt swimsuit models frolicking in the waves, with all their bones on full display…and my monkey goes back to sleep.

  Methodically, I shove the Egg McMuffin into my mouth. I hate the taste of eggs; the slimy way they feel as they slide down the back of my throat. But it’s penance, so I ordered them extra runny today.

  Not sure why, but I feel that penance is due.

  Echoes of, “Don’t do this, Javi, don’t forget me, Javi, stop, Javi,” circle down the drain of my brain.

  It’s enough to drive a grown man crazy. The last echo, “Don’t leave me, Javi,” dries the spit in my mouth. I gag on the dry English muffin before spitting it out.

  Yeah, the ladies can be demanding. It’s a full-time job taking care of all of my Ladies.

  Blue

  “Congratulations, Blue! Tell us, Johnny, what’s she’s won? Willpower at its finest! A medieval get-skinny-quick device, complete with restraints and no way out! Losing all personal dignity and pride, you’ll be strapped to a bed for as many glorious days as you can remain alive—without food and water. Also, no bathroom breaks. So I hope you’re co
mfortable lying in piss and shit for the rest of your short life, but guess what? You’ll finally be skinny!”

  “Am I really talking in a gameshow voice right now?” I ask myself as I blow out a sob.

  Anything’s better than the constant question that taunts me. Is this really happening right now? Bullying myself for being too naïve to know any better.

  Never in my wildest dreams and darkest fantasies could I have ever dreamed up this honeymoon from hell.

  I doubt he’s coming back. NO! He’s coming back!

  It’s hard to stomach the facts. He left me here. Tossed aside like a discarded candy wrapper.

  “You couldn’t have just broken up with me, you…you…mental patient!” It’s the best I can come up with. I’ve already used up all of my curses.

  My thoughts turn to the darkness that awaits me. And it’s coming. There’s no way out, none that I can see. I swallow and my throat feels like quicksand.

  Don’t think like that!

  That’s preposterous. He’ll be back. There’s no use wasting time and energy on an escape plan, only to have him come back as I’m chewing my own arm off. Laughing at my antics, shaking his head as if to say, “Silly Blue,” only to untie me himself. Still…

  I give a halfhearted tug, the tiniest pull on the wrist restraints. Even this simple movement tweaks the throbbing muscle that my back’s become from last night’s escape attempts.

  There’s no need to pull my back out, he’ll be back. He wouldn’t leave me here, not his Bonita. Tears burn my eyes as I wish for the umpteenth time for a drink of water. “I’m not picky. Straight from the toilet please, over rocks.”

  Sandpaper lines my throat. No, barbed wire wraps around my vocal cords. No, still not right. Feels like broken glass is embedded in my throat. Jagged pieces tearing chunks of flesh, blood trickling down the pipe.

  Yep, that’s the one, great, lovely.

  “Now if I could only figure out what it is that I’m lying on.” I grunt and lift one of my shoulders, as if to reach behind me. My hands already reaching, I look over my shoulder and see the weak pinching motions, but it’s so disconnected. Like I’m watching my hand on TV.

  Then it’s stopped short. By my leash. I can’t even move it five inches! I watch my hand snap back and feel sad for it. Next time, I think. Then I turn and lift the opposite shoulder, and it starts again.

  A bed cha-cha, that’s what I’m doing. And have been doing all day. The stone I’ve been lying on inching across my shoulder blades.

  Almost there. My plan is to grab whatever it is by any means necessary. I gnash my teeth, warming up my jaws. Please God, please be a water bottle.

  Clenching my teeth, I concentrate and get back at it.

  It’s not a water bottle. I know that. It’s round. Please don’t be a ball. Please!

  And I get back to wiggling.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I thought there would be candles, maybe some chocolate-covered strawberries shoved in my mouth, some romantic lovemaking, with candlelight flickering over our bodies. My much-anticipated first time simply decadent. Something to remember for the rest of my life.

  Not this fucking nightmare. Tied to a bed with no groom in sight. No, fuck that. No help in sight. I mean, really, how incredibly idiotic can I be?

  I felt uneasy back at the apartment. This wasn’t my guy. Again, at the airport, a feeling kicking me in the ass to run! Dammit! Run! Incredibly, I continued to ignore it and got on the GD plane!

  For once, my own gut was trying to help me. Yep, I brushed that gut feeling aside, too.

  The acrid taste of tears burns the back of my throat, and as they fall, I’m absolutely dumbfounded to find myself in this predicament. Even I, with my limited experience, know that a honeymoon is meant to be spent by two people. A contact sport, not a solo sport.

  Is this some weird kind of test? Is he watching me now on a portable Chubby-cam in the next room?

  Once I think it, I can’t stop. I clear my throat, feeling all kinds of silly. Of course he’d be watching. That’s what he does. Embarrassed by the simplicity of it all, I call out, “Javi.”

  No answer.

  “Javi.” Stronger now, more forceful. “Javi!” My dry throat cracks on the scream.

  No response. I quiet down, trying to hear his footsteps, anything. Something to reassure myself that I’m not alone in this misery. But there’s nothing.

  Just the birds chirping the morning away in the trees. There’s plenty of those. I can see clear out to the wall of trees that mark the edge of the property. Nothing but green.

  Funny, I didn’t notice the showcase windows when I came into the room last night. My eyes were glued to the industrial bins full of food.

  A mama bird goes about her day, feeding her young, reinforcing her nest, unaware of the creeping death in the room a pane away.

  As I watch, my eye wanders. To a glass…full of water.

  “God damn him!” I scream to the barren room.

  No answers, no one to blame but myself. I look longingly at the glass just out of reach. Even the fly floating on the top only adds to the delicacy, like an umbrella in a fruity drink. I close my eyes and imagine the room-temperature liquid coating my parched throat.

  It’s no good. My mouth is caked and scabbed. I wish I were that fly.

  When he first left, I’d shrieked myself bloody. Now I’ve got the world’s worst case of strep throat. Sprained vocal cords, creaking and clicking a protest with every swallow. I’m sure the inside of my throat looks like raw hamburger meat. Pink and puckered with infection.

  My tongue feels twisted and too big.

  “Riccoooolllllaaa,” I attempt to joke, imagining lederhosen and a feather in my cap. Standing on a grassy hill, on a breezy mountaintop, but I just can’t.

  Not right now. It’s too soon, and the raspy sad voice that echoes back to my ears doesn’t even sound like a laughing matter. My halfhearted joke shatters the stillness of the room, which worries me even more.

  It sounds like a dinner bell instead of a jingle. I don’t want to call the critters in. Thoughts of bugs. What eats bugs? Snakes, birds, rats. Oh Lord, please let the Terminex contract be up to date. My head snaps around the room, looking everywhere at once. Rats.

  Things that walk on two legs, that’s what kills rats.

  Just hang on, It’s okay, it will all work out. He’ll be back. I’m too precious to him, right? There’s no way in Hell he’d want to share me with some mountain man or Yeti. Same difference, I think.

  It all boils down to this: Javi doesn’t like to share. Even if a burglar were to stumble upon this feast of flesh and partake, it wouldn’t sit well with him. But he did let you keep working in the Chubby House. Wasn’t that sharing you, in a way?

  “No, that was different, controlled,” I say, talking to myself.

  Was it, though? Was it really? And why did he let you go out with Frankie? The date didn’t even faze him. Hmm.

  “That was for therapy.” My voice sounds unsure, but I know it’s the truth.

  I can’t listen to any more of this.

  “Shut it!” I yell, loud enough for myself to know that I mean business. “No negative talk while tied to the bed, period.”

  I pull with my left restraint, throwing my head and weight into it, and there. I’m breathing hard, my heart feels like I just finished Zumba, but I’ve got it. It’s in my sweaty armpit. Whew. I stop for a well-deserved break.

  But the thought of a stranger stumbling upon this empty, overpriced, Liberace cabin in the thick of the woods, trying the door, finding it locked. But using a rock, yeah, and breaking a window to gain access, seems too real. Looking for something to steal? This would be the place.

  There’s a creak outside my door. Yeti!

  Hot urine spurts down my leg. I listen, but only hear my skin sizzling in the stinking, blistering urine. I wait, not even breathing…for another sound.

  Nothing. Just my imagination freaking me the fuck out.

/>   I whisper to the furniture. “Whew, scared the piss out of myself.”

  They find my brand of humor offensive. Not so much as a turn of a drawer pull.

  “Tough crowd,” I murmur, turning my head to the other side, away from the early fucking bird. I close my eyes and try the positive thinking thing again. Dr. Timlan would be so proud.

  Water. Oceans, white foamy waves. Lakes, warm on top, cool underneath. Rivers, winding and shallow, rainbow trout jumping.

  Tall shadow blocking the dappling sun that falls through the trees.

  Yeti Man standing over me. Finding me tied up like a Christmas present, to have his way with…my eyelids refuse to stay shut.

  They pop open and shoot to the door, my heart pounding my ribs.

  My restraints clank with the movement. A chill runs down my back at the thought of lying in wait, preparing to be someone’s victim, again.

  I hope he locked the door on the way out. I mentally snap my thighs shut, wishing my real thighs could close as well.

  Back to deep breathing. Trying to find my center. Pushing the fear to the back. It will never leave, but it got a snack. Maybe it’ll go down for a nap.

  My head feels too heavy. I lay it down and wish for a pillow and blanket, trying to forget the ‘W’ word, but it’s no use. Aquafina, H2O, dripping faucets float on a sea of crisp cool water through my thoughts. Anyway, I need to be rested for the ass-kicking I’m going to be giving him once he returns. So I force myself to unwind, despite my wicked thoughts of Sparklett’s trucks burning out, doing donuts on the back of my eyelids.

  A tiny voice speaks one single word over and over in my mind. At first, it’s easy not to hear it. Ignoring it doesn’t take much energy, especially when I start to hum. I just focus on my body, willing it to relax. It voices a protest with every movement. It takes five minutes of very patient and wholehearted attempts to will my muscles to unclench, forget about fight or flight. It’s just supine and shackled.

  My neck’s the hardest, stuck in the cobra strike position. As I’m working mind games on the screaming muscles, there’s that little word again. I keep trying to get rid of it, to not hear it.

  Imagine the most beautiful blue sky, not a cloud in sight. Just blue, blue. But there it is. I focus harder, using the power of imagery, that’s what women in labor use, and it works for them. Why not?