“Again, you’re comparing a stupid kid falling off his skateboard and squashing his nuts to people being brutally tortured. The first is funny; the latter is not. Like I said, if the little boy at the mall had been badly hurt, I wouldn’t have—”
“He was badly hurt.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
Dammit.
“It’s nothing new, Calvin. It’s not Marilyn Manson or Metallica’s fault we’re this way. Christ, public executions used to be a social event. Families showed up for them. Kids.
“The problem is that most people aren’t willing to embrace these needs and wants. My clientele is. They’ve not only come to terms with these impulses, but managed to turn them into a shameless fetish that will fulfill every desire that society shuns.”
“Fucking crazy,” I muttered.
“Why do people slow down when passing a car accident?” she asked.
I made a face. “The police maybe?”
She gave me a look. “Don’t insult me.”
I knew what she was getting at. Of course people slow for the police, but there’s another reason. Damn if I’d give her the satisfaction of voicing it though.
“Everybody wants to look,” she said, voicing it for me. “Everybody looks in hopes of getting a glimpse of that mangled body. Later they’ll re-tell the event, say how tragic, how horrible, but deep down, that suppressed urge—be it conscious or unconscious—tasted delight in that glimpse.”
I still didn’t respond. She was making sense and it disturbed me.
“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Now that it’s done, how do you feel after last night?”
“You already asked me that.”
“And I don’t recall a definitive answer.”
I said nothing.
“Are you really so distraught that you took another man’s life?” she said. “Or are you conflicted because you don’t feel remorse about what you did? You think it should bother you, it’s not bothering you, and that’s what’s bothering you.”
I twitched. “How can you say it’s not bothering me? How would you know? How would you know anything about me? All you’ve got to go on is what we’ve said to each other during half a dozen massage sessions.”
“I can certainly judge you from what I’ve recently seen.”
“What I did last night was self-defense.”
“A bit excessive wasn’t it? What about the poor guy at the bar?”
“I was defending you!”
She made the kind of face people make when they see a puppy. “I know. That was so sweet. So predictable.”
Predictable?
“Did you have something to do with that too?” I said.
She winked at me. “Your psycho act cost me an additional three grand. I had to visit the guy at the hospital the next day to pay him. We had no idea you were gonna be so rough.”
“I don’t believe this…you’ve been playing me like a fucking…” I stopped and dropped my head into my hands. “Those movies…I can’t believe you produce and sell shit like that.”
“Well, I’m not the only one,” she said.
I lifted my head. “What do you mean? You saying you have competitors?”
“Of course I do. I’m the biggest though. Well…second biggest. I do think I’m the best. Soon I’ll be the best and the biggest.”
“Who’s number one?” I asked.
“Whoa, easy there, sexy; I wouldn’t use the term number one. They’re just bigger. They have a larger clientele because they deal in sick shit.”
“Dare I ask what you classify as sick shit?”
“Bestiality; couples pissing and shitting on each other; gang rape.” She sneered. “Sick.”
“Well it’s nice to know morality isn’t totally lost on people of your ilk.”
“Funny. So you want the job?”
“Think I’ll have to pass,” I said.
“It was kind of a rhetorical question.”
“How’s that?”
“Well you don’t have much of a say in the matter do you? It’s a bit late to start changing your decision at this stage of the game.”
“I never made any decision.”
“You made your decision when you killed Alex,” she said.
“You gotta be kidding me. That guy came at me like a fucking maniac.”
“Really?” she said, her face a bad actor’s try at quizzical. “I don’t remember it that way.”
She pushed a few more buttons on the remote. I heard the whir of the DVD player changing discs. The TV came to life again.
It was me. Killing the freak. The whole thing caught on tape from multiple points of view.
Strike that. It was not the whole thing.
It did not show Angela.
It did not show me bound on the bed.
It did not show the freak emerging from behind the curtains with an aluminum bat, charging, wanting to take my head off.
It showed me bludgeoning a man to death.
It showed a close-up of my panting face.
It showed a close-up of the twitching, very dead freak.
Never mind the freak was dressed in a black Spiderman getup. Never mind I was wearing nothing but boxer shorts. The way the film had been edited, we could have been two kinky lovers doing a little role-playing before yours truly took it a bit too far.
Bottom line: the film made me look like a stone-cold killer.
I stared at the black screen for several beats after Angela clicked it off. I could see my reflection in that screen. I looked small, like the once-cozy marshmallow chair was swallowing me. I wished it would.
“I assume that was a copy?” I managed to say.
“Yeah. Why, did you want one?”
I glared at her.
“So this is some kind of blackmail,” I said.
“Ugly word.”
“But apt,” I said. “Problem is, if you turn me in, I’ll turn you in. I’ll tell them everything about you. You might have doctored that footage to make me look guilty, but with the right lawyer…”
“You could do that,” she replied. “You’d be taking a pretty big chance though.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, Calvin. I’ve got all the necessary wheels greased. Like I said, you’d be absolutely stunned if you knew who some of my clients were.”
I could feel my pulse in my head.
She kneeled before me, reached up and stroked my cheek. “Look at that handsome face.” She brought her hand down into the chair’s plush material and gripped my ass. “Look at that tight little ass. Do you know what would happen to someone like you in prison, Calvin?”
She had hit on one my strongest phobias. My reply was barely above a whisper. “Yes,” I mumbled.
“It would be a tragedy to let such a wonderful man go to waste.” She unbuttoned my pants, pulled them to my ankles.
My dick in her hand, mouth closing in, she glanced up at me with predatory eyes. “Don’t worry, baby…it’s going to be a fun ride.”
11
The next two hours were spent in bed. I’d never had a woman fuck me like that before. Never. It wasn’t so much the physical stuff she did—though it was all there, and top-shelf indeed—but the way she did it. I said it earlier and I’ll say it again, the one thing I’ll never understand about women is all the time and money spent on improving the shell, when in reality the hottest thing about a woman is confidence. Sure, the shell matters—no “beauty is only skin deep” preaching here—but the shell can crack. Nothing will ever crack true confidence, often imitated by the arrogant, often plagiarized by the insecure. True confidence is a wonderful trip indeed, and Angela gave me the grand tour she did she did.
She also had the decency to bring me to a different room than the one I had “played baseball” in, to which I was very grateful. I never did remember to ask her if the freak’s body was still in the house somewhere. Part of me didn’t want to. Because
if it was gone, disposed of, then that heightened my anxiety of help being close by. That freak was a big, tough fucker—which likely meant there were more big, tough fuckers floating around. Maybe the first test was over, but maybe I had eight more innings ahead of me. Who the hell knew? The only thing I did know was that the woman was human Xanax; those worries receded the entire time we were together. Murder? Blackmail? Future employee of Dahmer’s Wet Dreams, Inc.? Petty stuff when Angela’s having her way with you.
Except we were done now, my body drained of fluid, but plentiful again with fear and apprehension. I was also drained of food. I hadn’t eaten yet today, and my stomach was talking. Angela, who had been dozing on my belly, lifted her head, yawned and said, “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I haven’t eaten yet today.”
I expected her to offer me something, or perhaps suggest we go out together for a bite. But all she did was roll off the bed and head for the bathroom. I figured she wanted to use the toilet. Be back in a minute after a quick pee with a proposal for food. Instead I heard the shower.
Okay, I thought. A quick pee and a shower. That’s cool—I can wait.
Nope.
Angela opened the bathroom door a crack, her disembodied voice loud over the running water.
“You can go, Calvin,” she said. “I’ll call you when I need you.”
She closed the door and I soon heard the rhythm of the shower change as her body hit the water. I remained on the bed, naked and confused. Her indifference to our recent passion was both curious and humbling. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, trying to work it out. Was it all just business? My ego wanted to believe that at least some of her intensity was genuine, but for all I knew, this was part of her job, and I was simply another freak’s cock that needed milking.
Still, my ego insisted there was something else there. Not much, but something. Maybe. Something?
(No. Now can we go eat?)
I sighed and got dressed. I patted my pants’ pockets for my keys, then checked the two nightstands. I was about to drop to my hands and knees and start searching the floor when I remembered Angela had driven me here. My car was back at my apartment.
I felt nervous knocking on the bathroom door. I had just spent the last two hours screwing this woman all over the freaking bedroom, and now I was worried about bothering her in the shower? Again, the power this woman possessed…
I rapped lightly on the door. She didn’t answer. I rapped louder. Her response was firm.
“What?”
I stuttered before I spoke, embarrassed and cursing myself for it. “I have no car,” I said.
“What?”
I opened the door a crack. Steam hit me and I could just make out her nude silhouette behind the fogged glass walls of her shower. Although I was reasonably certain that I had no semen left in my body, I wanted nothing more than to be in that shower with her.
“I have no car,” I said again, louder. “You drove me here, remember?”
Her silhouette shifted, and I got a perfect profile of her breasts as she tilted her head back and began rinsing her hair. Probably hit that pose on purpose. “Take mine,” she said without skipping a beat.
“What will you drive?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine. Just take my car. Keys are on the dresser.”
“Okay,” I replied.
I stayed fixed in my spot for a beat. Was I hoping for a friendly goodbye? I watched her silhouette continue doing its thing as though I was never there, as though I’d never been here.
I shut the door softly, grabbed her keys on the dresser, and left.
12
I hit up a drive-thru on the way home and gave a big middle finger to my waistline by getting a double-bacon cheeseburger and large fries. If a man ever had the justification for comfort food, I was him.
Angela’s car was nice. New-car smell and all. It prevented me from cracking my burger for fear of dripping anything. Didn’t even touch a fry, which, as we all know, is damn near impossible.
I decided to snoop a bit instead. Nothing major, just a peek in the glove compartment here, a yank on a visor there. I don’t know what I’d thought I’d find—like I mentioned, the car smelled as though it left the dealer yesterday.
I’ll call you when I need you, she’d said, right after we fornicated for hours like two sex addicts on a conjugal. Talk about a cryptic kick in the nuts. Where did that leave me? I had left this afternoon with the intention of finding answers. And I got them. And they sucked.
And now there were more questions.
I’ll call you when I need you, she’d said.
Need me for what?
(You know what, stupid.)
Do I?
(It won’t be for more pussy, that’s for sure.)
So then what do I do?
I said it aloud. “So then what do I do?”
I didn’t have to work until tomorrow. But who knew when she’d call? I may end up sitting at home with my thumb up my butt for days, waiting to hear from her.
Eat and sleep. I needed to eat—the smell of the fries was becoming maddening—and I needed to sleep. Although I had slept late today, I did not sleep as many hours as I would have liked (not to mention I was spent from sex), and I was notorious for sleeping when things were at their worst. Sleep was a pleasant escape to that uninhibited world I so endlessly pursued. I even welcomed nightmares and outlandish dreams because they would force me to act and feel on the spot as opposed to endlessly ruminating about what may be. No fish-bowl glasses of the world; no numb-wetsuit attire. You were there, in it, reacting without thought. Living for the now. Being in the now.
(Ahh…such seemingly unattainable qualities, now being given to you like a gift that’s ticking.)
“No,” I said to myself. “No, it’s all wrong…not like this.”
(But it is like this. Sorry—no refunds.)
Nope. This is all wrong. You don’t know shit. Shut the fuck up.
(I’m your fucking conscience, douche bag. I know a thing or two about you.)
Yeah, and you’ve done a bang-up job so far; I’m the epitome of stability.
(Hard for me to speak when I’m being constantly drowned in whiskey and cast off to some fantasy world pussies like you conveniently create.)
Fantasy world? What the hell are you talking about?
(Oh, you know…that safe little place you visit when fantasizing about how dark and disturbed you are? What you’re capable of? Nothing but an armchair quarterback if you ask me. Except it looks like you might actually be thrown into the game pretty soon, yeah? See what you’re really made of? What will we call Fantasy World after that?)
You’re fucking nuts.
(Need I point out that you’re talking about yourself?)
Fuck you. I need to sleep.
(I agree—my flight to Fantasy World is leaving soon anyway. Maybe I’ll be back sooner than you think.)
Take your time.
So sleep it was—after food of course. It was either that or get drunk, and as badly as I wanted to drink, I knew well enough to stay sober in case Angela called tonight.
(Admirable—perhaps my flight will be delayed.)
Perhaps a 600 pound silverback will sodomize you while you wait and see.
(Again—talking about yourself.)
Fuck off.
PART FOUR
Paul
13
My food was gone in minutes. The double bacon cheeseburger, four bites tops. After that, I decided on a little TV to help with digestion before voluntarily slipping into a coma.
Pele wandered in as I was channel-surfing. He meowed as he always did when first entering a room. Cat-speak for: I’m here; the party can start, bitches.
I patted the sofa and he hopped up. I patted my stomach and he climbed on. In less than a minute he was curled up on my belly, purring louder than some men snore. I scratched his head and he purred even louder.
“Not a care in the world
,” I said to him. “Lucky bugger.”
I drifted in and out over the next couple of hours, periodically waking for only a few seconds when the pitch in the television changed. When my cell rang, I woke for good—mainly because it made me jump; which made Pele jump; which resulted in him using my nuts as a springboard.
Doubled over and cursing my cat, I picked up my cell and checked the caller ID.
Paul.
I flipped open my phone. “What’s up, man?”
“How’s it going, brother?”
Paul was undoubtedly my best friend. Actually, my only friend. True friend. I had drinking buddies, but they were just that. Of course I drank with Paul, but we would still be inseparable if we gave up booze and stuck to lattes.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
I loved Paul, always told him everything. Things I was even afraid to tell my therapist.
So I decided to tell him nothing.
I had no idea what Angela was really capable of, where this whole fucked-up craziness may lead, and I didn’t want Paul involved in any way, shape, or form. Just knowing may be too much at this point, and putting him at risk was simply not an option.
“Nothing,” I replied. “Just a shit day.”
“Nothing a few cocktails can’t fix.”
Christ was he right.
“I gotta work tomorrow,” I said.
“I don’t want to stay out late. Come on, let’s go to Mick’s and have a few drinks like gentlemen.”
He was being very persuasive. It’s easy to deprive yourself from a night of drinking when there was no offer on the table, but the thought of missing out on a good time with an eager friend bordered on the absurd. Still, we continued the dance, both of us knowing I would eventually cave.
“I’d wanna be home pretty early,” I said, praying he wouldn’t ask why.
“Why?”
It made me sick, but I lied to him—sort of.
“Well, I have to work…”
“And…?” he cooed, knowing me too well, the fucker.
“And I’m kind of waiting for a call.”
Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller Page 5
