Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller

by Jeff Menapace

  * * *

  I returned from the bathroom to find Paul alone at the table. The girls were gone.

  “Where’s Stacy?” I asked, although it probably came out more like, “Werztacy?”

  “She left,” he said. “They all left.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You tell me.” His reply was blunt, his face accusatory but calm.

  “I don’t know.” I could feel my face getting hot with shame.

  “You don’t remember what you said?”

  My face was on fire now. Ears burning. Hot flashes. Fewer words are so debilitating to the insecure drunk than: Do you remember what you did?

  I started rambling like a guilty fool. “I wasn’t being crude. She was hitting on me too. Was it her friend? She was a bitch. Fuck her. I didn’t do anything.”

  Paul said: “What’s all this shit about getting off on torturing people?”

  I couldn’t stop my mouth from falling open. I felt the blood leaving my face. “What are you talking about?” I managed.

  “Karen said you asked her if she got off to people being tortured.”

  I swallowed. My Adam’s apple felt huge, like a real apple. “I did?”

  “Yeah,” he said, eyes studying me. “It freaked her out. It freaked them all out. Why’d you ask her that, man?”

  I tried to smile. “I don’t know; I was probably just fucking around, man. You know me.”

  “Yeah, I do. But that’s a pretty fucked-up thing to say—even for you. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing, brother, I swear. I just…I fucked up I guess. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your chances with Stacy.”

  “Forget her, man. I can meet a Stacy anytime. What I’m worried about is you. You’ve been off all night.”

  I reached down and squeezed the wound on my calf until I could no longer stand it. I played it off as though I was fixing my sock.

  “I’m fine, man,” I said, standing upright, swaying. “Really, I am. I swear. I have no idea why I said that shit.”

  Paul got up from the table, studied me some more. He didn’t look entirely convinced.

  I grabbed his shoulder, squeezed it, tried another smile. “Look, I’m hammered, okay? I just…I just need to go home, that’s all.”

  “I’ll drive you,” he said. “You can leave your car here and get it later.”

  This seemed like a great plan—until I remembered work.

  “I can’t do that; I’ve got work tomorrow.”

  “Worry about that tomorrow,” he said, allowing himself a little smirk for throwing my earlier words back in my face.

  I shoved him and told him to fuck off. He laughed and it was like music. I let out a long sigh.

  “So your boss never called you tonight?” he asked as we headed for the exit.

  “No,” I said. “Guess she’ll call tomorrow.”

  16

  What the hell is that? The Bee Gees? Why do I hear the Bee Gees? Okay…the fog is clearing, and…I’m in bed. My bed. Hung-over. The Bee Gees are playing on my clock radio. Please make it stop. I loved Saturday Night Fever and all, but fuck me, please make it stop.

  A good slap on the snooze takes care of things. Back to sleep.

  Sonny and Cher? Slap.

  John Denver? What fucking station did I leave this on? Slap.

  Huh? An actual alarm now? No more music? How did that happen? Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap! Slap! Slap!! Slap!!! What the fuck? Why won’t it shut—? ohhhh….shit...

  I flicked open my cell, tried to sound sick. “Hello?”

  “Calvin? It’s Margaret. Your client’s here. Where are you?”

  “Oh geez, Margaret, I’m so sorry. I’ve been up sick all night. I must have slept right through my alarm.”

  Sounded good, but what if someone at work saw me out last night? Did I see anyone from work at the bar? Think. No—I’m fairly sure I didn’t. Doesn’t mean someone didn’t see me though. Shit.

  “Well what do you want me to do?” Margaret asked, not even trying to hide her contempt.

  “Tell them I’m very sick and very sorry, and I will gladly work on them for free if they reschedule.”

  “And your clients after that? Will you be alright in an hour?”

  “No, Margaret, I don’t think I will be miraculously healed in the span of an hour. Would you please call and tell them the same thing?”

  She huffed then agreed. I hung up, and was back to sleep in less than a minute.

  * * *

  No alarm this time, just the incessant nagging of an alpha feline. Enough of this sleeping shit; give me some attention his headbutts into my shoulder said.

  “Alright!”

  I sat up in bed. Pele made a beeline for my face, rubbing his jowls against my chin, letting me know that he did indeed care for me, despite the fact that I was under the absurd illusion I was his master.

  As I lay there and allowed him to finish patronizing me, I began to try and piece together the previous night’s events. Some of it was a blur and some of it was clear. I’m sure I was hammered; the grenades going off in my head confirmed that. I’m also sure Paul and I had chatted up some ladies and…

  Oh shit.

  My face and ears started to burn as I remembered what I’d said to one of those ladies. The one I was getting friendly with. Paul knew too. Did I tell Paul anything about Angela? About the mess I was in? I don’t think I did. Did I? God, I’m a fucking idiot.

  I kicked the covers off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. As my one leg flopped against the rim of the mattress it felt like someone had touched a lit match to my calf. I grimaced, looked down and saw the wound I’d inflicted on myself.

  I then remembered everything.

  The images were hazy, but the content was all there. I had managed to keep everything from Paul. All the crazy shit that was said to the girl (and she was a mere blur and a nice smell at this point) could easily be written off as stupid, drunken behavior. God knows he was used to that. I breathed a very temporary sigh of relief.

  * * *

  An hour later, Pele was fed, and I had showered and attended to my calf. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, and since I had called out sick for work and my car was still in the parking lot of the bar, I was officially stranded. Good old suburbia. No car; you’re fucked.

  I wondered when I would be hearing from Angela. She had spared me last night, but the more I thought about it, I suppose she really didn’t. She was there, in my head the whole time—my wounded calf and macabre gift of the gab towards the fairer sex was proof enough of that. And then there was my conscience. Lately the fucker just wouldn’t shut up. The excessive drinking and whatnot I can understand, but all this crazy talk about Fantasy World…I didn’t get it.

  How is that possible? My conscience is me. I’M talking about Fantasy World. Why can’t I understand my own thoughts?

  (Denial.)

  And like a cock-blocker when you’re with a honey, he’s there.

  (You’re too kind.)

  How is it possible that I’m in denial about something I don’t even understand?

  (You understand—being in denial is just an attempt at burying your comprehension. Some might call it suppression.)

  I know what suppression is, fuck stick. But how can I suppress something I can’t comprehend?

  (Same way a bad memory from childhood can be suppressed and forgotten.)

  I just said I know what suppression means. I’m not talking about trying to forget when Father O’Malley made me touch his thing; I’m asking how I can suppress something I don’t understand. All your stupid metaphors about football, and being in the game, and flights to Fantasy World…

  (A priest made you touch his dick? I don’t remember that.)

  Because it didn’t happen, stupid. I was using it as an example.

  (I’m not going to explain anything to you. I won’t have to.)

  Why?

  (Because it will all happen soon enough. Even a drunken fool in
denial will be able to figure it out when the time comes.)

  I won’t. I won’t be able to. Just tell me now.

  (So you admit you’re a drunken fool?)

  Yes, yes—now tell me.

  (Nope.)

  Motherfucker.

  (It’s all right there in front of you, Calvin. You’re not an idiot.)

  You just called me a fool.

  (I called you a drunken fool. You’re a fool when you drink.)

  If I stop drinking, will you explain it to me?

  (I won’t have to. If you stop drinking, your clarity will go through the roof. But you won’t stop drinking.)

  Yes I will.

  (You’ll forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.)

  I wasn’t about to give myself the satisfaction of telling myself to fuck off again, so instead I focused on Paul. I wanted to call him. I knew he was disappointed with my conduct last night, and I knew that he had no doubt forgiven me, but it was essential I let him know all the same that I was truly sorry for my actions, and that he could rest easy in regards to my strange behavior.

  I got his voice mail and hoped he wasn’t screening my call. He did that when I was being weird.

  “Hey, buddy, it’s me. I ended up banging out of work today—surprise, surprise. I just wanted to apologize for last night. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I guess I was just in one hell of a weird mood. Anyway, thanks for driving me home, I appreciate it. Uh…I guess that’s it. Just wanted to call and apologize. Talk to you soon, bro.”

  Hopefully he’ll get that message and laugh it off, and if I knew him, he would.

  (Will he? You’ve always been a little weird, but last night was something new.)

  He will.

  (We’ll see.)

  I had the rest of the day ahead of me now—with no car. No car and a hangover that could bring Keith Richards to his knees. Back to bed? Nah, I wouldn’t sleep. Watch a movie? Maybe. Eat? I had no food in the house, and no car to get it.

  Delivery it was.

  I rummaged through my kitchen drawers until a disheveled menu appeared. Wong Garden. Damn good Chinese food. They would do nicely.

  After phoning in an order large enough to ensure a breakfast of leftovers, I retired to my den to wait. I tried TV first, found a decent news story which boasted recent developments in some crazy psycho shit that went down in western PA a few years back, gave up on that, and popped The Omen into my DVD player. Content, I sprawled out on the sofa where I was soon joined by Pele.

  “Hey, brother,” I said.

  He squinted at me (I read that’s how cats smile) and then proceeded to get comfortable on my lap, kneading my stomach incessantly before curling into a contented ball of black fur. I scratched his head and felt his body hum. I smiled. Nothing more soothing than a cat’s purr.

  “I love you, buddy,” I said, scratching his head a bit more. His purring grew louder as if reciprocating and I began to wonder if I had ever cared for a person this much. My family, you ask? I’ll get to them later. Right now I was wondering how someone could love an animal more than a person. Unconditional love I suppose. They are trustworthy. No hidden agendas. A brutal honesty about them that you will never find in people.

  I loved all animals. Cats especially. Whenever I would tell people about my affinity for cats, haters almost always labeled them mean or sinister; men wouldn’t hesitate to call me a fag. “What kind of single guy has cats???”

  I used to argue with such clowns, but eventually found it as productive as debating religion or politics. In my opinion, cats are the coolest fucking animals on earth (assuming they haven’t conquered other planets yet, which is very likely). I loved cats for the very reason many hated them: their independence. I admired it, respected it. You had to work for a cat’s love. And once you got it, it was the greatest gift ever.

  I gave Pele a scratch under the chin this time. He purred like a chainsaw.

  * * *

  It was right around the time when Gregory Peck was talking to the crazy priest in the park when the doorbell rang. The usual cheap metallic clink! clunk! now sounded like an angel thrumming a harp. Food.

  I hurried to my front door and looked out the peep hole. No one was there.

  “Hello?” I called through the door.

  There was a pause. And then: “You have a takeout order?”

  I peeked through the hole again. Still nothing.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Where are you? Stand in front of the door so I can see you, please.”

  Another pause.

  “Take out order for Calvin?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Please stand in front of the door.”

  I might live in the suburbs, but I wasn’t about to open my door to whatever was behind curtain number one, especially given recent events. Besides, it always seemed like the really fucked-up crimes occurred in the ’burbs—a fine line between mundane and insane, I suppose.

  “You want fucky, fucky?” the muffled voice said.

  “What?” I jerked the door open.

  Angela swung into view, giggling, my Chinese food in her hands. “Me rove you rong time,” she said.

  “Wow, that wasn’t racist at all.”

  She rolled her eyes, but a little smirk remained.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I’m delivering your food.”

  “How did you…?”

  “Does it matter? I’ve got what you want.”

  I took the bag of food from her, dumbfounded, mumbled a thanks.

  “What about my tip?” she asked.

  I said nothing, still dumbfounded. She placed her hand on my chest and pushed me back into my apartment, took the food from my hands and set it on the coffee table. She spun me by the shoulders so that my back was to her. Hands around my waist, she stood on her toes and placed her lips to my ear.

  “I haven’t showered yet today,” she whispered. “Can I use yours?”

  I nodded.

  She slid her hands from my waist to my cock. I was hard in seconds.

  “Will you keep me company?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, though I can’t be truly sure—words were an obstacle in the way of blessed insertion.

  She let go of me and took a few steps back. I turned and took her in. She was wearing this sexy little white sun dress that stopped just above the knee. All-white on Angela seemed wrong in theory, yet damn right in the real world. Perhaps it was the notion that it was so wrong that made it so right. Taboo 101.

  The dress’ color soon became irrelevant; in one swift motion Angela unhitched both shoulder straps and let it drop. No panties, no bra. All her.

  I forgot the color of the dress.

  She honed in on my shower like radar. Began walking away from me with that confident allure, hips banging left to right, tanned ass obeying those hips like a bell.

  She stopped at the bathroom door, looked over her shoulder, licked her lips. “Are you coming?”

  More prophetic words have never been spoken.

  17

  I was spent. With the dehydration factor from my hangover coupled with the hour of sex I’d just had, I was officially wrung dry. I wanted to bathe in Gatorade.

  I watched Angela dress as I lay naked on my bed. She was pretty mechanical about it, saying nothing as she fixed herself up. She didn’t even look my way.

  “You want something to eat?” I asked her.

  “No thanks,” she responded, checking herself in the mirror.

  There was an awkward silence, at least on my end there was; I’m not sure this woman was capable of feeling awkward.

  “Okay, more Chinese for me,” I said. “So what happens now?”

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.

  “I meant what happens with us?”

  She laughed. “Us?”

  Well that was a humbling kick in the dick.

  “No, not that…”

  But it is starting to become that, isn’t it?

 
(Christ, how delusional can you get?)

  “I’m talking about the other thing,” I said. “The…stuff you showed me before.”

  She continued fixing herself up in front of the mirror as she spoke. “I told you I would get you when I was ready.”

  “Can you at least give me a clue as to what I can expect?”

  She sighed, finally turned and faced me. “Okay, Mr. Worry…geez. I’ve got some things I need to take care of right now. In the meantime, you eat your food and get some rest. I’ll be back for you later.”

  “Later? When later?”

  “Later.”

  I gave her a frustrated look. She ignored it and went back to the mirror.

  “Well could you at least help me get back my car?” I asked.

  “Where is it?”

  “A bar.”

  She applied some lip gloss, smacked her lips, turned from the mirror and said, “We’ll play it by ear. We’re going to be pretty busy tonight.”

  She bent over me, kissed me, and then bit down hard on my lower lip. I jerked away and frowned, started sucking on my lip. The coppery taste of blood was instant.

  She smirked and left.

  The Bar

  “Not a vampire?” the bartender asks.

  “Dude—not a fucking vampire.”

  The bartender holds up both hands and nods an apology. “Continue.”

  18

  We’re going to be pretty busy tonight, she’d said. What the hell did that mean? Busy doing what?

  (Not each other. That’s my guess.)

  Yeah, okay. Then while we’re at it, why does she keep screwing my brains out? She’s already got me by the balls with that damn tape.

  (You saying you don’t like it?)

  Hell no.

  (Then sit back—or hop on—and enjoy it.)

  But why do it?

  (You mean does she like you?)

  No.

  (Yes.)

  I threw on a pair of boxers and a faded Stooges tee, then headed into the kitchen to reheat my Chinese food. Pele emerged from wherever the hell he was hiding when Angela was here—odd for him; he usually demands attention from any and all—and began circling my ankles, hinting at a taste of that delicious-smelling stuff I was heating up in the microwave, please and thank you.