by Kailin Gow
The Blue Room
The Blue Room
VOL. 8
Kailin Gow
The Blue Room (The Blue Room Vol 8)
Published by Kailin Gow Books
Copyright © 2015 Kailin Gow
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Kailingowbooks(at)aol(dot)com.
First Edition.
Printed in the United States of America.
DEDICATION
For my readers
Prologue
Staci Atussi
My heart starts beating faster.
Figures, I think, anger and fear melding together in my body, in my blood, running through my veins, heating me up from the ends of my fingertips to the furthest reaches of my toes. I can never escape. Someone’s always going to come and try and get me. Someone’s always going to come after me. I’ll never be safe. I can taste fear in my mouth and it tastes like metal, like sparked powder, like the barrel of a gun.
Who is it this time? My heart is beating so loudly it drowns out the Patti Smith, and she’s singing my generation, my generation baby and all I can think is oh my God, oh my God, this is really it, this time. I’m really going to die.
It had been a foolish dream, a pipe dream, that I could get out so easily. Someone was probably following me. Somebody was always following me. It was like every nightmare I’d ever had, my whole life, about not really being safe, about my life not really being my own, was real. But this is how things were. This is how things always were, at the Blue Room. I think back to what Ben said to me on one of those early days we shared in the Blue Rooms, drowning our sorrows in wine and pills and other substances that served as the only palliative to those cold, cruel Blue days. Ben had said: you never escape the Blue Room. And for a moment – oh, for such a wonderful moment – I had thought that this would be false. I had thought I really had a chance – a fighting chance, even – at getting away from the Blue Room, at freeing myself from all that was wrong with it and with the world. I had had a whole six hours on the road…
I look out my window. It is the dead of night. The desert that all around me seemed moments before like an expression of possibility is now something else. A terrifying truth. That if I am killed, here, it will be so many miles before the next person who can hear me scream. It will be so many hours until my body is found, if it is ever found. I had been afraid of black water closing in around me; now I know how wrong I was. It isn’t water that’s going to close over my dead body. It’s sand. Lots of red, hot, dry sand. And maybe my bones will be out there on the desert, too, and maybe there will be so many other bones brought up by the parched heat and feasted on by coyotes, and nobody will know whether I was human, once, or animal, or something in between. I won’t be anything anymore then. I’ll just be dead. Beyond all feeling. Beyond all caring. Like Rita…
My palms are so sweaty on the steering wheel. They slick the wheel so thoroughly I’m afraid my hands are going to slide off, that I’ll get myself in a car crash just by turning the wheel wrong. I’m this close to throwing up. I feel sick, overwhelmed. And my whole life starts to flash before my eyes: my choices, the moments that have brought me here. My mother, curled up in her little room after the house had been ransacked. Terrence, with his sexy smile and slick confidence. Mr. X., holding me in his arms on the cliffside as we looked out together at the sea and the gently churning foam. Rita sitting next to me as we made our Christmas ornaments together, her hair long and tumbling over her back as I stroked it, touched it, caressed it, braided it for her, as I leaned in to inhale the savage sweetness of her perfume. Images that seem now like desert mirages.
If I die, I think, the last thing I want to see is Rita’s face.
The face of the Rita I knew: not the Rita she became, or might have been. Not the PI who deceived me, who pretended to be my friend when in reality she had a deep dark secret I never so much as guessed at, never even wondered about. Not the Rita who had a secret alternate identity as a Blues Girl or an investigator, the Rita who was or was not alive. But the Rita who had died the day she vanished – and a part of me had died with her. The Rita I had known and loved.
My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. It’s agonizingly painful. I want to scream but my heart is in my throat and I can’t make out any of the words I want to. Instead, I veer left; the car veers left. I veer right; the car veers right.
It starts to speed up, to pull up alongside me. My heart is going wild. I can barely see the road in front of me; my mind is blank with terror, my eyes are dark.
And then.
Will it be Roni? Will it be Xander? Will it be Terrence? Will it be Julie or Brandi or Scarlett or even Rita herself who comes to kill me?
“Staci?”
It’s a familiar voice. A casual, familiar voice.
“Staci – what are you doing out here?”
My mouth falls open.
“Ben?”
Of all the people in my life I expected to see out here on this dark, desolate, lonely road, it’s Ben. Bartender to the stars. Blue Boy to the most exclusive gentlemen of the homosexual persuasion. My only friend in the Blue Room. The only one who hates the Blue Room as much as I do.
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
I could cry with relief. Tears of joy spring to my eyes.
“Jesus, Staci! Why didn’t you slow down. I was signaling you to slow down!” He rolls down his window and we both pull to a stop on the side of the road.
“What are you doing here, Ben?” I ask him.
“I’m heading to Vegas,” he says. “A dirty weekend with a private client. I saw you at the drive-thru and I tried to get your attention, but you just, like, sped off!” He laughs. “Jesus, you were speeding up like you were trying to get away from me or something.”
“Oh…haha.” I laugh like it’s normal, like this whole thing is normal. Like I’m not running, hiding.
“How are you doing, Staci?” His mouth turns down in an expression of concern.
“I’m…uh….fine,” I say. I try to think of a useful lie: one that can keep me safe.
“You headed to Vegas too?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You excited?”
“Not really,” I say. “You know, when you’ve lived in Vegas all your life, it doesn’t feel that exciting. You kind of get used to the glitz and glamour I guess.”
“Like the Blue Room?” Ben laughs. His laugh was hollow and black. That’s how Ben always laughs, I think. Like he knows a deep dark secret: like he’s seen something so bleak and awful and wrenching that it’s all he can do to laugh, laugh, laugh to stop crying. That’s what Ben sounds like, now. Like he’s one step away from crying. “All glitter and glitz and gold on the outside. Except all that glitters, you know… once you see inside. Once you see the truth. That’s the end of it.” He takes in a deep and sharp breath and straightens up. “But I’m being emo,” he says. “As per usual. Gotta perk up if I want to please Mr. Z.”
“Mr. Z.?”
“My man of the hour. A high roller. Likes his stakes high and his men hung. Called me up at 11 pm and told me to be keeping his bed warm by the time he gets back from the tables. And of course there’s no flights at this hour…”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“All night drive followed by a day of making
sweet sweet love to a man I couldn’t care less about,” says Ben. “Have a cigarette with me, Stace?”
I don’t smoke, but I stand with Ben as he smokes his on the roadside, flicking his ashes into the desert sand. Something’s strange about him, different. Ben’s movements are usually so fluid, so graceful. But today he’s jerky, like a live wire. And he keeps looking at the road, his eyes flashing across the horizon.
“You’re a good friend, Stace,” says Ben. His teeth are chattering, although it isn’t even cold. “You’ve always been such a good friend to me. I want you to know how much I appreciate that.”
This sure is weird.
“Any time, Ben,” I say, awkwardly patting his arm. I hope I can finish this little love-in soon and get on my way to Vegas, but Ben keeps talking: reminiscing about old times, the fun we used to have, that time he offered me a couple Xanax and I ended up passing out in an elevator. “Fun times,” he laughs, with that strange smile on his face.
“Ben, are you sure you’re OK?” I ask him.
“Yeah…yeah…”
Maybe he’s high or something? His driving seemed good, but there’s something off about him, something weird about his eyes.
“I’m fine, Stace. Just nervous. Mr. Z’s my least favorite patron. I’d never see him again if I had the chance. I’d never see him again…never again.” He grimaces. “Just have another cigarette with me, Stace. Help me calm down.” His hands are shaking.
“Jeez, Ben,” I say. “Just don’t go.” I take his hand but he snatches away.
“I can’t,” he says. “You know that.” He shakes his head. “Anyway. Anyway. I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about you. How are you doing, Stace? How are you feeling? I heard about your mom – I’m so sorry. Didn’t you just have to run off and visit her last week? Are things really bad?”
“Oh…uh…” I lie. “It’s fine. I mean, everything’s fine.”
How did Ben know that I’d left to go see my mother? It had only been a couple hours ago that I’d left that letter on Mrs. Walters’ desk. And Mrs. Walters didn’t exactly go sharing her private correspondence with the rest of the staff. Ben has never gone out of his way like this before. Why is he talking to me – acting so strangely? Why now?
And Ben’s eyes are on the road. Like he’s stalling me. Like he’s waiting for someone…
Something’s not quite right. The old familiar terror comes flooding back into me again.
“Ben, what’s really going on?”
“I can’t see Mr. Z again,” he keeps on saying. “Stace, I love you, I love you like a sister. But I can’t see Mr. Z. ever again…”
He’s pale, sweating, clammier than I am. Sweat has even soaked through his shirt.
“Ben, what are you…?”
And then another car is pulling up to us on the highway. A shiny Mercedes. It comes to a stop right on the side of the road, blocking our exit.
A woman steps out.
Louboutin heels. Prada handbag. A little Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. Perfectly highlighted Licari blonde hair. And, even at this hour, Dior sunglasses.
Roni Taylor is standing right in front of me.
Chapter 1
Shit, I think. It doesn’t take a genius to tell me that I’m screwed. Xander, Terrence, I would have known what to do with. Even if both men are murderous bastards – and for all I know that might well be true – at least I know how to act around them. I know what to anticipate, what to expect. I’ve spent enough time around them to know what they want of me. And a night of love, of passion, of pure hard sex, of whatever you want to call it, might be enough to stave off death for a while. I wouldn’t call it manipulation, exactly, but I know how to play their game. To balance their danger with desire, their cruel deeds with sweet words. To buy into the fantasy just long enough to escape with my life. After all, Terrence and Xander haven’t killed me yet. To my knowledge, they haven’t even tried. Maybe they just like fucking me too much.
But this is different. Roni Taylor – Veronica Taylor Blue – Clarence Blue’s wife and current owner of all things Blue – is dangerous in a way that far exceeds my wildest dreams. She is ruthless. She doesn’t let desire or love get in her way. She does what she wants. And if she wants a girl like me dead, she gets a girl like me dead. As she stands before me in those shiny red stilettos with her perfectly tailored clothing and those couture sunglasses on her nose, I know I am standing and facing something that is truly evil, truly terrifying. This woman will stop at nothing to get rid of me.
Why does she even want to get rid of me, anyway? What could I possibly mean to her? It’s not like Terrence or Xander left her for me – they’d been broken up with her long before seeing me. And both were notorious playboys – as much as I hated to admit it, as much as admitting the words made me jealous. Why didn’t Roni go after any of their other conquests? Or maybe she had, and they were all shot up too.
In any case, I wasn’t safe. That much was pretty damn obvious. Roni, with her stilettos and her cutthroat glare, was crazy enough to try anything, even murder. I remember that time she pretended to be a maid at her own Blue Room in order to try and sneak access into Xander’s room. That girl was up to no good. And I know at once I have to get away. I have no other option.
I have to get back to my car.
I start to run.
“No you don’t,” Ben starts to block my way.
For a second, I’m in shock. What’s going on? How could Ben – my friend, Ben, maybe even my best friend Ben, be in league with a woman like Roni Taylor, who existed only to cause misery and suffering with others? After all that time being unhappy about the Blue Room, hating the Blue Room, why would he team with the very people who were most responsible for is moral degradation?
I wrench away from Ben.
Then I run.
I don’t stop for pleasantries or to ask what’s going on. I don’t pretend like Roni could be up to anything other than danger. I leave my car and go running: into the desert, into the darkness, into the night. I can’t see anything, but I can hear their footsteps as they come up behind me.
I can see a convenience store in the distance. My heart starts to beat faster and faster as I get closer, as I come so near. I can see the neon light and the way it glimmers.
Safety, I think. If I can only make it to that convenience store, to a public place, I’ll be safe. There’s no way that Ben and Roni could get to me then. Even they have their limits – don’t they?
I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything. Tears spring at my eyes. Ben was the one person here who I trusted, the one person I would never in a million of years would have thought even remotely capable of betraying me. We were friends. Right? Right?
But maybe I’d once again broken the cardinal rule of the Blue Room. Trust nobody. But that rule is so much harder in practice than in theory. In theory, man can be an island. In theory, people can trust on nobody but themselves, rely on nobody but themselves. But in reality…
Things get lonely. People get lonely. People need friends. Even amateur PIs like me. Even people going undercover. We all need somebody, somebody to rely on. For me, that was Ben. But now I know how wrong I was. Now I know with agonizing certainty how stupid that was. Ben was in league with Roni Taylor – had he been in league with her this whole time?
He’d seemed so strange moments before. Distracted, nervous. Truly afraid. Like he hadn’t wanted to go through with this plan, but had done it anyway. For Roni’s sake? I don’t know.
I should never have stopped for him.
But it’s too late now. Too late for recriminations. Too late for anything but running with all my strength and all my passion and all my fire: until my legs are crying out for release and my ability to process thought is all but extinguished.
The convenience store is drawing ever nearer. Its neon lights glow like tiny pink beacons of hope in the dark night desert sky. They’re gaining on me – I can t
ell that by the sound of their footsteps – but I run anyway, faster and faster, kicking against the ground. Dust clouds in my eyes as it rises up from the earth. I’m so close, I think – almost there. I am almost at safety.
And then I feel it. Ben’s strong grip on my wrist – right as I get to the threshold to the convenience store, the single door that stands between me and safety.
“Ben!” I cry. “What are you doing? Let me go!”
He pulls me away from the door, away from the OPEN sign with its promising orange letters.
“Ben – how could you do this?” The tears are falling fast on my face. “You can’t be with Roni – you just can’t. I’m your friend, remember. I’m the one who looks out for you. You can’t trust Roni.”
“I know…” Ben says. His face is clammy, his teeth are gritted. His eyes are cold.
And then a hand clamps down on Ben’s shoulders. I hear a man’s voice. “The lady says to let her go. Now why don’t you, hear?”
I’ve never been so glad to see someone in my whole life. The someone in this case is an older gentleman trucker: a stout fellow, dressed in jeans, his flannel shirt hanging low underneath his barn jacket. His face is half-obscured by a flat cap.
Ben turns white. He starts to speak – mumbling something with nervous words, when all of a sudden I see a flash of light and hear a sound like a zap.
Suddenly the trucker falls to the floor.
I scream.
He’s jerking; his eyes are blinking; he’s not dead. But he’s immobile, conscious. And Roni Taylor is holding a stun gun in her hand.
This woman will stop at nothing, I think, to get what she wants. No matter how many innocent people are hurt or maimed or killed along the way.
Roni’s smile is beautiful, maniacal. She’s terrifying and lovely, a true angel of death. But not even her beautiful face and figure can hide the rottenness of her heart underneath. Something about her face, even now, the cruel lines of it, speaks to an ugliness beyond that any face could ever show.
