by A A Bavar
Samantha pulled up her skirt, positioned her legs around Dr. Yurka’s, and sat down on his lap. She smiled mischievously and licked her lips, her eyes inviting, as her breasts brushed against his face. He stared back nervously and exhaled, his breath warm, shallow, constrained. “Men, even when you know you’re fucked, you can’t control yourselves.”
Dr. Yurka blinked several times and shook his head. “No… I, I’m so sorry…”
Samantha held her index finger in front of him. Slowly, her fingernail grew, turning into a razor sharp talon. “You know what I’m going to do with this?” She passed the edge of the talon across Dr. Yurka’s forehead, down his temple, around his cheek, finally stopping under his chin. “I’m going to carve out your face.”
Dr. Yurka started to shake, the trembling spreading to his head. “Don’t do this. I’m telling you, you don’t want to do this.”
“Telling me? Telling me or ordering me?” Samantha pushed in the tip of her talon. Blood trickled down to her finger. “Do you really think you’re in a position to tell me anything?”
Dr. Yurka grimaced in pain. “You don’t understand,” he pleaded. “If you kill me, the stone will be destroyed. You will lose the power of the Hope Diamond.”
Samantha stopped, her eyes softening. “Hmm… you’re right. Completely forgot about that small detail. Don’t want that to happen now, do we?” She stood and looked around the room. “Interesting conundrum. How to get rid of you without actually killing you myself. Takes a bit of the fun out of it but…”
“What? Why? I’m not responsible for what Wendy did to you!”
“I don’t care about that. Well, I kind of do, but the bigger problem is that you know about me,” Samantha hissed. “Now shut up!” Samantha walked to the window behind Dr. Yurka’s chair, her eyes fixed on several yellow jackets buzzing behind the glass. “And the solution presents itself, how convenient. I hope you’re not too afraid of these pretty little things,” she said as she opened the window. With her finger pointed at the wasps, she motioned for them to come inside. Three flew in before she closed the window again and walked back to face Dr. Yurka.
“How cute! Look at their black and yellow stripes.” Using her finger, she made the wasps fly around Dr. Yurka’s head, stopping in a triangle formation in front of his nose.
Dr. Yurka tried to pull his arms away from the chair, twisting his body from side to side. “Please, I have a wife and kids,” he pleaded again, his eyes welling with tears.
Samantha put her hand on her chest in mock sympathy. “Oh, how touching,” she said, and walked to the coat rack behind the door. “Now let me see,” she said as she searched the inside pockets of Dr. Yurka’s coat. “Like a good little boy, you should have one of these.” Samantha stepped back and turned, triumphantly holding an EpiPen in the air for Dr. Yurka to see.
“What do you want with that? What are you going to do?” Dr. Yurka looked from Samantha to the wasps buzzing threateningly in front of him.
“I’m not going to do anything. We’re going to… actually, you and your new little friends are going to play a game.” Samantha dropped the EpiPen on the ground by the rack. “Ready, set, go!” With that, Samantha twirled her finger and the wasps were free from her hold. Immediately, they attacked Dr. Yurka’s face, stinging him repeatedly.
Dr. Yurka, still bound to his chair, tried to scream, but all that came out was a muffled grunt. He stood, lifting the chair behind him and rushed towards the EpiPen. Samantha quickly stepped out of the way and clapped.
“Now we’re having fun. You can do it Yurka!” she cheered. “Here, let me help you a bit.” Samantha motioned at Dr. Yurka and suddenly his arms were free. The chair fell down with a crash and rolled back.
Dr. Yurka lunged for the EpiPen, his breathing almost completely constricted, grabbed it with his right hand, and knelt. With trembling fingers, he tried to take off the cap, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, and failed again. In a desperate attempt, he bit down on the cap and pulled as hard as he could, still nothing. With a grunt, he dropped the EpiPen and fell to his side.
“Please, help me…” he said in an almost inaudible gasp.
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m not playing. Also, I’m pretty sure the cap isn’t going to budge even for me.” Samantha knelt down and brought her face within an inch of Dr. Yurka’s. “You know what, Dale? Can I call you Dale? I think I’m going to be so devastated from this experience that I’m going to give a big donation to the Bee Allergy Foundation of America. Is there such an organization, Dale? If not, maybe I’ll start one.”
Dr. Yurka, his mouth wide open and chest heaving with the effort to breathe, grabbed at Samantha, who easily pushed his hand away. His lips were dark blue and his eyes bloodshot from the lack of oxygen. He fell back, motionless, his eyes glossing over.
Samantha tenderly passed the back of her hand on Dr. Yurka’s cheek wiping away the tears. “There, there, Dale, relax. The worst is over.”
Suddenly, Dr. Yurka convulsed one last time as his eyes rolled back into his head.
Samantha half smiled. “Paul, baby, here I come,” she whispered, and touched the Hope Diamond, once again transforming into Wendy.
The sound of the engine screaming, propelling his black and red Lamborghini Veneno from zero to sixty in less than three seconds, was invigorating. One of only nine produced, it was a head turner no matter who you were, and Paul loved the attention. He had ambition and always knew that he would make it in the business world, live in style, have an expensive house and car, but to own a four million dollar Lamborghini? That was unfathomable, part of a world he never imagined until he met his future wife. They weren’t in love. Hell, they weren’t even really friends, but some secrets have a huge price tag and she was willing to pay to keep hers safe. There was an understanding, a live and let live agreement.
Paul revved the engine and took the exit off Lincoln Highway to El Dorado Hills at an unbelievable seventy-five miles an hour, the Lambo’s tires hugging the asphalt tightly, providing control where there should be none. The 270 degree turn seemed to last forever, squeezing his body into the left corner of the custom-made, form fitting driver’s seat. As the Veneno came out of the curve, Paul floored the accelerator, letting out an adrenaline filled shout as the car shot forward into the straightaway. Immediately, he looked into his rear view mirror, his face breaking into an impish grin, and eased his foot off the pedal. The red and blue flashing lights would soon catch up to him. He pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. It was almost a pattern, he thought, and adjusted his Italian leather, fingerless driving gloves before reaching up and turning the rear view mirror towards himself. He passed his fingers through his hair, rubbing his day old stubble in the process, tugged at his open shirt collar, then returned the mirror to its original position. His cellphone, sitting beside his tie and briefcase on the passenger seat, buzzed. He looked over. It was a text from his wife.
“You always have impeccable timing, Wendy,” he said, and leaned his head back against the headrest. He thought about how they had met and that, inevitably, reminded him of Samantha. Sweet, young, innocent, crazy, Samantha. His original ticket to a comfortable, no, luxurious life.
It was only three years ago, but the memories felt so hazy, almost as if they weren’t really his. He had just landed a job at Clearwell Inc. and moved to Sacramento practically overnight. He didn’t have much, never did, so it wasn’t too complicated, except for the breakup. Obviously, his girlfriend at the time thought a lot more of their relationship than he did. For him, it was all about fun, stress release, nothing remotely emotional. It wasn’t even exclusive, although she didn’t know that. He was in it only for the adrenaline filled initial thrill, the exploration and excitement of discovery, the threat of being discovered, moving on after the explosion, and finding the next thrill.
The apartment he chose was small and on the expensive side, but only a few blocks from his new job, and that made all the difference for someone with
out a car. He was determined to climb the corporate ladder faster than anyone ever had at Clearwell, and for that he needed to be the first one in and the last one out of the office every day; always, no exceptions. Within six months he was the talk of the department, the prodigy, the no-nonsense marketing wonder boy, and was promoted to team manager shortly after. It was such a cliché, the perfect American dream, the small town boy who led his high school football team to the state championships, worked hard at odd jobs to pay for college, and when given the chance, gave his all for a piece of the pie.
Meeting Samantha on the opening night of her gallery expo and getting sucked into an explosive, physical relationship fit right into Paul’s routine, but what came afterwards was a deviation. He wasn’t an art aficionado, but what do you do when your boss hands you invitations to an art opening and asks you to buy a piece on his behalf? Goddamn, considering the price tags on the paintings, his boss was either crazy or this was the price for doing business, the latter being the obvious explanation. Paul found himself mesmerized by Samantha’s depictions of the ancient Japanese art of erotic bondage, Kinbaku, and chose a midsized piece priced at $240,000. As a corporate man, his choice was unusual, bold, even shocking, since almost every other item that sold that night was more conservative and in line with the traditional and safe mindset: landscapes, flowers, or mysterious yet beautiful women profiles. Samantha was tremendously flattered by his choice and insisted they go out for a cup of coffee after closing. Paul took advantage of his boss’s generosity and accepted.
The next few months were a blur. While Paul continued to chip away at the corporate ladder, he realized that a relationship with Samantha could quickly provide him with what he wanted; a luxurious and comfortable life. She was a rising star – her sales grossing over two million in a very short period – and completely infatuated with him. So when she asked, he charmingly accepted, set aside his playboy ways, and moved into the El Dorado Hills mansion where she was living. It was what he had always dreamed of, and although he was not in love with Samantha, his new lifestyle and the fact that she was young, beautiful, and mysterious made him believe that he could, or would, eventually learn to love her. Almost immediately, however, he found out that the house didn’t belong to Samantha, but to a benefactor who was also an artist and a close friend. Samantha didn’t elaborate and got very upset whenever Paul touched on the subject. For her it was a private matter not open to discussion. Paul let it go, but did notice that most of the art in their house was signed by a WJ and assumed that was the owner’s initials.
The weeks following his move were exciting and shocking at the same time. Although generous with her wealth, Samantha unashamedly revealed her much darker side, and her initial mysterious and alluring nature paved the way to an absolutely controlling and domineering attitude. It was almost like she had a sixth sense, and although she never called or asked him about his day, somehow she always knew exactly where he had been, with whom, and for how long. Paul was hers to own, period. Problem was, he didn’t get it; yet.
The initial warning came shortly after Paul moved in. Their housekeeper, Maria, a sweet Brazilian woman in her late twenties, simply didn’t show up for work one day. Paul had talked to her the day before, and she seemed fine, was happy with her job, and showed no signs of distress whatsoever. However, when Paul asked Samantha about it, she was dismissive and curt, and her response chilled him to the bone. “She quit last night. These Latinos are like that, unpredictable. Probably moved back to Brazil… or found a man to leech onto.” She had looked at him with a cold stare before adding, “Or maybe she had an unfortunate accident.” Paul got the point; stay away from the help. “But don’t worry, I have a replacement coming in already. She’ll be more to your liking and less distracting.” Samantha was absolutely right. Helga was the exact opposite of Maria. She was cold, unfriendly, and old.
The next warning was final, direct, and came on the evening of the third week after he moved in. It was a Saturday, and he had gone to play golf at the Serrano Country Club in Samantha’s light blue Porsche 718. On his way back, one of their few neighbors, Sandy – who was out walking her dog, a lean, beautiful black Doberman – flagged him down thinking it was Samantha. They got to talking and she mentioned she had puppies and asked whether he wanted one. Paul, still not fully aware of his new status as Samantha’s “property” and unable to control his flirty tendencies, accepted the offer and went over and chose his new friend.
That night, as he slipped into bed, his legs brushed against something warm and furry. Paul smiled – how the hell had Brady snuck upstairs and into his bed – and stuck his hand under the comforter. Immediately, his fingers came into contact with something hot, wet, and sticky. He slid his hand deeper, past Brady’s chest, towards his neck. Everything was covered with the same hot slime. His fingers dug in. In a panic, he pushed the comforter off just as Samantha appeared in the doorframe of the bathroom. She looked malefic, her mouth a thin line, her eyes piercing and cold. She was wearing nothing but a white, sheer lace robe, which would normally be very seductive and sexy. But not that night. It made her look supernatural, demon-like, the perfect scene from any horror movie, and for an instant it looked like her eyes flashed red. Paul stared open-mouthed, not daring to look down towards his hand. That was when Samantha, very matter-of-factly and with a chilling smile said, “You should stay away from Sandy.”
From that night forward, there were no more doubts about the nature of their relationship, but Paul was a player, and adapting to the rules was nothing more than second nature to him. Access to Samantha’s wealth came with strings attached, in this case, a psychotic personality, and for the time being he was willing to play the game. But situations change, or can be manipulated to change. There’s always a way in and a way out, and for Paul, the way out presented itself the day WJ came to visit. WJ, the benefactor. WJ, the future Mrs. Blast. WJ, Wendy Jewett.
The knocking on the driver side window jolted Paul back to the present. He looked up and opened the window.
“License and registration, please.”
Paul raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief. “Come on, Kathy. License and registration? Really?” said Paul, his smile stretching to his eyes.
Kathy didn’t bat an eye, looked down at Paul, and repeated, “Sir, licence and registration. And it’s Officer Riley to you.”
Paul sighed and reached for his wallet inside his suit jacket. “Look, I apologized. What else do you want me to do?” he said, and handed Kathy his license.
“Registration, please,” repeated Kathy. “And if I were you, I’d keep the talking to a minimum, unless you want to see what the backseat of a police cruiser looks like.”
Paul exhaled, rolling his eyes involuntarily. “Look, I never thought you were so serious about our… relationship. I mean, it was a fling that we both enjoyed, right? Great sex, great chemistry… lots of fun. And in my defense, when I realized you were getting the wrong idea, I told you about Wendy. But I also told you—”
“Shut up!” blurted Kathy. She looked from Paul to the ground, then to the hilly road ahead and back. Her eyes were glistening and when she spoke her voice was no longer controlled. “Yeah, you fucking told me about Wendy, that you’re married, that you have this sordid arrangement or whatever the hell it is. But did you for one second stop and consider what that did to me? That I was genuinely falling in love with you and had no clue you were about to throw me under the bus?” Kathy stopped to wipe the tears from her eyes. When she continued, her voice was low, sad. “You’re a shit of a person.”
Paul took a deep breath and shook his head. “Look, I messed up and I know it, but don’t be unreasonable. We were just having fun… we hooked up at a bar for God’s sake. And don’t tell me it was your first time. How was I supposed to know?” Paul said, exasperated. Then, as an afterthought, he reached out and touched Kathy’s arm. “You’re right, I am a shitty person, but I’m also genuinely sorry.”
Kathy didn’t move. S
he sniffled softly. “It did start like that, you’re right… but it changed because you made me feel like there was something more, or at least the possibility of something more. If it really didn’t matter to you, why did you string me along? Why the flowers, dinners, and midafternoon sexcapades? You played me with, asshole!” She pulled her arm back and tossed Paul’s license back into the car. “I’ve put in for a transfer, so from next week don’t think you can pull this shit off the exit anymore.” With that, Kathy turned and walked away.
Paul watched her in his rear view mirror as she got into her cruiser, did a U-turn and sped away. He shrugged, put the car in first, and eased back onto the road with a smirk.
Carlos leaned forward in his seat behind the high definition security monitors at the Art Institute of Chicago, his forehead scrunched into a frown. The wall in front of him was jam packed with row after row of screens receiving live video feeds from dozens of security cameras strategically placed in every room of the institute. His eyes, however, were riveted on one of the camera feeds from gallery 241. Without looking away, Carlos pressed a button on the console and the image snapped onto the 85” main screen centered on the wall in front of him. Using the joystick in front of him, he focused the camera on one of the institute’s most prized possessions – Vincent Van Gogh’s painting The Bedroom – and zoomed in for a better look. The painting depicted Van Gogh’s view of his bedroom – his bed, two chairs and small table, a small mirror on the wall beside the window, and five of his paintings framed and hanging on the wall above and beside his bed – in his beloved Yellow House in Arles. As the image grew on the screen, Carlos’s eyes became as wide and round as saucers, and he gasped in shock.
“What the hell?” he blurted and half stood, leaning even closer to the screen. “What in God’s name is this?” Plastered on the main monitor was the high definition image of The Bedroom, but definitely not the way the famed painter had originally intended. Inside the painting, Van Gogh’s self-portrait was no longer of him. Instead, staring back at Carlos in blazing purple, red, green, and yellow was the infamous Joker.
