Improper

by K NILSSON

  I pulled out my phone, but before I could call my father, I needed to call Will Stanton, my right hand. I’d met him when he was doing investigations on behalf of our clients, and I’d brought him on as my team’s private investigator. He was a former FBI/special op with field experience in special tactics, digital forensics, computer security, CCTV installations, and covert surveillance. I needed him now because something was very, very wrong.

  Chapter Five

  Carrie

  After what seemed like hours of procrastination, I turned off the computer and swept the papers on my desk into the drawer without glancing at them.

  Without thinking about consequences, I pulled together an office look with a crisp white button-down boyfriend shirt, a straight, short black skirt, and skinny red stilettos. A loosely knotted black tie under my collar updated the look and gave me the edge I wanted. I pulled my dark red hair into a high ponytail and added some big hoop earrings.

  In a hidden corner of my closet lay the only thing that bridged the gap between bad Carrie and nice-girl Carrie, something I fiercely held on to, a leather biker jacket. This jacket was a vestige from the coaches at my high school. It started out as a code. Whenever I wore it, they knew I was game to play. It’s a jacket nice-girl Carrie would never wear. But it gave bad Carrie a look that said she was a dirty whore and would do whatever the fuck she wanted.

  It was coming with me today as it came with me every time I went out for a quickie; the dirtier, the better.

  At a stop light, I applied the red lipstick I’d stashed inside my jacket pocket. The Troggs’ “Wild Thing” throbbed in my soul as I cruised, trance-like, down the road. Downtown traffic was always bad, but maneuvering through it in the rain was a bitch.

  As I pulled into the garage, the familiar parking attendant took my keys, saw my shoes, and said, “The streets are real slick. You be careful now, hear?”

  Sheathed beneath a plastic see-through umbrella, I trekked three blocks toward the office building that was just as busy today as it had been when I spotted it weeks ago. I waited next to the alley and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. Even though I didn’t regularly smoke, somehow it seemed right to prime my mouth and form a perfect O to blow out smoke. Wasn’t it funny how the silliest things became second nature?

  A man crossed the street and paused in front of me to answer his cell phone. He looked a little crisp, as if starched from the day he was born.

  I dropped my purse, and the contents clattered all over the ground: my trusty little purple vibe, dead cell phone, and condoms. He picked up some of the items while still on the phone, and he paused for a millisecond while he coolly turned the wet condom packet over in his hand.

  He studied me, raised his eyebrow, and indicated interest in whatever I had to offer. I pointed my chin toward the alleyway.

  The bricks were pregnant with puddles as we walked down to the end of the path. He held my elbow as I tried to walk gracefully toward my fall from grace. I put down the umbrella, and it flipped over on the ground. Juices dripped from my core, the sound blending with the drops of rain from the overhang.

  My pouty lips underscored my intentions. He handed me the condom, pulled down his zipper, and waited. I crouched into a vulgar display, my legs spread for balance. I put the condom on the anonymous cock and rolled it down the shaft with my mouth. He squeezed my breasts and twisted my nipples. I sucked with enthusiasm, happy that my mind had turned to drizzle and evaporated.

  I corkscrewed my finger into his tight butt and looked up. His face wore the exquisite rapture of someone enjoying the best head he'd ever had. Soon I was breathless, pinned like a butterfly against the wall. My one hand held onto his hip to control the depth of his strokes, while the other slid back and forth through my slippery slit. It was a blur of steam, sweat, and cries. When the black swirled in my head, I think I came right after him.

  Once the spurting stopped, he didn't even look at me. He pulled off the condom, wiped the head on my cheek, and snorted as he threw the condom in the gutter. My humiliation was hot, scorching, even. I couldn't help touching myself yet another time. His eyes called me a slut as I came again.

  He pulled out two tens and offered them to me. I shook my head, but he tossed the bills at me anyway. They floated onto the pavement, and my eyes glazed over, watching them get wetter and wetter. He hurried toward the street with his cell phone in his hand and never looked back. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t have told you what he looked like if my life depended on it. All I remembered was the feel of the one-eyed trouser snake in my throat.

  The rain stopped. I felt the emptiness of the street as of it was a hole in my heart. Everyone had gone home for the day. But I didn’t have enough, not yet.

  It was always like that. The frenzied pursuit of the illicit, and after the act, I felt calm, balanced, and focused. Something had to be wrong with that, right?

  Chapter Six

  Carrie

  My purgatory was the scene in the alley. It was my lowest point in a long time, I call these episodes purgatory because of the period of time from start to finish, the beginning of anxiety, the accompanying stress, and the emotional drop afterward. I don’t know if my atonement will ever be over. I think going to the first support meeting was the catalyst. I suffered the same symptom of anxiety that precipitated my spiral, sleeplessness that started the day I committed to attend.

  Before the meeting started, my heart was beating hard and fast. When it was my turn to speak, nausea swept over me, and my mouth was so dry, Dr. Jane had to get me some water to drink before I could go on. I’m glad I started this phase of my recovery during summer term. Handling both would have been doomed from the start.

  Talking to Margie and Daddy after the meeting delayed purgatory until later that afternoon, and now I have to escape to my sanctuary and lay low until I’m ready to face the world again. Unfortunately I don’t know how to pull myself out of this hole faster—something I need to bring up during group.

  My father has many investment properties all over Los Angeles. My residence is in the city, but when I need an escape, I go to our summer place in Pacific Palisades. It’s my sanctuary. No one knows I use it because it’s far enough away to make it inconvenient for my family. Father has one of his property managers rent it out, but he is a friend of mine and I “convinced” him to keep it unoccupied for me. No one would ever think to find Carrie Drazen holed up in a rental property.

  When I go there, I live like a recluse, no phones, no television or Wi-Fi. I call for takeout and pay cash. I have a small stash in the safe there. I swim and sunbathe on the deck, completely naked, a symbolic baptizing of my soul. I know my spirit is getting better when I sing along to songs like “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” by Looking Glass,

  “I Want It That Way” by Backstreet Boys, and Creed's “Eyes Wide Open.” Soon, vitamins are pulled off the shelf; I make the trek to the farmer's market, and run for the hills.

  Chapter Seven

  Declan

  She had something on her mind. I knew my daughter. “What is it, Margie?”

  She sighed. “Carrie’s missing.”

  “Bye, Dad. Yes, I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. Don’t tell Mother.”

  Chapter Eight

  Saint Gabriel

  “Will, what's up, friend? You must be burning the midnight oil, or you miss my company,” I said. My clock read eleven at night.

  “I got a case for you. It couldn’t wait until morning. Hey, is this bad time to call? You busy?” He asked with innuendo in his voice.

  “No, I sens them away before bedtime.” He knew I didn’t do sleepovers. Too much trouble.

  “You’re not Saint if you’re not consistent.” I could hear the smirk in his voice.

  “What about you? Aren’t you banging your Drazen boss, or was that a one-time deal?” I smirked back.

  “Hey, it isn’t like that. Don’t let me hear you say that again.” He warned..

  “What’s up? I
asked, getting back to business.

  “One of the Drazens is missing—Margie’s little sister, Carrie. I need someone with your dogged determination to find her and keep an eye on her until further notice.”

  “You know I have other jobs right now. I can squeeze this in next week.” Who was I kidding? Missing persons was an immediate, money-is-no-object assignment. I knew there would be no budget, especially with a Drazen.

  “Right,” he drawled. I could almost see the familiar sardonic look on his face. “Send me your bill. I'll be your contact for this assignment. No need to trouble Margie with the details. Some things might need filtering.”

  “Done,” I said.

  “What about your other cases?” He asked.

  “I’ll farm them out, same as you.”

  He laughed. “Let’s meet for coffee in the morning. I’ll give you the file and anything else I have. Same time, same place.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  My name was Saint, as in Sawyer Saint Gabriel. My mother, Italian and a devout Catholic, surrounded by sin and violence all her life, named me Saint in the hopes that her patron saint, Gabriel, would protect me.

  I wasn’t a nice guy. Getting evidence of infidelity for people seeking a divorce or leverage against their partner were my bread and butter. You could say I specialized in entrapment. I followed tips from my clients to create an opportunity to engage with the mark in an illicit encounter.

  The goal was to give each husband photos of their wife with a cock in her pussy or mouth, but the real money shot was a dick in the ass. That always got acquiescence from the person who’d strayed from the relationship. However, that money shot could backfire. Some husbands were deeply insulted that their wives chose to take part in these activities with a complete stranger. It was hard to see a grown man cry and not feel guilty.

  Earlier this evening, I’d met up with a client, Jack, and handed him a folder of photos of his wife. Giving them hard copies had a bigger impact than handing them a flash drive, and I got perverse pleasure watching them squirm as they glanced at the photos. I could always tell which ones would be beating off to those photos or plotting their revenge.

  Jack was a plotter. He made the unfortunate decision to marry a moth-eaten, out-of-date, gold digger that I’d met the day before at a backstage bar in Hollywood, where Blow Job shots and Singapore Sluts were the signature cocktails. She wore a shiny pink wig with heavy bangs that covered most of her face. I didn’t even remember her name, but I thought it was Jo.

  She had been looking around the bar like a kid in a candy store. I finally got her attention when I waved a key from the motel next door. It was convenient. The rooms rented out by the hour. She followed me out the door, no questions asked.

  As soon as we got in the room, she dropped to her knees. From the top, they all looked the same. I pushed her down on my dick so far, she was flailing for breath. SNAP.

  “Why did you take a photo?” she asked, as she pulled back for air.

  “It’s for my own private collection.” I flashed her trademark rueful grin. I grabbed her head and pushed her toward my dick, slapping her face with my cock until she opened her mouth again.

  “Yeah, like that, slut.”

  She sucked more enthusiastically at the sound of the endearment. SNAP.

  When I pulled back, her eyes were red, makeup smeared, and snot was coming out of her nose. SNAP.

  I didn't come in her mouth or even on her face. I couldn't do it. I dragged her off my cock, threw her on the bed, and was faced with a bald pussy that had EAT AT JO'S tattooed on it. SNAP.

  Then I flipped her over and put on a condom. I should have put on two.

  I reached down to her drenched pussy and coated my fingers with her juices, and then I spread it on her asshole. I slid a finger in to the first knuckle.

  “Oh God, I've never done this before!” She lied, all the while squirming and moaning so loud, I'd almost swear she made me feel like a god.

  But let's not get carried away. I was far from it.

  “Fuck me,” she begged.

  I loved it when they beg.

  Sighting my target, I coated my cock with her wetness and brought the tip to her back entrance before pushing slightly… but what the hell. I pushed it in to the hilt. I was turned on, not for any reason other than I had her in a humiliating position. I always got turned on when they let their inner slut take over. Then, I am free to be an animal, if only during my assignments. I have no remorse. I played with her wet cunt as I fucked her in the ass, in and out, in and out.

  “Keep riding, honey. Grind that fine ass on my cock.” My voice was husky with exertion.

  She begged to come. I couldn't care less.

  “Sure. Come like the slut that you are,” I said with indifference.

  She fiddled furiously with her clit, and then she screamed, low and long. That was hot and I increased my pace, because in that moment, I owned her ass. SNAP. Then I came.

  Chapter Nine

  Saint

  It wasn’t long before we found Ms. Carrie Drazen sunning herself on the deck of one her family’s properties in Pacific Palisades. “We” includes Max, my go-to guy for just about anything I don’t know how to do, and, myself. That covers new technology and online data sifting. Every once in a while, he has to do some real work, get out of his home office, and get his hands dirty. He’s actually pretty good when he’s out of his element. I need to keep that in mind.

  The Drazen’s properties are under the purview of their own management company. The addresses they supplied were used to do reconnaissance on each of those properties. We got lucky when we located Carrie’s car, thanks to a tracking device called the LoJack,. We located her car registration and contacted the dealer. They verified that a LoJack was indeed installed. From that point, Max hacked into the LoJack database and found her car. We had to get visual proof that she was alive and well. Max found a spot in the mountains and was able to snap photos of her nude sunbathing. Yeah, THAT guy is nothing but resourceful.

  Obviously, it wasn't a good idea to send those photos to Will Santon; we had to get other photos. The ones Max took, however, didn't go to waste. I saved them for my own files. If it wasn't for my sleuthing, it would have taken Max longer to get proof of life photos that were safe to send, along with a report that detailed the steps we used to find her. Shortly thereafter, Will called me to say Margie was happy with the results and wanted me to continue the surveillance.

  Chapter Ten

  Carrie

  The rest of that meeting wasn’t pretty. Woman after woman, girl after girl, their stories were all different, yet similar. Someone had taken something precious from them, and they would never be the same again.

  The sound of candy being unwrapped was like hearing nails scratching a blackboard. The skinniest woman there had pulled out a bag of peppermint candy, the round white ones with little red stripes along the edge. The simple, innocuous sound of her unwrapping of the candy, the accompanying crunch, and the minty smell made me ill. She passed the bag around, and when it got to me, I quickly passed it on.

  Afterward, Dr. Jane was waiting for me outside the meeting room. Her forehead was wrinkled as if she was overdue for Botox injections. She turned her dove-gray eyes on me. That was one of the reasons I saw Dr. Jane. Her eyes said, “I believe you. I will still like you no matter what you say. You have a friend here.”

  She felt like home.

  She came into my life when Sister Peter Richard, my eighth grade teacher, caught me with two broken pencils on my desk. She sent me to the school nurse because there was blood on my hands.

  Mrs. Jameson, the mother of one of my classmates, happened to be the school nurse. She examined me.

  “Carrie, come, let’s wash your hands.”

  I didn’t care about the pencils as much as Sister did. I did destroy school property. I also destroyed the tender skin on the inside of my thighs.

  “Are you menstruating? Do you need pads?” ask
ed Mrs. Jameson, softly.

  I shook my head. The hands on the clock were moving so slow.

  “May I look at your legs, Carrie? We need to stop the bleeding.”

  I looked at her faint smile. She was nice. There slight sting from the antiseptic, but something else must have happened for me to wind up in the hospital with Dr. Jane as the attending physician. Some things were meant to be. She saved me then, and she might save me now.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carrie

  The sound of the candy wrapper was a déjà vu moment. It made me think of a time when I had unwrapped a piece of candy with a sense of nausea, the taste of vomit still on my tongue. I was so many shades of fucked up that even the sound of candy wrappers would cause me to end up back in the hospital, or worse yet, at my parents’ house under lock and key. The anxiety left me feeling as though insects broke through my skin. I needed to think about it; talk about it, and poke at the memory more.

  “I have to go.”

  “No, you don’t,” Dr. Jane said. “You’ll stay until the meeting is over, then we’ll talk.”

  I did promise to talk with her after each support group.

  The meeting was long; everyone had something to say. But listening to them was interesting and I got a chance to put faces to the problems and experiences the others had.

  One girl, Maya, spoke next. Her face was a sallow color, devoid of any pinkness. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her eyebrows looked almost bald, as if she had pulled out every hair.

  She looked beyond us and appeared to focus on the wall behind Dr. Jane.

  Then she said, “I went there, you know.” She paused a moment. Her eyes flitted across Dr. Jane's face, looking for confirmation that she knew what Maya meant. The women in group all looked at each other.