But earlier this year, at the start, I was excited to see that she had come back, but this time, she was a full-fledged teacher. She had her own classroom in the freshman hallway and I was so excited to see her. I must have talked to her for my entire first lunch, listening to her talk about how incredible her summer had been, how she’d gone to Chile and Peru. I liked her. She listened to me talk about how boring my summer was, how I missed school because at least I got out of the house. Closing my eyes, I know that if I could just find Miss Larsen, I could talk to her. I could tell her how I was feeling. I could tell her how terrible I feel about Alice dying and how it’s almost like the world has gotten colder and darker without Alice.
Turning to my computer again, I clear away the libel and blasphemy, pulling up Google and typing in Miss Larsen’s name. It takes a moment for me to narrow my search, sifting through all of the other, random names until I find an image of her, smiling her big, beaming smile. She’s the kind of woman that I associate with summer. She always has that sort of sunny demeanor that makes me feel better. Yes, I should go talk to her. I should find her and I should tell her everything.
I print off her address and stuff it into my pocket. Grabbing my cell and a backpack, I walk out of my bedroom, closing the door softly, trying to keep my parents from noticing me, but honestly, I think I could slam the doors and stomp down the hallway and that wouldn’t pull them away from their cooking TV show. I walk down the hallway and head for the garage.
“Where you going?” my dad shouts at me over his shoulder.
I’m caught off guard. This isn’t normal. They’re not supposed to notice me. They never notice me. I freeze, my fingers just inches from the door handle. I look over at him next to my mom on the couch, hidden in the dark recesses of the living room. His face is illuminated in the pale, blue glow of the TV and I feel like I’m looking into the face of a ghost. “I’m going to Peter’s house,” I tell him. “He needs to borrow my notes.”
“Okay,” my dad answers, completely oblivious to the fact that Peter moved away three years ago and that I’ve been using that same excuse since he packed up and left. I spent the night in the park one night, staring up at the stars, while they were under the impression that I was at Peter’s house. Honestly, I think sometimes that if I disappeared, they’d only notice when I’m supposed to be eighteen and moving out of the house. “Be back before ten.”
“Okay,” I answer before grabbing the door handle and twisting it, stepping out into the humid, baked garage that stinks of oil and musty cardboard boxes.
X
Thankfully, she looks nearly like the girl from the diner, probably even prettier. I look at her and can’t comprehend why she’s out here on the streets. Why doesn’t she go find some rich doctor or lawyer and blow his mind after one night, string him along until he’s ready to commit, and then settle down as a rich piece of arm jewelry for him at parties and award ceremonies? Honestly, I don’t get girls. This girl could move away to some small town in some Podunk part of the country like Nebraska and Idaho where she could be the prized belle of the ball. Honestly, what’s she doing here in a city full of corrupt, beautiful people where she doesn’t matter?
She leans over, putting her arms on the door while the window rolls down and her dark eyes look at me with lust and desire fully brimming, completely fake, completely sculpted just for the job, but desirable nonetheless. I watch her breasts swaying as she looks at me, her lips pink and glossy, sparkling as they open. “Nice ride,” she says to me in a voice that suggests she smokes a little too much, but it’s just enough to be a sexy rasp.
“You know why they call it a GTO?” I ask her with a smile on my lips. Today was a shitty day, an extremely shitty day, but I’m more than willing to let all of it wash off of me if I can get a little action to take my mind off of all of it. I don’t need Agent Halbert, Bernie Owens, Chief Mendez, or the whole lot of them. I don’t need any of them to keep me down. In fact, the only thing that I need is to bide my time until retirement hits me and I’m off to sunny, sexy Florida where I can whore around to the end of my days. Why not get started on that now?
“No,” she lifts one of her perfect eyebrows at me. “Why do they call it that?”
“Because of when girls get in the car,” I lean forward, showing her my money, “they Get Turned On.”
“That’s cheesy.” She allows herself to smile at it, but she’s clearly not happy with herself for letting her façade fall. Honestly, I don’t care. A smile is a smile, even if it does come from something incredibly cheesy. Her hair tumbles down in front of her face as she looks down, hiding her embarrassed smile from me. When she looks up, she’s all eyes and seduction and I feel myself burning to get inside of her. She’s older than I’m used to, but she’s probably the closest that I’m going to come to the woman in the diner. “You’re not a cop?” she asks me, but cuts me off before I can say anything. “Not that it matters. Even if you were a cop, it’s not like you’re going to tell me that you are. I know the law don’t work that way.”
“Then if we’re not asking any questions;” I wave the money in front of her, looking at the two fifties that I keep stashed in my glove box for times just like this. I’ve got another stack of hundreds stashed away in my wallet, but I’m not flashing that kind of cash in front of her, not in view of the other whores working the front of the pool hall. She looks past the money and into my eyes.
“You’ve got a dark look to you,” she tells me suddenly, off of the whole topic. I look at her, not sure what I’m supposed to say to that. I look at her, wondering if she’s going to take my money or if I’m going to need to go elsewhere. She stares at me with eyes seeing more than they’re comprehending. I don’t believe in any of that psychic shit, but I have to wonder right now. Has the demon marked me? Am I damaged goods now? Finally she shrugs at me. “Your money’s good.” She snatches the fifties from me and saunters around to the other side of the car before getting in.
She drops down inside of the car, right next to me, all legs and pure, radiant sex. I look up from her pumps all the way up to her skirt, eating up every inch of her long, luxurious legs. They’re the kind of legs that you want to lick from the toes all the way up to the warm center. She catches me staring at her and thankfully, that’s what she’s paid to endure. She winks at me and reaches over, putting a hand on my thigh, her fingers dangerously close to something that really wants to play with her.
“You know a spot?” I ask her casually, like I’m asking her for a good mechanic in this area.
“Just pull into the alleyway around back,” she says to me with her purring, smoky voice. In my mind, the world is dark, raining ash and embers when she speaks. I want to fuck her. I want to fuck her just like I wanted to fuck the slut in the diner. I want to put my cock inside of her and fuck away everything that has happened to me today, because honestly, fuck today. I stare out the windshield at all the other whores, trashy and worthless compared to the bombshell next to me. How do they even compete with her? Why work in the same area as her? “Do you want to fuck in your fancy car? You want to get me turned on?” she asks me, leaning close and whispering toward my ear. I can feel her warm breath on my neck and cheek as she whispers. I feel nauseous. I feel like fucking her until I die of dehydration.
“No,” I answer.
When we pull around to the alleyway, she’s promising to take me to the moon and back and I don’t doubt that she could. I don’t doubt that she will, but I’m not interested in pleasure right now. I’m interested in catharsis. I’m interested in getting all of this out of my system. I don’t want a shrink. I don’t want a priest. To me, all this emotional drainage comes in the form of a good, rough fucking, usually with someone who should land me in jail. I shut the door and walk around behind the car, watching her out of the corner of my eyes as she tentatively gets out of the car, looking at me like I’m some sort of madman. I don’t care what she thinks of me. Maybe I am a madman. Who’s to gauge that in this wo
rld? Who is going to call me a madman when I’m chasing after a demon?
No, not chasing—chased after a demon.
She leans on the back of my car and I approach her like a leopard taking down a wounded antelope. I grab her behind her neck and pull her close, breaking the rules, planting a kiss on her lips. I don’t smell bad, I don’t taste bad, and she doesn’t resist me. I kiss her and force my tongue through her lips, tasting her. She tastes like stale toothpaste and cigarettes. With my other hand, I’m already tearing open her tied, button up shirt, exposing those bouncy, swaying tits that she was tempting me with in the car. It doesn’t take long for her to understand that this is happening right now, out in the open. I don’t care if someone walks past the alleyway and sees my bare ass jiggling while I fuck her. I’m going to fuck her right here.
I spin her around, slipping my dick up under her skirt, feeling the warmth of it radiating onto her cold ass cheeks. They’re perky, plump, and ready for me. I run my hands up her front, feeling the front of her thong, sliding up her miniskirt, and up her bare stomach. Her shirt is open, her bare breasts kissed by the breeze and the stench of rotting garbage. It’s a sour, sickening smell in the air, clinging to us like a shadow while I squeeze her left breast, rolling her nipple between my thumb and index finger. I kiss her neck, licking her skin and tasting her, tasting life. There’s been too much death. Too much blood. I need life. I need to know that there’s more to the world than death. And sex is the answer I need.
Bending her over the trunk, I spread her legs, slipping her panties down her thighs and feeling the wet lips hiding under the miniskirt. She wants this. I smile, no—I grin like a fox who has found the perfect hen. Slipping my fingers inside of her, I hear her gasp and flinch, not quite ready. I don’t care. I am. I rub my tip in her perfect, warm, moist opening and listen to her moan. She’s a great whore. I ram my cock inside of her, taking her as roughly and violently as I want to. This isn’t a date. This isn’t a marriage. It’s two people, getting what they want out of each other, a legitimate transaction. She moans, screams, and grunts as I have at her. I can hear her breasts slapping the top of the trunk and it only makes me harder. I clamp onto her hips and feel her ass cheeks slapping against me and I just want to bend down and bite both of them. I watch her jet black hair jostle with each pump and thrust. I instinctively reach out, grabbing a big, thick handful of glistening, shiny hair and pull back tightly, her head leans back and I can see her open mouth, her wide eyes as I continue pumping her. She looks at me, a look of alarm on her face as she uses her hands to stabilize her while I vigorously use her for all she’s worth. When I finally go, I let it all out inside of her, pulling back her hair and holding onto her hips like a vice, squeezing her ass to my hips, letting every drop shoot inside of her. She gasps, breathless. I don’t think about what I’ve done to her.
I take a step back, pulling up my pants and immediately fishing out my wallet. I pull out two hundred more dollars and flash them at her. She’s still leaning on my trunk, staring at the rear window, staring at my dark reflection, my true reflection. I take the two bills and put them on the top of the trunk next to her face. She looks at it and then glares at me.
“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be down here,” I tell her. “If you’re not going to go tie down some doctor, then get your ass up to Michigan Ave. At least they’ll know how to treat a girl like you up there. But you’re a smart, sexy woman. You’ll find a way to get along.”
“You’re an asshole,” she tells me, pushing herself up off the trunk.
“I paid you extra,” I tell her. “And you were definitely worth every penny.”
“Fuck you,” she spits at me venomously. I don’t blame her.
I needed her. I used her. Now this is the part where I drive away and deal with all the bad, negative emotions when I’m lying awake in the middle of the night, haunted by the horrors of my life. I leave her there, thoroughly fucked and paid very well for it. I walk to my driver side door and drop down, feeling the clarity that comes after the release. I start the engine, feeling the familiar rumble rushing through me, reverberating inside of my bones as I look in the rearview mirror at the whore’s perfect tits, disheveled hair, and the expression full of hatred and wrath on her face. I don’t blame her. I won’t ever blame her for that look.
As I drive away, pulling out of the alleyway, I give her one last glance before I turn in the direction of where I know that I need to go. The cathartic moment gave me exactly what I needed, direction. I can’t just give up. I can’t just walk away from this, not without one final play. I have to make the last move or I will never be able to live with myself. I head for the forensics and technician’s lab. I need to see Lola. I need to have one last chat with her.
The building looks exactly the same as when I left it, wreathed in darkness and yet painted entirely in white. It’s a sort of mausoleum that makes me feel unsanitary as I walk in with my shirt untucked, missing my blazer because it was soiled with Alice’s blood and piss. As I walk through the foyer, the bank of talking heads look up, staring with their dead, apathetic eyes at me. There’s a hint of recognition inside their cold, distant eyes, but it’s just a hint. As I leave them, ascending the broad, spiraling staircase that moves around the exterior of the foyer, I can still feel them watching me, but confidence is everything right now. If they think that I’m supposed to be here, that’s because I act like I’m supposed to be here. As I make it to the top of the stairs, I figure that I’m on a clock now. They’ve either notified security or they’re going to let me go. I have to assume the worst.
I find Lola in her office, where I expect to find her. She’s been here for almost twenty-four hours and in that time, she’s started slipping. I don’t blame her, but still, I reach for the door handle and it opens easily and immediately. If I was the demon, getting to her would have been simple enough. It’s enough of a worry that I freeze where I am, wondering if the demon did get to her. Maybe it did possess her and is now inside of her. Maybe once it got inside of her, it made her slip up. I shake my head. No, that’s not possible. Honestly, the more I think about it, the more insane I’m beginning to feel. Gripping the handle, I twist and push open the door.
The rooms are nearly soundproof, so when the crack in the door grows, I’m bombarded with something that is quite possibly the worst sounding music that I’ve ever heard before. I’m the kind of guy who likes Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and CCR. I listen to the good old boys, enjoying Boston and Journey, not this filth. It sounds like someone is beating a cow while it bellows in agony and the rest of the band jams away without any idea what a melody or even what the basics of playing in a band are. I listen to it and cringe, everything inside of me hates this music, and with good reason, it’s shit. I close the door behind me and look around for Lola.
I find her passed out on her keyboard, letting the music wash over her like the waves of some terrible, skewed ocean. I look at her for a moment, wondering what she’s been doing in her time here alone. She’s probably been going crazy with conspiracy theories, research, and over all panic for what it is that we’re partaking in. I feel bad for her. I shouldn’t have involved her in any of this, but I don’t think I had much of a choice when it comes down to it. I look at her and wonder what it is she’s dreaming about. I know that the moment I close my eyes, I’m going to be flooded with nightmares and unimaginable horrors chasing me through the void and darkness. I don’t envy her. Sleep looks like something that will be endured rather than enjoyed. I feel like there’s nothing for me there but regret and a dead end.
I gently put a hand on her shoulder. She flinches all over her body like one big rattling wake that causes her to peel open her eyes. She looks up at me with a ferocious stare, one that’s half expecting me to be the demon that she was waiting for all along. I look at her and feel the fire in her eyes, the terror and surprise as if she’s been here, waiting to die. I meet her gaze and slowly it begins to soften as she looks at me, comprehending wh
o I am, that I’m not here to end her life.
“Turn this—” I begin to say.
Before I can finish my order, she launches from her chair and wraps her arms around me, squeezing me tightly and hugging me like I haven’t been hugged in a very, very long time. Honestly, it’s strange. It’s like putting on an old jacket that’s been sitting in the attic, stiff from years of neglect. I feel her body against mine and I can’t help but feel sad for everything that I’ve lost over the years. I think of Kelly, all the hugs that I’ve missed, all the hugs that could have been mine, that should have been mine, but I tossed away too ignorant to know what I was getting rid of. I was a fool. I’m carrying that to the grave with me. I’ve come to accept that.
“I can only imagine the day you’ve had,” Lola says into my ear, barely registering over the so-called music that she’s playing.
I grab her arms and gently push her away from me. She looks at me with concerned, curious eyes. She wants to know more, but I’m not sharing. I’m not telling her anything that she doesn’t need to know. “I’m off the case,” I tell her flatly, feeling the words escape like they were always meant to escape. Like I never should have held onto them. “The FBI is taking over and they don’t want me near the case.”
“What?” She looks at me with a horrified expression. “How is that possible? What does this mean?”
The Darkness Inside Us (A Detective King Suspense Thriller) (A Detective King Novel Book 3) Page 9
