by Tony C. Skye
“Why do you act like you're poor when I know for a fact that your stereo and dress alone could buy three of those rust buckets you drive around in?”, the senior demands Mandie explain herself.
“Talk!”, Mandie jerks as Tamara threatens her.
“I'm sorta like royalty,” Mandie quietly answers while staring down at the green grass surrounding her bare feet.
Tamara remains silent within her fuming rage.
“I am really rich,” the girl looks up and stares off into the forestry deep behind the cellar, “They call it old money. With it comes my own personal army, more or less.” The girl glances up to look into Tamara's eyes, “Those are the guys you just met.”
“What - why did you let them do that to me?!”
Mandie speaks calmly, “Because Tamara. You needed to see just how much power I gave to you.”
“You didn't give me anything,” Tamara defends, “I took. I could have…”
“Do you really believe that?”, Mandie questions while waving her right hand towards the smoking cellar.
Tamara stares for a moment before answering.
“No,” the cheerleader admits with defeat.
Mandie turns her head and watches the smoke rise from the concrete tomb. Tamara, eventually, sits down in the grass with her legs positioned in an Indian-style cross over. The girl fidgets with her fingernails which are painted purple. She glances to Mandie's swollen lips.
“Why would you want someone to do that to you?”
Mandie looks at Tamara. She is a strong woman. Anyone else would need a padded room by now.
“You were the first,” Mandie answers honestly.
“I don't believe you,” Tamara counters, “You're way too experienced and know way too much about it for that to be true. Quit lying.”
“No Tamara. I'm not experienced.” She pauses to look at Tamara's fingernails then tugs on her dress which matches Tamara's color to perfection, “I'm just well read.”
“No way,” Tamara connects the insinuation, “You expect me to believe you bought that dress because it matches one of my fingernail polishes?”
“No, It's more like I read about your polishes and had clothes designed to match them all.”
Tamara's head retreats, “What do you mean you read about it?”
“Personal army, remember?”, Mandie answers.
“So you stalked me,” Tamara sounds a little threatening.
“No. Investigated,” Mandie corrects.
“Why?”, Tamara narrows her brows.
“It's not easy being me, Tamara,” Mandie answers, “And it sure isn't easy finding someone like you.”
Tamara remains silent for a few minutes while contemplating the girl's words. The blond examines her right hand before placing it next to Mandie's dress. She checks the colors. They match perfectly.
“All of them?”, Tamara questions while pulling her hand back.
“Yes,” Mandie responds with a guilty grin, “All of them.”
“That's not creepy,” Tamara looks towards the cellar.
“How did you find...?”, the cheerleader pauses to reorient her thoughts. Mandie unwilling to force Tamara to speak of the man-woman, quickly interrupts.
“My family's connected,” Mandie explains, “The pig wasn't hard to find. My family knows a lot of people. Even a secret like yours isn't hidden if I want to know about it.”
“I get that part,” Tamara answers, “But I don't get how you knew about him or even who he was? I didn't know who he was. The police didn’t even know.”
“Your medical records provided the how,” Mandie answers, “And his social security number and repetitive behavior is the who.”
Tamara lifts her left brow questioningly.
“Everywhere you live inside of the U.S. is listed by your social security number if you pay any bills,” Mandie explains further, “His social kept popping up where girls had been abused like yourself. The exact same details always.”
Tamara stares coldly at the smoldering cellar, “How many?”
“Three before you,” Mandie reveals the grim numbers, “Six more after.”
“Damn,” Tamara's stomach rumbles with nausea. She forces her eyes away and looks at Mandie.
“How did you know I'd kill him?”
Mandie locks gazes with the cheerleader. “Because I would have,” the girl venomously answers.
Tamara nods as she looks down to the ground. She sits quietly for a while before scanning the area to view the out of character place associated to a woman of royalty.
“Why this place?”, Tamara extends her long legs in front of her.
“It was close to your school, away from other people, and my army could secure the area without smothering me in the process,” Mandie confesses.
Tamara catches the girl's tone about being smothered.
“Freedom is hard for you, huh?”
Mandie nods. “I'm sort of used to it. They have to follow my orders unless it threatens my safety.”
Tamara bursts into loud laughter. She waves her left hand in a sweeping motion from Mandie's face to her bruised ankles, “Doesn't this qualify?”
Mandie grins, “They could only see my arms and face. They think I let the pig loose and got hurt before you saved my life.”
Tamara stares while admiring her work, “Next time, I'll stay away from your face.”
“Next time?”, Mandie seems to perk up at the thought.
“Maybe,” Tamara answers. She doesn't want to give the girl any false hope. Mandie seems to have enough problems as it is.
“You need to answer a few more questions first,” Tamara leaves her invitation open.
“Okay,” Mandie agrees.
“I appreciate what you did for me concerning that pig,” Tamara begins, “But I feel like you stalked me. It's really creepy. You seem to know everything about me and I know nothing about you.”
“I understand the creepy thing. It is creepy,” Mandie agrees while giving her response, “But I had to know for sure that you were the real deal and not just some bully.”
“As for you not knowing anything about me,” Mandie continues, “You're the only one on the planet outside of my family's interests to know me.”
The girl's voice becomes playful. “And no one in my family…,” Mandie speaks while lifting her dress to give Tamara a view of her deeply bruised calves, “knows this about me.”
Tamara looks away with brown eyes of embarrassment.
“You are the perfect canvas.”
“A canvas is useless without the perfect artist,” Mandie counters. She watches Tamara, slowly, look her way. The cheerleader’s grin is filled with the guilty pleasures of the scene before her.
“I agree.”
Mandie laughs to help douse the awkward rising tension. But Tamara’s eyes refuse to lessen their intensity.
“How did you know that I wouldn't just beat you up and leave?”, Tamara questions, “It's not like I ever felt this way before whenever kicking someone's ass.”
“Intuition,” Mandie reveals the vulnerability in her assessment of the girl, “There was always the risk that you'd do just that or send me to the hospital. Or even kill me as far as that goes.”
Mandie looks adoringly into Tamara's brown eyes, “I had to take the risk. Not only for you, but for me. Fantasies don't always turn out like people believe they will.” The eighteen-year-old subconsciously licks her lower lip when she glances down to Tamara's large hands. The cheerleader catches the subtle stumble by the royal girl. Tamara's heart rate increases.
“So you read about how to act?”, Tamara attempts to fully understand.
Mandie looks away. She shakes her head, “I already knew how to act, Tamara. I had to learn how to treat an artist. A canvas never needs to learn how to be a canvas. A canvas just is.”
“So you learned how to keep me wanting more?”, Tamara digs deeper.
Mandie's green eyes crawl her gaze up Tamara's long legs. Her stare lingers f
or a moment causing Tamara's body to rush with heat. Mandie's eyes finish their climb up the girl's body and rests firmly upon her brown eyes – soaking in the beauty of the watchful woman.
“I read about it, yes,” Mandie confesses, “But it was you who made me want more. Not words on paper. The more you played – the more I wanted you to play. And when I didn't want to play anymore, that's when you proved you were an artist who is for real.”
Tamara begins to speak, but Mandie cuts her off.
“The work you put in went far beyond my wildest dreams about you,” Mandie continues, “You were so brutal. Yet you were perfect in every way. The compassion you showed me later proves just how much you care about your art. I never seen that coming.”
Mandie laughs, “Actually, there's a lot I didn't see coming. And today, I wouldn't change a single moment of it. It wasn't an act, Tamara. Not from me. And not from you.”
The two girls sit in silence for a few minutes. They look over each other's bodies as though they are debating what should come next.
“Well, you need to heal up so I can hear that gorgeous voice of yours beg,” Tamara breaks the silence.
Mandie grins appreciatively. She cups her right hand around the right side of her mouth like she's trying to not let her army hear her words.
“And I'll buy longer sleeves,” she whispers.
Tamara tilts her head back and laughs. Whenever she lowers her head, she sees Mandie's eyes have been lingering again. The cheerleader's body twitches in response. Mandie moves her eyes to find Tamara's brown gaze enjoying her playful nature.
“Your turn.”
“My what?”, Tamara's clueless response sparks a grin from Mandie.
“Coming clean works both ways,” Mandie reminds.
“Oh,” Tamara smiles awkwardly. She looks at the cellar, “Fine. But I need a change of scenery.” The girl stands and offers her left hand to Mandie who gladly accepts. The cheerleader effortlessly pulls the smaller girl to her feet.
Tamara interlocks her long fingers with Mandie's right hand, “Come on, royal princess. Let's go talk.”
Mandie and Tamara exchange smiles at the teasing cheap shot. The two like-minded girls walk across the short distance to the open back door of the farmhouse. Mandie walks into the house first. As she crosses the door's threshold, she yelps as Tamara's released hand playfully makes slapping contact against her bruised buttocks.
The girl's startled face from the unexpected rush of pain causes Tamara's big eyes to light up with delighted excitement. She looks down at her own tee-shirt and grins.
“Some things…” , Tamara speaks as she reaches down and grabs the hem of Mandie's expensive dress.
“Need a completely…,” the bleach blond lifts the dress upward. Mandie lifts her arms as her dress is pulled off.
“Different amount of…,” Tamara drops the dress to the floor. Her long arms reach around and firmly grab Mandie's whelped back. The girl grunts and hisses in response. Mandie watches as Tamara's face lowers below her chin. Her growing excitement causes the same reaction as a cold chilly morning.
“There we go,” Tamara's approving tone forces Mandie to unknowingly hold her breath.
The blond smiles as Mandie's hands slip into her hair.
“Some things need a completely different amount of...”, Tamara pauses to give herself a chance to back out. But when she hears Mandie's forced exhale from holding her breath too long, Tamara gives herself completely over within her heart's aching desire.
Tamara barely whispers, “...pressure.” The cheerleader feels Mandie's hands dance through her hair. She hears the girl gasp breathlessly as she softly begins to nibble on the canvas which she, herself, had refused to paint.
The long-legged Tamara cups her right arm underneath Mandie's buttocks. She firmly squeezes her left arm around the girl's battered back as she lifts. The cheerleader's fingers dig and scrape at the wounds. Mandie winces while her back muscles tense and contract themselves. The proud painter enjoys the involuntary reaction of her canvas. She smiles.
“Come on,” Tamara quietly commands while walking out of the kitchen. Mandie complies by wrapping her bruised thighs around the cheerleader's waist. She rests her arms upon the girl's strong shoulders.
“Let's go into your room and talk,” Tamara whispers before gently pecking Mandie on her swollen lips.
“It's about time,” Mandie lovingly chastises her artist. She yells out when Tamara squeezes her tightly against her tee-shirt. The sore girl then laughs.
* * *
Caroline places her backpack on the dining room table. She walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out a red fruit punch Gatorade. She opens it, puts the big mouth opening to her lips, and downs nearly half of it in one continuous motion. After she caps it back off, she watches her mom place her phone by the backpack.
“Let's have it,” Caroline's tone insinuates there will be no lies allowed, “What did you two talk about for so long?”
Victoria looks at her daughter. She sees the frustration on her face and the teen hasn't spoken since leaving Dr. Evan's office.
“We actually spoke more about Dr. Evan's charity than we did you,” Victoria begins.
“Whatever,” Caroline shakes her head while looking at the floor angrily.
“Dr. Evans takes his oath very seriously, Caroline,” Victoria clarifies defensively, “But we did discuss his overall assessment about you.”
“And?”, the seventeen-year-old senior keeps her snappy attitude.
“And,” Victoria smiles to try and bring her daughter's frustration down a notch, “You are perfectly normal.”
“How normal?”, Caroline questions with a slight ease within her tone.
“You just need to keep getting your sleep,” Victoria reports, “Don't neglect your prescription. Everything else will work itself out. Dr. Evans couldn't stop bragging about how smart and level-headed you are.”
“Is that all?”, Caroline isn't convinced of her mother's willingness to tell her everything.
“That's it,” Victoria answers.
Caroline hears the truth within her mother's voice. She nods.
“I need a shower,” the teen confesses.
“I thought you girls always showered after practice?”, Victoria astutely cycles through the discrepancy.
“We do,” Caroline answers. She opens the refrigerator and snatches a bacon strip off of a plate she noticed earlier. The girl closes the door and turns around to face her mom.
“I need to wash the stench of doctor office off of me,” the girl jokes. She walks by her mom and kisses her right cheek.
“Thanks,” Caroline makes her apology for her earlier anger.
“You’re welcome,” Victoria watches the bacon strip held within her daughter's left hand curiously.
Caroline grabs up her backpack and walks down the hall towards the front door. Victoria observes her daughter take a bite of the pre-cooked bacon as she turns right and heads up the stairs for the second floor. The woman – unable to process the information before her – walks towards the front door. She stops and looks up the flight of the stairs.
“Caroline?”
“Yeah?”, Caroline stops eight steps from the top and turns around.
“Honey,” Victoria begins speaking as her daughter finishes off the bacon held in her hand, “When did you start eating pork?”
Caroline shrugs her shoulders, “Just now.” She contemplates the whys, but finds no real good reason for her one-eighty concerning the matter.
“It just looked good at the time,” Caroline gives her only answer, “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”
“Um - no,” Victoria can't come up with any legitimate problem, “I was just wondering. That's all.”
“Okay”, Caroline responds carelessly. She turns and finishes her climb up the stairs. Victoria watches as her daughter makes a left for her bedroom.
Victoria's short-cropped hair dances gently as she shakes her head in bewild
erment. The woman smiles. After being a psychologist for all of these years – after climbing the professional ladder and blasting through the sexist ceiling – after receiving numerous awards and the respect of her peers and colleagues – Dr. Victoria Reynolds is still being schooled by her own daughter.
* * *
“Boy, I sure do love me some rich girls and their daddy's trust funds,” the thirty-year-old man boasts. The dark skin man wears a pen-stripe tailored black suit. His fingers are jeweled with expensive gold and diamonds. He flips through the cash within his big wide hands.
A white man stands next to the large two-hundred twenty-five pound man counting his money. He waits patiently for his business partner's nod of approval. In his left hand is a brown leather brief case.
“Five-thousand on the nose,” the wide man declares. The white man walks forward and hands the case over to the buyer. He steps back as the buyer sits the case on the coffee table, pops the locking mechanisms, and opens the lid.
“Girl. You know I gotchoo as long as you stay on the up and up with Big Daddy Graves,” the dark man confirms the item's weight and quality while pocketing the money.
The buyer closes the lid, “Thank you guys.”
“You sure you don't wanna come hang with some real men for a change?”, the dark man re-invites the buyer to a night out on the town.
“Can't mix business with pleasure,” the buyer attempts to reject the offer without offending the dangerous men in her hotel room.
The dark man lustfully unclothes the buyer with his brown eyes. He scans and lingers in places uninvited. The buyer – although very uneasy – refuses to show her fear over the intrusive perversion. She knows better. These guys are the real deal. They take what they want when they want it. Making them angry is not a wise decision.
“Mmm - mmm,” the dark man audibly confirms his desire. The two men head to the hotel room’s door. The leader speaks as he walks out, “For the record, rich girl, business is pleasure.”
The buyer exhales in relief after the two men close the door behind themselves. They have never hurt her, but she isn't certain they never will. It's in their nature. She looks at the case with her palms sweaty. The item within is worth more than something that may never happen.
