Damned Doll: Broken Doll Series Book Three

by Blake, Zoe

  “Is this your first time here?” she asks.

  I nod yes. “First time doing yoga. I’m a little nervous.”

  “Don’t me. This is a pretty easy class. I’m Cindy by the way.

  Of course, you are.

  “Hi. I’m Jane.”

  * * *

  “This is going to sound kind of pushy, but I was planning on grabbing a drink at the cafe around the corner. Would you like to come?” I ask.

  “I love that cafe! I go after yoga class all the time,” Cindy responds with anticipated enthusiasm.

  Of course, you do. You also photograph your favorite snack, mocha Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and a low-fat scone and post it on Instagram and Facebook—every time—you go.

  We chat about celebrity gossip as we gather our things and prepare to walk to the cafe. I pretend to know about the recent break-ups and scandals since to admit I had no idea what had been happening in the world of the rich and spoiled would seem odd.

  “My treat,” I say with false sweetness as I approach the counter. “I’d like a mocha Frappuccino and a low-fat scone.” Turning to Cindy, I say, “I know it sounds weird, but I figure the low-fat scone balances out the frappe.”

  “Me too!” she squeals. “Oh my god, that is my exact same order!”

  “No way?” My eyes open wide with what I hope looks like pleased astonishment.

  “It’s like you’re inside my head.” She laughs.

  Almost.

  * * *

  “I cannot believe you haven’t read Eat, Pray, Love. Oh my god, it was life changing for me,” gushes Cindy with enthusiasm as she turns the key in her apartment door. In the short time I’ve known her, I’ve come to realize that all the exclamation points in her social media posts are not exaggerations. Cindy says everything with enthusiasm and also always includes a quick call out to the almighty.

  Her apartment is small and neat. The mismatched and worn furniture give it a cozy, lived-in feel. There is the warm lingering scent of vanilla candles.

  “I know I have a bottle of white in the fridge,” calls Cindy over her shoulder as she turns left down a short hallway. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I look down at the narrow table in the hallway. Strewn across the top is her mail, a lipstick, her keys and a letter opener. Running my fingertip down the dull metal edge, I grasp the thin tool in my hand. Feeling my palm slowly warm the metal, I hold it down by my side.

  “I love your place. It’s adorable.”

  “Oh thanks!” comes a muted response from the kitchen just beyond.

  Cindy returns with two wine glasses.

  As we sit on the sofa, I watch her nervously toy with the stem of her glass as she bites her lip.

  Reaching out my hand, I stroke an errant lock of strawberry blonde hair which has come loose from the bun at the nape of her neck.

  Leaning in close, I whisper, “You don’t have to be nervous.”

  Cindy lets out a high-pitched giggle. “I’m still new at this. I guess I’m still shocked when another woman knows. You know?”

  Her eyes were glued to my ass every time I did a downward dog in class. It wasn’t hard to figure out.

  I reached for her glass and put it aside. Running my hand up her slim thigh, I wedged my fingers between her clenched legs. Pressing the heel of my palm against the juncture of her thighs, I lightly bite her earlobe.

  Cindy moaned and hesitantly opened her legs.

  “That’s it, sweet girl. Open your legs.”

  I rub my palm harder against her cunt as I lick the salty skin of her neck.

  “Jane. Oh my god, Jane,” she breathes. Her hand reaches out to grasp the fabric of my hoodie.

  My left hand applies more pressure between her legs as I raise my right arm.

  “Oh god, Jane!”

  I bite her earlobe again. “I’m not god, sweet girl. I’m just playing one.”

  Her eyebrows crease at my strange words. Then she sees the letter opener in my hand.

  Her head jerks back in shock, giving me perfect access to her slim neck.

  I stab at her jugular.

  Once.

  Twice.

  The third time I leave the letter opener lodged in her throat.

  Cindy tries to speak but only blood gurgles and spurts past her open lips.

  “Shhh. Don’t try to talk. I want you to know it’s nothing personal. I just need you to die.”

  Her hand reaches out to grab at me.

  I lean back. I like this hoodie and don’t want to get blood on it.

  After washing and putting away my wine glass, I leave Cindy’s corpse on the sofa and head back to John’s place.

  * * *

  “Honey, I’m home,” I announce cheerily as I open the door.

  There isn’t a response but then again, I don’t expect one. I walk into the bedroom and see his motionless body. His skin has lost its robust tan and has taken on an ashy pallor. His eyes are open… sightless.

  Closing the door, I head back into the living room to unpack my Chinese food take-out. I sit on the sofa next to my former self and devour a whole container of lo-mien.

  Tomorrow is going to be fun, I think with a smile.

  Six

  “Cindy? I need you to fax this over to David right away. He’s waiting for it.”

  The man behind the voice walked out of his office.

  “You’re not Cindy.”

  He was taller than I remembered. Still impeccably dressed. This time in a silver suit with a bold purple tie. The silver complimented his bright blue eyes. His hair was brushed back neatly, black with hints of silver which gave him a distinguished, handsome appearance.

  Pasting on a bright smile, my voice sounded a bit more high-pitched than I liked when I responded, “No. She had a family emergency, so she called my temp agency to ask for a replacement for the week.”

  “Good. Good,” he responded off-handedly as he stared at the V-neck of my sweater.

  I remembered this about him too.

  “As much as I would like to just call you beautiful, I should probably know your name,” he said with a charming smile as he sat on the edge of my desk.

  “Helen. My name is Helen and thank you for the compliment, Mr.—”

  Holding up his hand, he stopped me. “No mister. Call me Michael. We’re informal here at Chicago Properties Limited, like family.”

  Family.

  I noticed he didn’t even bother to ask if Cindy was okay or even what her emergency was.

  Pressing my upper arms against my breasts so the top curves press in to form a deeper cleavage I lean forward. “I like… informal… Michael.” I look deeply into his blue eyes as I bite my lip. My meaning unmistakable.

  The moment was interrupted by an employee coming in to see Michael.

  “Yes. Yes. I have that file on my desk,” said Michael after clearing his throat and rising. As he walked away, he looked over his shoulder and gave me a wink.

  That’s it, Michael. Step into my web.

  * * *

  “Here are those reports you asked for, Michael.”

  Today I was wearing a tight pencil skirt with a cream blouse. If I leaned a particular way, the thin silk of the blouse would stretch against my bra, showing the image of the soft lace beneath.

  “Just put them in the bottom drawer in the filing cabinet to the right,” he commanded.

  I knew they didn’t belong there. He just wanted to watch me bend over. I was more than happy to oblige.

  Walking over to the filing cabinet, I leaned forward then bent at the waist, knowing the fabric of the skirt would stretch tightly across my ass. After placing the reports in a file, I straightened and turned quickly. Just in time to see him adjust his cock.

  Embarrassed, Michael grabbed a pen on the desk and began to scribble something.

  “Is that all you need… Sir?”

  He gave me a heated look. “For now.”

  * * *

  “Helen, you’ve been
here all week, and I haven’t taken the time to ask anything about you.”

  You also haven’t even asked about Cindy.

  Asshole.

  “What would you like to know, Sir?”

  I knew he liked it when I called him sir. I knew what he was picturing each time the name left my lips. I was definitely getting the hang of being one of the pretty girls.

  “Well, say for instance, what is your… boyfriend’s name?”

  I smile. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “No. A pretty girl like you?”

  Pretty girl.

  “Men in their twenties can be such boys. I prefer older men.”

  I watch as the glint of possibility glowed in his eyes.

  “Perhaps I should take you out for a drink tonight. My way of saying thank you for filling in for…”

  “Cindy.”

  “Yes. Cindy.”

  “I’d like that. By the way, your wife called. She’s staying at her sister’s tonight because they want to get an early start at the spa.”

  I carefully kept my expression blank as he gave me an assessing look.

  “Great,” he said after a pause. “We’ll leave straight from here at 5:00 pm.”

  * * *

  Running my fingertip under my lower lip, I straightened the line of deep red lipstick. Then, reaching into my bra, I pulled each breast up and forward to perk up my cleavage.

  I stared into Helen’s brown eyes.

  Everything was going according to plan.

  After tonight I would disappear.

  There would be no more Jane.

  No more Helen.

  I would reinvent myself somewhere new.

  Start over.

  This time as one of the pretty girls.

  Life would be easier this time around.

  Everything was easier when you were a pretty girl.

  I would be good as a pretty girl.

  After one more assessing glance, I left the bathroom to join Michael.

  * * *

  “Helen, you are a delight,” says Michael as he seemingly casually rests his hand on my thigh. “It has been a very long time since I’ve enjoyed the company of a woman.”

  Doubtful.

  Looking contrite, Michael’s brow creases… convincingly. He lets out a long suffering, if practiced, sigh. “My wife… my wife is a cold, heartless woman. My family had money and she tricked me into marriage with a false pregnancy. It has been a long loveless marriage.”

  Your wife was the one with the money and is now the one who lives a lonely existence dulled with pain pills and alcohol while you whore around, convincing her she was never pretty enough for you. You dick.

  Calming my features, I press my hand over his, “Oh, Michael. I’m so sorry. A man like you deserves so much more.”

  Giving me a seductive look, he argues. “Helen, what I feel for you is wrong. The difference in our ages—”

  I press my fingertip against his lips.

  “I happen to like the difference in our ages. What I desire most in life is an older man who will take me in hand.”

  The expensive silk of his trousers does nothing to conceal the growing bulge of his cock.

  Pressing my advantage, I use my hand to guide his just under the fabric of my skirt, pushing it higher till he can feel the lace edge of my thigh-highs. “Perhaps you should take me home.”

  “My wife—”

  “Isn’t home, remember.”

  “How about we check into a hotel. A nice suite with room service.”

  “No.” My answer is too abrupt. He leans back, on guard.

  Giving him a shy smile, I lean in close to whisper in his ear. “I like to scream and don’t want to be overheard.”

  His features relax into an arrogant smirk as he signals for the check.

  I smile as the unsuspecting insect doesn’t see the web closing in around him.

  Seven

  “You have a beautiful home,” I tell him as we enter. The massive crystal chandelier is dimmed, casting a soft glow on the displayed fresh flowers and emerald green marble floor.

  “Thank you. I’m proud to say I decorated it myself. I’m told I have a keen eye for art and decor,” Michael boasted as he removed my coat.

  Your wife decorated it. You dick.

  Without saying a word, I head to the main staircase. Casting a suggestive glance over my shoulder, I make sure to exaggerate each step so my hips sway enticingly. At the top of the stairs, I head directly to the large mahogany door on the right. A turn of the brass handle and I enter the richly decorated master bedroom.

  Michael stood on the threshold, loosening his tie.

  “How did you know this was the correct bedroom?”

  Damn.

  “Just a guess,” I answer breezily as I quickly kick off my high heels and start to unbutton my blouse to distract him.

  I watch him shrug out of his suit coat, hoping the low light coming through the bedroom window hides my disgust.

  Shrugging out of my blouse, I shimmy out of my skirt. I pause, knowing the sight of my cream lace bra and panties with matching thigh highs will make an impression on him.

  Michael takes an authoritative step towards me, wrapping his arms around my waist, he pulls me in for a kiss.

  I tilt my head to the right, avoiding his embrace.

  “You know what I want?” I ask breathlessly.

  “What?” His response is muffled as he tries to brush my long hair aside with his nose to kiss my neck.

  Grabbing the buckle of his belt, I start to work the fastening. “I want you to punish me like I was a bad girl.”

  “You are a bad girl. A very bad girl,” growls Michael, immediately taking to the role play. “Bend over the bed.”

  “Yes…. Daddy.”

  “Kinky too,” he says, laughing with approval. “Okay, bend over the bed so… Daddy… can punish you.”

  Obediently, I lower my upper half across the cool expanse of the bedspread. It is pale pink with large crimson roses on a vine. I trace one of the vines, ending at the point of one of the thorns. I trace as I have a hundred times before.

  “Lower your panties, bad girl.”

  Slipping my thumbs into the straps of my thong, I slowly slide them over my upturned ass. Before the thin slip of fabric even hits the floor, he is whipping me with his belt.

  At the first sting of leather against skin, I am silent. Crying out is no longer natural to me. As he continues to abuse the delicate skin of my ass, I find my voice.

  Crying out in pain… and sorrow.

  As the belt heats my skin, I look up at a photo of Michael, his wife… and daughter.

  “That’s it, Daddy. Punish me. Punish your daughter.”

  “You’ve been a bad girl. As soon as this ass is red, I’m going to fuck you raw,” exclaims Michael, slightly out of breath.

  I feel the sting of the belt several more times. Then the only noise in the room is Michael’s fast breathing and the soft sound of his trouser zipper.

  Turning around, my sore ass hits the cool fabric of the bedspread, as I open my legs and stare at him. Trousers around his ankles. His cock in his hand.

  “That’s right, Daddy. Your daughter has been a very very bad girl. She’s murdered at least five people.”

  “What the fuck is this, Helen?” demands Michael.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Daddy. Don’t you recognize your Jane?”

  He backhands me.

  I laugh as I can feel the blood trickle from my split lip. Dipping the tip of my finger into the warm liquid, I taste it. Its metallic tinge is a boon. He had no idea how long I have desperately prayed to bleed, to show some outward sign of pain. This. This is what I want.

  To bleed my pain.

  Small flecks of blood land on the cream bedspread as I laugh. “Oh, that’s right, according to the news, you don’t have a daughter anymore.”

  “This is some sick joke. If you're not out of my house in two seconds I’m calling th
e police.”

  “What’s the matter, Daddy? Aren’t I finally pretty enough for you? Isn’t that what you always wanted? A pretty daughter? Someone you could be proud of?”

  Michael starts to back away. The look of horror crossing his face fuels me.

  “Enough of this,” he roars as he pulls up his pants and begins to head toward the door.

  Rolling off the bed, I open the nightstand drawer and pull out the revolver I knew to be there. I had seen my mother caressing it fondly many times during my childhood. Always trying to call upon a courage she never had.

  But I do.

  “Not so fast, Daddy.”

  “Listen, Helen. You haven’t done anything wrong yet. I can help you. I can get you help.”

  “My name isn’t Helen. It’s Jane. My name is Jane. Say it.”

  Holding his hands up defensively, my father spits out my name. “Jane.”

  “Your daughter.”

  “My daughter.”

  I motion with the gun for him to step further back into the room. He walks cautiously, keeping his steady gaze on me. His hands lowered.

  I brush at a tear with the back of my hand. “I did it, Daddy. I did it. I was finally pretty enough for you to notice me. To want me.”

  “You’re sick, Hel-Jane. Let me help you.”

  My voice takes on a childish sing-song quality. “Don’t you love me now, Daddy? I’m one of the pretty girls now.”

  “Jane, I—”

  The sounds of sirens drown him out. Now the soft street lamp light through the window is joined by flashes of red and blue.

  I look at his lowered hand. His cellphone is lit up.

  The final betrayal.

  “The police are here, Helen. It’s over.”

  “I told you. My name is Jane.”

  Raising my arm, I got off one perfect shot.

  Right between his perfect blue eyes before the police tackled me to the floor.

  Eight