Damaged

by Timothy W. Long

  “You checked the other rooms?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, lying his ass off. “They’re fine.”

  Sunny nodded and shuffled off, moving slow, as if she intended to sneak up on the other rooms of her house. Seth shook his head and chuckled under his breath. After she was gone, he turned back to the sink and jumped back as something tickled his finger. He barely managed to rein his shout in, masking it with a cough as he glared into the sink to see a lone maggot trundling along.

  God damn it, Colt.

  He nudged the larva into the drain and turned on the hot water.

  “What are you doing?”

  Seth started and spun around, his hand clutched to his chest like a heavy metal Redd Foxx. “Jesus Wilbur Christ, woman! You scared the fuck out of me.”

  She stared at the sink, eyes wide, knuckles turning white against the handles of her travel bag. “What are you doing?” she repeated.

  “Just double checking, is all. Damn. Paranoid much? We need to stop and get you some better smoke.” He exhaled hard, coming over to take her bag from her. “Didn’t expect you to sneak up on me like that.” Seth put his hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the door. She didn’t resist but her eyes stayed on the sink. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Your delusions are starting to rub off on me.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I will, once we’re on the road. You can watch if you want.”

  “My attention span isn’t that short.”

  “Girl’s got jokes, just like her parents who named her Sunny Rains.” Seth reeled back, feigning injury.

  “It’s Sunny Reigns, fuck you very much,” she said, enunciating the difference in spelling.

  “Whatever. Just get in the car.” He circled around the back and popped the trunk, throwing her bag inside along his. Neither had bothered to pack much. The recording would be a whirlwind session of long days and drunken all-nighters, just so everyone could go home before they went stir crazy and killed each other. Every album was harder than the last. Seth could only imagine how quickly they’d be at each other’s throats this time around.

  He hopped into the car and eased out of the driveway.

  “This bucket going to make it?”

  “This bucket is going to get us through LA and all the way up to Wex’s without a single person giving us a second glance. Be grateful I don’t stuff you in the trunk with the luggage.”

  She shrugged. “I packed my vibrator. I’m good.”

  He sneered at her and she just grinned, her patented smile flickering on like magic. Seth just shook his head and hunkered down for the drive. Not more than a couple hours later and his frustration would be magnified tenfold by the presence of Michael and Wex.

  At least he had some surprises in store to liven things up. That thought kept him smiling the whole way there.

  16

  Given to the Rising

  Wex

  The cops had been assholes.

  They had arrived in about thirty minutes after Wex had made the call while Payton lost her damn mind. She screamed, threw things, and broke down in uncontrollable sobbing. She broke a dish that he’d been given by a fan in Hong Kong. It had dragons worked around the outside, but in the center was an Asian interpretation of Baphomet on his throne with index and middle fingers on his right hand raised. His left at a forty-five-degree angle to his body, same fingers pointed. It wasn’t that it was a great piece of art, not by any stretch, but the kid had created it himself. The back of the plate bore the Damaged logo and was inscribed to Wex. But there it was, on the floor, in fifty pieces.

  The more he tried to comfort her, the more she lost it, at one point, sobbing so hard she nearly passed out.

  The cops had taken his statement. The younger one named Smith was clearly star struck. They called him Mr. Wex and did a cursory examination of the kitchen. Then they looked over the back door and the front. They checked for signs of forced entry.

  The other, a woman named Gonzales, had been pushy. Her face a mask of rage as she wrote down Wex’s statement. Her questions had been nothing less than accusatory.

  When they didn’t find anything out of the ordinary, they departed, but not before young officer Smith shot him a look that Wex was unable to read. Pity? Awe? Was he trying to say that they he and Payton were a fucked up couple who put a dog in a garbage disposal?

  This was going to be a nightmare. As soon as the animal activists got wind of this, his face was going to be plastered across the tabloids. He’d have to get his lawyers on the phone as soon as possible to head this off. His publicist was in Bali so that was going to be an awkward conversation. He was sure that Angelica wouldn’t take too kindly to being called while she out of the country with her husband.

  He closed the front door and hoped to hell that the cops didn’t leak one of the photos. He considered calling the station and asking for Officer Smith in the morning. Offer him a small bribe like a signed guitar or something. Maybe the kid would be able to keep his fucking mouth shut and make sure the others did as well.

  “Babe, I’m sorry about the dog. I don’t know what happened,” Wex said as he walked back into the kitchen.

  He couldn’t even figure out what had happened to him a few hours ago. He’d lost his shit in the parking lot of an electronics store after viewing the picture. He’d seen worse, much worse. Hell, he had done much much worse.

  But this was a pet. A member of the family, as they say. He’d liked Mr. Fuckface a lot and he was going to miss the little shit.

  But coming home to that. Seeing his back half sticking out of the garbage disposal. It had driven him to go upstairs, hit the Klonopin, and then see about some of that Ketamine. Just a little, he didn’t want to be asleep for the next twenty hours.

  She was spraying water in the sink trying to get all of the blood off. She had a bottle of Windex in her other hand and she sprayed it all over the countertop.

  “Mr. Fuckface. Mr. Fuckface!” she had continued to wail.

  “Take a pill and lay down for a little while. You’ll feel better,” Wex had tried to persuade her. At the rate she was going she was about to pass out from hyperventilating again.

  Payton dropped to the floor oblivious to the white dress she wore. Flowers had been worked into the hem and line that exposed a swell of cleavage. Red tinged roses stuck out like the real thing and the outfit was made of pure silk. Wex knew this because he’d purchased it for her at an upscale store in town called Meyer Road. The clientele were movie stars and personal shoppers to the rich and assholey. A typical ensemble could easily run in the thousands. Wex couldn’t tell what in the world made the clothes so special. The first time she had worn it for him, all he could think about was taking it off.

  Wex wasn’t very good at this. He touched her head in something he hoped was a reassuring manner. “We’ll get a new dog, Payton.”

  “I don’t want a new dog. I want my dog. I want him back, Wex.” She sobbed. “I want him back! How could you do this? What is wrong with you, Wex. What the fuck is wrong with you? First Chloe, now this? And all the other shit lately.”

  Tears ran down her face, leaving mascara that created a black river. Her eyes were puffy and red. Snot dripped from her nose and suddenly Payton wasn’t so cute. Nor were her accusations.

  “I didn’t do this, Payton. Jesus Christ.”

  “You did. It’s that Satan thing, Wex. I know it. I’ve seen your room. The one with the heavy lock. I’ve been in there,” she said.

  “You weren't supposed to look in there, Payton. I warned you.”

  She’d been in there? How in the hell did she even know how to get in there? He kept the room so tightly locked up even his cleaning staff wasn’t aware of how to get inside. That room wasn’t for anyone but him. Darkness momentarily clouded his vision. Anger at Payton for breaking his trust, not to mention breaking into his private room, made Wex squint his eyes and bite his lip.

  Payton tried to get to her feet. She put a hand on the c
ounter top. Wex reached for her again but she batted his hand aside. She made to shaky feet me then turned on him again.

  “Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”

  “I told you to stay out of that room,” Wex said.

  He leaned over and put his hands on her upper arms. He squeezed until she tried to shrug him off.

  “The great Wex. You’re an asshole. I hate you.”

  “No you don’t. You’re just upset. I’ll figure out how to make this right, Payton.”

  Wex had no intention of making anything right. Payton had outstayed her welcome and would soon find herself out of the house. He had done this before, too many times to count. There would always be a fresh piece of ass. A new girl to take her place.

  But there was the problem of the room. He would need to have her sign papers, and papers meant money.

  “I’ll just go. I’ll have my stuff picked up in the morning,” Payton sobbed.

  She pushed his hands off her arms and slid back until her back was against the cabinet.

  Oh, you want to leave now? That’s not how this works, bitch.

  “You don’t have the money and the perks to survive without me. Not to mention my dick,” Wex shot back.

  “Oh yeah,” Payton sobbed. “You’re a real ladies man. I know you can’t get it up without your little blue pills. Too much coke or whatever when you were young. You were an asshole then, and you’re an asshole, dog-murdering prick now. Wait until the press hears about this.”

  “Payton. I didn’t kill your dog. You’re talking crazy.”

  Wex spun and slammed his hand on the marble countertop. He had no clue why she was blaming him.

  “You’ve got hidden cameras all over the place. Watch the damn tape and find out who did it then,” she screamed, voice rising in pitch. “I know why you haven’t looked yet. Because you’re the big star of that little movie.”

  Wex rocked back on his heels. The tapes. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Payton moved in front of him on shaky knees. She stared at him, then her hand flew up and caught him across the face. The blow was a hell of a shot and knocked him back. Payton was small but she had a hell of a strong arm.

  Wex’s mind went black. He’d always had a quick temper that was somewhat sedated by meds. The problem was he hadn’t taken his drugs in a few days. Or was it a few weeks?

  His vision narrowed and before he could think about his actions, consider the implications, his own hand came up, only it wasn’t open. Years of bar fights took over and he swung. His fist connected behind a full haymaker, and Payton dropped. Pain raced from his knuckles, across his (probably) sprained wrist, soon to be throbbing forearm, and elbow. Blood, but he wasn’t sure if it was hers or his, splattered, across his hand.

  Wex should have been horrified. He should have felt remorse but he didn’t feel anything except rage.

  Payton lay at his feet. Her perfect face shattered. Part of her orbital bone stuck out of her left cheek and blood pooled around her head.

  She choked, then coughed, and saliva filled with red splattered the floor.

  Wex didn’t see her as a person. He saw her as an object for his rage.

  He kicked her in the stomach. She slid across the floor and struck the cabinet.

  He kicked her again, this time in the head, and she didn’t move. Wex leaned over and grabbed her by her hair. He lifted her head and punched her a few more times. Each blow stronger than the last as he took his time to lift his arm and really get some force behind each one.

  Wex took a deep breath and the darkness faded a little bit. Just enough for him to find a pack of smokes and light one up. His hand ached and his knuckles were split and bloody.

  He stared at Payton and tried to feel something. Regret? Remorse? All he felt was…better.

  Cleaning up the mess wasn’t going to be easy, but it could have been worse. Payton didn’t have any close relatives so no one would come looking for her anytime soon. There were people he could call. There were always people he could get to help take care of the dirty work. Wex was already formulating a plan. Fake her leaving, going to Mexico, book the ticket, have a girl that looks like her use the passport. It would be easy. After all, he was protected. He had the help of the great one at his back. Still, any of it could go horribly wrong. Plus, he had a body to deal with. Something that he and Michael had been troubled with in the past. Well, sort of.

  Wex chuckled as he puffed on a cigarette.

  Payton.

  She still had not moved but did he want her to?

  He dropped next to her and checked her neck. He couldn’t find a pulse. He pressed harder but there was nothing. Then he noticed that her head was at an odd angle, her neck had protrusions. He moved her head and found it rotated freely. Jesus Christ, he’d broken it.

  He sat back and lit another cigarette with the one he was smoking.

  Then it hit him.

  The sacrifice, an innocent, he’d done it for the band.

  Wex sat back and stared at her unmoving form.

  Of course he did. He always did the dirty work. All the other’s had to do was show up and help themselves to a little blood.

  Wex leaned over and put his hands in the blood as it pooled around her head. He rubbed it on his arms, then on his face, just like the letter had demanded.

  All they had to do was show up in the morning, and do the same thing, and they’d be in the clear.

  Wex chuckled at his foresight. Payton hadn’t exactly been innocent, the stuff they’d done in the bedroom was one for the books. But she had been innocent to the rest of the band, and he had found the loophole.

  It was only later that he finally sat down and brought up the security footage. It took a while to remember how to use the system. He had to locate the right camera and go back through the time stamps. The system had limited storage and erased passed days to make room.

  He located the kitchen footage and then fast forwarded through the night.

  A figure appeared in the doorway on the footage. He paused the playback and sat back.

  Then he played through it.

  “Satan fucking wept,” he muttered.

  17

  Bloodied yet Unbowed

  Michael

  Michael gave Giselle a kiss when he got back home. She was sitting at the dinner table with a couple of friends. Maurice was an interior decorator who, despite his name and occupation, wasn’t the slightest bit gay. He had started his company when his acting career had gone in the shitter about ten years ago. Now he was one of the most in demand people in the business. It was a chance meeting with his manager’s wife who led to Giselle meeting Maurice. Since then, the pair had been thick as thieves.

  Next to Maurice sat his wife, a woman with a stern face and pinched eyes. When Michael had first met Caroline, he’d had to focus on not dropping his jaw. Maurice was a good looking guy with scruffy shaven cheeks and thin glasses. He was tan and looked like a movie action star along the lines of Jason Statham. She was a little bit shrill, wore thick librarian glasses, had her hair in a constant tight bun on top of her head, but somehow they worked. Michael suspected she tied him up and led him around on a leash when the pair were in the privacy of their own home. Either that, or she had something on him. Had to be it. Giselle and Michael had laughed about that after they’d hung out with the pair for the first time.

  “Michael. Maurice was just telling me about a new flooring system. It’s made of ceramic but looks like wood, and it’s stronger than granite. He said the downstairs would look lovely.”

  “Great, babe.” He said as he walked through the room. They’d already eaten and a place hadn’t been set for him

  “Sorry. I didn’t know when you’d be home. I left a plate in the refrigerator for you.”

  “How was the thing today?” Caroline asked after wiping her face with an oversized turquoise napkin that had probably set Michael back about a hundred and fifty dollars. For a guy who used to eat ketchup sandwiches, sometimes th
e immense wealth was still a shock.

  “Good. Hate to run but I have to do some stuff. Have a good evening.” Michael made for the stairs. “Sorry.”

  “Michael. Giselle was just telling us that Damaged is starting a new album soon. Exciting stuff,” Maurice said.

  “Yeah, man. It’s exciting. Can’t wait to get back to what we do best.”

  “Chaos?” Carolina offered.

  “That and making music. Sorry again. Gotta get my shit together and head out for a few hours.” Michael made it to the stairs and took them two at a time.

  He was in the bedroom when Giselle found him. He’d tossed his T-shirt on the floor and was digging out a fresh one. He should really shower but the thing with the Norwegian was on his brain. He needed to gather himself and contemplate calling Wex. Fuck. He did not want to talk to his old friend. The chance of them exchanging words just before laying down the first track of the new album was high.

  “I tried to call you but you didn’t pick up,” Giselle said.

  She was dressed in a stunning jade dress with some kind of beads worked into the cleavage and around the skirt, which was cut to to mid-thigh.

  “Sorry, babe. Got distracted this morning,” he said. “Now I’m distracted by you.”

  “Then stay home tonight and I’ll keep you distracted until morning,” she offered demurely.

  “Wish I could.” And he did.

  “Everything okay?” Giselle asked. She picked up his shirt which had been tossed on the bed, a four-poster affair with white scroll worked posts.

  The bed was set on a pedestal that required Michael to mount two stairs to get in. He hadn’t been particularly excited about it, but Giselle loved it and, if there was one thing that made his life easy, it was a happy wife. It was a good thing he didn’t drink himself into oblivion anymore because he would have stumble down this thing countless times.