Skylar Cross - [The Cage Sessions 02]

by Depraved [MF] (epub)

  I'm drifting down the path he's painting for me in my head, but I slam on the brakes and put it in reverse.

  I sit up.

  "Hey, wait one fucking minute here!" I say. "Isabella and I go way back. We have a history lasting an entire decade. I can't jeopardize that. And you have no right to tell me what to do or how to be with someone I practically grew up with."

  He laughs.

  "See, that's the problem. There's no jeopardizing anything. You want her. She wants you. You always have. I know this to be true. Nothing wrong with it. Just let go and have fun, knowing you can do it anytime you want. Or not do it. It's just a little licking, some secretions, some fingers. Maybe a toy or two. It's fucking awesome."

  He leans forward with a stern look on his face, hands clasped together. His blue eyes are intense. His mouth is firm and cruel.

  "Look me in the eye right now and say 'I don't want to see my friend Isabella screaming 'Oh God!' as she comes with my fingers in her snatch.'"

  "I don't want to..." I say, "hmm... um..." I laugh.

  Then I laugh some more. I put my hand up to my mouth to try to stop it. I'm in a giggle fit.

  "See?" he says. "You want her. And you want me too. But you can't have me until you fuck her."

  I blush again.

  "So is that it?" I say. It's all just fingers and... secretions, or whatever you said. No love."

  "I never said that. Love is a different animal. Love is something... deeper... ethereal... unchosen..."

  "Like the girl who makes you sing Far Away?"

  He stares out the window at the blue ocean. I feel him drift momentarily to another time and place. Then he's back.

  "I told you," he says. "I'm not ready to share that yet... but yes. Okay, interview over for today. I have a conference call with my attorney in New York."

  Abruptly, he stands up.

  "But you need to do your homework assignment before we meet again," he says. "Oh, and buy a butt plug and get used to having things up your ass. You will soon get equal or more delight out of your asshole than your pussy. It's like a plateau. But that's more Cage session Number Two."

  "Oh, really?" I say.

  "Yes, really," he says. "Some people call it the Sub-Zone. But we're getting ahead of ourselves here. Go fuck your friend Isabella. She wants you. Always has."

  "How do you know that?"

  He just looks at me and laughs.

  "I just know."

  Chapter 14

  "What is that?" says my mother as she comes in and puts down her bag.

  "It's my new Mac laptop," I say. "Isn't it amazing? I've wanted one for so long."

  I've spent the last two hours booting up all kinds of Apple fun here at the kitchen table. My mom goes to the cabinet and takes down a highball glass.

  "How much did you pay for that?" she says.

  I tell her.

  "Annika!" she says. "You can't afford that! That's too much money! You need to save, not spend."

  She goes to the refrigerator and gets some ice.

  "Mom, I need this for my work! And... I can't wait to tell you the best part. Are you ready?"

  She pours some Seagram's 7 and Diet 7-Up into the highball glass.

  "What?" she says as she sips her drink.

  "I got paid ten thousand dollars today!" I say.

  My mom's eyes go wide. I smile and giggle.

  "What did you get paid ten thousand dollars for?" she says.

  Her tone isn't happy. It's accusatory.

  Shit, here we go. I wish I had made a drink too.

  "I have been hired to write... a book!" I say.

  "By what company?" she says.

  "It's not a company, mom. It's a man. He's going to pay me a hundred thousand dollars! A hundred thousand dollars!"

  I'm actually dancing on my toes with little leaps as I say this.

  "But he's not a company. You said he's just a man. What kind of man would pay you a hundred thousand dollars to write a book? There's something fishy here."

  Grrrrrrrrr.

  "Mom, did you hear me? Somebody... company or not... is going to pay me one hundred thousand dollars to write a book. I even gave my notice at the hotel. Aren't you happy for me?"

  "You shouldn't leave your hotel job. It's a regular paycheck."

  "A tiny nothing paycheck, mom! What I got today is half a year's salary from that hotel job. I'm going to write a book!"

  "Well, are you sure you can handle it?"

  "Of course I can. He believes in me. Isn't this good news?"

  "You aren't sleeping with him, are you?"

  Almost.

  "Mom, no!" I say. "I'm not!"

  "Well, what happens when you can't handle it?" she says. "When you're screaming and pulling your hair out because you can't finish it? What then?"

  That stings. I feel tears forming.

  "Why do you always say that, Mom?" I say.

  "Well," she says, "there was that time where you didn't finish your science project and I had to do it for you."

  "Mom, that was in the sixth grade!"

  "Well, what about last year when you had to retake a class over the summer?"

  "Look, Mom, forget it, okay? I thought you'd be happy for me. This is huge. But I never should have told you."

  "Well, of course I'm happy for you," she says in a tone that communicates the exact opposite, "but I wish it were a company. How does this man have so much money? Who is he?"

  I was going to keep this inside, but I can't help myself.

  "Damien Cage," I say.

  "That sounds familiar," she says.

  "The rock band, mom. Eon Sphinx. His poster was up on my wall when I was in high school. You made me tear it down."

  She sips her drink.

  "You're going to write a book about that man? I don't care how much money you're getting paid. My daughter is not going to be writing about filth!"

  "No Mom, it's not filth. I met him. He actually wants to do more than just be a rock star. He wants to help people with his money. Teach them things, like self-empowerment and personal responsibility. He wants to improve the world. You can identify with that."

  "No, there's only one who can improve the world and that's Jehovah God, Our Heavenly Father. There's also only one book. The Bible. It's the only book anyone should ever read. He will come to cleanse the earth of all the fornication and homosexuality and they shall know his name is Jehovah! Annika, why don't you go to one of the offices in one of the high rises and get a nice secretary's job? You'll get a weekly paycheck."

  The anger is rising in me now.

  "Mom, can't you see? This is more than a weekly paycheck! It's a hundred thousand dollars! That's more money than I ever dreamed of making at one time."

  "That's the problem," she says. "It's only one time. What are you going to do after that?"

  "After that, I'll have a book behind me. I'll be a published author. I'll find another project. That's what writers do."

  "You need a weekly paycheck. That's how I was brought up. Save, don't spend. Take your weekly paycheck and put it in your savings account. But you've got to have a weekly paycheck so you can save."

  "Mom, not all writers have weekly paychecks!"

  "Then how are you going to pay your bills?"

  It's like talking to a broken record.

  "With the money I get paid to write books!"

  "But it's not a company. You should get paid by a company."

  "What is wrong with you?"

  "What is wrong with me? You should look in the mirror. Why are you getting so angry?"

  I'm in tears now.

  "I just made ten thousand dollars with the promise of a hundred! Somebody believes in me enough to give me that kind of money to start a project and the least you could do is be happy for me. Maybe encourage me."

  "I always encourage you."

  "No, no you don't! You tell me what to do and what to think. The first thing you say is 'Are you sure you can handle it?' Why don't you
say something constructive like 'I KNOW you can handle it, Annika.'

  "Because I don't know if you can handle it. How am I supposed to know if you can handle it?"

  "Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot! Thanks for believing in me."

  "I do believe in you, Annika. I know you'll be a great success. I just wish you'd get a regular paycheck and find a nice Christian boy."

  I fold my arms and look at her.

  "See?" I say. "Nothing I ever do is done exactly right because it's never done exactly the way you would do it."

  "That's not true, Annika. But I did save enough to buy this home a long time ago. And it was all because I had a weekly paycheck."

  "From a job you cursed and hated!"

  "Well, it paid the bills because I didn't spend it, like I know you will!"

  "I have done something good here! I am going to make money as a writer! Can't you just once... just once... be happy for me?"

  She's fuming now, arms flailing. Daggers in her eyes.

  "I don't know why you're yelling at me, Annika. Can't we have a normal conversation without you doing all this yelling and getting all out of sorts? I think you have an anger problem."

  "Mom, I'm just sick of the way you talk to me and treat me!"

  Her eyes narrow and her voice gets that demon-from-hell gravelly tone.

  "You're sick of the way I treat you?!" she says. "I clean this house for you! I do your laundry! I make your meals! And this is the thanks I get?"

  She's fuming now, arms flailing.

  "You won't let me do my own laundry!" I say. "You won't allow me near the kitchen! I want to take care of myself but you insist I'll destroy anything I touch!"

  "Well, it is my house and I want to keep it looking nice. You won't do the laundry right. You have no idea how to fold. And you'll make too much of a mess if I allow you to cook."

  "Shut up, Mom!"

  Oops. Now I've done it. She throws her whiskey glass on the floor, smashing it.

  "You will NOT talk to your mother like that!" she says. "Fine, you want me to shut up? I won't talk to you anymore! In fact, I'll never talk to you again! How's that? Your own mother! After all I do for you! You're such an ungrateful child! I put a roof over your head and you won't even get a real job!"

  "This is a real job!"

  "You think it's a real job, but he's just paying you for sex! You'll see. It's what men do. They use women for sex. It's all they ever think about. Sex sex sex! It's Satan on earth. And Satan is turning my daughter into a prostitute! That's what you are now... a prostitute!"

  I'm sobbing now.

  Words fail me. I'm done.

  I just pick up my new Mac laptop, place it in its shiny white box, grab my hipster satchel, and head to the door.

  "Annika! Annika, where are you going?"

  I march out to my car. She follows me.

  "Fine, abandon me!" she shouts. "Just leave me alone to take care of myself! I'll be fine! I don't need anybody! I hope you're pleased with yourself!"

  But it's too late. My Toyota Corolla and I are backing out the driveway.

  "You'll learn!" she shouts as I drive off. "Someday you'll learn! And you'll say your mother was right!"

  Chapter 15

  Isabella's place is right at the top of Ocean Drive. Twelfth floor. Luxury building. Concierge. Private health club. Private restaurants. Outdoor deck with a view of both the ocean and the city.

  Must be nice.

  I park in the underground garage and head up.

  "Hey babe," she says as she greets me at the door with a hug. Her face brushes against mine ever so slightly.

  What was that?

  She is wearing almost nonexistent white shorts with an equally almost nonexistent white stretchy top that barely covers her breasts. Her long midriff and flat tummy are spectacularly tanned and toned. Her belly button piercing glistens.

  "Got your favorite," she says as she pulls out a bottle of Grey Goose. "I think you need it."

  "You're awesome," I say.

  She goes to the refrigerator, bends over, and takes out a bottle of Ocean Spray Ruby Red Grapefruit juice. Also my favorite.

  As she bends over, I find myself staring at her ass like I never did before. Plus, she exaggerates the movement in that flirty way I've seen her do with guys.

  Shit, is my fucking best friend trying to seduce me?

  She wants you. She always has.

  Those were Damien's words.

  Something is going on here.

  Something weird.

  "Iz," I say, "I gotta go. This isn't right."

  She stands up, stomach out, perky breasts pointed straight at me.

  I've seen them a million times, but tonight I can't stop looking at them.

  Must be Satan.

  "Why?" she says.

  "I don't know. This just isn't right. Your apartment. I hate to impose."

  "Annika!" she says as she walks up to me and grabs both of my hands. I'm in a swirl of fear and anticipation, tinged with a hint of lust. "I want you to listen closely to your best friend, okay? I'm going to say something profound to you."

  "Uh-huh," I say with a gulp.

  "Are you ready?"

  She leans in closer to me.

  "Um... yes?" I say.

  "Okay here it is," she says. "Shut... the... fuck... up!"

  And she pushes me away from her, returning to making the drinks.

  I laugh.

  "Now," she says, "I'm going to pour you a massive drink and we're going to solve this mother problem of yours."

  She pours a large amount of vodka over a lot of ice, then adds the juice to the top. No stir. Just how I like it.

  Then she makes some concoction for herself in a blender. Lots of rum. Coconut juice. Midori.

  While she pours, I notice how truly spectacular her place is.

  Ultra-modern furniture. Very Zen. Lots of white with red and black accents. Abstract art. Her daddy paid for an interior designer to make it sizzle. Not that Isabella needs anything to help make her sizzle. Standing there by herself in the middle of a concrete cell would make it sizzle.

  Stop it, Annika!

  We go out onto the balcony and sit at the round table. Beautiful warm breeze. Dark ocean on the left. Beach straight ahead. Ocean Drive ablaze in neon on the right.

  Must be nice.

  "I'm so jealous of you," I say.

  "Why?" says Isabella.

  "Look at you! You have everything. Money. Smarts. This condo. That body."

  I sip my drink.

  "Annika, you don't give yourself enough credit. I'm jealous of you."

  I laugh.

  "Oh yeah, right," I say. "How could you possibly be jealous of me?"

  "Because you're hot yourself. You have amazing eyes that you hide behind those glasses too much. And you're so bright. I wish I could do math like you. Write like you. I can't do any of those things."

  "It's no big deal, really."

  "No big deal to you maybe. But when I sit down to write something it comes out like a fifth-grader. Your stuff just flows like... a stream-of-consciousness."

  "A sex-obsessed stream of consciousness full of profanity and self-contradictions, possibly schizophrenic."

  She laughs, holding my gaze a little too long.

  "See," she says, a hand flopping on my knee for a second, "that's what I love about you, Annika. Who else can come up with shit like that?"

  My pussy tingles.

  Oh shit no. No no no no no... no!

  I take another sip.

  Isabella tucks one leg under the other. Her tiny white shorts are so tight there's a little camel-toe action going on. I think I might actually be jealous of her shorts.

  I can't believe I just had that thought.

  It's Satan.

  Shut up, mom.

  Hey, wait a sec... wasn't Damien the devil's name in that movie? Shit, I forget the title.

  Damien. It's Damien doing this to me. He suggested the idea and it's turned into a curse.
Maybe he is the devil.

  Isabella adjusts herself in her chair.

  Tingle.

  Shit!

  I take another sip.

  We look into each others' eyes.

  God, her eyes are gorgeous. Amazing, in fact. They're brown and deep and wide. I could stare at them for decades.

  "I need to move out of there," I say.

  "Yes you do," she says. "Time to cut the cord."

  I look down.

  "I talked with Delphina Diamond about her," I say.

  "Oh, that's right!" she says. "Your appointment was Monday. How did it go? Isn't she amazing?"

  "She's not quite how I pictured her with that name. Very low key and down-to-earth."

  "That's what makes her so wonderful," says Isabella, her hand flopping on my knee again. This time she squeezes a little. "She's so unassuming. And nothing fazes her. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've told her."

  I wonder if she ever mentioned me.

  "Yes," I say, "although we barely got into it."

  "Just you wait. It gets better."

  My right hand falls on the inside of Isabella's splayed knee and I leave it there. Skin so soft.

  Oh my God, did I just do that?

  Big tingle.

  I take my hand back.

  Isabella doesn't flinch. She looks right into my eyes. My heart beats faster. I turn and look at Ocean Drive.

  "Nice view," I say.

  "When I was figuring out that I like girls as much as guys," she says, "Delphina made some suggestions to me."

  "Yeah?" I say and finish my drink.

  Isabella takes the glass, moves to the counter, and pours another one.

  "But now I wish I had ignored one or two of them," she says.

  She returns to the balcony, puts my refreshed drink down in front of me, and sits in that wide-open splayed position again.

  Only closer.

  I take a huge swig of my new drink and stare out at the red lights of the nightly traffic jam.

  I can smell Isabella. Shea butter with a hint of lavender. And the unmistakable scent of hot girl.

  She leans forward, her curly locks of black hair with blonde highlights flowing all around. Her milky amber skin glows in multi-colored neon reflections from below. Her thick pouty lips glisten. She dabs the top one with her tongue.