Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  Ian locked the bedroom door to get it on. “Let me…do this one thing.”

  It’s a very courtly, tender gesture, to offer going down on the girl and prepare her before penetration, I pondered, then. I felt flattered. Also, he hadn’t forced me in any way, passing my litmus test.

  Within seconds of a few tentative kisses on my inner thigh, he exploded. “Shit! This thing…I can’t!” He moved up to tap my cheek. “Don’t tell anyone about me.” His eyes were bulging out of their sockets.

  I sat upright with a jolt. It wasn’t the look of aversion on his face that saddened me, it was his ignorance. Self-pity reigned supreme, his words rambling around the walls of my skull. Who was I going to tell? What was I going to say? That Peter was right? That I had fat thighs?

  I was crystal clear, and I hated it. I wished I were punch-drunk.

  “I had to try…Elena, you’re so pretty…,”

  Even though my temper had flared up, I all but hissed at the yellow-bellied bastard. “I have to say, you’re a bit of a disappointment too, Ian. All that passion for girls, I kind of hoped it would translate, even if I’m average.”

  “That’s not—,”

  “Get out! Out! Out!”

  I heard the scuff of his shoes, the sound of leather on marble tiles, then his footsteps moving away. Dread engulfed me as he left without giving me so much as a backward glance. I sat perplexed in my bedroom when he closed the door, the sound of his footfalls in the hallway, another door opening and closing, its bolt clicking into the strike plate. My palms began to sweat and my stomach felt vaguely nauseous. The incident felt odd to me. This must be a prank of some sort. An Allen Flunt wannabe would soon come out and reveal this was a segment for Candid Camera, or this was the episode wherein Ashton Kutcher revived Punk’d.

  None of this happened.

  Lonely and disconsolate, I was stuck in limbo. I waited, in case Ian had forgotten something and returned for it. When I was reasonably sure he’d left, I tottered to my feet and went to the bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet, retrieved the unopened bottle of Ipecac syrup, and carried it to the toilet. I swallowed some of the liquid and waited. Just like the dealer had told me, it was coming, the feeling of nausea and distaste so brightly familiar. Thank God for dealers, there was no money trail—grandpa would never find out I started using an emetic.

  A few minutes later, I got on my knees and doubled over to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. The air I inhaled stayed bottled inside my lungs. I waited for the second wave to come, violently retching again, and stayed in position for the ignominious third wave.

  Third time was the charm. I scrunched up my face, waiting for the reverse peristalsis to run its course. Then I opened the faucet as far as it would go. I scooped handfuls of water to mouth, splashed my face, washing it of any remnants as I studied my reflection in the mirror. For some inexplicable reason, it felt like I’d purged my soul. The pain festering within me was gone, for the time being.

  Yep, I was certifiable, and quite good at fucking up my own life all by myself. I sank to the ground, drew my knees to my chest, propping my elbows on them and covered my face with my hands. Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes, dropping to the slant of my nose. I began to cry softly, in gasping sobs before the floodgates opened.

  I thought about the day I moved in with my grandparents. The house was full of incredible aromas from grandpa’s cooking. As a professional chef, whether it was a wedding or a funeral, culinary perfection was a must for him. There were lots of sympathy flowers in vases and bowls, silver dessertspoons digging into creamy goodies, a low hum of conversation pervading the air. I went upstairs and down the hall to my new bedroom, quietly opening the door and making my way through the darkness. No lights, no lights, no lights. For a long time, I sat perfectly still like a statue, for fear that the slightest movement would transport me back to that night. Enough ambient light filtered through the chink in the curtains and, once my eyes adjusted, I could make out where my Beanie Babies were. Already at nine years old, I had a vast menagerie, not just ten of them. Growing everyday, positions rotating.

  Except for my Vermont teddy bears, the interactions with my other animal companions depended on my mood. Vermont teddy bears were my choice of sleeping partner, and the lucky winner was a reliable indicator of my current mental state. The Sports Bear when I was feeling sprightly, the Romantic Bear when I was feeling naughty, and the Clown Bear when I was feeling playful. But since my mother passed away, I slept with my Pink Bubblegum Gund Snuffles every night. She told me she’d given it to me when I was a few days old, exclusively purchased at FAQ Schwartz.

  Later that evening, I held on tightly to grandpa’s hand, watching the scene in front of me with childlike wonder. A sickening smell of flowers and carbon monoxide fumes floated in the air, mothers yipped, and a gaggle of reporters dogged my every step. The innumerable specks of light strewn alongside the curb captivated my eyes; each of them represented a local with a candle in hand. The crowd covered a broad cross-section of the community. Men, women, children, irrespective of race, religion, and strata stood together in this show of luminescent solidarity.

  Grandma handed us plastic holders with a candles mounted on top and let grandpa do the needful and light all three of them. Grandpa borrowed a lighter from someone who was officiating at the vigil. He had a disposable flint lighter too, because he smoked in secret. I’d agreed not to tell grandma in exchange for tasting bits of food whenever he was cooking. Good deal. He was one of the best chefs in Boston.

  All eyes in close proximity were focused on me. I took a few unsteady steps forward in slow unison with a clutch of churchgoers. My hands trembled to the point where I almost dropped the candle, but grandma helped me. “Stay beside him, El.” I cottoned on, stood in parade rest.

  With the quasi-full-scale media coverage, the glare of the spotlights was unnerving. I stood unsteadily on the podium, looking at the throng of journalists, cameras, and microphones in front of me. My eyes made out a few major network logos protruding from the rostrum. Grandpa stood by my side. There were two pictures of my mother facing the audience, one at an angle and one looming large behind me.

  “I thank all of you for being present here. Thank you for your prayers, for blessing my little girl, for helping her get through what no child should ever be subjected to. No child should be privy to watching…,”

  He paused for a moment when I stifled a sob. I was tired, and had to hold on to the podium for support to keep my trembling body upright. The screen showed grandma wiping my tears with a monogrammed handkerchief. Mom had many of them, I wondered about the initial they carried: X. I guessed now that she was gone I would never know what any of it meant.

  Mourning is far from a solitary enterprise; it takes a village to help you get through it. Heck, in my case it’d taken a whole fucking country. The broadcast was live across America. I’d also received written mail and postcards, mostly prayers and words of encouragement from New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Washington, San Francisco, Austin, Miami, Las Vegas, Philadelphia, Portland, Seattle, Albuquerque, Phoenix, Houston, San Diego, Denver, St. Louis, Indianapolis, and Dallas. People were also kind enough to send me Beanie Babies, my collection had doubles and triples of each pet.

  People’s hearts went out to me. To the casual observer, I looked like a traumatized child. Would you—and not just as a nine-year-old—want to watch your father strangle your mother in front of you?

  “…keep her in your prayers.” Grandpa’s words had become less coherent, the occasional syllable lost to a sob choked in his throat. He held me tightly against him as if he could squeeze the trauma out of me. Make me feel safe and loved. There was a pall of silence as grief claimed more and more people. Families huddled around the podium, watching me, young girls glued to their mothers for protection. The entire country either feared or pitied me.

  Currently, I slumped onto the velvet couch, its pillow imprinting expensive designs in the side of my
face.

  “Elena?” One of the housemates knocked on my door.

  “Come in.”

  “Wanna raid?” It was JR, sporting a moussed-up coif that was an inch shy of being a pompadour. His initials were shorthand for—yep—John Ross.

  “Guild? If it’s Nihilum on EU, I’m in.”

  “It’s a PuG on US, but we’ve got 3 famed GMs in the group. No sissies, no trolls. Remember Death and Taxes?” I liked his hazel eyes. They sparkled like glitter that hit the sun. “We need heals. Druid heals. They’ve all been around since vanilla WoW, c’mon.”

  “Not doing a PuG, JR. Not tonight.”

  “Feeling punk? You look a little pale.”

  It was against my principles to discuss boyfriends and body insecurities with housemates. Obliquely, I went on, “Last time I healed a PuG for you, the tank took a healing trinket. Not going through that shit again.”

  Watching JR leave, I raised a fist to my mouth and fought another wave of nausea. Sure enough, a faraway rumble of thunder reverberated throughout the sky. Looking out the window at the cheek of the sky, I fixed my eyes on the small sliver of moon that precariously hung in it above.

  I put on some music and studied the ceiling, letting the nostalgia seep out of every pore. My grandparents’ house had been my refuge, the one place where I could find peace.

  I think I’ll go to Boston, I think I’ll start a new life, I think I’ll start it over…I’ll get out of California, tired of the weather…some snow would be nice…

  The City on a Hill. The Cradle of Liberty. The Athens of America. The one nickname I always found bland to the point of sounding silly was America’s Walking City. Imbued by sweet memories, I let the music in my earbuds teleport me into my favorite subspace. Tonight I was that girl in the chick flick who played sad song after sad song, feeling sorry for herself, mind waffling over what went wrong.

  Mentally fatigued by the trip down memory lane, I drifted off to sleep.

  Came the day I wore my graduation gown and cap, I left the West Coast for good. The return trip was made by private jet, a quirk that probably set grandpa back fifty grand. No baggage claim, no security checkpoint queues. Our limo pulled into the private LAX hangar and we were airborne a half hour later.

  With an endless stream of unknown possibilities back home, my dreams grew tall legs. Does Alexander Turner ring a bell? Oh, he was even better looking than I’d imagined, his intensity one of a kind. But wait…I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.

  Alexander Turner

  The CEO at Work

  I pressed the engine start button and shifted into gear. Within a millisecond, a surge of unadulterated mechanic energy thrust me forward. Fast-approaching dawn would soon dispel the dusk that enveloped Boston. I drove out into the traffic, accelerating smoothly away from the Weston mansion. A heated leather seat cushion cosseted me as the car slipped through the cold January air. The V12 engine gave little more than a low purr, even when I changed gears to overtake some laggard. Immediately the slowpoke tried to catch up with me, but British efficiency wouldn’t allow it.

  I was on my way to work. I sang along to Bruce Springsteen coming through the Bang & Olufsen sound system as I navigated the semi-darkness, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. With electronic speed control, the One-77 fluidly wove its way through early morning traffic that was just starting to gain momentum. Driving this car was like taking candy from a baby.

  Approximately thirty minutes later, I reached my destination, exited the car swiftly and nodded toward a waiting valet. Boston played its usual vibrant tune, the sounds of honking horns, noisy car stereos, and cursing taxi drivers could be heard, winter air crisp and biting with a sky blanketed in fog. Usually I ignored all of this, but this morning everything seemed to be amplified to bearable, clean proportions.

  With a lively gait, I traversed the breathtaking atrium, lush office areas and wide hallways. Each office on the executive top floor had a small sitting area—nothing that could match mine, which was perfect for sit-downs unrequiring the formality of a conference room.

  My skin tingled and its gossamer hairs stood on end when I entered my new office. I hit the button for the blinds. Musk smells of new, oiled leather assailed my nostrils. I drew the aroma of the leather sofas deep inside me while running my hands across the top of the scarcely garnished desk. It was made of mahogany, which had been highly conserved and polished, and it was an impressive twelve feet wide and almost four feet deep.

  I sat down in the Pininfarina Xten ergonomic office chair and bounced up and down a few times. Good support, soft leather, strong, resilient frame; a CEO could even take naps in it. If you thought I was a player before, get a load of me now. There I was, the powers that be had put me in charge of Turner Holdings.

  In case you missed the writing on the wall, stubborn board members had reached across the aisle, and I’d been unanimously elected to the position of CEO at the company’s last board meeting. In addition to serving as CEO, I’d gained control over corporate assets. In my new role, I reported to the CFO, the Chairman of the Board, and the Executive Committee, which was comprised of 26 individuals with expertise in varying areas of business and non-profit management. Nonetheless, by the time it’d happened, I was resigned to the situation. Elena was still in California.

  “Has plenty of clout, hasn’t it, boss?” The woman sniffed. “All redecorated. It has that new-car smell, doesn’t it?”

  I settled myself in the chair, smiled evilly. “Meredith, have I told you lately that I love you?” I glided my palms back and forth across the matte finish of my new desk. “Everything set?”

  She snapped her fingers for me. “Locked and loaded, boss.”

  There’s one golden rule for a businessman, a lawyer, a politician, an ambassador, a president: never, ever hire an attractive secretary. Over time, the temptation would prove too great a distraction. Having a drink while working overnight, the next thing you’d want is the pretty girl’s mouth around your cock. Men are animals, we all want to fuck the beautiful secretary. The ones that claimed they didn’t notice their secretary was hot, I gathered they had no balls.

  So I made sure mine was unattractive. Not ugly, just unattractive. Poor thing, really. It wasn’t my fault that her parents gave her bad genes and facial traits, right?

  Just a thought.

  And hey, at least I was helping her make good money.

  I only worked with a staff that could quickly adapt to my quick pace. Prerequisite for a secretary was that she knew how to cover my ass and turned the other cheek whenever my foul mood reared its ugly head. Meredith could listen to me vent and bend like a reed in the wind. She was Rubenesque, had acne craters on her cheeks, her nose and chin were pointy, and her hair had no volume whatsoever. See what I mean?

  This explanation wasn’t long overdue, but sometimes I liked looking up things in my mental Rolodex. Many years ago, when HR sent a candidate—one Meredith Baxter—my way, she was appropriately dressed in a black tube skirt and pearl-pink poplin blouse with a Peter Pan collar and large black buttons down the front. One of her winning qualities was that she had knowledge of how to apply deodorant. Within the first minutes of the interview, I came to the conclusion that if she were the last woman on earth, I would most definitely allow guys to suck my dick while sober. I would also start enjoying fucking handsome men even if I wasn’t attracted to the gender.

  To pit my wits against hers, I picked up the red and black dossier before me and slapped it open. I spoke coolly, “The future of my family’s company?”

  “The future is expansion. The future is taking over the whole goddamn world. Let this be clear; we can’t cure world hunger as long as people fuck like bunnies, nor can we achieve world peace while religions and tinpot dictators reign supreme. Do I look like a beauty queen standing on a stage for the final round of questioning to you? I don’t like wasting time, so don’t waste mine with smart-alecky questions.” She paused, giving me time to contemplate. “I didn�
�t fall off the turnip load, Mr. Turner. I’m here to hitch a ride on a bigwig’s coattails and make good money.” She slightly raised her voice. “I’ve worked my tail off to get here, and if we’re not on the same wavelength, this won’t work,” she finished, tying up the finality of the suggestion with a glance toward the door.

  The grin dropped off my face. Hot damn. The woman had a two-fisted, caveman temper, and big, heavy cojones. Gonads that would tip over your Christmas tree if you hung them on it. I snapped the pretentiously colored file with a hard copy of her CV shut. Super, my first interview was a mess.

  Meredith went on with a wintry attitude, “Are you a virgin? A newbie? I’ll keep it on the down-low.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I picked up, voice flat-lined. I managed to give her a watery smile.

  “Have you interviewed before, Mr. Turner?” Her tone had a sarcastic bend to it, the kind that went in the wrong direction.

  Staring unseeingly at the wall behind her, I passed an unsteady, sweaty hand across my brow. “Jesus Christ, I suck at this.”

  She smiled thinly at me. “Beyond the insular boundaries of the CV examination, the minimum is asking two questions, the maximum is four. From those questions conversations will stem, and answers will chase smaller questions. Don’t ask me about the future of this company. Are you uncertain? No, you aren’t. Tell me what the future is, and ask me how we can achieve the goal.”

  I did fall in love that day. Meredith had the ability to speak in long, complete sentences, including words with lots of broad vowels that she didn’t trip over, without opening her mouth like a codfish, nor holding it closed like a ventriloquist. “To sublate a company such as Turner Holdings, we need fresh meat, think Peter Luger porterhouse steak. We need executives who are process experts that can oversee projects individually. Men and women who are value creators under challenging conditions, and who understand The Business Plan, meaning how the company intends to create value for not only its clients but also its employees, thereby differentiating itself in the marketplace. The conversion of illiquid assets into interchangeable goods…,”