Beautiful Revenge

by John Forrester

  I glance at the clock: 5:57 p.m. Will I have enough time to change into something appropriate for such a high-end restaurant and make it downtown on time? My phone vibrates and I see a text from Keary with the same message and an extra text saying: Don’t be late.

  If Keary’s father does anything to hurt Phillip, I’ll fucking kill him a hundred times over with a letter opener. I dash to my closet, strip, and quickly put on a basic bitchy black dress. A ladies-special handgun strapped on the inside of my thigh would complete the outfit; if only I had such a weapon, I’d blow his handsome, rich-successful-businessman head off.

  When I finish dressing, I stuff my wallet and phone into a new Fendi purse that Mother gave me for Christmas. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and marvel at how grown up I look: my expression seems harsh and determined, not like the innocent, naive girl I once was before. I see something else in my eyes: terror. And I feel it inside. If Keary’s father is capable of kidnapping Phillip to get what he wants, what else will he do? With this thought reverberating through my mind, I suddenly feel small and vulnerable. But I shrug off the feeling, knowing at least I’m meeting him in a public place.

  I call the car service and they tell me they’ll have a driver over in fifteen minutes. I ask them to meet me on the road outside our estate. With the pen Father gave me for my birthday, I quickly scribble a note saying I have an errand to run and I’ll be back before 11:00 p.m. I toss the note onto my desk and sneak out of my room, heels in hand, and head down the servant’s stairwell, tiptoeing outside. I put on the black high heels that Mother bought me in New York City before we left for Martha’s Vineyard.

  The side gate creaks open and I make my way through and spot the black Lincoln Town Car waiting for me. It’s not a Mercedes, but with my budget, I don’t give a shit. The driver, an old, lecherous man wearing a cheap black suit, opens the door and I notice him staring at my breasts as I slide inside the car. What can I say? I hate wearing bras, and besides, I don’t need them for support.

  I tell the driver to take me to Mistral and he nods, tips his cap, and speeds off. I open the window, feel the air rushing over my face—sending my hair into a wild frenzy—and inhale the scents of summer dying. It’s that feeling I get when summer is almost over and school is about to start; I lament the loss and yet feel an itch like something new and exciting is about to happen. But this time that itch is like something horrific and terrifying is about to happen.

  Still, it excites me all the same. Like cuddling up under a blanket with Phillip, popcorn in hand, watching The Ring. That movie scared the shit out of me; I still have nightmares to this day. The wind dives through my hair, invades my nostrils, talks to me and tells me that nothing will ever be the same, that my world is being blown away, and that a purifying storm is coming to divide the weak from the strong. I don’t know if I’m weak or strong. I don’t know if I’ll make it.

  As the car pulls up in front of Mistral, a disgustingly cliché couple walks by: an older man with gray-flecked hair, a banker probably, has his perverted hand gripped around a skinny, slutty Asian girl in her twenties, with silicone-induced breast perkiness, wearing a daddy-I-love-you-long-time dress. From what I can see, I highly doubt this guy will love her for more than a few minutes, unless he’s dying for a Viagra-induced heart attack.

  I scoff at the man and he licks his lips at me like the sick fuck he is. I wish I had the gardener’s shears to chop his tongue off. My middle finger naturally flips him off. I pause until the couple goes inside, and tell the driver to stay close and wait for my call. He nods at me, eyes on my nipples, and I turn and stride towards the door, ignoring the slimy heat from his gaze that’s no doubt locked on my ass.

  A girl with a scowling, ugly-beautiful face and contours like a walking stick greets me inside. She’s no doubt a “model” and pissed that she’s forced to work here instead of strutting her designer figure down the runway. Her voice sounds, laughably, like Pikachu on drugs.

  “Yes, can I help you?” The insinuation in her every word is what the hell are you doing here by yourself?

  “Reservation for Harris.” And you can go fuck yourself.

  The anorexic bitch sniffs the air suspiciously, then twirls a finger and mumbles for me to follow. I allow a contemptuous chuckle to escape my lips and relish in the jerk of her neck towards me. She wouldn’t dare say a thing. Actually I hope she does so I can get her fired. Maybe then she can start a new career as a prostitute.

  I take my seat at a table in the corner of the moodily lit room with trance music low in the background, and glance around at the sumptuous interior. The smell of Provençal herbs and red wine wafts in the air. The banker pervert is staring at me lasciviously, then his eyes bulge out in pain as the Asian slut he’s with clenches his crotch with her kung-fu fingers. I grin at her as the man is no doubt mumbling apologies, but she just grips down harder until beads of sweat bubble up and glisten on his forehead under the hot track lighting. Must be their idea of foreplay.

  The restaurant is surprisingly busy for a Wednesday night. I guess the economic downturn and general malaise hasn’t hurt this crowd. Outside the restaurant, in a black Mercedes, I spot the same driver that drove Keary to my house talking on a cell phone. His eyes glance at mine for a second and then quickly look away, as if he’s scared to be seen. Too late. I pretend not to notice, and inspect the sparse menu. Not that I could eat. My stomach is all in knots.

  The waiter, a twenty-something, cute Hispanic with slicked-back hair, prances over to the table, stares at the empty chair opposite mine, then asks me if I’d like something to drink. I tell him champagne and laugh when his nose wrinkles up at the thought.

  “A lemonade and a lollipop.” My malicious snort and snide comment seems to terrorize the poor guy. “Sparkling water and lime on the side, no ice.”

  The waiter is dumbfounded and just stands there, as if his mind is locked in an endless loop. I help him out by raising a wine glass and pointing inside. He nods, and then stumbles off towards the kitchen. That was cruel but I feel like being cruel tonight.

  From the dark abyss that is the entrance, Keary’s father enters and chats briefly with the maître d’, then turns his hawkish head towards me, narrows his eyes, and gathers himself up as if collecting courage. Howard McNaughton bears a striking resemblance to Keary, so much so that I imagine him looking the same as Keary when he was a boy. This disturbs me far worse than the psychotic e-mail he sent and the actions behind it.

  He wears a Brooks Brothers banker’s suit, a red Republican power tie, and a contemptuous smirk. His gray-blue eyes, the same color as Keary’s but worn, aged somehow, undress me slowly as if savoring the key elements of my figure. I study him with cautious, critical eyes, as a criminologist would study a crime scene. My palms grow feverish holding the wine glass, as I hold the thought in my mind that this man is out to destroy my family.

  “How curious. You decided—wisely—to show.” Howard McNaughton pulls out the chair opposite mine, and swiftly sits. “No family tonight? Just you and me?”

  I exhale a compressed laugh and twist up my face in the act of examining him. “It’s more intimate this way, don’t you agree?” But not so intimate that I won’t have a room full of witnesses.

  “One of my favorite restaurants. The food is superb and the wine selection beyond reproach. What are you drinking?”

  “Champagne.”

  He chuckles insidiously. “A celebration then? A toast?”

  “A toast indeed.” I raise my empty wine glass. “To the day when I can roast your balls on a stick.”

  “Now, now, no need for such nastiness. You see we’re here to parlay on friendly terms.”

  “Negotiate is more like it. But if the government refuses to negotiate with terrorists, why should I negotiate with you?”

  Howard projects an expression of mock hurt and slaps his hand against his chest. “I’ve been called many colorful names, but never that. I feel proud! Thank you for providing the eveni
ng’s entertainment.”

  “Who says I’ve agreed to provide anything but a blade in your belly? You ruin my father’s business and now threaten”— I lower my voice and lean in—“You threaten my brother’s life?”

  “Hasty, hasty…you’re like a teenage boy trying to get inside a girl’s pants. Slow down, lover-boy, slow down. The night is still young and we haven’t even had our appetizers.”

  It’s his game, on his rules and his time. I’m sure my face is fuming and red. The waiter comes over and startles me from glowering at Howard; he places a bottle of sparkling water on the table after pouring me a glass.

  “Sir, a drink?” The waiter glances nervously at me.

  “Cognac over ice and tonic water.”

  “You don’t want it neat?”

  Howard scowls at the waiter. “Did I say I wanted it neat? Over ice and tonic water. Is that so difficult?”

  The waiter shakes his head no and swallows, then turns and strides over to the bar.

  “Now, where were we? Ah yes, getting acquainted.” His fake smile falls flat. “I can see why Keary has found you so appealing…such fire and vivacity.”

  “And I can see why Keary no longer respects you. First you lost my mother and now you’ve lost your son.”

  A vein pops out in the middle of his forehead and I can see him stifling a feeling of immense anger. I feel pleasantly surprised. What a wonderful thing to piss him off so easily. I edge in towards him, a seductive smile playing on my lips.

  “There’s an interesting story about this girl from school. She loves sucking cock.” At my words his lips purse and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Strange as it sounds, she has this really small mouth, but she has the reputation of sucking every cock on the football team. These are big guys, mind you. But you see, she remained a virgin the entire time, teasing away all those erections with her small mouth.

  “Well, her father was a real jerk, kind of like you are to Keary. And, you see, this girl, she craved male attention, and got it in the form of bursts of semen in her mouth.” At this point in my story Howard’s face holds a twisted mixture of revulsion and arousal. “So this girl was at her wit’s end. She couldn’t seem to get her father’s attention. So one day, at a dinner party her father was hosting, she sat next to her father’s business associate—an investor, in fact—and started massaging his cock under the table. Do you get the picture?”

  A quick nod from Keary’s father makes me think he’s wishing that I’d start massaging him under the table. The waiter places the Cognac on the table and asks if we’d like an appetizer.

  “Duck confit.” Howard’s voice is hoarse and choked and he waves the waiter away.

  “So anyway, the girl offered to give the business associate a tour of the house—like the good hostess she is. They came upon her father’s library, filled with expensive, leather-bound books, and she showed him her father’s antique eighteenth-century French desk. The man could barely contain himself after she pretended to lock the door behind them, pulled down the man’s pants, and began to expertly give the man a rise.”

  The old lady at the table next to us clears her throat loudly and gives me a wilting look.

  “But this time the girl was unsatisfied with finishing like this. She stripped and lay spread-eagle on her father’s precious desk. The man, eager as an old basset hound chasing a fox, clambered onto the table and proceeded to penetrate the girl’s untarnished pussy. She screamed, a real hell-freezing scream, and a profusion of blood dribbled on to the desk.

  “Her father and the rest of the dinner party, including this girl I know from school, rushed into the library to view the scene you’ve most clearly pictured in your head. That got her father’s attention.”

  His eyes narrow and his expression turns somber. “And the point of this ridiculous story is?”

  “There’s always a moral to the story. Pay attention to your children or you never know what they’ll bring down upon your head.”

  He chuckles vaguely and gazes intently into my eyes. “And what makes you think that Keary hasn’t been doing everything all along for my benefit? You honestly believe that he loves you? Family is infinitely stronger than lust.”

  CHAPTER 14

  AND IN THAT moment, all my confidence and certainty falls away like a discarded costume. I doubted Father, I doubted Mother, but never did I doubt that Keary had anything but genuine feelings for me. How could I have been so easily fooled?

  “Oh, you’re quite quiet aren’t you? No more clever stories to entertain and arouse? I did rather enjoy your tale of underage seduction…most intriguing. Wasn’t quite up to Nabokov standards, but still, engaging all the same.”

  The waiter returns carrying the duck confit and places the dish in front of Howard. He smiles at the plate, as if pleased with himself and with the food, and begins to eat in an epicurean manner, never raising his eyes from the table. It’s as if he’s masticating his thoughts and deciding how next to proceed.

  “You see here we have a quandary. I want a satisfactory revenge and you want to protect your family and to protect Harris House. I don’t give a shit about that house—ruin it, burn it, tear the damned thing down for all I care. But I do care greatly for the idea of revenge. I’ve waited and planned many years for this, and now the fruit is mine to pick.”

  “What are you going to do with my brother?” My voice comes out weak and scared, as if I’m a child who’s lost her mother, not a girl pretending to be an adult.

  He takes another bite and chews slowly, squeezing his eyes together in an expression of delight. His eyelids flip open and he stares at me with a reptilian gaze.

  “I’m terribly concerned about your brother’s drug addiction. I warned Keary for many years to stay away from such substances, and for good reason—they only bring harm to the body. I’ve heard—but this is only a rumor, mind you—that your brother has lost his way in an opium den. Hard to believe, really, that such things exist in the twenty-first century. But my sources assure me it’s quite true.

  “Now, now, you are probably wondering how could someone like your brother fall into a place like that? Opium is a serious narcotic—highly addictive. Many people just fade away from society and are never heard from again. I’d hate for your brother to be just another brutal statistic. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d do anything to help my brother.” And by anything I’m picturing strangling the sick fuck in front of me with a piece of barbed wire.

  “Would you really do anything?” He leans in closer, places his elbows on the table, and gawks at my breasts.

  I cover my chest instinctively and feel suddenly naked and dirty in front of this disgusting wretch.

  “What is it with you? Father stole Mother away from you and now you want to fuck me?”

  Howard coughs slightly, taken aback, and glances around at the nearby tables. He lowers his voice to a whisper.

  “If you value your brother’s life you’ll refrain from such outbursts. This meeting is merely an introduction, a pleasant way of getting to know each other. If you cooperate, I’m sure your brother will be just fine—albeit in an oblivious state of euphoria. When the time comes, I’m quite confident you’ll fully cooperate.”

  “So what do you want now? Is our stupid meeting or whatever over?”

  “You haven’t even had your dinner.”

  I interrupt him with a wave of my hand. “If I ate a thing I’d probably vomit all over the table. Your face and this conversation make me want to heave.”

  “Charming. I can see you’re a product of your father. Such a pity you didn’t take after your mother more. She was a special young lady.” The entire tone of his voice goes soft and wistful, so much so that for a second I feel sorry for him. Father must have hurt him deeply. But my pity doesn’t last, for whatever good that was inside of him then is erased by the malevolence of what he’s become.

  “This conversation is over.” I stand and grip my purse like a sword.

  �
�We’ll play a game. When you perform a favor, you extend your brother’s life another week. One week, one favor. So here it is: tell your mother and father they have to move out of Harris House. I want them out on the street in twenty-four hours. Don’t support them at all—let them fend for themselves.”

  “What? Are you serious? One, they won’t let me—they’re my freakin’ parents for God’s sake. Two, why would I do such a thing?”

  “The love of a brother is a sacred thing. Your parents are adults; they’ll get over it. If you fail to comply with this favor, I’d hate to imagine what might go wrong there in that filthy den of whores and opium.”

  I lean in close and spit in his ear. “You’re one sick twisted bastard, you know that? You want revenge? That makes two of us.”

  As he chuckles venomously, I stride out of the restaurant, almost knocking the waiter over, and storm outside into the warm, filthy night. I stop and fume, trying to calm down, then clutch my phone and call the service. In a few minutes the driver pulls up and opens the door for me, and the car slides out into the dark night.

  My phone buzzes and I scowl at the text from Keary’s phone: 24 hours.

  On the drive back home I rehearse many versions of what I think I’ll tell my parents. Nothing seems to work. In all scenarios they ask why and I have no logical explanation. They’ll be worried that Phillip is gone and freaked out that I just left home with only a note to explain my absence. No matter how I try to twist it, I know they’ll be suspicious and won’t listen to me. I realize I might have to resort to trickery.

  When I arrive home, of course my parents are pissed that I didn’t ask them first before leaving the house. Mother is incensed by my choice of dress and banishes me to my room after I refuse to tell them a thing about where I went or what happened. In the quiet of my dimly lit room, I ponder all the places where Phillip could be. I think about Keary and the honest purity on his face the last time he kissed me, and I doubt whether anything his father said could be true.