by A. R. Torre
I am distracted. Thoughts of killing him have hopped a bus and promise to be back next week. Irritated at the man still stubbornly in my apartment, I don’t see his movement until it is too late. His hands are in my hair, hot breath on my face, and he is trying to kiss me—his soft lips pressed insistently on mine. I push against his hard chest and then he is there—in my mouth—his tongue tangled gently with mine. My own traitorous mouth responds, and my heart rate increases as my hands move of their own accord up to his strong arms. His hands, entangled in my hair, cradle my head. The smell of him invades my senses. I have forgotten what it is like to kiss—to feel the response against my tongue, to feel his hot breath on my face when he pulls off me and stares into my eyes. His face is both tortured and confused. I don’t like the searching look, the invasion into my soul, and I grab his neck, pulling him back down. Everything is so foreign: the feel of warmth beneath my hands, the smell of something other than lube, books, and food in my apartment. I taste him, greedy for every sensation, my hands roaming everywhere, grabbing at his shirt, hastily undoing the buttons. His hands move down, leaving my head, traveling hesitantly, slowly, until they reach my breasts and brush my nipples, softly caressing the curve of delicate skin. I gasp and freeze.
That frozen moment in time when his fingers touch that skin, a place where I have never had human touch—it snaps me back to the present, to my reality, and I can suddenly feel it coming. The desire to kill. I don’t want it. I want to continue this crazy, hot chemistry that has me wet and panting. I want, with every drop of my blood, to be a normal, naked woman locked in a passionate moment with a gorgeous, strong man. But it is there, and it is getting stronger.
He has gone too far—touching her perfect breasts, squeezing that soft skin. She gasps, her body stiffening. He pulls back, looks into her eyes. There is passion there, heat and need, and then something flips. A turbulent wave of indecision clouds her eyes, and she closes them tightly, face squeezed in an expression close to torment. Then her eyes snap open and are filled with panic. She shoves him hard, her eyes flaring. “Go! Now! Get out!” She scrambles, skidding with her hands and feet, crawling out from underneath him, the urgent movements pushing him into action.
He stands and freezes, unsure of what to do. Then comes her strangled cry: “Go!” He bolts, throwing open the door and rushing into the empty, lonely hall, feeling a burst of air hit his back. He turns as the door slams shut behind him, a loud crack of steel on wood as it hits the frame, followed by a loud click and a long, tortured scream that rips through his body, the sound shaking him to the core. After that there is total silence, a long, excruciating pause that stretches on for minutes. He stands there, helpless, facing the door, listening for anything, waiting for something, alone in the empty hall, the damn box at his feet. The door, that closed door that he has stared at for three years, a barrier to her.
His mind struggles with what just happened. He gets a familiar feeling, one that comes occasionally while in a dream—the realization that what has just happened isn’t possible, that the pieces don’t fit together and equal normality, the aha! moment when “This must be a dream” crosses his mind.
But it isn’t a dream. This hallway is real, the last three years of wondering is real. He had entered the apartment and finally seen the girl in 6E. Not only seen her but touched her, kissed her, felt her bare skin beneath his body.
That annoyingly rational part of his brain enters the conversation, forcing his thoughts to turn to the dark side of his visit. The raw need in her eyes, reaching hungrily for his blade. The look of dominant satisfaction and glee as she raised his cutters high above him and brought them swiftly down, his heart the target. The look of anguish when their kiss had been interrupted by something, the panic at which she had thrown him out, the long howl of despair on the other side of that door.
In some ways, she had superseded his fantasies. So much hotter, certainly more sexual, her perfect face and beautiful body keeping his cock hard even now, even after all that had happened. Her fire, the energy pouring out of her in a wave of life, her entire body brimming with confidence and sensuality.
But in other ways, what had lain behind that door was so much worse. You entered my home. I have the right to defend myself. She isn’t locked inside her apartment, hiding from someone. She is lying in wait, a contained mass of who the hell knows what.
His sister’s words echo in his head: Sometimes you open the door and find out that it’s a big ornate sexy door to an empty closet. Maybe the only thing you’re interested in is the mystery, and you’ll find yourself bored with what’s inside. He laughs. Bored. Out of all the things the girl is, boring is not one of her problems.
He casts one final look at the closed door, then turns and walks to the elevator, pressing the down button with a heavy hand.
CHAPTER 40
I DON’T THINK my grandparents knew what to do with me. It had been twenty-five years since they had coexisted with anyone other than themselves, much less a teenage girl who had just lost her entire family. They were in mourning themselves, dealing with the loss of a daughter, a son-in-law, and two grandchildren. The fact that their flesh and blood was the one who brought the carnage was a weight too heavy for them to bear.
The large farmhouse, one that was packed with happy memories from my childhood: capturing fireflies in mason jars in the large backyard, Christmas Eves spent wrapped in afghans on the worn wood floor of their formal living room, a giant tree glittering from the corner, hot chocolate in cracked mugs, fried chicken on Sunday afternoons, and Easters spent hunting for eggs through the tall grasses in their backyard. That farmhouse died around us, a house of mourning and death, no one wanting to speak or move, worried that we might step on the crack that would cause us all to come crashing down.
They put me in the downstairs bedroom, the one right off the foyer. There were no rules, no curfews, no stern looks or discussion of my activities. They moved through the house, two silent ghosts, they in their world and I in mine. I could have thrown an orgy in my room, screaming and fucking the paint off the walls, and I don’t think they would have stirred, moved from their cemented resting spots. I almost wanted to kill them just to put them out of their misery.
But I wasn’t ready to kill then. I was scared to hell and back by my urges. They whispered to me in the night, catching me in unguarded moments, when I had exhausted myself with tears and loneliness and frustration. They struck me while driving, when my mind would wander from the road, taking its own direction until it ended in a bloody fantasy that had me gasping with fear and need. Fear of what I envisioned, need pulling at me to make it happen. I’m glad I didn’t kill them. Despite the black hole their life turned into—I don’t think I could have lived with myself if I had taken their lives. Contributed further to the tragedy that is our family.
I stumbled through the graduation ceremony, my eyes dead and cheeks wet. Everything I knew, everything I had, everything I was, had disappeared. The next week, the check from Dad’s insurance policy came. The first check I ever wrote was to the funeral home, my hand shaky, my signature unpracticed. That evening, I packed up my things.
An estate company auctioned off the house and all of the contents in it. I was told, by a perky redhead in a blue suit, that the home sold for less than market value, the new paint doing little to overcome the blood that was shed in our kitchen. She wanted to know when I would be by, to pack up my room and get my belongings and the personal items in the house. I told her my time frame in two simple words. Fuck off.
I got an e-mail two weeks later, with the address of a storage facility, a unit number, and an invoice. I paid for six months, assuming that I would sort out my emotions by then, be able to hold an item of Summer’s, look into a picture frame, or smell the scent of my mother’s lilac perfume. Two months ago, after six or seven milestone checks, I sent them a rent prepayment for the next five years. The last four have done nothing to heal the pain.
CHAPTER
41
“I MET SOMEONE today.”
Dr. Vanderbilt—Derek—didn’t respond, obviously waiting for me to say something more. I don’t, and we sit there silently while I watch the digital display of my clock change, moving forward one minute, then two. Finally, he speaks.
“Was it the Chinese guy?”
I laugh despite myself, humor not a frequent part of our sessions.
“No. It wasn’t the Chinese guy. But you’ll be happy to know I ignored your advice, and ordered Chinese, and didn’t kill or stab or even threaten the man who delivered it.”
If I expect a pat on the back, I know better, and Derek sticks to his crusty ways. “Tell me about this meeting.”
“I knew him before—through the door, I mean. His name is Jeremy. He delivers my packages.”
“And you invited him in?” His voice is calm, soothing, irritatingly so.
“No. He came in, on his own.”
Movement caught my eye. Movement never occurs in my apartment. I sat up, confused, and saw him, or rather the back of him. Then he turned and our eyes met.
“Explain.” Derek’s voice is sharper, though you’d have to know his voice well to catch it.
“I was in bed. I guess I didn’t hear the knock. When I didn’t answer, he opened the door and came in.”
“Do you understand that he overstepped his boundaries by taking that course of action?” Derek’s voice is almost worked up, though he manages to keep its melodious tone.
“That’s a bullshit question you should know better than to ask. I’m not mental, for Christ’s sake. I know normal social protocols. Apparently he knocked a bunch of times, I didn’t answer, so he tried the door and came in.”
“You don’t lock your door?”
I sigh exasperatedly. “No, Daddy, I don’t lock my door. Well, you know…except for at night.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t.”
“You just stated that you are, in fact, of normal intelligence and are aware of society’s expectations and safety limitations. You don’t not lock your door without a reason. What is the reason?”
“I guess I was hoping that someone might come in.” I stick my chin out defiantly, waiting for what I know is coming next.
“So you could have a friend?” There is a bit of hope in the sentence. Which is ridiculous, since he doesn’t even trust me to have food delivered.
“No, Derek. So I could kill them. If someone comes into my house, I am allowed to protect myself.”
He makes this weird noise that sounds like a cross between a groan and a sigh. “Do you think that this guy—Jeremy—came in to hurt you?”
He stood in a fighter’s stance, his legs slightly spread and hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed and panicked, eyes flitting everywhere, then locking on me.
“No. I think he was worried when I didn’t answer. I’ve always answered. I think he opened the door, and maybe heard me moan. Thought I was hurt. He rushed in like something was wrong.”
“And what did you do?”
I grimace into the phone, my hand coming up to cover my face. “I tried to attack him, to get his box cutters.”
“Have you fantasized about killing him before?”
“Oh yeah. Plenty of times.”
“What happened when you attacked him?”
Ugh. The embarrassing moment had come. “It sucked. It was nothing like my fantasy. My attack was bad, uncoordinated.” I blush, rubbing my forehead. “Let’s just leave it at the fact that it didn’t work. He took the cutters from me.”
“Was he upset?”
“I think he was confused.”
Derek chuckles. “I’m sure he was confused.”
“And aroused.” The words slip out before I can grab them, and they hang in the air between us. Derek waits, and I wait back—our familiar game.
“Why would he be aroused?”
“I don’t know. I was naked. Maybe it was the whole us rolling around thing.”
“Were you aroused?”
I close my eyes and remember the moment, the feel of his tongue against mine, of his firm but gentle hands on my skin. “Yeah. It was…different, you know? Being with a guy. It’s been a long time since I was touched.”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Deanna. You don’t have to tell me what happened.” As if speaking about arousal could make me uncomfortable. I passed that point a million chats ago.
“Nothing really happened. We kissed. And he was hard. I haven’t…you know…it’s just been a long time. That’s all. It was nice.”
“Are you attracted to him?”
“Yes. He’s hot. And there was this brief moment—like when we first made eye contact—it was like a spark.”
“A spark?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know. That part is kind of fuzzy, because then I went all Xena Warrior Princess on his ass.” I grin, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see me.
“So what ended up happening?”
“We were kissing, on the floor, and I was doing good—not thinking about murder or death or anything. But then he touched me on my breast, and it was such a shock—so strange for me, just because no one has ever touched me there before. It broke the moment, and I could feel myself changing, could feel it coming…”
“What did you do, Deanna?”
“I told him to leave. Pushed him.”
“And he did?”
“Yeah. I think he was a little confused.”
“Why did you want him to leave?”
“Because I didn’t want to hurt him. Not that I could have. Since I’m so weak and pathetic.”
“This is a good step, Deanna. You had the chance to keep him there, to wait until your urges got the best of you, but you didn’t. You told him to leave.”
“That’s stupid. I always try to not hurt people. That’s why I’m locked away in this shithole to begin with!”
“But Deanna, you lock yourself up because you don’t trust yourself to control your urges. Today, in a sense, you did control your urges. When you told him to leave.”
I don’t say anything in response. I don’t tell him that I lay in bed for an hour after Jeremy left, systematically planning a way to lure him back inside and do a proper job of extinguishing his life. Derek is proud of me. It’s a rare moment, and I don’t want to spoil it.
CHAPTER 42
PEDOPHILIA: Defined as a psychiatric disorder typically characterized by a primary or exclusive sexual interest toward prepubescent children, pedophilia involves feelings the individual has either acted on or which cause distress or interpersonal difficulty.10 “The experience of sexual abuse as a child was previously thought to be a strong risk factor, but research does not show a causal relationship, as the vast majority of sexually abused children do not grow up to be adult offenders, nor do the majority of adult offenders report childhood sexual abuse.”11 “Offenders are more likely to be relatives or acquaintances of their victim than strangers.”12
MY FINGER MOVES on the mouse pad, hovering above the “block” button that all our chat rooms feature. I’m torn. I have blocked clients before—sometimes you’ll get an asshole, sometimes you’ll get a stalker, and once someone recognized me from high school. But this block is one I am having trouble with. During the time of my indecision, the button disappears, and my software loads the new screen. I am now in a private chat, and the object of my indecision sits in front of me. Damn.
RalphMA35: hey bb
I smile brightly. “Hey, Ralph.”
RalphMA35: you know what I want, right?
I nod, moving to the side of the bed, out of the camera’s view, and change into the outfit he has requested the last three times: a pink boa, cheap plastic crown, and pink silk gloves. Freak-a-zoid.
Later, I take another long, depressed shower, in which I try to figure out what to do about Ralph. The man is disturbed; his requests and role-plays are of the violent rape variety and all fixated on o
ne individual, Annie. The worst is when he gets on his cam, when the typing stops and the speaking begins. His tone is guttural, excited. Evil. Every time he says her name, I cringe inside. He is definitely blocking material—the worst type of client, one that throws me into a sea of depression after every session. I have no doubt that Annie is real. That somewhere, she is a sitting duck for this sick fuck. What I can’t figure out is if I am feeding his sickness or satisfying it. If I am protecting her or endangering her further.
I come to a decision and turn off the water, stopping the pathetic, tepid flow. I dry off, dress in my pajamas, and log back online, looking for HackOffMyBigCock. I log into Skype and IM him, and his response pops up before a full minute passes.
---what’s up sexy?
I need to talk to you. You free?
---let me wrap up something. Let’s do voice chat in five.
Great. Thx
One ridiculous invasion of privacy that Cams.com affords us models is the IP address of any client who enters our private or free chats. I didn’t write down Ralph’s IP address, but I do have a key logger program installed on my computer that takes a screenshot of my screen every thirty seconds. I log into the software and find the screenshots from earlier, and RalphMA35’s IP address is displayed clearly in the lower left section of the screen. I jot it on a sticky note and log back into Skype. Mike is already there, waiting for me.
“Whatcha got for me?” His voice comes through clearly, though he had turned off the camera.
