by Calinda B
“No. I can’t.” A noise like two rocks being struck together sounds out. Crack! Crack!
Tom bursts into eyesight. “Better?”
I jerk backward as his angled, pointed feature face pops into view. His brown eyes blink in the very large face that looms in front of me. His long, lanky, scarecrow body appears to be standing but there’s nothing solid under his feet - only white.
“There you are. You’re kind of close.” I never noticed the small gap between his two front teeth or the miniscule, spidery cracks in his tooth enamel or the slight brown stain on his front left incisor.
Tom zips away from me a little bit. “Better?” he asks again.
“Yes, but what about this part?” I gesture to my hanging body. The super strong invisible arms or pinions or whatever they are holding me in place, legs dangling.
“What about it?”
“Is it necessary?”
“You tell me. I got your attention, didn’t I?” The old man leers at me. Tom’s got Beelzebub, his big Golden Eagle, on his arm. That bird is ginormous and mean as mean can be. He’s got a foul temper, and Tom’s the only one who can gentle him.
Beelzebub trains his cold, sharp golden gaze on me. He turns his head left and stares at me with his right eye. He pivots his head right and studies me with his left eye. I wonder if he’s sizing me up as a meal. It unnerves me to be assessed by a predator. “Your bird isn’t hungry, is he?”
“Don’t think so. He just had a meal. I imagine you always look tasty to him, though.” Tom winks at me. As usual, he’s wearing his red, Elmer Fudd-type hunter’s cap atop his head and a plaid flannel shirt. A long blade of grass is stuck between his teeth. The man is pure hillbilly hick. He coos to the big eagle, and then lifts his arm, signaling the bird to take flight.
The bird obliges, stretching his wings seven feet wide, soaring into the wispy world. As Beelzebub pinwheels into the white sky, Tom turns to me and closes one eye, scrutinizing me. “What’s going on with you? Me and Betty have been a mite worried about you. She said she got you out of the loony bin, but then she started to worry. She sent me off to check in on you. And I find you’re hanging with the Stealth Numen. You kids these days, I tell you.” He chuckles, turns his head to the side and releases a wad of phlegm from his mouth. It lands with a plop on the white and evaporates with a sizzle. “Daniel’s going to be none too pleased about that, I tell you what.”
“Whatever,” I say nonchalantly. “It’s my life.” I am not as calm about that as I sound. Not in the least. Daniel’s mother pops into my head. I know she asked me not to tell anyone, but who’s Tom going to tell? He’s on the side of the good guys. At least I think he is. “Oh! Good news. I’ve seen Daniel’s mother. I know where she lives.”
Tom instantly zips behind me and claps his hand over my mouth. “Quiet! Dang, girl, no, you did not. Oh, dang it. Oh my. Oh, help me, Jesus, you didn’t say that, did you?”
Still suspended in air, I pry his hands from my mouth. “What? What did I say?”
“You said nothing. Nope. No sir-ee, I didn’t hear a thing.” He leans toward my ear, and he whispers, “You know how the Keeper of Time and Records v5.5.1 speaks and her words flow out into the air?”
Eyes wide, I nod.
“We all do that. She’s an advanced version, though, so you can see it happening.”
“Okay. So?”
“So with what you did not say you may have released what might or might not be a trail. Take it back.”
“Take what back?” My face furrows.
“Take back what you didn’t say.”
“If I didn’t say it, how can I take it back?”
“Just do as I say.”
I’m even more perplexed. “Okay, I will but…this makes no sense.”
He nods encouragingly at me.
“Come on, old man, say something that makes sense to me.”
He cups his hand around my ear and leans in close. “That thing that you didn’t say. Un-say it.”
“What? How do I do that?”
“Say it backwards.”
“Say what backwards?”
“The thing that you didn’t say. Say it backwards.” He’s speaking slowly and distinctly as he whispers as if I m a slow, stupid child. He leans back and looks at me, grinning and nodding. “Do it.”
“I don’t know what you want? How can I say something backwards that I didn’t say?”
“Just say it backwards. That thing that you didn’t say.”
I shake my head, roll my eyes and snort. “Let’s see. Okay. Lives she where know I. Mother Daniel’s seen I’ve. Is that what you meant?”
“No,” he says, nodding his head. “It’s not what I mean at all,” he adds, nodding his head vigorously. “But if it was, you’d have done a fine job.”
“Uh, okay, I take it I did the right thing?”
He shakes his head right and left, mouthing the word, “yes.”
“Geez,” I say. “What was that?”
Tom puts his finger up to his lips. “Shhh. Let’s speak of it no more.”
“Okay, that was weird. I guess there’s ‘someone’…” I make air quotes. “There’s someone I shouldn’t ever mention. Is that what you’re trying to get at?”
“It could be,” he says, shaking his head in negation right and left. “Or, it might not be,” he says, nodding his head up and down. “What’s important is…” He leans in so close and speaks so quietly I have to strain to hear him. “That you know the answer and you have to do what’s right.”
I, of course, am drawn backward to that conversation with Rafe where he told me to follow my heart and I knew what was right. Do I know what’s right? About anything?
“This is your life, Ms. M. Betty and me…now we was getting busy the other night, making the two-backed beast and…”
I press my hands over my ears and wince. “I don’t want to hear it, Tom.”
He peels my hands off of my ears. “We was talking about you. She said she told you you’d get your face this year. At age 26, you start to get your own face, not sport the face of your mama and papa. You decide what’s right and what’s not right. It’s your life. Own it. Breathe it. Feel it. Live it for yourself, girl. Ain’t no ones’ job but your own to make your life your creation. You’re an artist. Start acting like one and paint your life in a million colors.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to mess things up. There are so many decisions to make. So much to learn and do.”
“There is, there are, and you might,” Tom says to me, chewing on the blade of grass. “You might have to fix a mess or two. You might make a few brilliant decisions and a few dumb ones. But that’s how you learn, girl,” he says affectionately.
“I’m scared. I’m supposed to be a superhero, and I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, you’ll have to sort that out, won’t you? A superhero who can’t or won’t feel isn’t making use of all she’s got. Use everything. You’re not just a badass, kick ass Light Rebel. You’re a soft, sensitive, and beautiful young woman.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m somewhere in space, suspended like wash on the line, and I feel very vulnerable right now. It seems unsafe. It seems familiar. It seems…
Without warning, the giant hands drop me, and I fall and fall and fall and fall.
“You take care of yourself!” Tom yells in my ear. “Own your life!”
I squeal, look around wildly, but can’t see any signs of the ether space, Tom, or his eagle, Beelzebub. Matter of fact, I can’t see signs of anything familiar. I’m falling and screaming, and my arms are flailing, and finally I land, with a whump on something solid. Someone is shaking me.
“Miss Engles? Miss Engles? Are you alright?”
I open my eyes to see the face of All Smiles leaning over me, his face colored with concern. My gaze darts around the room like my eyes are ball bearings. I’m back in the goddamned hospital in Bellevue, WA.
“Are you okay? I think you’re
having a bad dream.”
That’s an understatement. If I’m back at the Brookstone Center for Healing in Bellevue, I’m having an out and out nightmare.
Chapter 24
Armando Navid stretches between the two Brazilian beauties he picked up today. He’s staying at the Grand Hyatt in Sao Paolo. It’s a decent room with decent surroundings, but nothing like the luxury he’s used to. It’s got a huge king bed, a flat screened TV, and a view of the city. It’s convenient to where he needs to be and what he needs to do, nothing more.
One of the beauties has affixed a cock ring circling his erection. It’s a vibrating ring with nubs all over it that he got the last time he was in the States. It helps to keep his cock stiff. The dark haired babe’s mouth provides additional stimulus. “Oh, yes, darling, move your mouth like that.” The other one, the one with the light brown hair, keeps dipping her head to his for kisses. “Mmm. So nice,” he tells her. What are their names again? Maria? Julie? Lucinda? He shakes his head. Damn, aging brain. Lately, it hasn’t been able to retain much of anything. His eyes glance over to the prescription bottle on the bed stand. Since when do I have to resort to the little blue pills to get hard? He sighs, rocks his hips into someone or other’s mouth and French kisses the mouth of what’s her name. Hell, I’ll call them Boobs and Lips. That’s all they are to me.
After more than enough strokes to find release, he orders the one he’s nicknamed Boobs, “I need more stimulation. Find a way to get me off.”
Boobs gives him a sly look through jet black eyelashes, slides the ribbon from her lustrous tresses, and gently binds his scrotum. She says something in Portuguese to her girlfriend, and the woman now known as Lips glides out from Armando’s embrace and retrieves her sexy, pink and orange stiletto club pumps and three bottles of frosty beer from the hotel fridge. Boobs tugs on Armando’s legs, urging him down the bed so that his hips are perched at the end. She drags a chair across the carpet and places it so his feet can prop on the chair. She buckles the ankle straps of the shoes, slips a bottle in each and ties them to the end of the ribbons. She dangles the shoes in one hand and holds the third bottle with her other hand. Grinning at Armando, she says, “Ready?” Without waiting for an answer she lets them fall.
When the weight of the bottle-weighted shoes yanks his balls, Armando groans.
Boobs grins wickedly and twists the top off of the third bottle, spills some brew into her mouth and swallows.
“Damn, baby,” he says in his baritone voice. “Give me that mouth of yours. Go back to what you were doing. And you,” he says to Lips. “Climb over my face.” He proceeds to rock and roll toward release.
This much stimulation is good. This much stimulation is hot. This much stimulation is…the image of his beautiful wife Gabriela flits through his mind like a locust searching for a wheat field. She’s been doing that lately. Has someone just spoken of her? Is there an ether trail? He strains every sense to tune in, to sense her, to source her. The thought zips around his head and then disappears without a trace. Where is that damn bitch anyway?
He arches his hips, thrusting into Boob’s mouth. His tongue flicks Lips’ opening. And then he thinks of Marissa Engles. She’s a beautiful mystery. She’s hot as hot can be. When he met her in the village - what a surprise that was - he wanted to throw her down in the bed of the truck and fuck her good and hard. His son’s soul bound Light Rebel lover was like a firefly, beckoning him. Did she really restore the faces of those men? She must have had help. I am a master sorcerer after all. Lately, all his powers seem to be flagging, though. Spells aren’t working as intended. His command of voice and mind isn’t as potent. He’s got to find some power before someone finds out that he doesn’t have El Demonio’s power like he’s been boasting about. Is Marissa right? Does she know who has it? Does she have it? Could it be that an untrained Light Rebel has all that power at her disposal?
Suddenly the taste of Lips isn’t all that appealing. He gently urges her to get off his face and wipes her juices from his mouth with the back of his hand. Boobs is working his cock, sucking it, he’s got weight pulling at his scrotum. Nothing’s working. Ah, hell, maybe if I fantasize about Marissa Engles? Picture my cock driving into her with fury. Oh, yeah. That’s hot. That’s going to make me…
With a great heaving groan, he explodes into Boob’s mouth. She grips his erection with her hands and milks every last drop from his body. The weighted shoes swing and sway as his hips come to rest on the bed. His balls begin to ache. “Okay, enough! Take those off of me,” he tells Boobs.
She obliges like a well-heeled Collie, removing the ring, and untying the weighted shoes. She hands a beer to her BFF.
Lips takes it, and sits next to him pouting, probably because he didn’t give her an orgasm. She twists the top off the brown bottle and takes a swig. Next, she tips the bottle over his abdomen and pours some of the cold liquid on his belly. “Cool down, old man.”
He splutters, jerks, and grabs the bedding to wipe himself off. “You bitch!”
The damn whore laughs at him. Both she and Boobs are laughing. He grabs his pants from the floor, pulls out his money clip, and peels off a few hundred dollar bills. He tosses them at the girls. “Here. Go now.” Damn whores. “Toss me those cigarettes before you leave, will you?”
Boobs picks up the pack from the small, circular table next to the window, retrieves one with long, manicured fingernails, picks up his lighter, and lights it. She takes a deep drag then hands it to her friend. She tosses the pack on the bed next to Armando, and asks, “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll let you know.”
“Let us know before noon. We’re busy.” She pronounces the word busy like “bee-zee,” and her mouth curls in disdain. She reaches for the smoke from her friend’s hand and brings it to her silicone enhanced lips. Her face is perma-frozen from Botox. Her boobs look like melons pasted to her chest. Her waist is tiny, and her hips are full and curvy. A diamond glints from her belly button. Everything about her looks like it’s been ordered up from a catalogue.
I prefer my women natural. I prefer my women like Gabriela. He sighs, eyeing the fucking faces of the goddamned women who gave him attitude. Bitches shouldn’t treat me that way, Armando thinks. Lately they’ve all been treating him like he’s a joke. Fucking whores. Fucking cunts. He waves his hand, mutters a few phrases, and the two women’s heads transform into horse heads. He laughs at their wild-eyed reaction. They’re clawing at their heads, their lips are pulled back to reveal huge teeth while he’s having a good laugh. “Give me my money back,” he commands.
The two horsehead-women whinny and scramble to retrieve the hundred dollar bills. They toss them on the bed. He’s laughing so hard tears stream down his face. “Want your faces back?” he manages between gales of laughter. Their huge heads bob up and down, up and down. “You better not give my any more of that lip of yours - ever.”
Boob’s frightened eyes seem to indicate that she won’t.
Armando scoots back on the bed, pulls a cigarette from the pack, and lights it. He smokes, slowly blowing the light blue smoke from his mouth. He tips his head and considers his handiwork. Just like a Dark Bay Quarter Horse. A nice little filly I could ride all night. He pictures doing them from behind, and his cock twitches in excitement. “I need to finish my smoke,” he says to the women. “Hold your horses,” he jests and his hilarity resumes. He watches them, smoking, thinking of Marissa. If she has all that power, I need to combine forces with her. She’s too pretty to turn into a horse-faced woman. I like to look at her as she is. I think I’d like to look at her like that for a long, long time. So my son is soul bound to her. That just means he has all the upkeep while I get all the spoils.
Armando finishes his cig, stubs the butt out in the ashtray, and turns to the women who huddle and weep in the corner. “I didn’t know horses could cry,” he sneers at them. “This has been educational.” He flicks his right hand, and the women’s faces reappear. “Come here,” he commands
them. “Do me without expecting payment.” His cock instantly stiffens. “You,” he says, pointing to Boobs. “You go down on me again. Do it slower.” He points to the other one. “You, get the vibrator out of the drawer and make yourself come while I watch.”
Boobs and Lips do as their told, and Armando is so turned on, this time he orgasms instantly. “Come up here next to me,” he commands the two women.
They stiffen in place, unmoving.
“I said, come up here. Now.”
The two women crawl onto the bed, their fake breasts swinging back and forth. They clutch one another’s hands and bunch together.
“Right there. Sit,” he orders them. He picks up his lighter and holds it up to the elaborate gold ring on his left hand. He hisses as the heat sears his skin. When the metal starts to glow, he waves his right hand and the two women are pinned in place, held by unseen hands.
Their eyes widen so that the whites show all around. Tears spill from their eyes and track down their cheeks.
Armando curls the fingers of his left hand around the red hot metal, making a fist. He winces, rears back, and slams it into Boob’s face. He holds it against her skin, cramming his rage into his fingers, willing it to flow into her cheek. She can’t move, can’t speak, but she seems to be screaming with her eyes. Good. She’s afraid. Now the bitch will heel when I tell her to heel. When he’s done, he sits back to admire his artistry. A small AEN, for Armando Eduardo Navid, about a half of an inch tall, burns into her flesh. “Don’t you ever give me lip again, do you hear me? Each time you do, that scar is going to burn like a mother-fucker.” He turns to Lips. “You’re next.”
Her eyes grow wider than wide. The pupils look like tiny dots floating in milk.
Armando chuckles. He flicks the tiny wheel of the lighter, holds the flame against the brand until the metal glows and proceeds to mark Lips. He grips her jaw in his strong hand and twists her face left and right. It’s a clean mark. It will blister and scar nicely. Satisfied, he tells the two women. “Now get out of here. And come back tomorrow.” His fingers dance as he releases the spell. He regards his own burnt flesh, whispers a small spell, and the skin heals as fresh and unmarked as a baby’s.
