Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “We will see to it that all our wrongs are righted!”

  “Yeah!”

  “They will not do this to anyone else, ever!”

  “Yeah! Yeah!”

  “They are supposed to work for us—not against us!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Their days of harassing and lying and torturing are over—finished!”

  “Yeah! Yeah!”

  Individual voices begin to call out.

  “Let’s get ’em for what they’ve done to you, Joshua!”

  “We will make them pay, Kimberly!”

  “Yeah!”

  Joshua throws both hands in the air, accepting their devotion. Then he moves back to Kimberly. They embrace yet again, feeling the energy, feeling each other. The clamoring softens, changing from yells and screams to ohs and ahs. Everyone’s eyes are heavy upon them; hence not a single person sees the cool mustang man exit his car.

  It is a sweet moment that gets interrupted by an overzealous reporter who yells out, “Mr. Siconolfi, what do you know of the missing girls that were written in your dairy?”

  Joshua pivots, spins, and about-faces, peering at him with evil green eyes. His aversion for the question is clear. He looks as if he might leap off the stage and attack at any second. Instead he points a threatening finger, replying with a curse. “Your wife will be unfaithful in passing days, and her joy for the occasion will surpass her guilt!” His words cease, but his glare lengthens as an unseen power seems to be burning out of him. His body starts to tremble, coil. People around the reporter begin stepping away when Joshua flashes his hands open and yells, “Boo!”

  The crowd jolts and gasps, followed by a split second of frozen uncertainty, until Joshua forms a light smirk across his lips. Then within the audience a level of nervous giggling and sniggering begins. Somewhat ambivalent at first, quickly it multiplies and grows into roaring laughter.

  Kimberly seizes upon the momentum by stepping closer to the microphones and asking the people with a sweet smile, “Don’t you think he should marry me…for real this time?”

  “Yeah, marry her, Joshua!”

  “Yeah! Whoo!”

  Next they begin to chant. “Marry her! Marry her! Marry her!”

  Joshua circles to Kimberly. She flickers a seductively innocent grin.

  “Marry her! Marry her!”

  “You want me to marry her? You want me to ask her to be my wife? Right here? Right now?”

  The mob goes wild, begging for action.

  He kneels down in front of her, taking her hands in his. She quivers with excitement and happiness. And everyone stills until they can hear only breathing through the microphone.

  “I believe…” His voice cracks. “Uh-hum…I believe that all love and all lies come into the world through the lips of beautiful women. I love your lips, and I love your lies. You are the most beautiful of all feminine. Your appearance to me is like a white cloud under the snow. You protect me from the invisible shadows of darkness. Before I knew you, I knew nothing. Now all that was hidden is known to me. I want you to be with me throughout all eternity, whether we are troubling the heavens or dancing alone in hell. I love you, Kimmy. Will you be with me forever? Will you be my wife?”

  “Yes!”

  The crowd explodes as Kimberly jumps on him, kissing him all over. They fall and roll around the platform until Joshua can break free long enough to say good-bye. He shouts over the loudspeakers, “Now I’m going to go home to eat a good meal, get drunk, and fuck my wife!”

  He throws the microphone down like a rock star. Then they stride arm in arm to an awaiting limo—the one Tabatha secured for them—and dive into the back. It swiftly pulls away, leaving today’s gossip in its wake. The driver is instructed to drive straight to their home in Seattle. It should only take five hours, giving them a chance to make up for lost time. But they are not alone; following from an unnoticeable distance is a black Mustang.

  Its only occupant is vengeance.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  With his new fiancée resting, Joshua takes in the view of the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the Cascade Mountains from the car’s window. He feels on top of the world, even welcoming the rain he hasn’t seen in weeks and feeling somewhat guilty for being short with her. But he had no choice, since she kept trying to discuss their affairs within earshot of the driver—Tabatha’s driver. And he would have none of it. Finally he had to yell at her, demanding that she shut the fuck up and wait until they get home before they talk—something he’s been anticipating for a long time now. And home is only an hour away.

  He then turns his attention to her, watching while she catnaps on the leather seat. She is mostly covered under her coat, but he can still see her pretty face and slender feet. Her tiny toenails are painted dark purple, and she wears a gold ankle bracelet. I wonder if she’s sleeping, or just pretending. I wonder what she’s been doing over the last months. Or who? Can I trust her to go forward?

  The urge to touch her is irresistible. He snuggles in behind her, resting a curious hand on her thigh. Then he slips it under her coat, finding her as he left her—naked and damp from sweat. “Are you sleeping?” he asks softly, breathing on the nape of her neck. She doesn’t respond. “I think it’s sexier if you’re faking. I like it this way.” Slowly and subtly he glides strong fingers to her breast and delicately caresses her still-hard nipples. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He presses himself against her ass. She wiggles with a light moan. “You want me to do dirty things to you, don’t you?”

  “Mmm…,” she whimpers.

  He pinches harder then slithers his playful hand capriciously toward her flower, loving that she still pretends to be asleep. “I want to hear you whisper ‘fuck’ in your sleep.”

  “Mmm…fuck…Do you want to fuck me?”

  Her eyes remain closed as her flesh warms. “Yes, I’m dying to fuck you more. I’m going to make you beg—”

  “Well, if you wanted to fuck me, then you shouldn’t have told me to shut the fuck up! Should you have? You fucking asshole!” she says, springing alive and pushing him away.

  “Kimmy, listen, we’re going to be home in an hour; we can talk then.”

  “We can speak quietly now,” she replies defiantly.

  “No, I don’t trust this limo. I told you we will talk at home, and that’s the end of it!”

  She caves and playfully bites her bottom lip. Although she would never admit it, she kind of likes it when he commands control. Neither of them says a word; they just gaze at each other as their smiles grow and the love returns to their eyes.

  Then suddenly they’re startled by the loud engine of a passing car. The windows are tinted, and Joshua can hear its motor winding down along with the slush of its tires. It isn’t passing, simply paralleling them. He looks out the side window, staring at a Mustang as pitch-black as the wet road, its wheelman gunning the engine, lurching the car aggressively forward and side to side.

  Kimberly looks out the window next to Joshua. “What the fuck is this guy doing?” Immediately she pushes a button, dropping the divider between them and the driver. “What’s this guy doing?” she yells.

  “I don’t know. I’ll see if I can lose him.”

  “Yeah, step on it,” Joshua demands.

  The limo accelerates; however, the Mustang remains alongside them, driving erratically. Joshua can see its passenger-side window roll down. His first thought is whether their limo is bulletproof. Then he looks ahead and sees an exit a half mile away. “Go faster! Take the exit at the last second!”

  “You got it,” the driver replies, pushing the pedal to the floor.

  They can all see the Mustang stabilizing its close position as they excel to higher and more dangerous speeds. What none of them can see is the gun aiming at them from inside the blackened car.

  Kimberly opens the sun roof and stands out in the open. The Mustang veers slightly at her emergence. She throws a bottle of vodka. It smashes on the door, causing the car
to lose control. It swerves off the side of the road at over one hundred miles per hour, chipping rocks and road debris, then squeals back, almost hitting them. Now, angrier than ever, the wheelman steadies his weapon and locks her within his sights.

  “Turn!” Joshua screams.

  The limo steers off at the very last moment, barely making the off-ramp. They all look back, seeing the Mustang hit the brakes and come to a sliding stop three hundred yards past the exit. Then in a cloud of tire smoke, it begins to spin around on the highway.

  “What’s going on?” their driver asks frantically.

  “Keep going! Go through the intersection and back onto the freeway!” Joshua instructs.

  But the light is red. And the 8,200-pound limousine is still traveling at over ninety miles per hour and approaching the intersection fast.

  “Go! Go!” Kimberly demands.

  Their driver follows orders, accelerating to ninety-five. He grips the wheel tight and reaches under his seat for a special device. Joshua and Kimberly hold on. Then he presses a button, and without a second to spare, their light turns green. They sail through the busy intersection at ninety-seven miles per hour— fast enough that not even the sparks are seen by the man in the Mustang, who’ll soon be wondering which way they went.

  They all scream out in their excitement as they return to the highway. Joshua yells, “How in the hell did you do that?”

  “It doesn’t matter…tell me: who was that?”

  “Yeah, who is that?” Kimberly asks as well.

  “I don’t know…I don’t have any idea”

  Kimberly searches his eyes. They tell her he’s lying but that he cannot talk about it now. She covers for him. “Well, whoever it was, he’s one crazy fucking maniac. But how did you change the light? Tell me; I have to know.”

  “I have this,” he replies, as he presents the device. “It’s not exactly legal, but it sure helps my tips when I can get people to the airport on time.”

  “That’s cool as shit. I want one,” Kimberly declares, looking to Joshua for permission.

  Forty-five minutes later, the three are parked in the driveway. They’ve agreed upon a five-hundred-dollar tip and another fifteen hundred dollars for a light changer to be delivered by the end of the week. The limo driver leaves contented, feeling alive with a story to sell. Two blocks away he passes a black Mustang parked beside the road, but travels on, counting his money, deciding it couldn’t be the same.

  Joshua carries his bride-to-be across the threshold. She’s light in his arms. And once they’re inside, he sets her down gently and goes to work—locking doors, turning on the television, and facing stereo speakers toward the walls. He’s already had his home swept for bugs, but still he doesn’t want anyone with an external audio surveillance system to hear any of their conversations. No one can ever know what he’s about to say. He grabs Kimberly and pulls her close into him. Their eyes meet as he says to her, “We did it! We fucking pulled it off, Kimmy! Did you have any problems?”

  “No, none. I did just like you told me. I just disappeared and stayed on the ranch.”

  “I could never have imagined this would’ve gotten so big. They went absolutely fucking crazy over the book with the names of the missing girls—your idea. All those hours researching missing persons on the libraries microfilm machine paid off.” He kisses her. “And they published all of my bullshit—ha-ha. And no one ever even suggested that you may still be alive. Kimberly, they’ve had me on the news every single day. I’m big. We’re big. We are big fucking news!”

  “I know, I know; I’ve been watching it all on my iPhone. I had to sneak it into the bathrooms at the ranch; they were very strict. Did they ever find the bloody car we left at the airport?”

  “No, but everything else worked. They found your blood on the boat; they asked me a million questions about the car club, just like I said they would. I had them eating out of my fucking hands, and they couldn’t get enough of my poems and psychobabble. And can you fucking believe Trace killed himself? I couldn’t have planned that better myself.” Joshua carries on and on, unaware of her sadness for the loss of Trace. “We’re going to be rich. We’re going to sell the book deals, movie deals, high-profile interviews, and we’re fucking famous. They love us, Kimmy. It’s going to be just like I told you it was going to be—and even more.”

  “I’m scared though…What if they find out? And who was that in the Mustang, Joshua?”

  He moves into the kitchen, finding a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses. “Everything’s going to work out. We’re fucking famous. And as long as we stick to the plan, they can never prove a thing. You were at the ranch. You had no idea what was going on!”

  “And the maniac in the car?”

  “It has to be that Detective Cools. I guess he’s still mad about losing his job. But they really did torture me; they had me in this room with all these crazy lights, and I felt like my head was going to explode. So fuck ’em! They get what they deserve!” He takes a drink, handing her a glass of scotch.

  “Are you sure we’re fine?”

  “Yes! Absolutely! We couldn’t be better…now drink up.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Kimmy. We made it; we’re home fucking free. Let’s celebrate.” They clink their glasses.

  “Ha-ha…I can’t believe we hatched this entire plan on a meth binge,” Kimberly replies, now giggling, loosening in the moment.

  “Yeah, I told you it would work. And I missed you, Kimmy; I really fucking missed you.”

  “Me too,” she says, falling into him, kissing, trusting. They enjoy each other late into the night until they are drunk and spent, talking over every detail of their plot—their most beautiful conspiracy.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Not understanding why his son won’t answer his calls, William starts to question what has happened and if he’s been used. He also fears that if certain ones conclude that Joshua compromised the car club all over some scam, he and his brazen little whore may be excommunicated—a word that, within the tenets of the car club, takes on a whole different meaning than it does in Catholicism.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  The next week sails by as Joshua and Kimberly hole up in their home, planning their future and catching up for lost time. Outside the reporters are still on twenty-four-hour watch, and inside their Facebook page is blowing up with prospective magazine photo-ops, limitless interview offers, lawyers that would like to handle their potential lawsuits, agents who are begging to represent them, and one woman who even requests to have Joshua’s seed, so she can bear his child. They only venture out at night for expensive dinners and drinks in some of Seattle’s finest restaurants, to make their appearances, using every opportunity to make sure one of them says something that borders profoundness and/or insanity, to maintain the public’s involvement. They’re living the high life with no end in sight and cherishing every morsel of their stardom. At home they cuddle and play and discuss all they’re going to do with their lives, as well as working on the final stages of their scheme.

  It’s not long, and the money starts pouring in, fueling the lifestyle they’ve longed for. Nearly nine hundred thousand dollars is awarded to them, via MTV, for the exclusive rights to film their upcoming wedding, with a few reality twists of course. And they begin spending it right away, making many purchases off the Internet: expensive guitars, jewelry, clothes, and a black, almost see-through, wedding dress. And the dope man now visits on a daily basis. They have a nine-thousand-dollar hot tub put in, where they discover new ways to make love in the evenings. And by day Joshua thrives on the fascination of the paparazzi. He greatly enjoys speeding away from their vans in his Lotus and has even more fun ditching the black Mustang. Although he’s never actually seen its driver, he knows it to be Cools. And in the back of his mind, he presumes he’ll have to deal with him at some point—he just doesn’t realize how dangerous he is.

  Subsequent to their R & R, they get
down to business, hiring an agent and giving interviews on all the top shows—The View, The Ellen DeGeneres Show, Nancy Grace, and Piers Morgan Tonight—never revealing much of their story, only hinting at the book, soon to be on the stands. Every show pays them generously as well as setting them up in premium hotels and flying them first class to new cities and awaiting limos. High-end clothiers and jewelers even pay them to wear their latest designs, and the flood of laughter never runs dry. While on the road, and in between gigs, they negotiate other deals, like the million-dollar offer for Kimberly to pose in Playboy. And the nearly two million proposed by an adult film producer for a full-length video of them. Kimberly consults with the attorneys representing the Seattle Police Department, who are suggesting a backdoor settlement of five million to leave certain aspects of the interrogations out of their book. And another company, which sells novelties, wants them to pose for a hot, romantic, cultish calendar for 2012, to run from January 1 to December 21, representing the Mayan calendar—the Doomsday Count beside the Doomsday Countess. They release their wedding vows on MTV and commence shooting film for their new reality show pilot. The world literally falls for the young couple, seeing the true love they hold for one another.

  Finally the demand for them gets so intense they decide to go away for a while on a well-deserved vacation. So in the dead of night, they slip out the back of their hotel and, with fake passports, sneak off to Europe. There, with a couple of wigs and oversized clothes, they tour around undetected for weeks. They can do no wrong; even their abrupt disappearance gains them more notoriety.

  “Where did they go?”

  “Whatever happened to Joshua and Kimberly?”

  And these headlines only overshadow the more aggressive commentators who are curiously asking why all of Joshua’s poems were previously copyrighted, why he was so arrogant, and how convenient it has all worked out for them. And even the tougher questions, alluding to the fact that they may have scammed, tricked, and manipulated the media, add to their intrigue.