Living Wilder

by Leigh Tudor

  Mercy huffed while slinging her leg over the arm of the overstuffed chair. Never one to mince words, even when sober, she said, “You missed this . . . this . . . geriatric fem-bot posing as a human capable of emotion?”

  Cara lashed back. “Oh, like you’re capable of emoting.”

  “At least I have a heartbeat.”

  “She has a heart,” Cara said defensively. “It kind of shows up when you least expect it and need it the most.”

  “But we were doing so well.” The confusion and disappointment ripped from Loren’s gut. Not to mention her brain. She was conflicted between Cara’s blatant disregard for their safety and her little sister’s need to send out an SOS. Why would she do that? Loren had tried everything to get through to her during what she and Mercy referred to as Cara’s crazy-ass bitch phase. But Cara had stubbornly refused to share what was going on, even lied to them and snuck out of the house. She’d come home from school and go straight to her room to play some of the most depressing music known to mankind.

  The matronly woman piped up. “Yes, I can see how well you’ve been doing. Imagine my dismay as I discover my charge at a neighbor’s home, unchaperoned, while her sisters, her protectors, are spending an intoxicated evening at the local brasserie.”

  Mercy’s dilated eyes turned beady. “Wait, are you French or English?”

  Loren elbowed Mercy in the side. “You’re not helping.”

  It was clear that Loren suffered greatly in Madame’s esteem, but now wasn’t the time to spew. Rather, it was time to think and assess their level of risk. At least until she could come up with ideas on how to address the visceral contempt sitting before her.

  Mercy leaned toward her, and whispered, “How do we know she’s not a spy? How do we know Jasper didn’t send her to surveil us?”

  Hmmm, good point. Switching her focus from Madame Garmond’s unkind opinion to their current situation in terms of safety, Loren asked, “Cara, how exactly did you make contact with Madame Garmond?”

  Ms./Madame Garmond reacted to the question by reaching into her purse and pulling out what looked to be a flip phone from the ’90s. “I purchased a set of disposable phones once we began to travel extensively. I never trusted Doctor Halstead, let alone that halfwit Jasper Bancroft, and made sure Cara was able to reach me at a moment’s notice. That said, prepaid phones can be tracked using the traditional, albeit less accurate, method of cellular. Therefore, I was sure to change phones every two weeks.”

  Loren’s eyes widened as she stared at Cara. “You’ve had a burner phone this entire time?”

  Again with a pitiful half-shrug. “. . . Yes.” Her eyes lifted suddenly. “But I only used it once, to ask Madame Garmond to . . . to come for a visit.”

  “This is absurd,” the woman said, “Please show me to my quarters so that I might retire. It’s quite late, and Charlotte, errr, Cara, should be in bed. We can readdress the situation in the morning when we’re all a bit more rested”—she glanced at Mercy—“. . . and sober.”

  Cara sheepishly said, “She can take my bed, and I’ll use the sleeping bag.”

  Rubbing her eyes, Loren began to weigh their risks given the circumstances and the current number of houseguests.

  “Okay, everyone, just wait a minute,” Loren said, standing with her hands out in front of her, stalling everyone’s dissent. “Going to bed with the delayed strategy of addressing all this in the morning makes no sense. We now have two people from the Center who have been communicating with us, know where we live, and are now standing in our living room. Let’s not kid ourselves. The chances of Jasper knowing we’re in Wilder are extremely high.”

  “Dr. Bancroft?” Madame Garmond smirked. “Dr. Jasper Bancroft is nothing more than an incompetent menace.”

  “A menace who has taken over the Center and has access to all of Dr. Halstead’s resources. Over the years, Halstead amassed a sizable network of underground groups and individuals who are more than capable of hunting us down. And Jasper has free rein to commandeer them toward his cause.

  “Despite everything I’ve done to alter and create information online, there’s still only so much one person can do with a stolen laptop.” She turned to Mercy, praying she was sober enough to recognize their level of risk. “Remember when we were working a job? We always had to act on the worst-case scenario. And as of right now, that would be that Jasper knows where we are and is arranging for us to be returned to the Center.”

  Madame Garmond spoke up. “Why would Dr. Bancroft go to such great lengths to find you and Mercy? I understand why he would want to find Cara. Her musical talent garnered the Center a considerable amount of revenue. But why would he want you and your sister to return?”

  Hmm, something didn’t smell right.

  Did she really know nothing of Dr. Halstead’s less-than-honorable side hustle and the millions of dollars it generated?

  Nope, Loren wasn’t buying it. The woman had bought burner phones for crying out loud. The real question was, did she know that Cara’s musical acumen was created by Dr. Vielle and his scalpel? She certainly had everything to gain by being a willing accomplice. She traveled the world, ate at five-star restaurants, stayed in the nicest hotels. And all she had to do was ensure that Cara was playing at peak performance levels.

  Not a bad gig.

  Loren made a mental note to come up with a strategy to expose the older woman’s duplicity and figure out what game she was playing.

  Loren resumed her earlier appeal. “I don’t think any of us should assume we’re safe given the amount of communication that’s gone on between us now. I get it. Jasper’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but believe me, he knows how to subcontract brain power.”

  And how to capture it.

  Vlad cleared his throat, his hands still clenching his beanie. “I can assure you, if Jasper Bancroft knew I was here, he would have sent his henchmen already.”

  “I have little concern as well,” Madame Garmond added. “After you three escaped and I was sacked, I gained employment with a university in Connecticut. While speaking at a conference in Austin, I received Cara’s call. After listening to her desperate request, I purchased a car with cash and drove to this dismal prairie town. In the meantime, I gave my credit card to a colleague with permission to use it for necessities in order to create a virtual paper trail of my returning to Connecticut.”

  She pulled a rolling suitcase from the hallway and parked it in front of Vlad. Apparently, he would have to make do as an impromptu bellboy.

  Mercy eyes narrowed once again, “So you’re an Englishwoman, claiming to be French, living in Connecticut.”

  Madame was less than amused. “My mother was an artisan from the French village of Montbazen, and my father, a stoic English duke. Suffice it to say, my father insisted we live in London.

  “My mother instilled in me a deep love for the arts. My artistic preference became music. My father, a blue-bloodied descendant of centuries of monarchs tasked with ruling over a duchy, insisted I also have a mind for how one makes money . . . with music. Due to my broad knowledge of the subject matter, I came to the United States upon invitation of Dr. Halstead to become Charlo—Cara’s caregiver and business manager. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Cara’s situation was nothing short of extreme. I’ve loved and protected her for the past several years as if she were my own. And I will continue to do so until the day I die.”

  Silence. The whole . . . you could hear a pin drop, thing.

  As Madame Garmond turned toward the staircase, Mercy called out, “You smell really nice.”

  Whiplash. Loren was sure she suffered from an acute case as she gaped at her sister.

  The woman turned and gave Mercy, what had been as of yet, a rare and genuine smile. “Why, thank you, dear. I have a bottle of L’Air du Temps that I think would be perfect for you.” She looked her up and down. “Considering you reek of low-shelf spirits.”

  Vlad quickly followed her up the staircase, toting
her suitcase behind him with Cara close behind.

  Loren rubbed her forehead and turned to Mercy. “It sounds like they covered their tracks.”

  “Jasper’s too busy lording over the Center and coming up with new diabolical schemes to worry about us. I’m telling you, he has no intention of hunting us down.”

  “No, he’d hire it out. I can think of half a dozen less than savory mercenaries who’d love nothing more than to see us apprehended and punished.”

  “You worry too much. We’re fine. We got out. Escaped. Let’s enjoy our freedom rather than live the rest of our lives looking over our shoulder.”

  “I think that’s the delusional haze of alcohol talking.”

  “Maybe,” Mercy said with a yawn as she pulled Loren in for a hug. “Thank you for the awesome birthday party. Now, go to bed and we’ll worry about all of this in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “God used beautiful mathematics in creating the world.”

  —Paul Dirac

  English theoretical physicist, regarded

  as one of the most significant physicists of the 20th century

  * * *

  “What do you mean he puts the gag on the woman’s mouth? And how does that include a ball? Omigod, where does the ball go?” Loren stood stock-still in the middle of washing a plate and stared wide-eyed at Mercy. The dishes could wait, but the answer to these questions had to be addressed and stat. She had a date that night with her ridiculously sexy neighbor and needed to know what she’d unwittingly signed up for.

  Mercy continued to dry a mason jar, unaware of Loren’s palpitating heartbeat. “Becky said the ball goes into the mouth and then the gag ties over it.”

  “That cannot be true. That’s what you do to stifle a prisoner, not your . . . lover.”

  Mercy shrugged as she slid the dry plate on top of the others in the cabinet. “That’s how Becky explained it. Said there’s a lot of content on the Internet out there that’s all about rough sex. She told me to Google ‘submissive,’ ‘dominatrix,’ and Fifty Shades of Gray.”

  Loren stared out the window to the backyard, and wondered if she left now, could she make it to the state line before Alec pulled into the driveway.

  Her mind was racing with memories of their discussion while standing outside of Lucky’s.

  “So, what are the ropes for?”

  Mercy leaned against the kitchen counter and slung the dishrag over her shoulder. “The man uses a rope to tie the woman’s hands behind her back. Or vice versa. Becky said sometimes the woman ties the man up.”

  “So . . . you’re completely at their mercy? You have no control over what they do to you?”

  “Apparently, that’s the point, to let go of all control. Thus, the word ‘submissive.’ Look at you. Why are you freaking out?” She chuckled. “Like you could ever be submissive.”

  But what if you had inadvertently given your date the impression that you could be?

  Loren slowly shook her head back and forth. “What made you ask Becky about all this sex stuff?”

  “Lucinda Packett was going on about it last night, talking about her date with some rancher out in Newberry. I was just as shocked as you are, so I asked Becky some questions.” She placed the jar in the cupboard. “That woman is such a wealth of knowledge.”

  What in the world?

  “Lucinda’s going to allow him to do that?” Loren asked, staring at Mercy. “After all these months teaching the women of Wilder our most effective self-defense moves, they’re just gonna throw themselves at the will of their assailants, hold up their hands and ask them to please tie them up while batting their eyelashes?” She held her wrists out toward Mercy, “Excuse me, sir, would be so kind as to truss me up, stick a ball in my mouth, and attack me sexually?”

  “If it’s consensual, you can’t call it an attack.”

  “What do you call it then? Temporary insanity?”

  “What are you so riled up about? Just because other people are into whips and chains, doesn’t mean we have to be.”

  Whips and chains? Now there’s whips and chains?

  Loren continued to stare at prairie grass wafting in the wind outside. “Whatever happened to a nice first date, like when Alonzo gave Laura a scarf and kissed her? Without tongue?”

  “First of all, that sounds like an awful first date. And second, you do know the book and TV series are fictitious? Like, they never ever happened?”

  “That’s not altogether true. The books are based on real events—it’s just that the events are largely fictitious.”

  “Okay, let’s not pretend that I care or what you said makes sense. You need to start reading books written in the last decade, at least. Books that educate you on what a date in the modern era looks like.”

  Loren felt her Toaster Strudel working its way up her esophagus. What had she gotten herself into?

  “Keep washing, Loren. If we’re going to get this house clean before Madame Garmond and Cara get back from the grocery, you need to kick it into high gear.”

  Loren just kept shaking her head, looking out the window.

  “Hey, Earth to Loren, what’s the matter? Hand me a plate.”

  Loren turned from the window and stared at Mercy, feeling the blood drain from her face. She hugged her stomach and began to chew on her thumb. “I may have agreed to be sexually assaulted by Alec on our first date tonight.”

  Mercy’s eyes turned confused and then deer in the headlights. “Wait. What? You have a date with our perpetually perturbed neighbor?” She lowered her head to look straight into Loren’s eyes. “And you told him you would have sex with him?”

  Loren nodded her head, and squeezed her eyes shut, and then opened them. “The kind with ball gags and ropes.”

  “Why? Why would you tell him that?”

  “I thought ropes and gags had to do with roping a steer or something.” Although now that she said it out loud, it did sound absurd.

  “Hold on, you thought you were telling him you would rope and gag a steer with him on your date?”

  Loren dug her palms into eye sockets. “Stop talking. You’re making it worse.”

  Mercy grabbed her hands and pulled them down. “Just call him and explain. He’ll think it’s funny, you know, in a totally batshit crazy kinda clueless sorta way.”

  Loren’s eyes shot up with hope. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll call him and tell him something came up, and I can’t go on our date. Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “I’ll tell him we have an unexpected houseguest and it would be rude to leave.”

  Loren snatched her phone from the kitchen table, and just as quickly, Mercy grabbed it out of her hands. “Don’t you dare cancel your date.”

  Loren scowled and grabbed it back, her fingers going to Farmer Ted in her Favorites. “Excuse me, I’m not going out with someone who plans to hog-tie me and then violate my body.”

  Mercy snatched the phone again and held it up high over her head. Loren jumped, trying to grab it. “Seriously, I should stay home and find ways to counter the damage caused by our irresponsible houseguests.”

  “Let me repeat.” Mercy said, using her extra height as leverage. “DO. NOT. CANCEL. THE. DATE.” And with that, she reached up and pushed the End Call button.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need my big sister to go on her first date so that I know what to expect when and if I ever get to go on one.”

  Loren’s shoulders took a nose dive. “Oh, that was a low blow.”

  Mercy’s right eyebrow shot up as she smirked. “It had to be done.”

  Loren sighed heavily. “You totally pulled the little sister card.”

  “Yep.”

  “A card I have never and will never be able to pull.”

  “That’s because you’re older than Cara and me. It’s called math, math genius.”

  “If Cara would allow for us to settle our differences through physical force, I would totally pull the big sister card, kick your feet out
from under you, and feed you dirty socks.”

  “Like you even know where the laundry room is.”

  “I know where it is. I just don’t use it on a regular basis.”

  Mercy crossed her arms and leaned back on the counter. “So what are you going to tell our surly neighbor when he instructs you to bend over for him while throwing a small, hopefully sanitized ball in the air?”

  “I’ll sweep his feet out from under him and stuff the ball in his mouth.”

  “Oh, so you want him to be your submissive.”

  “No! I don’t want him to be my . . . . Tell you what, we’re done with this conversation. You’re making me go on this date for educational purposes, so suffice it to say, I’ll be returning with intel.”

  Mercy smirked and picked up her dish towel. “Well, according to our new houseguest, we have to do a better job of cleaning said house. I believe her words this morning were: ‘How one cares for her home is a direct reflection of what is transpiring in one’s life. And your lives are chaotic, slovenly and discordant.’”

  Loren rolled her eyes as she stuck her hands back into the dishwater. “What does discordant even mean?”

  “I looked it up. It seems our lives are ‘harsh and jarring due to a lack of harmony.’ You know, in addition to being slovenly and chaotic.”

  “The outside of the house is nice,” Loren countered, handing off another plate to Mercy.

  Mercy nodded. “I mentioned that, and she told me that it was a dysfunctional attempt to appear centered and polished on the outside when on the inside we suffered from deep-seated emotional turmoil.”

  “That’s total bullshit. What nerve,” Loren huffed, while scrubbing the Velveeta cheese that had dried on the last plate. It must have been from last week’s toasted cheese sandwiches.

  Mercy shrugged. “I dunno, she might have a point.”