Anarchy

by Carmel Rhodes

  “Sure, you were,” I grunted. “Ms. Boudreaux, please.” Simone stomped her way into my office and paced the space like a cat in heat. “How are you adjusting to life at Meadowbrook?” I asked, closing the door.

  “Who’s she?” Simone didn’t sound sweet. Actually, she sounded pissed. Smoke practically billowed from her ears.

  “You know Dr. Stanley,” I said dryly. I didn’t have the patience to play nice Dr. Cooper anymore. The dragon was restless. Wifeless.

  “I know who she is,” Simone said. Her steps slowed to a stop in front of the window, and she wrapped her arms around her torso. It wasn’t a comforting gesture; she was physically holding herself together as she spoke. She was near the brink. Full on manic. “I want to know who she is to you.”

  Jealousy was a curious emotion. All that rage and aggression for what? An arbitrary claim over a person or thing? And in this case, Simone being jealous of Morgan was totally irrational, but something in my chest swelled at the sight of her red face and darkened eyes.

  “She’s a colleague and you never answered my question. How are you enjoying Meadowbrook?”

  “It’s a very nice facility.” She was pacing again, this time in front of the camera mounted on the wall.

  “Nice,” I snorted. Meadowbrook was the premier psychiatric hospital in the state. High profile clients came from all over the country to be treated here to recharge in the mountains. Colorado was heaven, but for devils like us, heaven was hell.

  “There are horses,” she laughed, hopping her ass up on the table wedged in the corner. It shook under her weight, and we watched a moment as the bonsai plant slid dangerously close to the edge. A quiet, disappointed noise escaped her mouth when it didn’t fall.

  “You don’t like horses?” I leaned back in my chair and stared at her perched up there in a modest turtleneck dress, bare legs, and ballet flats. It was true what they said about the man, or in this case, the woman, making the clothes, because even in a turtleneck, Simone looked like a slut. My cock pulsed.

  “I’m not against horses as an institution, but I don’t want to ride them. I’m more partial to mammals with three legs.” Slowly, and with the grace of a ballerina, she lifted a knee, bringing her heel to rest on the edge of the table, then repeated the motion with her other leg, granting me an unobstructed view of her freshly waxed pussy, dripping and swollen, like she’d just fingered herself. I could smell her need, he could smell it too, the dragon, and he wanted a bite.

  Reluctantly, I tore my gaze away from her cunt and stared up at the camera. From her spot, perched on the table, she was out of viewing range. A smart slut. Calculating. I admired her tenacity. I wanted to kiss her pussy. I wanted to rub my face through her folds. I wanted my five-o’clock shadow to scratch her sensitive skin. I wanted to burn her, to tear her apart so she’d never be whole again, but we were in session, and although she couldn’t be seen on camera, I could, and we both could be heard.

  “And the staff? How are you getting on with them?”

  At this, she rolled her eyes and dragged her nails up her inner thigh, bringing her hand closer and closer to center. “Some of them are great, others…” she trailed off, her hand reaching its destination.

  “Others?”

  “Others, I’m still trying to figure out.”

  “We’re supposed to be figuring you out,” I swallowed hard, leaning forward on my elbows desperate to be closer.

  “And how’s that going?” she asked, pumping two fingers inside herself.

  I wanted to scream, THREE. To chant it like she’d done so long ago. I needed it to be my hand between her legs. I needed a drink. The water bottle? The gin burned, but I kept drinking. The dragon was thirsty and fire-water was the only thing that could quench his thirst. “Not as well as we’d hoped, but fear not, we’ve got two long months ahead of us, and I’m dedicated to your mental health.”

  “Dedicated. I like the sound of that,” she said biting back a moan. Her fingers worked faster and faster, and I feared the cameras would pick up on the subtle squish, squish, squish noises they made.

  “Enough,” I roared, jumping to my feet. “I think that does it for today.” I scribbled a note, on the yellow legal pad sitting on my desk, instructing her to meet me in the southeast stairwell at seven PM, and dropped it on top of the bonsai tree before retreating towards the door, holding it open with a smile.

  Simone plucked the note off the tree and hopped off the table, with an agitated little, humph. She shoved the page down the front of her dress, then paused. Her blue eyes darted between me and the tree, and back again. A second ticked by, then another, then CRASH! A pile of clay and soil littered Simone’s flats. “Oopsie,” she giggled, kicking up the dirt. “I’m such a clutz. I’ll have it replaced.”

  “Is everything okay in here?” Harper said appearing at the door. She looked to where Simone stood in the dirt, her lips puckered in confusion.

  “It was an accident,” I said, staring unblinking at the mess, a physical representation of the state of my marriage. “Ms. Boudreaux bumped into the table.”

  “Oh…okay…well I’ll grab a broom…I guess.” Harper cast a questioning glance over her shoulder as she turned to leave. I could only imagine what she must have been thinking.

  Simone skipped out behind her and I pushed the door closed, collapsing on my boring sofa. My cheeks twitched, a devilish grin tugged the corner of my mouth upward.

  I was fucking delighted.

  Silly me.

  The thing about narcissists, that even I forget sometimes, was that our heads were usually so far up our own asses, we couldn’t see the shit even as we waded through it.

  —4—

  Unruly

  The She Devil

  New York-Four years ago.

  “Do you want to know the first time I truly felt like myself? The first time I stopped caring about what other people thought of me? The first time I didn’t think, ‘Am I wired wrong?’ or ‘Why can’t I just be normal?” I asked the crowd comprised of three-thousand of New York City’s strongest women. Doctors, lawyers, financial advisers, women with advanced degrees and million-dollar penthouses, women who hung on my every word.

  The words of a slut.

  I walked to the edge of the stage, allowing my gaze to wash over as many faces as I could see. Each face told a story, some similar to mine, others darker, but we all had one thing in common: our desire to be free from society’s unfair expectations. “I was a freshman in college. I’d gone to a frat party—I know. I know.” I chuckled at the groans. “But this isn’t that kind of story. This is the story of a young woman who was truly free for the first time in her life. I didn’t drink back then. My daddy was an alcoholic and my momma always cautioned me against it. In fact, I didn’t taste my first drop of alcohol until after she passed.” I paused again, remembering my momma, my angel. I wish she could see the woman I’d become.

  “That night wasn’t a fog of bad decisions and regret. That night, I met a boy. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even like. It was lust. Pure. Simple. Primal. We danced, we laughed, and then he asked if I wanted to go back to his dorm. I said yes, and I lost my virginity on his twin bed. It was awful, but it awoke something inside of me. I left the next morning feeling like a new woman. I felt empowered, and when he called a few days later, I told him I wasn’t interested. I told him I had a date with one of his frat brothers. Do you know what he said to me?” I asked. The women in the audience shook their heads. “He called me a slut.” They groaned, some even threw their hands up in frustration. “Do you want to know my reply? I said to him, as clear and as confident as you hear me now, ‘Yeah, I think I am.” The applause was deafening. I had to wait a full minute before I could finish.

  “Pussy Power doesn’t mean sleeping around to fill a void. It doesn’t mean doing things sexually because you think it will make your partner happy. It means doing what feels good. It means being unapologetic in your pursuit of happiness. Sexually, professionally, and
personally, do things that make you feel. Lose yourself in them. Indulge and then indulge some more. I am staring at a room full of smart and powerful women. Never be afraid to shine. Never be afraid of who you are. I’m a slut. Who are you?”

  Women jumped to their feet, cheering and clapping, as if I was Lebron James at Madison Square Garden, and not Simone Boudreaux speaking in a conference hall in Chelsea. Life had an unexpected way of surprising you. My destiny was supposed to be working ski lifts while other people vacationed. I grew up on food stamps and welfare, but my momma wanted more for me. She worked hard to send me to school, and though she died just before I graduated, I owed every one of my professional successes to her.

  By that time, I’d written a few best sellers, written columns for newspapers and women’s magazines, and I’d made a name for myself. But it wasn’t until Pussy Power, my fourth book, that I became an institution. One weekend in an Aspen hotel and I had been inspired. I wrote the book in a month. My editor said I was a woman possessed. She had no idea.

  We released two months later and no one, not even me, could have expected the outcome. Pussy Power crossed cultural and socioeconomic lines, bringing women together under the banner of sisterhood. I was the voice of a generation. This wasn’t burn your bra feminism. This wasn’t, if a man can do it you can too. This was Sex and the City and Fifty Shades of Grey. A sexual awakening. Women could be smart, and kind, and good, and ooze sexuality while doing so. There was no shame in it. We would not sit still, or look pretty, or be quiet. Not unless Master demanded. Not unless we were to willingly submit.

  After my talk, I hung back to sign books and chat with my readers. That’s when she walked up.

  Her, with her long black hair and almond shaped eyes. She was beautiful, exotic. The type of woman men would fall head over feet just to be in her presence. But the best thing about her, the thing that excited me most when I saw, was that she didn’t realize her magic. She was shy and quiet, my favorite type of reader to mold. “Hi,” she beamed. “I can’t believe I’m standing in front of you right now. I’m a huge fan.”

  “Thank you,” I smiled. She wore a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that looked like something a mother would wear. She was young, maybe a couple years younger than me, but there was a quiet strength in her eyes, one I saw every day when I looked in the mirror. We weren’t so different after all; she was just better at pretending.

  “I think you just changed my life.”

  “Now you’re just being kind,” I said.

  Macy, my tour manager, shot me a look that said, wrap it up. I had a dinner meeting with my publisher in less than an hour, but there was something about this girl that I was drawn to.

  “No, seriously. How’d you get so brave?” she asked, shoveling her weight to her other foot. Her ankle was wrapped in gauze and yet, she wore stilettos. And she called me the brave one.

  “Me, brave?” I shook my head. “Some people call me selfish.”

  “It takes bravery to be selfish and to label yourself a slut. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be that strong. There…there’s this guy—”

  “There always is, isn’t there?”

  She laughed. The sound was light and whimsical, just like her. Beautiful wasn’t the right word. She was ethereal. An angel. “We met a few days ago and he asked me to dinner, but he’s white—no offense.”

  “None taken,” I grinned.

  “My parents are very traditional Japanese and—”

  “Wait, if you met a few days ago, what does it matter what your parents think? What do you think?”

  “I don’t know…well, I didn’t. I’m not a random hookup girl, but this guy could only ever be that.”

  “Because of the strict parents,” I assumed. Macy’s face was beet red. There were only a handful of people left, and I’d sold enough books to be late for one dinner.

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you attracted to him?”

  “Yes, very much so. He’s a little older, but not in a creepy way. He’s distinguished. Kind.”

  Kind. An older man in New York City probably wasn’t kind, but she was young, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her. “What’s he look like?”

  “Like a poem. Not just a poem, but the kind of poem that takes your breath away, one that destroys you, only to rebuild something better from the pieces. One that inspires you, while simultaneously convinces you to give up because nothing you write will ever compare.”

  “Well then, I think you have your answer.”

  “I should fuck him?”

  “You should fuck him,” I grinned, reaching for her book. “Who should I make it out to?”

  “My friends call me, Asha.”

  I scribbled the inscription on the title page:

  Asha,

  You are also a poem.

  You too, have the capacity to destroy and rebuild.

  Never give up, because the world needs your poetry.

  -Simone.

  —5—

  Rebellion

  I fucked Simone in the Southeast stairwell.

  No.

  I fucked a patient in my charge at the facility where I worked.

  Ask me if I cared. Ask me if I felt guilty or wrong. Ask me if I had a single regret. Ask me and the answer would be a resounding no.

  Then, ask me if I enjoyed it. Ask me if I liked the way her pussy felt wrapped around my dick. Ask me if I came inside her cunt. Ask me if I would do it again. Ask those questions and I’d reply, abso-fucking-lutely.

  I drove home afterward and found divorce papers sitting on the kitchen counter. Natasha must have come while I was at work—balls deep in Simone—and made it official. Her rings sat neatly atop the paperwork to dissolve our marriage. I stared at the packet. It was opened to the page where I was supposed to sign, an arrow-shaped sticky note pointed to the exact line. I plucked up the pen she’d left next to the papers and pulled off the top. My hand hovered over the page. Natasha and I were done. It was a fact that I understood as well as I’d understood what I did to Simone was wrong, and yet divorce felt a lot like losing.

  I didn’t lose.

  I never lost.

  Dropping the pen, I pocketed the rings and walked out the door. I should have showered, my dick smelled of Simone, but I liked it. Eau de slut.

  I tried Natasha’s cell in the car—no answer. I didn’t think she’d pick up, but it was worth a shot. Next, I called Reed on his personal line. He did answer. “What do you want, Coop?”

  “Is that how you greet all your patients?”

  “My other patients don’t have direct access to my personal cell, and I’m pretty sure none of them ever forced me to do blow either.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It was one time—in grad school—get over it.” My Tahoe roared to life, and I steered it down our long driveway and onto the road.

  “You’re still a dick, and if you’re calling me, that means you want something.”

  He knew me well.

  “Natasha filed. I came home from work and the papers were sitting on the kitchen counter.” I tried to sound hurt, but I couldn’t call on the emotion, not when I felt the sting from Simone’s claw marks on my back. A good sting. A ‘reminder that I was alive’ kind of sting. My SUV rolled to a stop. A red light floated in the air above. The Tahoe was the only car on the road. Traffic was non-existent at this time of evening. Colorado Traffic, in general was light, except on I-25 when the Thunderbirds were flying overhead, then traffic was a nightmare, but nothing like the gridlock of the city.

  The City.

  A little voice inside my head suggested I pack it in, give Natasha her divorce, and move back to the noise and pollution of New York, but the monster in my belly, the ache in my balls asked, what about Simone?

  “Shit man, I’m sorry.” Reed’s voice pulled me out of my head and reminded me why I had called in the first place.

  “Don’t be sorry. Meet me at Hudson’s for a drink.”

  “Damien.”

 
; “I need to talk—off the record.”

  Reed sighed, then grumbled something under his breath, before finally relenting. “Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, and I swear to God I’m bailing if you bring up cocaine, prescription pills, or prostitutes.”

  “Party pooper.”

  * * *

  Hudson’s was a military bar located a few miles from the Air Force Academy. I liked it. It was one of the only places in The Springs that wasn’t crawling with cowboys or granola munching hippies.

  I arrived before Reed and grabbed a table in the back. It was eight, and the bar, while not crowded, wasn’t empty either. Cadets milled around; some ordered drinks, others played pool and threw darts. They all looked happy to be away from base, even if only for a few hours.

  It was the usual scene at Hudson’s and normally I liked interacting with the young soldiers. They were a behavioral specialist’s wet dream. Men and women forced together under the banner of patriotism and service before self. It created for an interesting dynamic, especially among the new recruits.

  Two glasses of Hendricks sat in front of me. Condensation dripped down the sides, landing in a puddle on the wooden table. I watched the moisture pool as I waited for my therapist and the closest thing to a friend I had. Drip. Drip. Drip. I took some pleasure in not using a coaster. The old wood was treated, but I held out hope. Hope for destruction. Even if it was only a water stain, it would be my water stain. My doing. My damage.

  A heavy hand fell on my shoulder and I winced. Simone’s claw marks burned under the weight of Reed’s palm. He looked down at me with a somber expression, “I’m sorry about Natasha.”

  “Don’t be,” I snorted, pushing his hand away.

  He sat across from me and lifted one of the gins to his lips. “You’re a cold motherfucker. Aren’t you even a little bit sad?”

  “We talked about this the other day,” I reminded him.

  “Well, why are we in a bar, drinking gin, on Tuesday night?” He said it like drinking on a weekday was sacrilegious. Like he wouldn’t be doing the same thing if he were home.