"Where's William?"
"I'm William for tonight, honey. Mercedes," Paul grinned again, same old smile. "I'd like you to meet Gina. The three of us are going to have a lot of fun tonight." He turned to Sophia. "Aren't we? Come here, Gina."
Still reeling from the blow, Sophia got up slowly and braced herself on the nightstand. She walked over to the other two with careful steps.
"What's wrong with her?" Mercedes asked.
"She's kind of slow." Sophia scowled. Asshole. Sophia could see the look of dumb trust in those vacant green eyes and the way she coquettishly touched her blond bouffant hair. Why hadn't she said anything more about the fake name? Couldn't she see what was coming to her? No, Paul had already charmed her. Sophia wanted to shake her and slap her, send that too-skinny frame of hers reeling into the cheap motel furniture.
"I want you two to kiss," Paul said in a dark, commanding tone. Sophia had heard it before. She thought of the night at Beth's, where she could see everything but could barely hear what they were saying. She had definitely picked up on his tone of voice, though.
"I'm really not into girls," was all Sophia could manage to choke out. Paul looked at her through narrowed eyes. She couldn't believe it had come this far. She was letting this fucker dominate her. And why? Because of her obsession with him? It was starting to fade fast. At first, she thought having someone so similar would be exciting. But lately Paul's arrogance and bossiness overshadowed the excitement.
She let Mercedes kiss her. It felt weird, but Mercedes didn't seem to mind.
She's getting money for this. Of course she doesn’t mind.
They tumbled down on to the bed together. From the corner of her eye, Sophia noticed Paul rummaging through his suitcase. He produced a small, lightweight video camera, turned it on and held it to his eye.
The girl trailed wet, sticky kisses down Sophia's belly. Sophia could smell hints of sugar, vanilla and cigarette smoke on the girl's mouth and filmy saliva residue, but stayed still. She decided it would be better to go along with things for now and leave when she had an opportunity. Her head still ached from the blow, and now things were swimming in a strange, sleepy daze.
She felt Mercedes' slippery tongue swipe her lower abdomen and felt her jeans and panties slide off simultaneously. Sophia kept her eyes closed. The thought of having a woman do this and having Paul videotape the whole thing was revolting to her. She felt like gagging...or at least, kicking the girl away.
Mercedes licked around her cleft, up and down the slash, dipped her tongue deeper inside. Sophia did not react, but she felt her body going against her mind. She felt a wet surge build up inside of her and crash through her like a wave. She kept her eyes closed tight as she rode through the orgasm.
The wetness that followed seemed...unnatural. It continued to flow down her legs, warm and sticky. Sophia opened her eyes.
Blood poured from a gaping wound on Mercedes' neck. The lower half of Sophia's body was slick with a deep crimson sheen that speckled the dingy hotel sheets. The smell of blood mixed with the salt of her orgasm hit her like a bat. She whipped her head over to Paul, who was calmly wiggling his fingers, wrestling them out of a pair of large rubber gloves. Mercedes gagged, blood foaming at her once-pretty little pink mouth, and hit the floor with a light thud. Her body was out of sight, but Sophia could hear her convulsing, thumping on the cheap thin carpet.
"What the fuck kind of fun was that supposed to be?"
“Fun for me. This should keep you occupied while I figure out what to do next.” He carefully stepped around the body on the floor and over to Sophia’s bag. He pulled out her journal, carefully pinched between his fingers. Sophia’s mind searched frantically for a solution, but Paul was already grinning and waving to her at the doorstep.
“Later, baby!” His fake grin disappeared behind the door. She heard the car start up, tires squeal, and gravel crunch under the tires.
“Fuck!” she yelled, and instantly regretted it. She didn’t need to draw any further attention to the motel room, and she couldn’t run after Paul. She was naked and blood-streaked. She had the feeling the motel staff had seen their fair share of crazy shit, but she wasn’t about to push the envelope.
I should have just bailed at the gas station. Her intuition had flared then, and she could have kicked herself in the ass for ignoring it. She looked at her blood-streaked thighs. She knew for sure that if Mercedes didn’t call in or return at a certain point, someone would come looking for her. Hell, it was even possible she had a bodyguard standing around somewhere. Paul had been an expert. She hadn’t noticed a single drop of blood on him. She sat up to look over the edge of the bed. The girl’s lips were blue and her eyes were vacant. Sophia could see now that she’d had her neck sliced open. That explained the blood coming out of her mouth. Paul must have stood behind her and cut her. That’s why he put on rubber gloves.
She began doing the only thing she could think of: cleaning up. She had to be quick. She figured it was possible that Paul had called the cops or told someone at the desk about his crazy girlfriend. Either way, she had to get out of there.
She heaved the girl into the shower, scrubbed her, soaped out her mouth, and then scrubbed her own body while looking down at the hooker’s gaping red neck. She’d leave the shower running all night, which would hopefully wash as much evidence as possible away.
She wadded the bed sheets up and stuffed them in the motel's courtesy laundry bag. She’d take those with her and dump them elsewhere, maybe set fire to them somewhere. She meticulously checked for hair, prints…anything that would trace her back to the scene. She left quietly and slipped out into the hot Las Vegas evening. No bodyguard waiting around for Mercedes. Strange and stupid, she thought.
It had been around 11:00 o’clock when she left the motel room. She had a couple hundred bucks on her, but she knew a typical bus ride would take her first to Los Angeles, then up the coast to San Francisco. The whole process took longer than 24 hours, and she’d have to ride with a bunch of smelly jackasses, crammed into an uncomfortable bus seat. She thought about flying back, but that required her flashing her ID around and she didn't want to go through the trouble. She had stashed her alternate, fake IDs she'd collected over the years at home. There had to be a better way.
Her head was still pounding from Paul's blow and her vision was blurry. She wanted to lie down and sleep, but she knew that was a bad idea for several reasons. Her first instinct was to leave Las Vegas, but for what? To go back to a city with a pissed off boyfriend, a suspecting cop, and possibly Claude on her heels for hell knew what reason? Then again, what about Argie?
There was a payphone situated at the edge of a 7-11 across the street. Sophia was surprised to see it there. She reached in her bag and pulled out her wallet and fingered the card she’d stashed away eons ago.
She crossed the street, picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone, wondering if there was anyone left in the world she could trust.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ti: Out of Focus
The last couple of days since the visit to Tamara’s apartment had been hazy. Ti could not remember if it was Tuesday or Wednesday. Either way, she hadn’t been to work in forever and rent was coming up. She kept pushing that worry out of her mind, kept focusing on all the letters and paperwork she had picked up from the floor space under the heater. She hunched over the paperwork now, pouring over the material as she drank coffee and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She couldn’t remember the last time she slept…she had had a constant supply of coffee and sandwiches since she came back to her own place.
She jumped when the phone rang. The screen displayed the name “Robert Black” and she swore. Pompous ass. The last thing Ti wanted to do was talk to Black, but it would look suspicious if she didn’t.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Celestine. It’s Detective Robert Black.” He said it with an air of great importance.
“I know. I programmed your number into my p
hone while you were sitting there. Remember?” God, he’s out of it, she thought. She was glad she decided to keep the information about the mail she’d found a secret.
“Oh. Um. I’d like to speak with you in person if you have some time this morning.”
“I guess. Although I’d like to take a nap beforehand if that’s all right. I’ve had to kind of…” her mind swam for an excuse. “…take over Tamara’s business, paying bills and stuff for her, if you know what I mean. I’ve been up all night.”
“Sure. We’ll meet for lunch. I have some work to do over by the Cliff House, so be there at noon.”
Ti looked at the clock on the wall. That would give her about four hours to nap.
“Fine. See you.”
Ti took off all her clothes, climbed into bed, and instantly focused on the rain hitting the windowpanes outside. Cops. Rain. Obsessions with other women. How many reminders of the past can one person take?
Before Danny, there had been Kim. Kim—the one with the long black hair, almond Asian eyes, and full lips--had been distant. Ti wanted to know who had been taking up all of Kim's attention. She’d asked over and over again, but Kim kept telling her it was no one. Everything was fine.
Ti wasn’t having it. She followed Kim everywhere. Did Kim notice? Not at all. By then, Ti had acquired enough camera equipment to zoom in on things and people from across the street. She had gotten good. Really good.
It wasn’t enough. Kim had been way too careful. Sure, Kim had a lot of friends she went out with, but Ti couldn’t figure out whom to focus on. But she thought she knew how to focus. All one had to do was be patient, to twist and turn that lens another way to make things come into view. Since Ti couldn’t get that view from any other angle, she decided to get up close and personal and break into Kim’s apartment.
She thought the rain would serve as her cover. Who would want to stand out in the rain and look for criminals? She paid cash for a lock picking set, wore black leather gloves, and let herself in while she knew Kim was out.
If only she’d known one of Kim’s neighbors liked to sit by the window and watch the rain…
The cops were amused and rude as usual. She waited outside Kim’s apartment in cuffs, listening to a phone ring.
She was confused. Was this a dream? The ringing phone seemed very realistic. Part of her consciousness tapped her on the shoulder and told her the ringing was interweaving with her dream.
Wake up, it said.
Ti scrambled for the phone. “I’m sorry…” she immediately began.
“You’re late.” Robert Black. He sounded pissed.
“I’m on my way now.” She hung up, pulled on jeans, an old punk t-shirt, Converse, and headed out the door.
* * * *
Ti jumped when she heard her phone buzz, but remembered who was sleeping next to her. She edged carefully out of bed, grabbed her phone and tiptoed into the living room. She blinked several times to get the sleep out of her eyes. Confused, she stared hesitantly at the strange Las Vegas number on her phone. This could be interesting.
"Hello?" Her voice sounded like she’d been eating broken glass. Too many cigarettes. She coughed.
“Ti, it’s Sophia.”
“Oh, God,” Ti muttered, and quickly glanced back towards her bed. She tried not to think about running out of Sophia's apartment like a complete moron that last time.
"I'm sorry to call you so late, but I'm in a jam and I can't get in touch with anyone else right now. I had to go out of town on emergency and I really need someone to feed Argie. Can you do it? I'd pay you." She sounded a little frazzled and emotional. Ti's curiosity was instantly spiked.
"Sure. I'd be glad to," she said, trying to sound casual and not at all excited about being in Sophia's apartment alone. Sophia explained where the key was and how to handle the supposed menacing lock.
After hanging up, Ti felt wired. She crept around the corner, and, ensuring Robert Black was still asleep in her bed, went to her bay window and lit a cigarette.
Her mind wavered between regret and the desire to get back in bed with him. They had met and talked extensively about Tamara. She hadn’t said a word about the bills she found, but she had a feeling there was a connection between Tamara's disappearance and what she'd found. Tamara never said anything about being involved in a cosmetics company, but the name “Everlasting Beauty Cosmetics” had been printed all over the envelopes she’d taken from Tamara’s apartment. The statements inside were from the time she was supposedly a call girl. This clearly indicated to Ti that the cosmetics venture was some sort of cover-up.
But that name...
Why was Claude Moreau involved?
My own fucking father. I should have known. She ground her teeth and crushed out her cigarette with extra emphasis.
Black snorted, rolled over and his breathing quickly returned to normal. She lit another cigarette. She supposed she'd asked him back to her apartment because there was some desire to get over Sophia by being with a man. Maybe she wanted to control the situation with Tamara and have a one-over on a cop for old times' sake. Who knew? It felt good. But not good enough to keep him around.
He said he'd had a suspect. She wondered if it was Claude.
She looked at the clock on the wall. Two hours had passed. In another four hours, she'd try to kick Black out and get ready to go to the university library. Her own privileges were expired, her pursuit for a bachelor of art in photography cut short by boredom, but she had a workaround. She needed access to a couple of databases, but couldn't get in unless she had a valid university email address and password. She had something that she thought would solve that problem.
Ti sat by the bay window, dozed, and thought about her father and how he used to take her to Saint Louis Cemetery by the projects. How he would wear those obnoxious leather gloves and crack his knuckles with a grin of satisfaction after he stole little remnants from the graves: flowers for Mom, Mardi Gras beads for his little princess. What fun. She hated going with him. She often wondered if that was one of the reasons he left.
Fuck him, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Paul: Cracked Reflection
The desert tended to swallow people up. Cars and even roaming people always looked like part of the landscape. If you saw someone, you wouldn’t even really notice or care.
Paul supposed that’s what he liked best about the desert. He giggled. He could camp out here for a few days, just relaxing and waiting.
He also had a bit of entertainment. He turned Sophia’s journal around in his hands. Fine leather, worn and soft, almost alive. It had a little flap and a string you could wind around to close it. He opened it again and thumbed through the pages, making a little ffffliiiippp sound. The paper was thick, ivory white and textured like a piece of bone. High quality.
He turned on his lantern and began to analyze the journal closely under the safe dome of his tent.
The journal started back when Sophia must have been about sixteen or so. He wondered if she had any more from when she was a kid. He flipped through it again. He didn’t notice the slightest change in handwriting. He found that unusual. For her, at least. He could modify his own handwriting at the drop of a hat and had been forging signatures for as long as he could remember. His own real handwriting had gotten progressively larger and bolder over the years. Sophia’s was the same: neat, loopy cursive crammed in to each page, as if she thought she might run out of room.
The first entry of the journal was no, “Wow, a new journal! What should I write?” No. Sophia immediately launched in to an angry tirade about that guy Claude. She had been hiding from him in a cemetery of all places. She called it “the one in the bad neighborhood” and Paul guessed that could be anywhere in New Orleans.
He grabbed me and pulled me into the car with him, she had written. There was an older guy waiting there for me, and Claude got out of the car while this older guy began ripping my clothes off. I tried to fight back.
The guy was like 300 pounds and he crushed me-I lost my breath-and he put it in me. I’ve done it before but it hurt today.
I’m getting so sick of being used like this. I never get any of the money. Claude takes it all.
So, Paul thought, she was right about the Claude guy. Apparently, he did make her a prostitute herself. Stupid shit, he thought. She deserved it. But the thought of Sophia as a young girl, crushed under some older, dominating man was making his cock ache and strain against his jeans. He pulled it out and began stroking it as he thought.
He was right on the border of California and Nevada. There weren’t a lot of people out here, but he was sure he could find someone young who resembled Sophia. He could…what? Go to a school? May be too risky. If Sophia was anything like he thought, she’d be trying to get revenge on him now. It was possible, however, that the episode with Mercedes put her in her place a little. Somehow, he doubted it. That made him nearly lose his boner, so he thought about an underage Sophia again, innocent and almost virginal, right on the cusp of evil. Choking her breath out, crushing her small, slight neck in his hands until he could feel little tendons roll and pop. Slamming his dick so deep inside her, she screamed.
He came, his release like the strongest sleep aid, and drifted off into a fitful dream.
* * * *
Paul scratched the scruff growing on his chin. He'd keep it for a while, even though it was annoying him. He rolled up the tent and sneezed. He felt like snorting water through his nose. His sinuses were so cracked and dry he could feel a nosebleed coming on.
He got in his car and drove until he reached a gas station. He'd have to fill up here and he hoped he'd think of some idea before he got back on the road again. He finished pumping and slipped into the men's room.
He wondered what Sophia was doing and why she hadn't called. It was making him paranoid. He was angry with himself. He felt like he was cracking at the seams, like a piece of old pottery. He stared at his reflection in the filthy mirror. Fixed his hair. Ran his hand through it again to mess it up. Punched the mirror. Now, that was more like it. He felt better. The Paul in the mirror looked more like he felt. His reflection split off into jagged angles where his fist had made contact, cutting his face up into bizarre pieces and proportions like a Picasso portrait.
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