“Fine, sorry.” Simon backs away, holding up his other hand in a calm-the-fuck-down manner. “I just wanted to apologize. Maybe it’s a bad time.”
“It’s always a bad time!” I yell the words, hoping my hand will muffle the words from Paul, and that the scream will get things through Simon’s skull before I lick the warm beer off his dead body.
I take a deep breath, holding the air and then blowing it out. Count to five because I’m not patient enough for ten. Turn and step away from the door. Wish it were nine at night, and I was locked in. Curse Simon for ruining a moment that felt normal. I take a few more breaths and return the phone to my ear.
“Sorry about that. My neighbor’s a pain in the ass.” My voice is so light I impress myself. So calm that it takes Paul a moment to respond.
“Uh… okay. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say smoothly. I lie back on my sheets and will my hands to stop shaking.
Six minutes later, Paul hangs up and I end the chat session. One hour thirty-one minutes. $636.09 earned and Simon is still alive. Life is, as much as it can be, good.
CHAPTER 11
BACK WHEN LIFE was good, Marcus had a system. It had been designed by his head of security, Thorat, after one of Marcus’s “dates” had called the cops and complained of rape. A prostitute, complaining of rape. It was laughable. Thorat had padded the pockets of the cops who arrived to take a report, and the police report and girl were never heard of again, a problem taken care of by his ex–Special Forces employee. After that mishap, Thorat took control. Used his considerable knowledge and corrupted intelligence to devise their system, one where Thorat provided the girls and disposed of them afterward. Marcus simply had to show up and enjoy himself. It kept his hands clean and his world simple.
Marcus would wait at the marsh cottage, the thousand-foot structure that was his personal fuck den. Have his time with the girls, take as long as he needed, get his fill, enough to last a few months, possibly even a year. They’d struggle. The more hours that passed, the more the drugs wore off, the more they fought. Some more than others. The worst were the ones who failed to break. He’d only had one, a girl seven years ago. That girl hadn’t made it through alive, was the one black mark on his record. He didn’t like that ending—all the work of a fight without the reward of them yielding and pliable. The rest of the girls had all ended up there; he’d broken them, he’d won. It was what he was: a winner. Always had been, always would be. And the girls had each learned that. From his fists. From his belt. From his cock. They’d all eventually quieted down. Begged. Offered him anything and everything, then given him even more.
He’d take his fill and leave. The longest session had been seven hours, shortest was two. He’d leave and Thorat would return. Give the girl a dose of forget-me and then dump them on the street. The ending the whores deserved. The lucky ones woke up and found their own way home with no clear memory of what had happened. The unlucky ones got found by someone else. Someone different than Marcus but after the same thing. The countless other breeds of animals that roamed these streets.
Thorat’s system worked. It had been well planned, weaknesses examined, kinks worked out. Gave Thorat job security and the chance to exercise his old skills. Gave Marcus the fix he needed without the risk. And he hadn’t been greedy, had regulated himself. Made each experience last, holding him over for months, even years, at a time. He and Thorat had had fourteen perfect exchanges over the course of ten years. Katie McLaughlin had been the bitch who brought the system down.
CHAPTER 12
I SIT ON the window ledge, the glass open, the cold air refreshing on my face. One leg dangles out. Dangerous. I love the danger. Love the risk. What if I fall? This height would probably kill me, but maybe I’d get lucky. Broken bones, damaged organs. An ambulance ride, strangers’ hands along my body. Touches. Interactions. Conversations. An adventure. I watch the convenience store at the corner. Thirteen people have entered and left in the last forty-five minutes. Some drove up, some walked, one individual, skinny and white, has paced before the front for the last twenty minutes, looking more jittery than I do at one a.m. on a killing night. The sun is settling over rooftops, moving lower, night falling. I should be camming. I’ve taken too long for dinner. But as night falls, the interior lights illuminate the store and it glows. Like a beacon. I can now see inside. See the rows of food. If I squint hard and imagine a lot, I can see the slow spin of the hot dog turner. I roll away from the window, swing my leg inside, and stand, sliding the window down, the tracks sticking as if reluctant to obey.
I locked myself up for three years before I stepped out of my apartment for one long-ass day. That day, when I felt the foreign weight of shoes moving me up and along the grit of concrete? When I took a breath and registered scents, breeze, sunshine? It terrified me. I worried that I was facing an adversary I might not be able to resist. Normality. It is a tempting and crafty bastard. I worried that I would take that short trip, then not be able to return. Not be able to shut myself back inside, relatch the lock on my world of isolation. I worried that I would paint over my situation and convince myself that I can handle the outside world. Lie to myself because I would want normality so badly that I would risk others’ safety to get it.
Is that what I’m doing now? Lying to myself? Telling myself that I am strong enough because I am not strong enough to resist it? Is my will to be normal greater than my thirst to kill?
I let my brain ponder the question for one short moment, the length of time to properly dress, then I pull open the door. Stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket, and step, one tennis-shoed foot before the other, along the orange carpet.
CHAPTER 13
I CAN DO this. I can handle this. A snack, that’s all I want. There is a taped poster on the glass window. One that advertises Good Humor ice cream bars. I’ve been thinking of ice cream all night. An ice cream Snickers Bar. That’s what I really want. One just soft enough that the caramel runs into the ice cream, and one bite creates a delicious combination of chocolate, caramel, nuts, and cold cream on my tongue. Wash it down with an ice-cold can of Dr P, and I just might orgasm all over myself. I push on the stairwell handle and pound down the stairs.
Baby steps. Ice cream Snickers Bar. Dr Pepper. Return home. I can handle this. I can prove that I can handle this. Fuck you, Dr. Derek. Fuck you, killer instincts. Ice cream. Dr Pepper. Home.
I round the final flight of stairs, pushing through my concerns with one firm hand against the exit bar, the outside sky darker than I expected, night rapidly falling. I might miss the sunset. I might return to my apartment and it will be gone.
Night: a stupid mistake. I should have done this during the day. On my lunch break. Night is reckless. Night is dangerous. Not just for others—for myself. This is the neighborhood where criminals hog the air, where the howl of a siren is as common as the chirp of a bird. I should have a weapon, something to defend myself with.
Defense. Sure. Another lie to myself? I’m too deep in my own shit to know.
I trip over a broken curb and right myself. At least my urges are being quiet. I should have four to five hours of sanity left. At least forty-five minutes before Simon swings by to lock me in. I will be fine. I can handle this. I move down the sidewalk, gripping the inside fabric of my jacket pockets. Keep my hands in.
In my back pocket is a twenty. I felt so mature slipping it back there—like I was a kid with Mommy’s credit card.
Look, I am an adult.
I must be an adult because I have money.
I am an adult because I left the house on my own.
I am an adult because I can handle myself. Buy a snack and not try to kill anybody.
I step into the street, a blared horn scaring the shit out of me, and I jump, jogging forward, out of the way of an oncoming car. I manage to survive the street crossing and face the store, my eyes following the skittish steps of JitterBoy, who approaches me as I move.
“Got
any cash?”
I shoot him a look that I hope accurately communicates my level of incredulity at his question. “Not that I’m giving you.”
“Please.” He holds out his hand as if I’m going to give him something. Give it to him! I stare at his palm for a beat, shake my head, and shoulder past him, my arm brushing against him, and I suddenly want to chop off that limb and throw it away forever.
Is this what life is outside my door? Druggies like Simon, JitterBoy? People who think they can approach strangers and ask for money? Like a simple “please” will grant them free access to whatever is in my pocket? I yank my jacket sleeve down, far enough to protect my hand from germs, and grab the door handle, the word Pull helpfully provided next to a faded image of Joe Camel and a sign announcing that they have only fifty dollars in cash.
I step inside.
CHAPTER 14
I AM SUCH a good girl. I prove, with the direct route I take, that I can do this. I spy the yellow cooler against the back and walk directly to it, not passing GO, not taking two hundred dollars or the life of the little old lady who checks out the gum aisle. I slide open the cooler and examine the chocolate. Oohh… Godiva chocolate–covered vanilla. Gas station fare has gotten fancy in my time away. I stay loyal, breathing a sigh of relief when I see the Snickers, king-sized, at the back. I grab one, think about two, I can come back for more, and shut the lid. Eleven steps to the right. Sodas. Rows and rows, stacks and stacks. I hesitate briefly at Cherry Coke but keep moving, grab a can of Dr Pepper, and shut the case.
I am doing so well! Thoughts behaving, mind clear. A simple errand that is, obviously, no trouble to my psyche. My eyes notice more. Tampons in the row before me. Cleaning supplies. Red Bull. A sewing kit. Phone cards. I could shop online less. Come here more. Just across the street, no reason not to. I don’t have to order bottled water online; they sell it here.
I step to the register, one man ahead of me. My eyes skip over him. Bald. Old. Small. Still too big for me to tackle. He steps up to the counter, slides over a lotto card, lead dots peppering its surface.
I stand in place, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My feet are hot. Itchy. They aren’t used to the constriction of socks and shoes and the blow of an overenthusiastic gas station heater.
Something’s wrong with the man’s lottery card. Bits of discussion float over the man’s shoulder with the scent of… I sniff, trying to hide the action. Sawdust? I glance over his backside. Worn jeans, dark wash. Boots. A red T-shirt, pulled up on one side enough to show the hint of… I squint, move closer. Bend to the side slightly for a better look. I think it’s a Leatherman. My heart picks up pace, drumming a happy rhythm in my chest.
My father had a Leatherman. It was a Christmas present, selected by my mother, and wrapped in ribbon and stuck under the tree. I watched him open it, earbuds already put in, my iPod rudely blaring any thought of family time from my head, the entire present-opening experience set to the tune of Mötley Crüe. I didn’t notice anything particularly special about the present, smiled politely when he oohed and aahed over the nine tiny knives, the fourteen other accompaniments that would open wine corks, unscrew eyeglass threads, tweeze, puncture, hole punch, saw. I smiled, I listened to my music, and I wondered if any of the other yet-to-be-unwrapped presents under the tree were mine. During the next two years, I occasionally had need of his gift, would wrap my small hands around the metal tool, cutting wire or unscrewing the back of the remote. I never thought about the many ways it could be used to torture. Kill.
But now, with NeverGonnaWinMillions taking his sweet jolly time before me, his pencil now working on a new card, slowly filling in circles, the scratch of lead driving me I’ll-kill-you-now crazy, I can think of all sorts of ways to use that tool. How the fourteen accompaniments could complement the nine knives in a variety of he’ll-scream-so-loud ways. My hands tighten on reflex, and I feel the ice cream bar squish slightly, melting in my hot hands and this furnace of a store. Motherfucker. If this jackpot-chaser costs me any bit of chocolate nut bliss, I’ll start the mayhem right now.
I clear my throat, a suggestive action that prompts no response whatsoever. Scratch. Scribble. He pauses, looks up to the ceiling as if he is trying to remember a nostalgic date. Scribble. Fill. I sigh as loudly as humanly possible, and wonder how long it would take to sever his pencil-gripping hand with the baby saw enclosed in that Leatherman. I move closer and crouch to tie my shoes, the act an excuse to examine the tool closer, my eyes noting that it, just sitting in the harness, could be pulled out with one quick snatch. Flipped open so the sharp needles of the pliers are exposed. My fingers twitch around the candy. If I yank it out it’ll take a moment for him to respond, a moment to turn around. Am I fast enough?
I step back as the man straightens and pushes his scratch card forward. Thank God. I release a shaky breath and move an extra step away, closing my eyes tightly as I spend a moment cursing myself. My weakness. Weakness that almost ruined this moment. The man before me moves, stuffing his ticket in his back pocket and nodding to the cashier, his steps relaxed as he steps toward the door. My eyes try for one more glimpse at the Leatherman before I step to the counter, my eyes catching on the lit screen beside the register, advertising in proud letters a Hundred-Million-Dollar Jackpot! I set my items on the counter.
“Sorry ’bout that.” The man wheezes, his words whistling out through a month’s worth of beard growth. “The big drawing’s tonight. Everyone’s coming in.” He glances up, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Feeling lucky?”
Am I feeling lucky? I ponder the question, then shrug, anxious to move on before my mind takes a psychological journey that wanders into crazy town. “Sure. Give me ten quick picks. It draws tonight?”
“Yep. At ten. The display in the window’ll show the numbers, if you’re in the area that late.” He sniffs loudly, a day’s worth of snot sucking through his nose, then rips off a ticket and drops it on the counter, counting out my change on top of it. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I gingerly scoop up my haul and step out, the burn of the door’s cold metal delighting my fingers. I nod cheerily to JitterBoy and step off the curb, quickening my steps as I cross the street. Almost home. I inhale deeply, wanting to remember this. The roll and pitch of concrete underneath my shoes. The whip of hair across my face as I cross the street. The numb sensation under my palm, the soda too cold to hold, yet nowhere else to put it. Ten steps. Five steps. Three. One. I juggle items and pull on the door, the air inside only slightly warmer, my jog up the stairs increasing into a run as I worry about my ice cream.
I don’t need to worry. It is perfect when I finally open the wrapper. When I sit on the windowsill and bite into ice cream bliss, the crisp crack of an opened can of soda the perfect accompaniment. I sit there until my Snickers is gone and night has fully fallen, the lotto window display blinking happily at me. Saturday night. Maybe this could be a ritual. Saturday ice cream and soda snack. Buy a lotto ticket and spend the evening off camera. My end-of-week celebration of non-violence.
I stand, chug the rest of the soda, and toss the can. Then I head back to the lights. Time to work.
At ten forty-five, in between chats, I wander back to that window. Pick up my jeans and fish my ticket out of their pocket. Watch the scrolling marquee and verify that, out of ten quick picks, I have not one winner. Not two dollars, not two hundred million. Better luck next time. Maybe next week. I did it, despite my hiccup. I proved that I can handle it.
CHAPTER 15
AT 2:18 A.M. Bush plays through the sound system, the glass bottle of Budweiser vibrating against the metal desk in time to the bass. The world outside is quiet, but the lines of the Internet are alive, a buzz of late-night activity. Mike switches screens, fingers furious on the keys, a message tapped out as insults and trash-talking occur across a thousand miles of cyberspace.
Behind him, there is movement, a body rolling over in a bed. Jamie, her red curls sticking to her curves as she breathes h
is name. The woman he pays to keep his life in order, coming twice a week, Sundays and Thursdays, armfuls of groceries in chubby hands. She stocks the fridge, cooks up a storm, and then settles in on the couch. There they typically smoke weed, watch TV, and shoot the shit. Eat. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Laugh. Repeat. At some point he’ll move closer to her, throw his arm around, and pull her in. She has meat on her bones, enough that her sink into his chest feels like a comfortable pillow. One that breathes, provides comfort, smells of vanilla and woman. Sometimes she’ll unzip his pants, take out his cock, and carry him to a high-infused nut. Sometimes she won’t. They’ve never fucked, never kissed, but he likes to have her. She breathes life into the space, into him. He glances back at her, hits a few keys and turns down the music a little. Sometimes, in his life of solitude, he forgets common courtesies. How others live. Jamie is drunk, the line of bottles along the windowsill evidence of their night. Soon, he’ll join her. Finish this up and crawl into bed. Pull her against him. She’ll let him. She always does. He likes it when she stays. Likes the scent of a woman on his sheets, the huff of breath on his chest as she sleeps. He wonders, for a moment, if she’d come without the money. He doesn’t pay her to drink with him, suck his cock, sleep in his bed. But if he didn’t employ her for the other things, would they still be friends? Would she stop by? Hang out?
He focuses on the screen, taking his time, moving the mouse carefully, superimposing Deanna’s face on the drunken coed’s sexy frame, the background clearly showing the bar’s name in neon lights. The light is all wrong, pointing a giant, clear arrow to the falsehood of the pic. So he continues. Highlights her face, then adds bar shadows, the slight glow of neon light. A bit of grain, evidence of poor lighting captured by a cheap camera phone. He doesn’t rush, he checks the work carefully, and when done, clears the photo’s cache history and e-mails the image to Deanna, along with four other similar creations. Tomorrow she’ll post them to her Facebook wall, and another layer of the lie will be in place.