Invictus, p.2
Invictus, page 2
Could have been both.
A bead of sweat starts to roll down the side of my face as the memory continues to flood my senses. At one point I can recall her angrily shouting as the man shoved her to her knees.
“You want your blow? Well so do I; suck it bitch,” he had growled at her.
I remember the slight disappointment I felt in her when she lowered herself to her knees and obediently retrieved his cock from his pants. I remember thinking it couldn’t have been all that grand since I could barely see it in her hand.
For a few bitter moments, she took his cock into her mouth and moved her head in a way that told me that she was worth about as much as the puddle of piss I was most likely standing in, until the moment I heard him let out a scream so loud, so full of shock and fear, that I unwittingly took a few steps closer to see what she had done.
She rose and spit, wiping what looked like blood away from her mouth as he crumpled to the floor writhing in pain. It took her only seconds to recover before she crouched down and raided his pocket for a small bag of white powder, then turned and started to head toward me.
“What’s your fuckin’ problem?” she sneered as she passed by. I shook my head.
“That’s what I fuckin’ thought, mother fucker.” She nodded, becoming the one in that ravishing violent move.
I take a deep breath and sigh as the pungent smell of piss brings me back to the present task at hand. I still have work to do and I should probably get this over with because I can’t stay lost in a moment that I was never meant to be a part of.
I lean forward again and continue my session with Magda. Once I have both sides cut down to where I need them to be, I move back to the top and dig the tip of the blade in to remove the nub and then I proceed to flay the outer lining of her pussy. She won’t be needing that anymore either; she’ll be lucky if she can piss by the time I’m done.
As soon as all the important pieces are removed and gone, I hum a little louder as I reached for some antiseptic cream and another cotton pad. I don’t want her to get an infection and die because that will make me no better than what I witnessed so many times as a curious child. What I want is to examine her in the days to come, fuck her once or twice, and see if my plan works like I hope it does.
And that’s when I’ll be ready for the one. The beautiful shrew with dark red blood on her lips and malevolence in her eyes that can’t exactly hide when she’s fighting the urge to snort more of that magical dust up into her fucking cranium.
However, I know that if Atasha can’t stand with me, then I’ll have to put her down like the rabid animal I intend her to become.
We’ve turned off the highway onto a side road. There’s nothing around but trees. I’m already hungry and I’m instantly furious. “Mamma! Why are we stopping?”
Mom casts a nervous glance in the rear-view mirror, the color draining from her lovely face. All the doors automatically lock at once with a startling click.
“I’m hungry!” I roll my head back and look up at the sky. That’s when I see a man pass my window. My heart sputters when I spot his sidearm.
“Mama! He’s got a gun!”
“He’s a policeman, baby. He’s supposed to have a gun.” She giggles, but I’m not comforted. She’s nervous, and when she lowers her window an inch and he leans down to talk through the small crack, I finally see why.
It’s him.
I startle awake. My Violent Femmes t-shirt is drenched, but I’m too relieved to have escaped the sandman to care. Thunder claps, shaking the paper-thin windows of my dingy studio apartment. I bolt from the bed and hurry for the bathroom.
I’m on my knees in front of the toilet, fighting the urge to vomit. My nausea eventually subsides, and I climb into the shower balancing on shaky legs. I used to get high when the dreams wouldn’t stop, but after a while, they came harder and heavier every time I was lit. Strung out and exhausted, I’d forced my way into rehab before I lost what little is left of my mind. I don’t miss coke much, except on the rare days where the sun just won’t let up.
Warm water isn’t as effective as blow, but it sure helps the trembling stop. I make myself terrible instant coffee and choke down some dry toast. I can’t get my mother’s nervous giggle out of my head, and my temples throb in time with my heart. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and I need fresh air like a bird needs to stretch its wings.
By the time my winged eyeliner is ready for public consumption, the deluge outside has stopped. Mother Nature can’t fool me anymore though, and my umbrella is at the ready, tucked dutifully under my arm. Before I moved to Seattle, everyone told me it rained a lot. I’d seriously underestimated the definition of “a lot.” Still, it’s better than the alternative…that cloying, overpriced California sunshine back home.
Once out on the bustling street, I finally begin to relax. As I near my bus stop, I spy some amazing vintage boots in a store window and stop for a better look. That’s when I catch his refection. He’s leaning against the lamppost on the other side of the street. Tall and slender, he cleans his spectacles like some dandy in a British costume drama. It’s all for show. This is my stalker, and his presence is as routine as the rain.
I’m oddly happy to see him. The four-eyed blonde who regularly tails me through the damp streets is a welcome companion after my disturbing morning. I’ve noticed him following me every day for about six weeks now. He feels routine, and I crave the structure of our cat and mouse like my pregnant neighbor craves chicken Pad Thai.
At first, I assumed Four Eyes had a crush on me. Since before I was old enough to notice boys, they noticed me. Not just boys, I guess, grown men too. Age doesn’t dampen perversion much. The older they get the weirder they are. I don’t always mind the attention, though. It helps pay the rent when you’re short and is usually good for top shelf drinks when you’re broke. Being pretty has its uses, but mostly, it’s a literal pain in the ass.
Though I can tell he doesn’t mean to, Four Eyes stands out. He moves like a dancer, drawing the eye with his unnatural grace for someone so big. Impossibly well groomed, he turns heads with his brainy boy-next-door look. That said, he gives off a perpetual virgin vibe. He seems uncomfortable with people, like he spends Sundays playing cards with his mother, or dresses up like Spock every time a sci fi convention comes to town. The sort of guy who would be overjoyed with a hand job in a parking lot, and probably never had a girlfriend who didn’t “live in Canada.”
I’ve given him plenty of opportunities since I’ve been aware of him, but he never approaches me. I’d nearly dismissed him altogether, but when I’m sweeping hair at the barbershop several hours later, he’s seated on a bench across the street. Then after work, while I’m buying smokes on my way home, he enters the shop and busies himself perusing the small section of expensive cigars.
The following morning, I hear footsteps marching in time with mine. He’s kicked his disguise up a notch…navy hoody and faded jeans. Those elegant, domineering mannerisms, though…they give him away. Four Eyes never fidgets. Not when the city bus breaks too hard, nor when he’s jostled by random pedestrians. He no longer looks away when I stare at him, and his unrelenting and penetrating gaze gives me gooseflesh. When I hear him gaining on me, I can no longer stand the suspense.
“After you.” I hold the coffee shop door open for him with a triumphant smile. He pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses with perfectly manicured nails. His crystal blue eyes are an unflinching contradiction to his casual smile. I feel naked under his scrutiny…not like he’s undressing me, but that he’s already seen me in the buff and taken catalogue of all my assets and flaws. He knows me…I’m certain of it…but I know nothing about him. I decide to play it cool, following him inside, waiting for him to reveal his intentions.
I’m surprised when he tells the barista to put my order on his card. With a bashful smile, Four Eyes explains that he’s “paying it forward.” She beams up at him like he’s fucking Gandhi, and he relocates to a window seat to wait. I lean against the counter, assessing him thoroughly. Oblivious, he pokes at the screen of his Apple watch. He’s very tall and fair, his fine features reminiscent of that lanky elf from those Hobbit movies, minus the long hair and chain-mail.
He doesn’t look my way again at breakfast, and late for work, I’m too busy to dwell on my stalker for a moment longer. When I get to the shop, Marty’s gout is acting up, so he leaves me to cover the evening shift alone. I’ll survive. It’s mostly buzz cuts and high-and-tights at Marty’s…nothing too involved. I turn the chair over steadily, my hardest challenge resisting the urge to impale Mr. Williams’ balls when he runs a gnarled hand up the back of my thigh.
The bell chimes just minutes before closing time, and I glare at the door. Suddenly, I’m finding it hard to breathe. It’s Silver Spoon, and he brought his privileged smirk along for the ride. My head throbs at the sight of him. By his cock-of-the-walk posture, he’s pretty proud of himself for tracking me down.
“We’re closed,” I remove the cape and brush the tiny hairs off of Burt’s neck so he doesn’t itch all the way home. My long-time regular meets my eyes in the mirror. Burt’s no fool, he knows something’s up.
Silver Spoon smiles, much like a cat who’s midway through devouring a canary. He gestures at the neon sign in the window. “You should have flipped the sign off.”
My skin crawls and I have the urge to pour bleach into my ears. It’s about the only way to cleanse myself of what I let this prick do to me.
“Need me to walk you home, Tash?” Burt’s cloudy eyes shift from Silver Spoon to me. He’s pushing eighty and couldn’t beat a toddler at arm wrestling. Still, it’s a sweet gesture, and I’m tempted to kiss him on the cheek.
“Thanks anyway, Burt. I’ve got time for one more.”
Don’t shit where you eat, they say. This particular cliché is wise and applicable. I don’t want my dueling lives to mix, so Burt needs to hit the road.
Burt nods and dons his fedora. Silver Spoon is oblivious, texting on his phone as Burt steps around him and continues on out into the dreary night.
Once alone, my new client turns back to me. He seems delighted. I brush the seat off and pat the spot Burt vacated moments before.
“Your turn.”
“It sure is.” He’s amused, and loaded with lascivious innuendo. He’s approaching me, and I want to shower with an industrial scrub brush.
“What’ll it be?” I’m all business on the outside. “Bikini wax?”
“I’ll take the works. Oh! And my Rolex.” He towers over me, exuding testosterone and smelling like tequila and lime. Feigning confidence, I rack my brain for a way out of this that doesn’t involve me getting arrested. Throat dry, I reach out and take a drink from my water bottle.
“So you do swallow.” He backs me against the work station counter top. “Good to know.”
“Listen—” I start to negotiate, but the back door creaks loudly, stopping me mid-thought. Relief washes over me. Marty must be feeling better now and came back to close down the register. Silver Spoon and I both watch the door, but when a well-dressed, sporty college-aged guy appears instead of my boss, my pulse kicks up to double time.
“Party time?” Sporty Guy asks Silver Spoon, looking me up and down unapologetically.
Silver Spoon runs his fingers along my collarbone and I shrug it away. “Hell yeah. She owes me one.”
“Hey, now...just relax.” I bat my black widow lashes. “We can work this out. I’ve got your watch.”
I turn and reach for the cupboard where I store my purse. He grabs my hips, rocking his pelvis against my ass. My eyes shoot to his in the mirror, and I see more anger than lust in his heavy expression.
“Tad. Lock the door and kill the lights,” Silver Spoon instructs Sporty Guy in a stone cold manner.
“Are you sure—” Tad starts, but Silver Spoon is a man on a mission.
“Do it.”
Tad hurries to comply, flipping every switch until he plunges us into darkness. The street light outside is the only reason we aren’t blind. I have enough light to read Silver Spoon’s barbaric eyes.
“This doesn’t have to get ugly.” I’m stalling. I have a defense keychain, like brass knuckles, but with fangs. But it’s in my purse and my purse is in the cupboard. It may as well be on Mars.
“I want my fucking money.” He tugs roughly at my panties, and the ripping sound of the delicate material sets my teeth on edge. “And my Rolex…and that other thing you still owe me.”
Tad’s flanking to my left, pushing up his sleeves like a politician on the campaign trail. Something about the innocuous gesture gets my blood pumping.
“I have the money in my wallet.” I swallow hard, since the walls of my throat seem to be closing in. I lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Most of it. Think of the rest as a loan.”
“You’re in no position to tell me what to think.” His arm is across my back, pushing my top half onto the counter. My forehead presses painfully against the mirror. I feel him flip my skirt up. “Here’s the position you’re in. I’m sure it’s one you’re used to. I’m going to take it out in trade and Tad will collect the interest.”
So that’s his master plan. They’ll steal back his shit and then some. Been there, done that, and I’m not feeling like putting out tonight. Not without a battle royal. Some hills are worth dying on, and this is one of them. I reach down for the drawer in front of me where I keep my shears.
Silver Spoon yanks my hair, and his fingers begin their exploration. Mine do too, inching farther into the depths of the drawer. Violence calls for violence, and I know the drill. He’s not the first guy to treat me like a party favor. This would already be over if there weren’t two of them to contend with.
I hear the backdoor creak open for the second time, and my stomach plummets.
Oh Jesus, Marty. Not now.
My boss, Marty, is one of the only people I actually like. If he gets hurt because of my compulsions, I’ll burn this fucking city to the ground.
In the mirror, I can see the door to the back office swing open, but Silver Spoon’s grip on my ponytail prevents me from seeing who’s behind it.
“Who the fu—” Tad’s demand is cut short by a loud crunch. He stumbles backward, and a tall streak advances on him. Silver Spoon releases me just as my hand closes on a handle in the drawer. It’s not the shears I’ve located, but it’ll have to do.
I spin to see Tad crab-walking backwards to escape Four Eyes, who bears down on him with remarkable feline grace. The crunching sound was apparently Tad’s nose, because his white button-down shirt is now drenched in a steady stream of blood that shows no signs of stopping.
“Wait!” Tad’s plea is garbled by his impromptu nose job. Four Eyes doesn’t comply. He kicks Tad once, knocking him flat on his back. Then he stomps his face twice in rapid succession. The accompanying sounds make me hunch my shoulders and furrow my brow. Tad says nothing more, his empty eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Mother fu—” Silver Spoon puffs up, lunging at Four Eyes. Four Eyes kicks him square in the chest, sending him tumbling backwards into my barber chair. Without thinking, I capture the wheezing coed in a headlock, my straight razor pressed to his throat much like his cock was pressed to my ass just moments before. I’m thoroughly delighted. Entropy is a marvelous thing. Any situation, no matter how happy or hopeless, can go sideways in seconds.
Four Eyes steps farther into the light, his icy eyes alive and electric. Blood splatter freckles his cheeks and nose. He removes his glasses, as if irritated that he has to polish Tad off of them.
“Well?” His voice sounds sensual as his cool gaze returns to mine. “Finish it, Atasha.”
I inhale sharply at the sound of my name, but I’m mesmerized by the lyrical way he says it. My blade travels from left to right in one fluid motion. Something warm and wet runs down my hand. All the while, my eyes never leave his face. Killing…finally crossing that line is one hell of a rush, but the approval in my accomplice’s slanted smile is a far bigger one.
Silver Spoon’s death rattles echo throughout the quiet shop. My own breath is ragged, and I’m frozen, my blade, my chair, and the dying man a shield against this dark guardian angel, whose motives are still a mystery. He tilts his head, mirroring my trepidation and my curiosity. I sidestep Silver Spoon, who reaches out to grab for my skirt, as if his dying thought is still about what’s underneath. Ignoring him, I drop the blade, which clatters on the tiled floor.
Four Eyes grins, and advances on me. He grips my throat and pauses, surveying me as if trying to decide what to do. My hands aren’t the only thing that’s wet, and I see no reason not to scratch that itch.
I reach up and take his stubbled face in my hands. He’s surprised, brow crimping as he searches my face. I remove his glasses, placing them on the antique Coke machine to our left. His breath fogs my forehead, and his five o’clock shadow scratches my temple as I nuzzle in close enough to smell his top-shelf cologne.
“We need—“ he begins in a rush, but I don’t wait for him to finish. I yank his mouth down onto mine, my bloody fingers tangling in his golden hair. He groans into me, crisp and minty. He kisses like he moves, aggressive and majestic…like the agile animal I suspected him to be.
Seconds later he resists, but I fight him, holding tight and urging his mouth open farther. His hands slide up inside the back of my skirt. Soon he has me on the counter at my station, a hand up my shirt, fingers pinching my nipple. He nips my throat, and I gasp, the combination of pain and pleasure overwhelming my senses. Then he breaks off, pushing me back…leaving me panting and ready for him.
He exhales, tremulous and frustrated. He rakes his hands through his flaxen, blood-streaked hair, and when he speaks, his voice rumbles low and husky in the stillness.
“No more. Not until we clean up this mess.”
His trunk is a treasure trove for the criminally insane. Tarps, a shovel, duct tape, various industrial cleaners, lye, and a tool box that clatters with God knows what when he hoists it out. I nearly laugh out loud when I see a box of latex-free gloves (wouldn’t want to have an allergic reaction when you’re cleaning up after a homicide) until I recall just how long and how often he’s been following me. Suddenly, his serial killer starter kit doesn’t seem quite so entertaining.
