by Riley Banks
Damon didn’t need any paper to tell him the facts. He had seen the accident happen; watched it unfold in horrific slow motion. He would never forget her beloved Porsche crashing through the roadside barrier; never get the image of it tumbling end on end towards the rocks.
He had screamed then, hoping against hope that his cries for help would somehow save his mother from the fate of a fiery explosion on the jagged rocks below.
Not even ten years of therapy had erased those images from his mind.
Tears pricked at the back of his eyeballs but damned if Damon was going to shed them in front of a group of strangers.
‘Miranda, just leave it alone,’ Charlotte said.
‘I just… I was just going to ask if it is difficult being back here…’
‘Of course it bloody is,’ she said. ‘Why would you even need to ask?’
Her eyes met his and Damon was shocked to see compassion in their brown depths; compassion and understanding, as if she knew exactly how Miranda’s questions felt.
He wracked his brain, trying to think of any mention of dead parents in her bio. As far as he could remember, it contained nothing about family.
But he knew that look; had seen it staring back at him from the mirror every morning.
Damon had no idea if she had lost a mother or a father but he knew one thing for sure; Charlotte Burke was a member of the Dead Parents Club.
Chapter Nineteen:
Zac slid his glass across the smooth cherry wood bar, popping a handful of Kalamata olives into his mouth as he did. ‘Another scotch and coke.’
‘Maybe you have had enough.’ It was more a statement than a question. Despite his small size, the Filipino barman narrowed his eyes, challenging Wilson to defy him.
‘Maybe you should mind your own fucking business and do your job. Now pour me a drink.’
‘No.’
‘What?’ The guy was at least a foot shorter than him and about forty kilos lighter. ‘Hank, can you believe the arrogance of this wanker?’
‘Hey man, I’m actually gonna turn in for the night,’ Hank said, his eyes flitting to the cute American redhead staggering away from the bar. ‘Catch you tomorrow buddy.’
‘Still not gonna get me a drink?’ he snapped at the barman.
‘Nope. You had plenty.’ Flicking the switch on a chrome blender, he poured the frozen daiquiris into two cocktail glasses. ‘These are for the girls in the pool,’ he said, handing the drinks on a tray to the waitress serving at the poolside bar.
Clutching the empty glass tighter, fury leapt in Wilson like the flames of a bushfire. He stared dolefully towards the crystal water of the indoor pool, the water sparkling with a hundred different lights.
She was over there, looking drop dead gorgeous in a black bikini, shiny rhinestones in the shape of a pirate skull on the left breast and right ass cheek. Wet hair clung like corn silk to the curve of her back, a single diamond stud crowning the belly button of her washboard flat stomach.
The waitress handed the girls their daiquiris.
Charlotte stretched out along the inflatable sun bed, dipping her toes in the water as she sipped her drink, Miranda laughing at some private joke between them.
Tonight. Tonight you pay for your whoring ways.
Jealousy and rejection burned in Wilson’s stomach, bubbling and seething, extinguishing any rational thought he was still capable of.
Across the other side of the pool, Damon Harvey packed some papers into his briefcase. Throughout the night, he had cast furtive glances towards the pool, towards Charlotte. Now she watched as Harvey walked back to the house.
Hope you didn’t make any plans with him tonight ‘cause I already have something in mind for you, Harlot Charlotte.
One by one, people left the pool, called last drinks, or turned in for the evening. The barman dismissed his staff and began cleaning up, wiping tables, stacking glasses into trays for the dishwasher. When he carried an armful of empty bottles out to the garbage, Wilson knew it was time.
Charlotte and Miranda were alone in the pool, oblivious to his presence.
Low music played in the background, an Amy Winehouse song covering the sound of his footsteps moving across the terracotta tiles.
The two whores were so enthralled in their conversation, they never saw him lower himself over the edge of the pool, never heard his breath catch in his throat, never saw the malevolent intent in his eyes as he submerged himself and swam through the blood warm water towards them.
‘Oh my God, Zac. You scared me,’ Miranda said, swallowing a mouthful of water as he emerged beside her.
Wilson ignored her, closing in on Charlotte’s sun bed.
‘Zac, what are you doing? Zac NO,’ Miranda shouted as Wilson lunged for Charlotte’s head.
‘What the fuck…’
But Charlotte’s angry retort was silenced as his fist clasped her blonde hair and he ripped her off the inflated bed by her temptress locks.
He crushed his lips against hers so hard, he could taste salty blood on his tongue. The taste made him harden unexpectedly.
‘Get off… who the hell do you think…’ She jerked her face away from him but by now his grip was like a wrench.
Ice cold drink spilled onto his bare chest before the glass fell into the water.
‘You little whore. You brought this on yourself.’
He wanted to possess her, to take what she’d held back from him. He groped at her bikini top but she was stronger than he gave her credit for, bringing her elbow crashing into his jaw, his teeth biting into his tongue.
‘You fucking psycho,’ she spat at him.
Rage broke like storm clouds over a barren land. His fist struck out in retaliation, connecting hard with her cheek, her head snapping back as she slipped below the water, dazed and stunned by the force of the blow.
‘Zac, stop,’ Miranda said.
But tonight, he would not be denied. Tonight, she would be his.
Charlotte lurched forward, trying to get to the edge, to get away from him. Wilson grabbed her long hair, yanking back, pulling her off her feet.
She went under and he was beside her, holding her down while she scratched and clawed his skin, desperate to reach the surface, to get air into her lungs.
Behind him, Miranda tugged at his arm, her attempts to get him away from Charlotte feeble and weak.
He batted her away one handed, like a pesky fly on a summer afternoon.
Again and again she returned, grappling and struggling against him, all the while Charlotte fought like a writhing crocodile beneath the water.
Miranda’s scream rent the air in two.
‘HELP. Somebody help us. HELP.’
And then she was gone, and Zac was alone - alone with Harlot Charlotte.
Tonight she was going to pay for all her sins.
The door latch clicked shut behind her and Nancy leant against the smooth wood, shame burning her cheeks even as an excess of alcohol swirled in her head.
What the hell did I just do?
She had always lived in her childhood home in Annandale, Virginia with her parents, even spending her vacations with them at homes in the Caribbean and Latin America.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford to move out.
With no financial commitments beyond the repayments on her new Jeep Cherokee, Nancy was what would be considered cash rich.
Ever since she could walk and talk, her dad, the President of a large Washington banking firm, had preached the concept of saving.
As a result, she had a sizeable nest egg locked away in a term deposit at his bank. If she wanted to, she could have bought an inner-city apartment but why would she do that when she had the cosy security blanket of her parents’ home. There were times that living there was almost like being back in the womb.
Of course, there were downsides too. Her father’s over-protectiveness for one.
She was sure she was the only twenty two year old in the world with a midnight curfew.
Then there was church. Her dad insisted she go each weekend, even though she’d cooled on religion years ago.
‘You want to live under my roof; you live by my rules, young lady. And here, we go to church and worship God.’
Despite growing up in the US capital, she’d lived a fairly sheltered life. No drugs, no alcohol and no sexual experiences.
Not any more.
Since joining this press trip, the moral standards her dad had drummed into her had vanished, or at least taken an unauthorized leave of absence.
She was pretty sure she had done drugs on New Year’s Eve, despite having no memory of doing so. How else could she explain what happened?
And last night – with Laurine…
At least Charlotte had drawn the line at just kissing Laurine. Nancy had gone so much further.
She wasn’t sure what frightened her more – the things she didn’t remember or those she did.
Her memories of losing her virginity might be hazy but Nancy remembered every second of being with Laurine.
Every wonderful, hedonistic second.
Homosexuality was a sin.
She’d heard it preached from the pulpit a thousand times.
At home, Nancy would never have dreamt of having sex with a woman.
But that was exactly what she had done.
More times than she cared to remember, making use of every toy in Sofie’s sexy gift bag.
What was worse – she had enjoyed it.
She had been fighting off the memories all day, trying not to imagine Laurine’s tongue between her legs.
Even resorting to lustful thoughts about Hank Williams in an attempt to purge the sinful thoughts from her mind, thinking God might be more forgiving of heterosexual lusting than lesbian lusting.
Hank was good looking. A little dim witted, but sexy in an Owen Wilson kind of way.
They were the only two Americans on the invite list. It was only natural that they would talk.
Talking had turned into flirting – and shameless flirting at that. But Nancy was only trying to forget Laurine, to get her life back on the straight and narrow, with the emphasis being on the straight.
When she left the pool, she had every intention of going to bed – alone.
But then Hank followed her, catching up with her in the hallway, right outside her bedroom.
She shuddered, thinking about what had happened next.
Did her newfound sluttiness somehow emanate from her pores?
Was she giving off ‘come fuck me eyes’ to every male and female she encountered?
Nancy had no idea why but Hank reached out and brushed her breast, the longing so evident on his face, it would have sent her running two days ago.
When he pushed her up against the wall, lifting up her dress and moving aside her bikini pants, she didn’t even protest.
Her heart hammered against her chest as he slid inside her but she didn’t say a word. Not one goddamned word.
What is wrong with me? Has this sinfulness been hiding under the surface all along, just waiting to get away from Daddy?
In the hallway… You did it in the bloody hallway.
Briny tears wet her shame-red cheeks.
More than anything, Nancy wanted to go home, back to her womb, to safety, to Daddy.
The room was stifling so she crossed to the French doors, throwing them wide open to let in the cooling winter breeze.
It was then she heard the screams for help.
Damon’s room was close to the pool, so close that if he closed his eyes, he could still picture Charlotte reclining in the pool; still picture her long, bronzed legs reaching up forever, her pale hair framing a beautiful, heart shaped face.
There was no doubt that he found her attractive.
Any man with blood in his veins would.
But it was more than that.
A connection, of sorts, that was almost mystical - a connection that had built in strength since the press conference that afternoon.
Yet still he could not bring himself to speak to her.
There was something about Charlotte Burke that simultaneously drew him in and paralysed him with fear.
Get some sleep. You’re starting to go soft in the head.
Standing in front of the mirror in his ensuite bathroom, Damon felt his chin, now rough with day old stubble.
He removed the black polo neck, tossing it into the laundry hamper behind the door.
Squirting creamy shaving foam into his hand, he patted it over his chin and cheeks, reaching for his razor.
What is that?
It sounded like siren’s screaming.
Damon grabbed a hand towel, walking towards the patio door.
‘Help, somebody please help.’
Not sirens.
A woman’s voice.
Damon wiped his face on the towel, throwing open the French doors, hurrying out into the chilly air.
‘Miranda?’
‘Please, help… Charlotte…’ Her words came out as hysterical sobs, almost indistinguishable except the last.
‘Where?’
Was his heart still beating?
No. It had stopped the minute he heard her name.
Miranda’s eyes were wild with terror but she pointed behind her.
‘The pool. Please hurry.’
Damon raced ahead, legs pounding the pavement like an Olympic sprinter.
‘Oh my God.’
Charlotte was floating face down in the pool.
She was deathly still, her hair fanning out behind her like a halo.
Standing over her was Zac Wilson.
At first, Damon thought Zac was trying to help but then he heard the cruel taunts the man was uttering; saw the malevolent smile on his face as he cried ‘Die Harlot Charlotte. Die.’
Zac wasn’t helping Charlotte.
He was holding her down.
Before he knew what he was doing, Damon leapt into the water.
Chapter Twenty:
A scream tore the air like dry, brittle paper. Shocked, Miranda realised she had made the noise.
When she’d left the pool moments earlier, Charlotte was struggling like a madman against Wilson but at least she was moving.
Now…
It was too late.
Charlotte was gone.
Bile rose like turpentine in her mouth and she spat it out, kicking herself for taking too long.
The image of Charlotte’s immobile body - arms buoyantly inactive at her side - forever burned in her mind like a cattle brand on a baby calf.
Miranda’s own arms hung useless at her side, her legs frozen to the ground as her friend’s body bobbed in the wake of the struggle taking place alongside her; bobbed like an apple in a Halloween barrel.
Damon and Zac were locked in an epic battle for Charlotte, threats and curses as lethal as the blows they rained upon each other.
Didn’t they realise she was already dead?
I can’t breathe…
Miranda struggled to draw air into her shrunken lungs, felt she might never breathe again.
A lifetime passed, or was it an eternity? What was the difference anyway? Charlotte hung suspended on the surface of the water, like a fly in a spider’s web.
‘Miranda.’ The name was alien to her ears.
Louder this time. ‘Miranda.’
She forced herself to look away from Charlotte’s body, to the person calling her name.
Damon, his clothes sodden, blood smeared across his face, a purple bruise already forming beneath the skin.
Wilson spluttered on the terracotta tiles by the pool, the bartender struggling to hold him down.
‘Get a doctor,’ he said as he dived into the water, swimming to Charlotte.
He lifted her into his arms. Wet mounds of hair clung to her face.
Pulling her hair aside, he pressed his ear close to her mouth to see if she was breathing.
It was as if some ancient being had turned her from flesh to
a pillar of salt.
‘Miranda.’ Damon shouted this time, his voice tinged with panic. ‘Go. Now. Please.’
She turned, blood pumping through her limbs as she ran back towards the house, her voice raised in alarm, splitting the night air again.
There was complete bedlam at the poolside when Robertson arrived, wiping tears of humiliation and self-recrimination out of her eyes.
Vicious red swirls spread across the once crystal clear water, as if someone had slaughtered a sacrificial bull.
A handful of security staff struggled on the lawn, wrestling a bloodied man to the ground. Their captive fought back hard, throwing punches at any that got too close to his fists. He swore ferociously, his words like verbal slaps.
Why did he say harlot?
It was one of those old-fashioned words she’d heard from the pulpit and for a second, Nancy thought he was speaking of her.
She stepped closer to the scene, happy that she was still safe on the opposite side of the pool.
Whoever the man was, both his eyes had swollen shut and blood streamed from his broken nose.
Is that… no, it can’t be Hank… No, his friend. What was his name? Zac something or other. But what happened to him? And why are the guards being so rough with him?
Another guard joined the fray. They managed to subdue Zac, who winced as the men jerked his wrists behind his back, securing them with plastic cable ties.
Why are they arresting him?
Zac laughed, the sound alien in the current setting. Then he charged towards another small gathering near the pool.
The guards yanked him off his feet before carrying him out of the area.
Nancy was confused. What was all the drama about? She could hear people laughing or was that crying? She couldn’t quite tell.
Then she noticed Charlotte locked in a passionate embrace with Mr Harvey.
Lucky Charlotte.
But wait. Something didn’t look right about the scene.
Something was horribly wrong.
No, he wasn’t kissing her. He was performing CPR. Why would she need CPR?
With startling clarity, everything merged, like some omnipotent being wove it together with a huge darning needle.
The scenes weren’t separate. They were fused, different scenes from the same horror movie. The bloody pool, Zac, Charlotte…