by Nancy Bush
It had taken him years to win back his self-respect. Years and years, and lots of women, and stealing money and planning . . .
His mind shifted again to the girl he’d seen recently at the Waystation. She was the kind of woman who was his reward for the years spent reinventing himself. He’d had her kind before and when they were screaming for him, dying for him, he would walk away from them. Shoot them down. Make them grovel. There were a string of them across the greater Portland area that he’d kicked to the curb. The kind of woman who would do anything he asked, no matter how depraved, and beg for more. He’d seen it in her eyes. Okay, she’d turned him down this time, but there was no question that she wanted him.
But Rayne . . .
He’d expected to do the same with her. Have her and then kick her in the teeth. Let her know how worthless she was. Dirt beneath the heel of his boot. Except she knew him, and though it had been real sweet, fucking revenge to screw her hard and listen to her scream, pant, and gasp, whether with desire or pain, it didn’t matter, he’d had to up his timetable. Though he’d intended to keep her until he was sick and tired of her, she’d told her friend Bibi about him. He’d warned her, and she’d told Bibi about him anyway. Whatever came to her as result, it was her fault. She’d asked for it. Even though Rayne had sworn she would keep their relationship secret, she just couldn’t help herself. That’s how she was made.
In the back of his mind, he’d known that’s what would eventually happen, but he hadn’t really decided what he would do when she blurted out their secret. Maybe he’d whip her. That idea had intrigued him so much, he’d actually purchased a whip and taken it to the lair. He had images of her hanging from the iron rings while he whipped her and it had filled him with intense sexual desire. He’d toyed with the idea of bringing her to his safe room and keeping her there indefinitely, his sexual toy.
Before that could happen, though, she’d pulled out that camera at the overlook and then . . . the moment had just spun out. He’d seen his opportunity and moved on it, barely thinking. He’d watched in a haze of wonder as she bounced down that hillside. He was giggling as she flew like a limp rag doll and had been hard-pressed to hold back roars of laughter.
The thought of getting caught had been the proverbial bucket of cold water. He’d hurriedly picked up around himself. Made sure he had the cup, the wine bottle and her phone.
Later, recalling that moment when Rayne had flown forward, head down, he’d pleasured himself over and over again. Even now that image sent his blood racing. Better than sex with Rayne. Much better.
And then Bibi . . . if only he’d had more time with her. The fire had been an explosion, a wonderful conflagration that had erased his DNA.
His lips curled, thinking of it all again. He reached down to stroke himself and review every little detail of her death once more, when he heard a car rumble into the garage.
Lorena.
Immediately, he headed back to the lair.
“Tha—” he heard, just as he slid shut the metal door behind him and threw the lock. He didn’t want to talk to her. He had better things to do.
Clambering down the stairs, he strode directly to the metal shelves and grabbed up a large coffee table book of Oregon scenery. He opened the hardbound volume and pulled out the grouping of pictures he’d blown up from his eighth grade year, the last full year he’d shared with Rayne and the other bitches from Laurelton Grade and High Schools, the ones who’d sneered at him so much, especially in those early years before he’d learned how to stay off their radar. They were monsters who fed off the misery of life’s misfits. Misfits like himself, back then. Thad had had only one good friend in those grade school days, and that friend had moved away at the start of junior high, leaving Thad to fend for himself through the halls of a school where he always felt like a hated outsider.
Before he’d learned to stay out of those girls’ way, skirt the edge of their grade school realm, he’d been in their line of sight. Young, ignorant enough to believe they could be his friends, Thad had left himself open to their mean ridicule. He hadn’t known what they were capable of until that red-letter day in the fifth grade when he’d brought a frog to school to impress the science teacher as they were studying amphibians.
He showed the girls his frog, almost blushing with pride. They all recoiled in feigned horror, gasping and giggling and generally freaking out. From that point forward they sniggered whenever they saw him, stage-whispering “Mr. Toad” each time they caught sight of him in the halls. Thad was mortified. He tried to hide it, but he just couldn’t. It was a stupid grade school name. Nothing to feel ashamed about, but he did feel ashamed.
In junior high he told himself that name and its association was long over. He convinced himself it was long over. He secretly lusted after Rayne and her two best friends, the most popular girls in the class, the prettiest ones. Luckily, freshman year, before he could further embarrass himself—he’d suffered ridiculous thoughts of buying them roses and writing poems—his family moved to Portland where he finished school away from the triumvirate . . . but he never forgot them. Over time his desire morphed into resentment. He wanted to teach them a lesson. He reinvented himself, no longer the dorky, insignificant dog poop on the bottom of Rayne’s shoe, but sometimes he wondered if it was really true. Over the years he fantasized about proving to them that he was better than they were.
Then one day the opportunity arose. There she was, ripe for the picking . . . overweight and now working at the Coffee Club. She didn’t recognize him, which boosted his ego. He really had changed. He asked her out on a lark. It was a game. Wondering whether she would find him out. Wondering whether she would call him Mr. Toad again, or whether she would keep her mouth open, eyes glazed with desire whenever he took her.
Three weeks. That’s how long it had lasted before she’d opened her mouth for a different reason—and blabbed. He’d wanted it to go longer, much longer. He’d enjoyed how many rungs down she’d fallen, while he was climbing ever skyward, soaring. She was pathetic, really. Desperate. He’d reveled in her debasement. He’d wanted to stretch out the time with her, even though he also relished the thought of the ending. The putdown. He had a mental picture of the look on her face when she learned she’d been toyed with, played for a sucker. The shock. The betrayal. The fear . . . It kept a smile on his face whenever he was with her.
Then she found out who he was.
He’d made a grave error, he could admit it now: He brought her to his place when he had it to himself. Not the safe room, just the house, nosy little twit that she was, she looked through some of the old lady’s books and, lo and behold, there was one of his yearbooks, one his mother had kept, one Rayne recognized. And inside was a loose fifth-grade class picture with all the students. He hadn’t known it was there, hadn’t known it still existed, though it was right there in the bookshelf in the dining room. Thad had been blind to it for years. He didn’t notice Lorena’s or the old lady’s tchotchkes and other belongings. But Rayne saw it and plucked it from the bookcase and the picture fell out. There was Rayne’s picture and his own. Rayne might be dumb as a stump but her avid little eyes realized what she was looking at before he could yank the class picture from her grasp. Putting two and two together, she screamed, “Thaddeus!”
The blood drained from his face. He waited for the condemnation. The whooping “Mr. Toad!” he knew was coming. He could practically hear the scorn in her voice.
But it never came. She was delighted, in fact. She didn’t even seem to remember how she’d treated him. She was perfectly happy to just keep going on as before even though she knew who he was. It had boggled him. He’d hardly known how to react . . . at least Rayne hadn’t seen the blown-up picture of her that he had in his lair, or the other copied photos pressed between the pages of another hardbound book, pictures of others in her tribe of bitches. Still, having her know his true identity wasn’t what he wanted. She might be delighted, but he wasn’t. Mr. Toad was going to hav
e his revenge. Her brushing aside the past and complete acceptance of him just showed how truly shallow she was. No conviction. No soul. She was happy to be with the undesirable misfit from grade school now that he had money.
Money . . . had money . . . past tense . . . He’d bragged to Rayne about his hacking skills, a rookie move, even while he’d been desperately trying to recoup his losses. He’d used her as a salve, always planning for the big day when he cut her loose, putting it off awhile longer than he’d intended because it felt so good to screw her brains out at that stinky apartment she’d called home. Every time he went there he wore a disguise, just in case someone had a camera, which every paranoid fool seemed to possess these days.
Rayne had teased him about the hooded, bespectacled, masked lover who came to her door. He’d told her it was because he was famous in extremely wealthy circles, but she acted like it was role-playing. That had thrown him, and given him an insight into her other relationships. Jealousy had reared its head. Shocked, he’d tamped that down hard. He’d known he had to get out of the relationship and soon. Otherwise he would be in her evil thrall.
But he hadn’t been able to do it. One week turned to two, two weeks to three . . .
She’d made the decision for him when she’d told Bibi she was seeing him. Little bitch. He should’ve probably thanked her, but he was infuriated. And the camera? She’d been trying to sneak a picture the whole time they were together even though she swore she wasn’t. At the overlook he’d barely been able to hide his rage. He’d wanted to strangle her right then and there, crush her hyoid bone and watch her face turn blue, but he’d known he couldn’t kill her like that. Somehow he would get caught. There would be some infinitesimal trace of DNA that would point the finger at him.
And anyway, he planned to dump her fat ass. He wasn’t going to kill her. He had the knockout drops just in case....
Just in case of what? he’d asked himself, looking at her, knowing she knew he was Thad, not Chas.
Mr. Toad.
He’d thrown down her phone and then . . . poof. One moment she was there, the next he’d tossed her over the edge. One moment he was playing with her, the next he was watching her fly. Well, almost. Her foot had gotten tangled up and required one more push on his part. But then she was bouncing down the hill, eyes stretched wide with terror, a diver into an abyss. She’d smacked her head on the way down and her pain reverberated within him, a thrill greater than he’d ever felt before. He’d forced himself to stroll away, a little afraid he could have been seen, even though no one was about.
He was filled with a new kind of awe in his own power. He wished he had a lock of her hair, something personal.
Well, there was one thing. The Hobo bag that he’d shoved everything inside.
Now he dumped out the wine bottle, opener, cups, and assorted trash onto his table, holding on to the bag. Next he plucked the enlarged picture of Rayne from his stash of photos. She’d been slimmer then, and there was definitely a self-confidence in the picture that she’d lost over the years, a come-hither look that had really turned him on. He tacked the picture on the wall and then stared at it while he masturbated with fury and speed into her bag, throwing back his head and howling as he came.
He slowly surfaced to renewed pounding on the upper door. Glowering, Thad cleaned himself up. He doubted Lorena could have heard him but didn’t care if she had. He put the picture of Rayne back in with the other photos, ignoring the pounding. His mother always wanted him to do something for her.
He let his mind wander to Bibi. He felt that niggling fear about cameras and DNA but he shoved it aside. Not as satisfying as seeing Rayne head down over the rail. A necessary kill, pleasurable in its own way, but he hadn’t had enough time.
He went back to remembering Rayne. That first day at the Coffee Club he’d held his breath when he’d stood right in front of her. She’d looked at him expectantly, ready to take his order. He’d stumbled out something, half sure she would suddenly level a finger at him and shriek, “Mr. Toad!” in front of God and everybody, but she barely noticed him. She didn’t remember him? Sure, he’d changed a lot. And it was good that she didn’t recognize him. But it made him hate her more.
He had a chance to walk away, but he didn’t. He wanted her. He warned himself not to do it. Not to engage. Keep his cool. Stay aloof. He even managed to, for a while. But he couldn’t sustain. He learned her schedule at the Coffee Club and kept stopping in, acting like she was nothing to him, just another barista. She was friendly, particularly to the male customers. Flirty. Especially if they looked like money.
Eventually he couldn’t stand it. What was he waiting for? He turned on the charm and went after her full tilt. She melted like wax. No challenge. Disappointingly easy to win. Her circumstances had diminished over the years and she was ready to do anything for him. All he had to do was ask.
Truthfully, he’d liked having sex with her. He always dominated and she let him. She was so eager for a relationship with “Chas” it was almost embarrassing. She thought the disguises he used were fun. She didn’t care that he couldn’t make himself kiss that avid little mouth that was only good for blow jobs. She didn’t care that he never waited for her climax, though, unless she was faking, she managed to sure meet him there often enough.
All she cared about was whispering that she loved him and wanting him to say it back. “You know I do,” was all he could manage, a lie, but she took him at his word. And so the three weeks went.
He hadn’t had many relationships beyond what he paid for one- or two-night stands, so it was a novel experience to have someone available, to have Rayne Sealy available. He didn’t want to give it up, though he knew he had to. The struggle was solely within himself. He liked having her at his beck and call. Loved it when she begged him, and she begged him all the time.
Now he threw open the book to her picture again, staring at her vapid smile. He could almost see the maliciousness, the evil, that hid there. Her hollow heart. There was nothing to her but a shell. She and her friends were all that way.
“THAD!” Lorena’s tinny voice carried down to him. She must be shouting her head off.
He jumped up the stairs but stayed on his side of the door. “What?” he demanded loudly.
“Thad?”
“YES.”
“Open the fucking door. I need to talk to you.”
Lorena, for all her faults, rarely swore so pungently. He had no intention of letting her into his lair, but he sensed she was keen to inspect it, and knowing Lorena, she might find a way in if he wasn’t careful.
“Just tell me what you want.”
“Open. The. Door.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll find a way to get Mom to cut you out of the inheritance. I can do it. Don’t think I can’t,” she warned.
Is that what she’d really said? The door was thick. Hard to hear through even when someone was shouting. She didn’t know that she’d been the one who was cut out of the inheritance. He didn’t even want to discuss it with her.
“Thaddeus?”
He chewed on his lower lip. As soon as he realized he’d fallen back on an anxiety giveaway from his youth, he stopped himself and clenched his teeth. “Okay. Fuck it. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“NOW!”
Fuck you, he silently mouthed, as he ran quickly down the stairs, half tripping on the bottom step and nearly smashing into the metal shelving that held his books. His hand caught the edge of a sharp flange and sliced into his palm. He let out a string of invectives as blood welled. With his uninjured hand he picked up the Hobo purse and stuffed it inside an empty backpack. Then he swept the detritus from that last meeting at the overlook in a trash can. Just in case she somehow forced her way downstairs. Looking at the empty wine bottle, he saw a vision of Rayne’s adoring eyes.
He realized, deep in the back of his lizard brain, that he might miss her a little.
Heading back up the stairs, he carefully slid back t
he door to see Lorena standing there, hands on her hips, glaring at him in that entitled way.
“One of these days I’m going down there, you know.” She pointed to his lair as he closed the door behind him, turning the key to thrust the deadlock in place.
“What’s the problem?” He wanted to chew his lip. So wanted to chew his lip. But he kept himself from doing it by staring at her with his meanest glare.
“It’s Mother. She’s getting batty as hell, and they want to move her to Memory Care. Well, that’s just not going to happen. It’s already an arm and a leg at that place. You know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Memory Care. He had a mental image of hundred-dollar bills sprouting wings and flying away.
“I’m going over there to talk to them. They can’t move her without my consent. We’ve already lost enough money on her. I don’t know why she doesn’t just die.”
“Hey, that’s my grandma you’re talking about.”
She gave him a withering look. “Like you give a shit. You’re just waiting for your part of the inheritance.”
He thought, My hundred percent part of the inheritance. He’d spent long hours at Ridge Pointe with Gram, even brought the lawyer in to sign. The last time he’d visited Gram had been when the amendment to her will was signed, cutting Lorena out and putting Thaddeus in.
Lorena went on, “She’s doing fine in assisted living. They can’t make us put her in Memory Care.”