Pretty sure she was right about that. Oh, and her name was Karma. Talk about hitting readers over the head with metaphors, am I right?
“Bernie,” Vic says, crouching down in front of me. This zing passes between us, making my breath catch in my throat. Fuck you, Victor Channing, I think, but I can’t make my lips say the words aloud. “You and Oscar are going to run an errand of your own.” He reaches out to take my hand, pressing something into my palm. I’m overwhelmed with the feeling of burning, certain that every place his fingers touched must be blistered beyond recognition. When I look down though, everything is as it should be, but for a single key. “Don’t say I never did anything nice for you, princess.” He leans forward, cupping the back of my head and pressing a scalding kiss to my lips before he stands back up.
“You and I have an errand to run?” I ask, looking askance at Oscar and doing my best not to curl my lip. Callum rises from his chair, leaning down to whisper against my ear before he goes.
“Good luck,” he says with a small chuckle, disappearing into the house with Vic.
“And then there were two,” I say, saluting Oscar with the joint the way Cal did to Vic. He stares at me with a wrinkled nose and a deep frown, like one might stare at a pile of dog shit. “What is this key for?”
“Well,” he says, reclining back in the chair and letting his long body stretch out like a cat’s. That’s what it is, what he reminds me of. A fucking housecat, one who’s well-fed but kills for fun, one with sharp claws and glistening canines. The thing is, for his threats to be effective, I’d have to be a mouse. Maybe, once upon a time, when the Havoc Boys chased me through the woods, I was one. Not anymore. “Despite the fact that you’ve barged into a smoothly running operation and thrown it entirely off its rails, Victor wants to continue with your list. I suggested we step back from it and deal with more pertinent matters, but apparently your cunt is made of glitter and rainbows.”
I smirk at him, taking another drag on the joint.
“Curious about it?” I quip, raising an eyebrow, but Oscar just smiles at me like a shark who’s scented blood.
“Not particularly. I’d rather eat razor blades. What are you doing here anyway, Bernadette?”
“Seeking vengeance, finding justice,” I reply with a smooth smile, wondering how I’d have felt if Havoc really had come back at me with some bullshit price. They can’t have known how deeply the thorn of want had embedded itself in my heart, how desperately I wanted to be one of them.
On the inside, underneath all of my ramblings about revenge for Pen and safety for Heather, am I just as selfish as the rest of the world?
“Boring,” Oscar replies, standing up from the chair and loosening his tie. “And here I was actually starting to wonder if you were more interesting than that.” He pauses next to me, leans down, and captures the joint between two inked fingers. “Now, let’s go find your foster brother, shall we?” He flicks the joint into the ashtray and then disappears inside, leaving me to stare down at the smoking ruins with wide eyes.
My foster brother, Eric Kushner. Name number six on my list.
Well, fuck.
Eric Kushner lives in a builder’s grade McMansion on a quiet street. His is, surprisingly, the prettiest house on the cul-de-sac. It's a three-story white colonial with a red door and spiral-cut boxwoods that frame the large porch. He's even added to the charming ambiance of his all-American house by putting a bulb with a flickering flame in his outdoor light, making it look like a gas lantern.
When I first saw it, at age eleven, I was impressed.
It looked like such a nice place. When I walked in and smelled the lemon and sugar scent from the freshly baked cookies, I thought it smelled like a nice place, too. My foster father, a man named Todd Kushner, seemed like a nice guy, too. He was relatively young, only sixteen years older than his eldest son, and an investment banker to boot.
The Kushner Family was my first experience with the foster care system, and it was everything I'd dreamed it would be. I'd fantasized about what life would be like when I escaped my mother, when I finally had a real home with people who loved me, who wouldn't hit me, who'd buy me pretty dresses and fancy toys.
For about two weeks, the Kushners were everything I'd dreamed they could be. At first, I was disappointed that there was no mother figure here for me and Pen and Heather. But Eric and Todd, they were as nice as could be.
Until … they weren't.
Bile rises in my throat as I stand on the sidewalk, looking up at the five-thousand square foot house with a sense of dread. I barely escaped this place; Heather barely escaped this place. I don't think about Penelope, not right now.
“What are we doing here?” I ask as Oscar strides up the front walk like he owns the place. He gestures for me to follow him, pausing on the front porch and waiting for me to join him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the key in my hand goes to this house. Swallowing past the memories, I reach out and unlock it. When I hesitate, Oscar opens the door for me and gestures with his hand to indicate I should follow him in.
I glance toward my right, finding a blond woman standing on her front lawn, one hand over her eyes as she shields them from the sun, watching me. Her kids tumble around her feet, one on a plastic tricycle, the other waving around a hose. If I stand here for too long, she'll call security on us.
I smile, resist the urge to flip her off, and then stroll casually after Oscar, like I belong here. After all, I used to be a part of this family, too. From my mother's clawed grip to the Kushners’ depravity to the insanity that is Havoc, it's no wonder why Vic referred to me as a beautiful nightmare. I've never been allowed to dream, after all.
Oscar closes and locks the door behind me. Not that it matters, considering we parked right in the driveway on Victor’s Harley. It's so fucking flashy, impossible to miss. I had no idea Oscar knew how to drive a bike, but I guess he’s just full of surprises, isn’t he?
“Someone in the neighborhood is going to tell the Kushners we were here,” I say, trying to resist the shiver of revulsion that comes over me as I stand in that palace of lies, as I think about Eric, pulling me onto his lap, his breath hot and stale against my ear. I was okay sitting there, at first, not like I was with the Thing. I wasn't afraid to sit with Eric; I was excited. He might've been a decade older than me, but he was my new brother, right?
“Does that feel good, Bernadette?” He'd asked, sliding his hand up my leg. I can't forget that moment, no matter how hard I try. I was wearing tights under my new dress, all gussied-up for a school play that both Eric and Todd had attended, sitting in the front row and filming me with their phones, beaming as proudly as the other parents in the audience. That's the part I can't forget, the way Eric smiled at me when I was performing, how happy I was. That, and the skim of his palm along my tights. “Would you like it if I touched you just a little bit higher?”
My hands curl into fists as Oscar takes in the place's mettle, making notes on his iPad. I'm just assuming he has all his work tied to the cloud. We haven't talked about the iPad I threw into the mirror, or the fact that I'm certain he still has access to that horrible video. How many times has he watched it? I decide I don't want to know the answer to that question.
“I'm counting on the neighborhood telling them,” Oscar says, smiling sharply. His glasses flash as he turns to look at me. “What are they going to say? Two kids on a motorcycle walked into the house and then left, but yet nothing was disturbed?” He pauses for a moment, like he's thinking. “Well, I suppose you could steal a few small things, just for fun.”
I narrow my eyes as Oscar continues down the hall, toward the gym and the bathroom that functions as a changing room for the outdoor pool. My nostrils flare. Pen and I had so much fun swimming out there. It didn't occur to me that Eric was filming us in our bathing suits for any reason other than posterity's sake.
Hah.
And at age eleven, I'd thought I was hardened to the world, that my experience with my f
ather's suicide, and my mother's abuse, the Thing's rage … I thought those things had taught me to see evil. How wrong I was.
I wait for Oscar, standing in the open kitchen/living room area with the faint smell of Eric's stupid Straight to Heaven cologne wafting in the air around us. The smell of it—like dark rum and patchouli—makes me sick, churning old memories that are better left buried.
When Oscar comes back and heads for the stairs, he pauses with one, elegant, inked hand waiting on the banister. As he glances down at me, I can see the challenge burning in his eyes.
“Coming with?” he quips, and then he continues on up the stairs, like he truly doesn't expect me to follow, like he thinks I'll chicken out. Guess he doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does.
With a long exhale, I start up the stairs, pausing on the landing, my eyes focused on the door to the room that used to be mine.
One night, after weeks of discomfort, where Eric touched and cuddled me in ways just this side of inappropriate, he came into my room at night. He laid down beside me and pulled my nightgown over my shoulder, pressing his lips to my skin. I woke up right away, my body freezing up as his hand slipped down between my legs.
He still has a scar, you know, from where I hit him with the vintage toy firetruck that was decorating the nightstand beside my bed. Eric almost lost an eye. Every day since I've wished that I'd robbed him of his sight the way he'd robbed so many girls of their sense of safety.
Pursing my lips in determination, I follow after Oscar, taking the curving staircase one step at a time, the sound echoing in the vast palace that is the Kushner's home. My palm skims up the banister, caressing the metal railing as I remember running down these stairs in my nightgown, Eric's blood on my hands.
I ran down the street, and I didn't stop running until my feet were bleeding and my entire body ached. The next morning, I called my social worker—Coraleigh Vincent—from the phone at the antique store. She came alright, but when she got there, she wasn't on my side. Not even close.
I pause on the top landing, looking down the hallway at the rows of doors on either side. Oscar takes a separate key from the pocket of his slacks and unlocks one, like he's been here plenty of times before.
“Where did you get that key?” I ask, hanging back, hating the dark wave of suspicion that's washing over me. I should trust Havoc, trust their twisted view of the world. I paid them, fair and square. I'm one of them.
“Off a hook in the kitchen,” Oscar says smoothly, pushing the door open and stepping inside. It takes me a minute to follow after him, wrapped up in old memories and pain. Penelope suffered here, too. Not quite as badly as she did with the Thing, but only because we weren't here long enough for her to be raped. Just molested. Just. I hate that I can even use that word in reference to my sister's sexual abuse.
After a moment, I gather my courage and move down the hall, entering an innocuous looking bedroom that's quite clearly decked out in Pottery Barn and high thread count sheets. Money. That's what it's decorated in: cold, hard cash.
Oscar starts looking through drawers right away, meticulously examining every inch but without disturbing anything. It's impressive, I'll admit.
“What are we looking for here? Evidence?” I ask dryly, raising an eyebrow. All Oscar does is laugh.
“What do you think this is?” he asks, his smooth voice a balm to the rage burning within me. Oscar is so goddamn calm, so cool-headed, so well-collected. “Dexter? We don't need any evidence. You said you wanted Eric Kushner dealt with, so he'll be dealt with.” Oscar pauses to smile, reaching out a finger to touch a framed photo of Eric, all dressed up in his hunting gear and hauling a rifle, his dog by his side.
“Not the dog,” I tell him, my voice threaded through with a deadly ribbon. Oscar glances my way, but just barely. “I hope you can see how serious I am about that.”
“Don't worry, darling,” Oscar oozes, infuriating me even further. “We're not such monsters that we need you to tell us the basic rules of morality. No kids, no dogs. Don't worry: there are other ways to make pigs squeal.” Oscar picks up a photo of Eric and his father next, examining it carefully before turning it over. He removes the velvet backing and extracts the photo, folding it and sliding it into the front pocket of his suit. “How about the old man? Any qualms about taking him out with the trash?”
I think about Eric's father, Todd, smiling as he handed me a pink bikini and then sat down by the poolside to watch me swim, eyes hungry, tongue running across his lower lip.
“I don't care what happens to him,” I say, shaking my head. “He never touched me, but he might as well have. He knows his son's proclivities and has no qualms about paying for them.”
Oscar smirks at me, turning and heading purposely in the direction of a decorative bookshelf. Its shelves are covered with pieces of African art, a giraffe carved from wood here, a metal elephant there. Eric thinks of himself as a white savior, heading to other countries to 'save' people who don't need saving. Knowing what I know about him now, I'm guessing he does a hell of a lot more than just virtue signaling.
“What are you doing?” I ask as Oscar digs his inked fingers beneath the edges of the bookcase, swinging it open toward us and revealing a hidden room. My mouth drops open, but Oscar just smiles at me.
“Have you ever seen a bookcase with hinges?” he asks, cocking a brow before continuing inside. As soon as I get close to the opening, I know there are going to be things in there I don't like.
“It's a pleasure dungeon,” he adds, and I just shake my head.
“No,” I growl back, feeling my skin crawl. “This is a torture chamber.”
Oscar doesn't say anything, moving into the room to look at the devices and their leather straps, their handcuffs, their ball gags. It's basically a BDSM paradise, but one where the participants have no say.
I vomit. For the second time in a week.
I don't mean to, it just happens.
Oscar doesn't look very sympathetic about it, wrinkling his nose slightly in disgust as I turn away from the smell.
“Don’t clean that up; leave it for Eric to wonder about,” he tells me, moving further into the room and letting his long fingers play across a Saint Andrew’s Cross, a sex bench, a wall covered in handcuffs. There are cameras everywhere, but none of them seem to be on; their wicked eyes are dark and shrouded. Eric doesn’t just rape girls in here; he films it.
I gag again, but nothing comes up, so I spit on Eric’s bedspread and swipe my arm across my lips. The further Vic digs his claws into me, the more my numbness, my shield against the world, gives way. And the further I get into my list, the more wicked my reality becomes. It’s no surprise that I’ve been vomiting lately. Over the Thing’s video. Over Eric’s torture chamber. My body is full of wickedness and hate, and it’s only natural that I should purge.
Without a second thought, I move into the room and shove the cross over. It crashes into the floor, denting the shiny, dark wood planks and splintering in several places. Oscar raises a brow and turns back to look at me, crossing his arms over his chest. Panting, I start in on the bench, pushing it on its side and then yanking open a black cabinet on the wall. Inside, there are whips, chains, belts, dildos, all manner of filth and fury. I grab a knife that’s stained with blood and try not to think about the things it’s been used for—or the way it might’ve been used on me, if given the chance.
Tears are streaming down my face as I plunge the knife into the cushioned surface of the upturned bench, rending the leather to shreds, turning the room white with fluff. I don’t stop there, emptying the cabinet and throwing everything on the floor. I’m not even thinking at that point; I’m reacting.
Oscar says nothing, does nothing, just simply stands there studying me as I bare myself to him in a way I never meant to. He’s seeing the raw, unedited side of me and I find the reality of that terrifying. I’m pretty sure Vic sent us here together to, like, make us bond or some stupid shit. He’s worried that we hate each ot
her; I’m worried that he’s right.
“Are you quite finished?” Oscar asks, lifting a delicate brow after I slump to my knees in the center of the ruined room. I can barely see the destruction in front of me. Instead, all I can see are memories, memories of Pen’s face after she stepped out of Eric’s room one night. Memories of her sad smile as she ushered me back to bed.
It was my fault that we came here, a place arguably worse than home.
I had no idea how bad Eric Kushner was, no fucking idea.
“I want to kill him,” I say, looking up at Oscar. He doesn’t seem surprised. Instead, he unzips his pants and my eyes go wide. If he seriously thinks something sexual is happening between us in this disgusting hellhole of a room, I may very well take the knife that’s still clutched in my hands and cut his dick off.
So … the reason nothing sexual could happen between you is because of the setting, Bernie? And not because he hates you, and you hate him?
Hate sex is pretty amazing though, right?
Instead of propositioning me, Oscar turns and pisses all over the wall. You wouldn’t think someone could look arrogant or sexy taking a piss, but somehow, in his suit and tattoos, he does. His obvious disrespect and hatred for Eric doesn’t hurt either.
My eyes find his fingers, holding his cock, and it’s impossible to miss the tattoos on it.
An inked cock. A pierced cock.
Huh.
When he’s finished, Oscar fixes his pants, and then retreats to the attached restroom to wash his hands.
“Let’s burn it down,” I say, after shoving to my feet and stumbling over to the doorway. At this point, I’d gladly do just that—with both Eric and his father inside—and then fuck Oscar in the ashes. It takes me a minute to realize the significance of that thought. Not the burning Eric and his dad alive part, but the fucking Oscar part.
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