Risqué 3

by Perri Forrest

  “Okay, Trevor…” the older man sighed, finally leaving his desk and making his way to the worn leather chair that he’d clearly had since the beginning of time. I could tell, because the rest of the office—from the desk to his wooden shutters—was modern. That chair, was the only archaic piece of furniture there. Signs of not being able to let go. Fuck, the doctor might need a doctor. “Sorry for that delay. I had to find my intake paperwork. How are you doing today?”

  “Intake paperwork? Is that the packet of notes that were taken when I called for my appointment?”

  “It is.” He studied the documentation, wearing thin-rimmed glasses, then crossed one leg over the other, exposing white tube socks.

  Socks and suit pants.

  Okay, dude.

  “Are we prepared for an actual session?” I asked, as nice as I could through the agitation.

  “We are.” He finally looked up from his notes. “I’m glad you could make it. Want to start by telling me a little about what’s going on?”

  “You mean, outside of what I already told your person when I called for the appointment?”

  He nodded. I was starting to feel like I was sitting across from a fucking idiot.

  “I just want to hear in your own words. That’s all. Just give me a jumpstart, and I’ll take it from there. I know you spoke with Gwendolyn, but this is me and you now. This is where the rapport is established. Is that okay?”

  Since I had no choice but to take him as sincere, I decided to loosen the reins just a little bit. But he needed to redeem himself really big for me to go full disclosure in this sitting.

  “Yeah, it’s cool.” I shifted in my seat, legs spread, arms rested across the arms of the comfortable tan sectional. “I haven’t been sleeping. Uhh, I mean, sleeping through the night. I kinda… uhh… went through something traumatic recently and I think it’s fucking with me. Messing with me, I mean.”

  He chuckled. “We’re candid in here. I don’t mind the swearing at all. Be you,” he urged.

  He got some redeemable points with that one. I could almost forgive the tube socks…

  “Well, yeah. I can’t sleep because of that. Whenever I close my eyes it’s like seeing the shit all over again.”

  “And that’s understandable, Trevor. There was an attempt made on your life. And while, through the grace of God you survived, I imagine it has to be very difficult knowing that somebody wanted you dead. That’s nothing small. It’s a moment that will forever change your life.”

  “For sure. It’s changed me. My emotional state. I need to stay busy now. I don’t even know how to just sit and be in life’s moment anymore. Shit is crazy.”

  “Have the police had any leads?” he asked. “Has the suspect been apprehended?”

  He’s been apprehended alright. And now the fucker is haunting my thoughts every fucking time I try to sleep.

  “Umm, no. Not yet.”

  “Well see, therein lies the reason that your mind isn’t at ease. You’re justified. Do you think the uneasiness comes from feeling that you’re still in danger? Because I can imagine that—”

  “I don’t think I’m in danger. I honestly… I feel it was an isolated incident. That person is probably long gone from Vegas. It is a transient town, you know. So… yeah.”

  How could I tell this man about the real reason that I was there—to figure out how to cope with taking a life? I’d had my share of fights. On the schoolyard, and even street brawls where I’d left guys bloodied and needing medical attention. But murder. That was different. That person would never see another day. His family would never lay eyes on him again. I had literally taken a life. Just the way he tried to take mine. I didn’t think it was remorse or sadness that I was feeling. I felt like I’d served vigilante justice. But I had to get used to that, and didn’t know how.

  That fucker had to die. There was no way around it. When he left me there bleeding out with four bullet holes, he never intended for me to see the time of day—ever again.

  “So, when you try closing your eyes at night. What is it that you see, Trevor? What is it that makes you open your eyes back up again, and decide that sleep just isn’t attainable?”

  My mind drifted to that night in Chris’s chop shop. On CiCi’s orders, he had arranged for Reggie to be brought there. I looked him in his eyes. The eyes of a senseless killer who didn’t give a fuck about anybody’s life—probably not even the lives of his closest friends. That look in his eyes—the one filled with hate, but with no remorse—solidified for me that the world would be a better place without him. When the cold metal of the gun was in my hand, it felt natural. Empowering.

  I thought nothing of the fact that a bullet hole would pierce this person’s body and kill him. Even when I gifted him with the same four bullets wounds, he had given me, still… I thought nothing of it. I was never sorry. In fact, I was prepared to light him up with another one had those four not done the job…

  “Me killing somebody. That’s what I see when I close my eyes.”

  An eerie silence crept over the room. Shocking, for the doctor, I’m sure. He felt a confession would soon follow. He watched me intently, through his slightly-tinted lenses. Probably wondering if he had just heard something that he would be mandated to report to the police. For whatever reason, I was amused. No doubt, his thoughts were attacking him from every angle, while he tried to decipher what he had just heard.

  “I uhhh… I don’t think I’m clear…” he finally voiced, after moments of silence.

  “Not literally,” I lied. “But in the visual, that’s what I see. That I was the shooter.”

  “Oh, okay. And was it your attacker that stood on the other end of the barrel this time?”

  I nodded as an involuntary smile spread across my face. “Yeah, it was.”

  As though he was studying me, the psych sat still for a minute or two. No writing, no speaking. He just sat, his foot doing a slow bouncing dance. Finally, he sat his notes aside, and removed his glasses.

  “It’s vindication that’s keeping you awake, Trevor. It’s the hunger for that vindication. Your sleep is being affected by the fact that you can’t get to that person. I suspect that during the day, you’re busy enough to not think about what took place. However, when your mind is in its most relaxed state—sleep—the hunter awakens.”

  “You think?”

  He nodded. “Sounds like. How do you feel about medication?”

  “I’m game. As long as it doesn’t fuck with my sex drive. I’d rather be up all night with sleep deprivation, than to have my dick not work.”

  “Oh. Umm… okay.”

  The shock on his face was priceless. He didn’t know what to say. But he was the one who said to be candid; and that was as candid as it got.

  “So yeah. Whatever you can prescribe that won’t have me unable to perform for a live audience, I’m game, Doc. Give me your best shot.”

  8 | CHRIS JONES

  Reno Police Department, Reno, NV

  A clean-cut, decked-out, Christopher Lamar Jones, sat smugly in interview room #13 at the Reno Police Department. Keeping him company, were two cops that came in intermittently, at various times. Sometimes together, and other times alone. Cop number one, the aging one, appeared the most. On this visit, they were a unit, and cop number two, was clearly agitated. Each time he entered the room to see how things were playing out, he set about pacing the floor. It was like it was something he needed to do to calm his nerves. Like a type of nonverbal tantrum from somebody used to getting their way.

  Pace all the fuck you want to, muthafucka. Y’all ain’t gettin’ shit from me.

  Despite having been in their dungeon for the past six hours without something to eat or drink, Chris was in good spirits. He had no intentions of giving in, to the two pigs. As soon as his lawyer arrived from Vegas, he would be going home anyway. He was just pissed that now he would have to spend extra money, after this shit. There was no way he was doing an almost-seven-hour drive home. He was too
tired. And there was no way that he was going to wear the same clothes he had sat in all night. Stopping at the mall, and then getting a nice hotel room for a few hours, had to happen.

  “Mr. Jones it’ll save us a whole lot of time and trouble if you just go ahead and tell us what you know about the disappearance of Marshall Allen.”

  “Marshall Allen? Is this the same guy y’all have been asking me about since you brought me in here? The same guy I told you that I don’t know? I mean, what? You think that since I haven’t eaten or had water, that my ass is delirious enough to forget what the fuck I already said? Answer is still the same.”

  “You sure this is how you—”

  “His lawyer’s here,” a voice announced, cutting into the attempt at further interrogation.

  The defeated detective entered an eye war with Chris, as his lawyer breezed in, wearing designer labels, head to toe. She was five-feet, eight inches of attractiveness, dipped in dark chocolate, and tight, short coils of hair that made her striking features jump right to the forefront. The subtle aroma of her perfume left a trail from the door to her stopping point.

  Chris smiled at detective number one with the crooked toupee, before turning his attention to Melody, his savior. As Chris pulled out the chair next to him, she rubbed his shoulder before settling in.

  “I understand my client has been in your custody all night. I’m guessing with no food or anything to drink. He’s a diabetic, so there’s problem number one.” She leaned down to retrieve a bottle of spring water, and a small pack of cashew nuts from her satchel. “Down these, Chris,” she demanded, before turning her fury on the other men in the room. “Now, what is the nature of this abuse?” she asked.

  “Abuse? Lady—”

  “Lady?” Melody shot, cutting into his condescension. “Sexist, much? The lady’s name is, Melody. Melody Mathis. Please address me accordingly, Detective. While from opposite sides of the law, we are both in respected fields, serving the same system.”

  “Well, let me readdress. Ms. Mathis… your client is one of two individuals to see Mr. Allen, around the time of his disappearance.”

  “Okay…” Melody traded looks with both cops. “And where is this other individual? Have they been in your precinct overnight, as well? Perhaps in another luxury suite, like this irresistible one?”

  “Right now, the focus is on your client.”

  “So, that’s a no. Has my client been charged with anything at this point?” she asked, her tone no-nonsense.

  “He was brought in for questioning.”

  “More like interrogation. Again, are there any charges being brought against him? Because if not, then the only thing we need to do is adjourn, so that my client can get back home, to Las Vegas.”

  “Home,” detective number two mocked, with a chuckle. “And see, that’s my thing right there. Your client seems to be a long way from home. And at the same time that one of our townspeople goes missing.”

  “He’s not a long way from home at all. His grandmother, and a few cousins live here. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m not well-versed on Reno laws. Is there one in place that forbids visits from out-of-town family?”

  “Nope. But because we suspect that Mr. Jones here, knows more than he’s telling us, we fully expect that there’ll be charges soon.”

  “You suspect. Okay, I get it now.” She shook her head and released a soft sigh. “Detective, does your department really want these problems?”

  “The only problem is your client’s. Our suspicions are not unfounded.”

  Chris sat on mute during the back and forth between his Rott of a lawyer and the bitch-ass detectives. They had no leg to stand on. They were bluffing. Yes, he was the last to see Marshall Allen. Yes, he knew where the fuck Marshall Allen was. And yes, Marshall Allen was in his last days. But that was what happened when you went around fucking on helpless little girls who would never be the same, due to animalistic behaviors imposed upon them.

  In Chris’s line of work, he had a solid team that expertly snatched up the bad guys, and delivered them exactly where the fuck they were supposed to go: to the families that wished to exact their own brand of revenge.

  “Well…” Melody started, “…until you can prove—”

  “He stays right here.” The detective’s interjection was firm. “Until Detective Raymond Matheson shows up, your clients stays put. He’s on the way.”

  Melody’s dark eyes squinted in confusion. She looked around the room, and toward the one-sided glass ahead of her. “Your squad having a slow day?” She clasped her hands together. “There’s already two of you here, and whoever on the other side of that paneling. What am I missing? You seem to be speaking in riddles.”

  “No riddles, and definitely no slow days.” He paused before dropping a bomb. “Matheson isn’t from here. He’s Vegas PD.”

  Fuck.

  A lump formed in Chris’s throat at the mention of Vegas PD. He almost choked on the shock.

  What the fuck does LVPD have to do with this shit? He hoped that his face didn’t show signs of worry. And that if it did, these crackers didn’t know how to read it.

  Keep it together, bro.

  They got nothing.

  This shit is a ploy. That’s it. Just relax.

  They got nothing…

  “Las Vegas PD for what, exactly?” Melody asked, several delayed moments in. “Why would they need to make the trip to Reno, if they have questions for him about something in their own jurisdiction?”

  He was smug with his response. “We’ll, umm… let’s just call it a collaborative effort.”

  Melody’s jaw tightened and her posture stiffened. “Collaborative effort for what?”

  Regaining momentum, the detective’s eyes were now firmly planted on Chris. It was his turn to smirk. “Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Something about a guy named Reggie Clark. But you, Christopher, might know him by, Solo…”

  Aww shit!

  Chris kept his head straight, and his composure even straighter. Now wasn’t the time to show that he was sweating. In all the years he had been doing his vigilante-type work, this hadn’t happened. And damn sure not twice in the same sitting. How had they somehow connected him to not one, but two different situations—in two different cities? The only people that knew of his work were ones that worked for him; and he knew they were loyal. Then there was his attorney. But there was no doubt in his mind that Melody was ride or die. The people on the outside that did know of the underground work, had no clue who the faces behind the operation were.

  Don’t trip, man. If they knew anything, you would already be under arrest. Just trust the process.

  And just like that, Chris relaxed. Because even with all the inner nagging, he knew one thing for certain—Melody would take care of it.

  9 | TREVOR

  I was in the middle of a stretch and yawn when my doorbell rang.

  My expectations were higher after having gone to therapy, but not much had changed in the way of my struggle with sleep. But I guess three hours of sleep was better than nothing. The three hours that I did get, didn’t come from the Benzo medication that the Doc had prescribed. I went ahead and filled it, and was cool with the fact that it claimed to slow brain activity, and help me to stay asleep longer. But where they fucked up was saying that its effects were short-term, and that long-term use may not be a good idea. Fuck that. I was better off dealing with the insomnia or whatever the fuck it was, that had invaded my life.

  So, while they were filling my pill bottle, I grabbed some 15MG Melatonin to take instead. That turned out to be somewhat of a good thing. My ritual had become washing down a pill, sometimes two, with a shot of Jack.

  I finished my stretch and took my time going to answer the door. Unless it was somebody in my immediate circle, I was about to be pissed; because a strict rule of mine, was that nobody popped up at my house unannounced.

  En route, I straightened out my t-shirt and adjusted my sweats. Before reaching the
door, I looked through the cracked shutters in my living room to see what cars, if any, were there. To my surprise, I did see a vehicle—an unmarked cruiser.

  Shit, I mumbled, while opening the door. My forced smile was securely locked in place.

  “Sorry to come by unannounced, Trevor. Looks like I got you out of bed.”

  “Nah. You actually have perfect timing, Detective Matheson. I just woke up. How’s it going?”

  “Going good. Is now a good time to speak?”

  “For sure.” I moved to the side and opened the door all the way. “Come on in.”

  “You doing okay?” he asked me, as we headed into my den where it was a bit cleaner and brighter.

  “I’m uhh… sleep is an issue. But I think I might have a handle on that.”

  Matheson nodded his head slowly, before he sat down. “Yeah, I get it. A lot of victims go through that after surviving something the kind of trauma that you did. And actually, that’s what brings me by.” He sat a flat case and his cell phone down on the small stand on the side of his seat. “I think we might have a lead.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight at attention. My blood ran warm, and my mind, set about, trying to figure out what the fuck this man was about to say. Naturally, I started thinking back to that night and the surroundings. Wondering if maybe somebody was there. Somebody that might’ve seen something. Somebody other than those of us who were supposed to be there. Was he here to catch a vibe from me? To try to catch me up?

  “Trevor?” he called out.

  “Yeah, I’m listenin’.”

  “Okay. Didn’t seem like you heard me.”

  “You said you had a lead.” I released a chuckle. “I was just waiting for you to say more. You got my undivided attention.”