“Good evening, Robbie,” I respond gently. Nicknames. I normally don't use them, but Roberta calls me Luke, so I call her Robbie. In my mind, she's still a child, and you don't fault children for the things they say – you embrace them. I feel like children as a collective whole are my polar opposites, like if I'm rotting on the inside, they're fresh and new. I try to take any sign that the universe isn't as deplorable as I've come to believe it to be. “I take it you've had a busy day?” I raise my eyebrows at the row of fresh flowers along the fence. Roberta blushes.
“My mother planted them,” she says with a shrug and a smile. I keep mine plastered on my face as I toss her a wave and disappear into the sanctity that is my front porch. This house is old, much older than me which is something I find comfort in. It's easy to get into a routine, delve into a darkness that overrides everything else. When I come home and touch my fingers to the heavy oak door, I can feel the presence and the passing of the people that came before me. I take solace in the fact that one day, I too will die.
I unlock the door and let myself in, enjoying the sudden quiet that descends once the house is closed up behind me. There are only small sounds here: sprinklers, laughing children, the occasional slam of a car door. I used to own a penthouse apartment in the center of the city, but I gave that up when my fiancée left me. The forced intimacy with my neighbors, with the doorman, that was almost enough to break me, but the noise was nearly deafening. Not inside the apartment, of course, but outside. The traffic, the constant construction, the shouting. The beast is easily riled up, so I find that this peaceful suburbia works better for me. I might be the only single man within twenty miles, but that's okay. I'm not looking for a relationship.
“Home sweet home,” I growl when I'm certain that nobody's listening. The gloves come off as I fling my briefcase onto the couch and move into the kitchen like a nightmarish specter of a man. I pause next to the sound system mounted on the wall and flick through my music with a shaking finger. I pause on I Walk Alone by Tarja and switch the volume up as high as it can go.
My eyes flutter closed and my lips part gently, a stark contrast to the rage that's contained in my hands. My fingers tremble as I curl them tightly against my palm. The anger builds in the back of my throat, fighting for release. This happens every night: after I've allowed the demon to walk freely, he's difficult to reign back in. Once I've got him, I can control him, but we always have this brief tussle. As if I could ever forget that he's there.
My head falls back and my fingers rake through my hair as I let out a scream of rage, releasing a growl and the sounds of animalistic frenzy that I refuse to show in front of my clients. As far as they know, I'm all controlled ire. I am their dark God, the ruler of their filthy soul. My knees go weak, but I don't let myself fall. Instead, I drop my chin to my chest and brace my hand against the pale yellow of the wall.
Sweat drips down my face and pools on my lips. I lick it clean away and take in a shuddering breath. Better. Much better. I smile and stand up straight, turning away and examining my kitchen with a critical eye. I have an industrial size fridge on one wall and a professional range on the other. For the most part, I've tried to keep the integrity of this house intact, but nobody likes a small, cramped little kitchen. Not even Lucas Carter.
I slip my suit jacket off and drape it over the back of one of the chairs that sits around my small, wooden table. It's made of solid mahogany, stained nice and dark. I run my fingers over the smooth shine of the wood and smile softly. Alone. I like being alone because there's nobody there to judge me, to watch my every action with critical eyes. My clients help me control the pain, but they don't know a damn thing about me.
I roll up the crisp, white sleeves of my shirt and start towards the refrigerator. A moment later, my phone rings, and I grit my teeth angrily. The only people who have my number are clients, and I don't much feel like dealing with anymore today. I'm still pissed off at Mrs. Braxton. I spin on my heel, letting out a small snarl under my breath. They know not to call me after six. I have very, very strict rules about that.
“Hello?” I speak briskly, doing my best to control the seething ire that's whirling around in my gut. My cock rises to attention, brushing against the insides of my slacks and making me bite at my lip. I want to go see Leslie again, throw her over that table and fuck this frustration out of me. I emptied the pot, and yet, here it is. Back again. Filling me, making my insides ache.
“Mr. Carter?” the squeaky voice on the end of the line makes my teeth hurt. Pam Tribbard. A small, stout woman with oversized breasts and a fetish for being spanked, slapped, and generally kicked around. She pays me hefty sums to put my boot on her back and force her to lick the inside of her own toilet bowl. I haven't seen much of Pam lately because she pisses me off – even more so than Mrs. Braxton. I give my clients safety words, but I hate when they use them. Pam gets into these moods where she begs me to hit her, shove her against the wall, fuck her in the ass. And then, just as I'm about to climax, she calls out the word. I'm getting livid just thinking about it.
“What is it, Pamela?” I ask, glancing over at the fridge with longing. Inside those stainless steel doors is a pair of fresh lamb chops, some fresh arugula, and a cloth bag filled with peaches. I want to light the kitchen on fire and cook myself a meal worth drooling over, something that tempts parts of me that have nothing to do with my dark side. I just want to eat a good fucking meal. “I don't like to be disturbed after hours.”
“I know,” she says, but I really don't think she does. I'm considering blocking her number even as we speak. “But I have a friend who really needs you.”
My spine prickles, and I wet my lips. When I speak next, my voice is considerably more calm, and my cock is considerably stiffer. I reach my fingers down and trail my nails over the rock hard bulge in my hands.
“Is that so?” It's been a long, long while since I've taken on any new clients. Most people don't understand what I'm offering. They see a tall man in a dark suit, muscles, a wicked smile. They think I'm a common whore. That bothers me. But this is … different. Needs me. I want to be needed. I want someone to desperately crave their release as much as I do. I have yet to find a client who seems to be truly suffering as much as I am.
“Her name is Audra Holiday. I gave her your number. I hope that was okay?”
I purse my lips.
“That was certainly not okay,” I snap, raking my fingers through my hair to calm myself. On occasion, clients take it upon themselves to spread my business, as if they're doing me a favor. I don't run a barbershop or a fucking bookstore, a curiosity shop or a nail salon. My business is nobody's business. “Give me the girl's address and phone number,” I command and, sensing hesitation on Ms. Tribbard's part, I get mean. “Listen to me, you worthless sack of shit. You will get your fat ass up and find me that information if you don't have it handy. If you do, you'd better give it to me now because if I find out you're lying, there's going to be a hefty price to pay.” Pamela breathes heavily into the phone. “And that price will not involve spankings of any kind. It will simply consist of me blocking your number.” You can walk in the dark alone, with no moonlight to illuminate your path. I shudder and unbutton my pants with my free hand, taking hold of my shaft and stroking it with tense fingers. I squeeze so tight it almost hurts – and I like it. “You can suffer in silence,” I hiss and there comes a crackling from the other end of the line.
“Audra Holiday,” Pam begins, voice quivering as she reads off a phone number and an address that's coincidentally not too far from my place. I smile and hang up as the bitch begins to plead, tossing my phone onto the counter as I place a hand against the cabinets and continue to massage my dick. I'm in desperate need of a shower, but today's thrown me so far off course that I'm stumbling around disoriented. I don't like that feeling. I grip my dick so hard that I grunt in pain, forcing myself to keep stroking until I climax in a messy burst across the Shaker cabinets.
“Fuuuuck,” I draw
l out, tucking my cock away and glancing remorsefully at the fridge. No lamb for Mr. Carter this evening then. Hmm. I zip up my slacks and grab a roll of paper towels. I need to go out, but first, I'm going to clean up my mess.
After I shower, I dress myself in a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and go for a jog. I like to run. Running clears my head for a brief moment in time, lets me think without the usual cobwebs shadowing my perception. I always jog by the houses of potential new clients. Nobody notices joggers, but it gives me the chance to take in any information I need. I can practically smell the darkness on others. I'll know right away if this girl, Audra Holiday, will work for me. I don't judge the women on their physical features, but on the way they present themselves. I look for signs that there's something in them besides a desperate need for kink. If there's even a pinprick of this same blackness I carry around on their soul, then I take them. Believe it or not, even Mrs. Braxton has it.
I haven't even broken a sweat by the time I hit Audra's block, slowing down a bit when I notice a car pulling up to the curb. It's a Mini Cooper which I don't like – don't ask, I just don't – but the woman climbing out immediately grabs my attention.
Pale white toes peek out the end of a pair of red heels, leading my eye up to shapely calves, toned thighs and a deliciously dangerous hem on a black dress. The woman that follows has a curvy body with perky breasts, a sad smile, and a serious problem: she's with a man. I frown as he follows after her, climbing out the passenger side and stumbling dangerously on the sidewalk.
“You're going to invite me in, right?” he asks as the woman slides her hand along the orange paint of her car, lingering on the driver's side a bit longer than necessary.
I pause, pretending to rest near the stop sign at the end of the block as I take a chug of my water bottle. My throat works in slow, controlled movements as I examine the girl's wavy red hair. It falls softly to her shoulders, floating just above them like clouds in a sunset. My frown eases up a bit. I said I didn't judge clients on their looks, but it doesn't hurt when I find them physically attractive.
“I don't know, Mark,” she says, sounding exactly the opposite. She does know, and she doesn't want Mark to come in. I watch surreptitiously, waiting to see how this whole thing will play out. The girl – who I simply assume is Audra Holiday – tucks her hair behind her ear and watches Mark with eyes the color of kelp, a deep dark green that draws my gaze in and works my body into a violent frenzy. Yes, I think. I will have this woman as a client. It's not often that I have such a visceral reaction to a woman. I turn away, deciding I have enough information to make my decision, when I hear an enraged growl from behind me.
I spin to find Mark coming around the back of the car, stumbling like the drunken fool that he is. His unkempt facial hair and watery brown eyes make me sick to my stomach. I dislike weak men. I pause and lift my chin, letting the wind work its cool fingers through my dark hair.
“You drove me all the way back here and now, what, am I supposed to call a fucking cab?” he snarls, slamming his palms into the rear windshield of the Mini.
“I changed my mind. I'm sorry. Go home, Mark,” Audra says, backing up onto the sidewalk and pausing with her purse in one hand, legs slightly splayed, pulse working furiously at her throat. This is when I see it, when it just strikes me so hard that I almost stumble. Darkness. I see it there in her face, in the stance of her body. Her voice is soft, almost deceptively weak, but I can feel the true rage in it. My tongue flickers over my lips as my balls tighten and my cock threatens to release in my pants. “You basically begged me to give you a ride over here. I never promised you anything, and even if I did, I have a right to change my mind.”
“This is fucking bullshit,” Mark slurs, moving back around the hood of the car and getting in Audra's face. I take a step forward – I dislike weak men, but men who hurt women needlessly infuriate me – and Audra's eyes flicker my way. When she sees me, she freezes and something passes between our gazes, a slice of dark energy that nearly staggers me. Mark takes advantage of this moment to slam his palms into her chest, knocking her backwards over the short cement wall and onto the upward slope of grass. When he grabs her by the hips and pulls her towards him, Audra reacts by letting her body go limp. I watch in mounting frustration as she lays there, eyes pointed up at the sky and does nothing.
The darkness affects us all in different ways. In Audra, it's convinced her to give up and give in to a terrible fate of meaninglessness and pain.
My feet are moving before I can stop myself. My hands grab Mark by the shoulders and toss him back against the Mini Cooper. I don't hold back when I hit him; why should I? My face never shifts expressions, and my body still stubbornly refuses to break a sweat. I crack Mark's jaw with a well-placed punch, bruise his belly with another hit, and toss him to the pavement like a bag of last week's trash. I kick him one more time for good measure, and turn back to find Audra lying still on the lawn, legs dangling over the cement wall. She makes no move to stand up or to look at me, so I reach down, grab Mark by the legs and drag him around the corner.
Neighbors are starting to stare, so I cut them to the chase and get out my cellphone to call the cops.
“Look into my eyes, Mark,” I growl at him. I generally try to hold those sounds back. They're too bestial, too feral for the world to hear. But I think that Mark needs them, desperately so. When he simply groans and tries to roll away, I grab him by the hair and drag his face over to mine. Weak. This man is so fucking weak that it makes me sick. If I am an alpha male in this world of wolves, Mark is an Omega. The lowest of the low. I resist my wild inner urge to simply kill him. I haven't killed anyone in public view – yet. I imagine that if I do, I won't be able to stop. That's how dark the demon is. I use sex instead. That is my outlet. “Look into my fucking eyes.” I keep my voice low but firm. When the dispatcher answers, I report an attempted assault and state quite clearly that the man in question has taken off on foot. I sincerely hope for his sake that Mark takes that hint. I hang up and help the man to his feet.
He stumbles against a nearby tree and casts me a look that's one part terror and one part anger. I understand the second part quite clearly, but I cannot even fathom the first. I haven't felt terror in years. Nothing frightens me. I wish it did. Believe it or not, fear is one of those emotions you don't miss until it's gone. It's a healthy feeling, at least in small doses.
“You will walk away from here quickly if you have any sense of self-preservation,” I say to Mark. I don't wait around to see if he'll listen. People have a tendency to do what I say – whether they're paying me for the privilege or not. I move back around the corner, hoping in some strange piece of my still dead heart that I'll see Audra. When I come in view of her house, I catch just a glimpse of the door slamming shut behind her.
The next morning, I am in a foul fucking mood, and the beast is hungry. I didn't eat last night, could hardly stop to think. I spent most of the evening in front of my computer, attempting to assuage the ache inside of me with my hand while I watched the darkest, dirtiest porn I could find. I didn't dare call any of my clients – I was afraid for their safety if I did.
Now, in this fog drenched morning, I can barely form coherent thoughts. I am out and driving, heading towards Leslie's house in the hope that she'll be home and willing. Or not. I shake off that sickening thought and tighten my hands into fists, curling my fingers around the steering wheel. Pamela calls me three times on my way over to Leslie's, but I don't answer. Fuck that fat bitch. The last thing I want right now is to have to listen to her wheedling little voice.
Three blocks south of my destination, I find a better outlet for my rage.
Mark.
I lick my lips and uncurl my fingers. The beast isn't particular – sex is not its sole source of sustenance. Oh, believe me, the beast likes sex. Loves it, even. That is, if the beast were capable of such emotions. But violence works just as well.
My green eyes follow Mark as he crosses the street directly
in front of my car, oblivious to the seething rage that's burning through me, cutting an abrasive path of hunger that has to be soothed soon. If I don't tamp down on the emotion, somebody is going to get hurt. I'm certainly not in the business of hurting my clients – unless they want me too, of course – so perhaps Mark can lend me a helping hand.
I swipe my hand down my face. Rapist. Essentially human garbage. As far as I'm concerned, Mark is not worth the breath in his lungs. I flick on my blinker, my mind flashing back to that image of Audra Holiday laying on her back. Broken. Overwhelmed. Drenched in darkness. If my brain constructs an image with slightly redder hair, slightly paler skin, slightly fuller lips, how am I to know?
I decide to follow Mark for awhile, see where he's headed. The wonderful thing about my job is the flexibility. I have all day. The monster inside of me purrs, rubbing against my soul with pleasure. Just a matter of time, my pet. I park my Chrysler across the street from a gentlemen's club. It's not in the best part of town, so I toss my keys onto the passenger seat and leave the door unlocked. If some lowlife sack of scum wants to steal the car, I'd prefer they didn't break the windows. I have a tracking device installed, so if push comes to shove, I'll hunt down the thief and take care of him, Lucas Carter style. It wouldn't be the first time.
I step out of the car and shake out my sleeves, adjusting the cuff links at my wrists. I don't often splurge on expensive items, but everyone needs a slight indulgence now and again. These, are mine. Though I've chosen a less expensive pair to wear today – blue lapis pieces with a tasteful mixture of sterling silver and 18k gold accents – I'm going to stand out like a sore thumb in this seedy little joint. I force the scowl from my face as the beast rears its head in rage. The cuff links come off and go in my pocket and I lose the suit jacket, slinging it over my arm and running rigid fingers through my hair, tousling the darkness until I get the look I'm hoping for. I throw some swagger in my step and put a sloppy smile on my face.
Taboo Unchained Page 2