I move inside of Audra, switching my gaze to her delectable, little face. Hiding inside that glimmering green gaze is a devil, and I find that much more attractive than Clarice's broken darkness. I am Lucas Carter, and I am still a monster. Monsters don't mix with human beings; we like to stick to our own species.
I feel the orgasm break over me like a fever, drawing sweat from my skin and a grunt from my throat, a real, animalistic sound of pleasure that fucks so hard with my mind that I pull away from Audra's grasp and rise to my feet, panting like the beast itself has taken up permanent residence in my skin.
“Lucas, come back,” Audra beckons, turning over and offering me her ass. Clarice gives me a look, straining to see around Audra's body. It's easy to see she isn't happy, not in the least. Here she is, having just confessed to a murder and I'm not paying her any attention. This is not the reaction Clarice was expecting, and it certainly isn't going to win me any points with her. Fuck. I feel like a caged animal, my eyes darting this way and that, taking in the opulent oil paintings that the Braxtons in no way deserve. My cool calmness is dissipating yet again, more proof that Audra is more correct in her assumption than I'd like her to be. Maybe I do have an anger problem? Maybe I'm not as okay with all of this as I pretend to be?
“Huh.” I snort derisively and shake my head.
Ridiculous.
“Lucas?” Audra sounds annoyed right now – understandable considering her lack of orgasm – but we're here to do a job, not to mention cover up a murder. Much as I hate to say it, Clarice Braxton comes first. My lip curls of its own accord, and I move forward, kneeling on the edge of the bed and leaning over Audra's ripe, warm body. Her sigh of pleasure makes my head hurt. As soon as we get out of here, I am going to compartmentalize this woman and get over this strange obsession. Client. She goes in the same box as all the rest of them.
“Do you want to get paid?” I whisper, hopefully quiet enough that Clarice won't hear me. She's not speaking, which is a particularly bad sign. Normally, I have trouble getting the bitch to shut the fuck up. Her babbling is incessant. “Not to mention get away with murder? Make Clarice happy.” I shove Audra aside and reach a hand down to my cock, stroking it back to attention with rough fingers. I try not to let Clarice see that I have to look at Miss Holiday in order to get hard again. Knowing you're paying someone for sex, and realizing they don't actually find you attractive or even like you is another matter entirely.
I hear Audra's huff of frustration from beside me, but this is the way my world works. If she wants to reap the benefits, she'll put in the work. Clarice smiles at me as I move between her legs, and the expression only serves to ignite my fury. I scowl and slip the gag back into her mouth before she can say anything to piss me off.
“This is our last session, Mrs. Braxton,” I say, thrusting into her to soften the blow. I fuck her hard and fierce, using Audra's face, Aliyah's … even Robbie's, to get myself into it. By the time she finally fucking comes, I glance over my shoulder to find that Audra Holiday is missing. Without skipping a beat, I leave Clarice tied to the bed and steal one of Mr. Braxton's expensive suits, pausing in the doorway to the ugly bedroom to nod my chin at Clarice. “Farewell, my darling,” I say, turning away as she starts to thrash and scream beneath the gag.
On my way out, I run into Mr. Braxton dressed in a furry, pink bunny suit with two flamboyantly gay men on either arm. I tip my new hat at him, and we both go on our way. Neither of us bothers to speak.
The Italian silk couch is beyond cleaning, so I strip off the fabric, carefully cutting away anything with a stain and burn it in my backyard, covering the evidence with piles of dried grass and the pruned branches from my rose bushes. While the debris goes up in flames, I pull the couch outside and stick a 'FREE' sign on it. Somebody will take it, repurpose it, and it will disappear from my life along with any leftover DNA evidence. Before dropping into bed for some much needed rest, I call my favorite furniture store and order a similar model in chocolate silk.
I stumble into my room and strip off the jeans and T-shirt I switched into as soon as I got home. On the drive back, it had suddenly struck me that I'd thrown my other suit in the washing machine. I haven't had a chance to check on it yet, but considering it was dry clean only, I assume it's ruined. My new suit is worth ten times what that one was, so I cut my losses and hang the damn thing up.
“Tomorrow will be a different fucking day,” I say, paraphrasing my mother in the worst way. She never used the word fuck, not even when my father was beating her. Or me. But she always did have such a pathetically hopeful view on life, one that rubbed off on me and stayed stamped into my skin until Aliyah died. Oh, no wait, let me rephrase that: until she was murdered. My right eyelid twitches and the rage washes over me like it has every single day since then. Darkness swirls in my mind, reminding me that I might've been normal, that if Aliyah hadn't died things might actually have been as okay as my mother always thought. I scowl and climb into bed. Fortunately, when I sleep through the rest of that miserable day and well into the night, I don't dream.
When I wake up, I find an apple pie sitting on my front porch.
“Goddamn it, Robbie,” I snarl as I snatch up the dessert and rip the note from the top, tearing the plastic wrap in my anger. I still like you, Luke. And it's okay. Robbie. I squeeze my fist tight, crumpling the piece of paper and the swirling blue ink into a ball. I consider tossing the pie at the wall to get out some frustration, but my meticulous cleanliness won't allow it. Anything that destructive or messy isn't worth it. Instead, I gather myself together and put the pie on the kitchen counter. I know what I need right now, and it isn't a visit to a client. Right now, I need to cook.
Wrapping an apron around myself, I pull out the most domestic ingredients I can think of: sugar, flour, butter, eggs. Looking at the picture perfect display on my counter makes me feel as normal as I ever do, and eventually I find myself whipping up a recipe from memory. An American classic, the chocolate chip cookie, and the perfect thank you present for my completely untouchable and inappropriate little neighbor.
I put the cookies on my best china plate and cover them, taping a note to the top just as Robbie had done.
Thank you for the pie. My girlfriend and I enjoyed it immensely! Lucas.
I know the words will hurt Robbie, but I also know it's for the best. However much she reminds me of Aliyah, she isn't Aliyah, and I'm no longer an eighteen year old with more hopes than sense. I put the apron in the washing machine and clean up, dressing in my new suit before taking the cookies over. I don't bother to knock, simply set the plate in front of the Carrells' door with a grimace. Turning the full force of my rejection on Robbie feels right, but it doesn't necessarily feel good. Ah, so all of a sudden you're a bleeding heart now, Lucas? I scowl as I descend the porch steps and head towards my car. As I'm making my great escape, the phone in my pocket rings and I pull it out to find Margarite Simmons on the line. Hmm. I certainly could've used her help the other day, but now I don't think I have the energy for a client that dark. I ignore the call, silence the phone and climb into my Chrysler.
I barely make it down the driveway before Audra Holiday's hideous little Mini Cooper pulls in beside me. I despise the strange sense of elation that titillates my empty soul.
“What on earth, may I ask, do you fucking want?” I only roll down my window a crack. Audra doesn't respond, simply shuts off her vehicle and climbs out. I try my best not to frown as she comes around the hood and climbs into the passenger seat. Despite the early hour, she's wearing a red cocktail dress that's ridiculously short. Paired with her overdone makeup and partially exposed bra, she looks like she's off to a bachelor party – as the entertainment. Never mind the fact that I was on my way to drive by her house, I'm irritated at her sudden initiation into my life.
She doesn't buckle herself in as I jerk out of the driveway with a slam of my foot on the gas. I watch as she rocks around and braces herself with a hand on the door.
“An
orgasm,” she says, matter-of-factly, like I'll understand what the hell she's even talking about. I take the next corner fast, enjoying the slithering hiss that escapes between Audra Holiday's red, red lips as she hits the seat back hard. “You are such a sadistic fuck,” she whispers as I speed onto the highway and continue on towards my original destination of the day. If Audra wants to come along, so be it. I just hope she can deal with the consequences. A smile tweaks my lips.
“An orgasm?” I ask as I hit the fast lane and speed around several semis.
“Yeah. You asked what I wanted, so I told you. An orgasm. It's why I'm here.”
“So you pop over to my house midmorning to ask for an orgasm? And you assume I'll just hand you one?” Audra scoffs at me and tugs her dress down her creamy thighs. Personally, I wouldn't mind fucking her again, but it has to be under a client relationship. After some sleep it's become even clearer to me: Audra Holiday is dangerous and these strange feelings I have towards her will only get worse with time if I don't clamp down on them.
“I gave you a good handful yesterday, so I think it's only fair. You said you weren't like other men, that you didn't like to use women.” She raises both red eyebrows at me in question and my hands tighten on the steering wheel, almost imperceptibly but I know she sees it. Miss Holiday seems to notice all the little details, doesn't she?
“If you were a man and I was a woman, how do you think this conversation would sound? You're telling me that I owe you sex?”
“Yeah, well, men tell me that all the time. That my dress is too short or my boobs are too big, so I owe them a fuck. I get where you're coming from, but they're never going to stop doing that, so equality means I get to return the favor, right?”
“You have a strange way of thinking, Miss Holiday, but to be quite frank, the only way we'll be sleeping together is if you pay me.” I punctuate this statement by pulling the car into a tight parking space and slamming my foot on the brake, sending Audra straight into the dash. She manages to catch herself, but gives me a look that should rightfully kill. I ignore her, shutting off the ignition and opening my door. Audra follows after, scrambling out of the car and struggling to adjust her too tight dress and balance on her five inch heels.
“The Farmers' Market?” she asks incredulously, looking over at me in me my ridiculously expensive suit. It's in desperate need of a tailor – I am a much fitter man than Mr. Braxton – but even with a loose jacket, it looks like it cost more than my car. Most likely because it does. “You wore a suit to The Farmers' Market?” I ignore her and start down the sidewalk, towards the red and white sign blocking off vehicle access to the plaza. “What the hell could you possibly be doing at a farmers' market?”
“Do you presume to know me, Audra Holiday? We just met. For all you know, I work here.”
“Not possible,” she says, stumbling up to me and keeping pace on my right. Her pale skin and vibrant hair gleam under the sunshine, giving her a completely different look than she had last night. Even with the over the top makeup and the cheap dress, she looks like a vision. I force my attention forward and shut down those thoughts. Whether or not she's attractive is irrelevant; I have plenty of clients I'd never look twice at otherwise. I'm being paid to assuage the darkness, not have a good time.
“And why's that?” I ask as I pause next to a colorful display of peppers. My tongue tingles and my throat gets tight. If I were still capable of love, I would love fresh produce. As things stand, it merely gives me a hard-on. Audra sees and gives me a strange look that the woman inside the stand doesn't catch; she's too busy offering me a bag of peppers for free. I guess the suit does look good. I smirk and hand her a twenty, extracting a reusable bag that I've folded up tightly in my pocket. It's all part of the game. Serial killers, demons of darkness, men who fuck the Devil for money, they don't use cloth fucking bags. And they don't shop for ingredients to make fresh fajitas on sunny Saturday mornings. It's all a system of checks and balances; keep the weird hidden and flaunt the normal, the average.
“You're blowin' smoke up my ass, aren't you?” Audra asks, letting that sexy Southern drawl ooze out from between her lips. From what I've seen, she doesn't allow it to happen often. I must have truly caught her by surprise.
I smile.
“You still haven't answered my question,” I tell her, putting the peppers gently into the bag and dropping it by my side. All around me, the world is teeming with life. The fountain in the center of the plaza sprays cool streams of water into the air at random intervals, drawing screams of joy and excitement from the children gathered around its stone edges. Booths rest in well-deserved quiet, hidden in the shadows of their awnings, farmers peddling their wares in a way that may soon die out. The day the world's food is purchased packaged solely in plastic, crammed into bins and shelves and soulless supermarkets, that is the day humanity will truly fade to nothing.
I pause next to a booth ripe with red strawberries, bursting from green baskets like explosions of summer. I lean down and let my eyes flutter closed, allowing the wash of darkness to recede, just a bit. Food is the essence of life, and a true connection to the soul. It's the only way I have left to feel it anymore, the only way I can be certain I've still got one in there somewhere, deep down and buried in black.
“It's not possible that you work here,” she repeats, her voice taking on a strange, tinny quality. I pass some money to the vendor and snatch up several baskets of strawberries. When I realize Audra isn't following after me, I pause and glance over my shoulder, catching her in a glassy eyed trance. People stream around Audra Holiday as if she doesn't exist. They laugh and smile, tease one another, press ripe cherries between porcelain teeth. Nobody notices the girl who's drowning in the midst of it all.
Interesting.
I turn back towards Audra and take a few, careful steps. I imagine that this face, this empty gaze and slack jaw, were one of the last images Mark ever got the chance to see. I approach with caution.
“It's not possible that you work here because my brother does. He's spent every Saturday here since he was fifteen.” Audra snaps to with a defiant leer, shouldering past me and continuing on through the throng of normalcy like she belongs here. I don't bother to chase after her, but I do head in that general direction, picking up some onions along the way. When I come across Audra again, she's waiting for me on a bench, one hand resting on her pale thigh, the other holding an apple to her lips. “I come here every so often to check on him, and I've never once seen you.”
“Are you so certain?” I ask, stopping for just a moment to stare out across the square of green grass that frames the central plaza. A band has just taken up the stage, filling the air with the sweet, sharp sounds of an amateur musician.
Audra snorts at me and stands, scraping her teeth down the apple's white flesh.
“Oh, I'm sure.” She nods her chin at me and we move on without discussing her strange episode. I'm more than willing to, of course, provided we're both naked and a price has been agreed upon. Until then, this is nothing more than a fluke, one last moment of walking with Audra Holiday as simple strangers. “So what are you really? A chef?”
I smile, a genuine one this time. I find it amusing that she's still entertaining the idea that I'm anything more than I appear.
“I told you, Miss Holiday, I'm a demon who drinks in darkness. That's it.” She raises both red brows at me and puts on a sickly sweet smile for some teenage boys who are checking her out. If I were Audra, their penetrating gazes and lascivious smiles would put me into a frenzy. Her coping mechanism is to pretend she likes it, to trudge through life as if she doesn't care that she's constantly objectified. Her emerald eyes tell a different story however. Fury burns bright as the sun, but she doesn't acknowledge it.
“You mean you make a living off … ” Audra's voice trails away and she shrugs, shaking her head in disbelief. “You know, when I got up this morning, my bank account was a hell of a lot less negative. That Clarice Braxton bitch actually paid
us for what happened yesterday.” Audra pauses, thinks for a moment. “Actually paid me. I think she's in love with you or something.” I shudder involuntarily and try to hide the motion under the pretense of removing my jacket and draping it over my arm. As per usual, Audra doesn't miss the motion. “But you hate her, don't you?” I refuse to respond to that and continue on towards the arts and crafts section of the market. It's not my favorite spot – most of the items here are too homemade, not professional enough for my taste – but the crowd is thinner and the air seems cooler. “Do you hate Pam, too?”
“Pamela Tribbard is a client of mine. I don't know what your relationship with her is, but if you want to know, you'll have to ask her directly.”
“Pam is my mother.”
I stop walking. My bag of groceries feels heavy all of a sudden, and my blood's gone cold.
“My biological mother anyway. She abandoned me and my brother when we were eight and five, respectively, to go start a second family. I think she's on family number four now, but it looks like she might stick with this one.” Audra gives me a blank look, as if she's discussing the weather. “We reconnected when I was eighteen. I guess you could say we're friends now?”
“You've forgiven her?” I ask, trying to wrap my mind around the situation. It's not entirely unexpected, given Audra's interior makeup. Obviously something had to happen to make her this way; most monsters aren't born this vicious, filled with this much hate. Except for Margarite Simmons. That bitch was born bad.
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