by Elle Gray
But still, even knowing all of that, I feel compelled to tell him to let the SPD do their thing and investigate the crime. I’m not a cop, and they would no doubt be a bit offended if I went bigfooting my way into their case. It’s not that I care whether or not I offend the cretins at the SPD, it’s that they can make my life a living hell if I get on the wrong side of them. They can screw with my PI license, maybe even get it pulled pending some farce of an investigation for a trumped-up, BS violation. They can probably even jerk with my concealed carry permit if they’re feeling especially vicious, something I can guarantee Chief Torres would be feeling if I stuck my nose into this.
“I don’t trust the SPD to do this right, Pax,” he says. “And I know for a fact you don’t. You can’t tell me otherwise.”
A wry grin curls the corners of my mouth upward. “Yeah, maybe not,” I reply. “But mucking around on SPD turf might cause some problems… for both of us.”
He sighs, an expression of sadness laced with rage twisting his features. Marcus balls his hands into fists. I can see him fighting the waves of emotions that are crashing down over him. I get it and my heart goes out to him.
“I understand if you don’t want that sort of trouble, man,” he says, his voice trembling. “But I don’t have anything left to lose. Somebody took my little girl from me. She was all I had, Pax.”
He leans forward and buries his face in his hands, and the dam of his self-control breaks. He sobs quietly for a minute, and I sit there awkwardly, not sure if I should try to comfort him, or if I should just let him be. Ultimately, I choose the latter. As Brody likes to tell me, I’m not the warmest or most comforting presence ever.
Marcus wipes his eyes and clears his throat before sitting up. The pain I see etched into the man’s features sends a lance of guilt through my heart. Marcus is in pain, and I have the ability to help assuage that grief. Or at the very least, I have the ability to try to assuage it. I can practically hear Veronica’s voice in my ear, telling me I have to do this. I have to help if I can.
“I can’t promise you anything, Marcus,” I tell him. “I can’t promise I’m going to find who did this.”
“You found that serial killer… Perry,” he notes.
“Different situations. And a lot of dumb luck,” I nod. “A lot of things went right with that. Things that might not go right this time around.”
He nods. “I get it. But I have a lot more faith in you than I do the SPD,” he says. “If there’s something to be found, I’m confident you’ll find it.”
He’s right. If there’s something— or somebody— to be found, I’ll find it or them. I’m good at what I do. I also have resources the cops don’t, and I can go places and do things they can’t. Or won’t. Unlike some within the SPD, I will go the extra mile for my clients. I will do what is necessary to finish a job. Or at least, take it as far as it can possibly be taken. That’s just what I do. Unlike the SPD, I don’t cut corners or half-ass things.
My only issue is the hornet’s nest I’m going to be kicking if I do this. Eventually, my path is going to cross with theirs, and when it does, I’m sure I’m going to find myself neck-deep in a cyclone of crap. Not that I’ve ever let anything like that stop me before. And I don’t intend to start now.
As I look into Marcus’ face, I see Stella’s looking back at me. She deserves justice. Marcus deserves answers. And I’m going to make sure they get them.
Five
Golden Schooner Tavern, Northeast Seattle
I walk through the front door after a day that left me feeling… good. Satisfied. It was one of those rare days I felt like I made a real difference in the world. I drop my keys on the table in the foyer, then set my bag down on the floor, and walk through the living room. I step into the kitchen and set the bottle of wine in my hand down on the counter.
“Moira?” I call.
The house is filled with the sound of some pop princess I couldn’t name in a million years, singing about love and sex. I have to say, although I don’t care for this type of music, it is kind of… sexy. There’s something in the beat and rhythm of the music and the sensuality of her voice that ignites those fires deep inside. In that moment, all I can think about is getting my fiancée naked in the shower with me.
“Moira?”
I walk through the kitchen and make my way down the hallway to the bedrooms in the back half of the house. But the smile on my face starts to slip when I hear the sounds drifting out of the bedroom. My gut churns, and I taste the bile in the back of my throat as I hear to the familiar sound of my fiancée in the throes of passion. She’s screaming out, the sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh audible even over the music.
“No,” I murmur. “She can’t— this can’t— she wouldn’t…”
My voice trails off as I step into the bedroom doorway and see Moira, clad in nothing but thigh high stockings and heels on top of a well built, dark-haired man I’ve never seen before. I stand there, watching her rise and fall on him in a sinuous motion, her body moving in time with the music.
He reaches out and slaps her backside again, harder this time, and all I can seem to focus on is the bright red handprint on her flesh. Moira squeals and throws her head back, the prolonged, salacious moan coming from her ringing in my ears. And the only thought in my mind is that she doesn’t moan like that with me.
All of a sudden, her cries of pleasure stop, and I look up from her lover’s handprint to find her staring at me. The moment our eyes meet, I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through my body. As I look at her still sitting astride the man who’s staring back at me with a cocky smirk on his face, I feel a dark energy begin to swell inside of me. At that moment, I want to rage and lash out. I want to hurt them both. I want to make them both bleed.
“You’re home early. You told me you’d be home late tonight,” she gasps, as if it’s somehow my fault she’s got another man inside of her.
The fury in me is pounding in my ears, but in the end, I do nothing. I simply stand there, staring at my fiancée. The woman I love with everything in me. Her smile is cold. Cruel. A malicious light sparkles in her eyes, and she starts to roll her hips, forcing me to watch her screw this stranger in our bed.
“Moira,” I finally manage, my voice trembling. “Why?”
She shrugs, looking like somebody who knows they’ve been caught and can’t lie their way out of it. Though she looks like she’s giving thought to trying anyway. But in the end, she knows the jig is up and doesn’t care enough to make the effort. So she drops the curtain completely and gives me an unfettered look into the dark, hateful abyss that is her soul. She finally takes off the mask I never knew she was wearing. My God, how could I have been so stupid?
“I didn’t want you to find out this way, you know,” she says flippantly. “I didn’t want you to find out at all, actually.”
She looks down at her lover. I can only assume, judging by his build, that he’s her personal trainer. Or some other meathead who works at the gym she goes to religiously. They share a laugh, and when he turns his eyes back to me, making sure I’m watching, he slides his hands up her thighs and grabs hold of her hips as she rocks back and forth on top of him, forcing me to watch her impale herself upon him. It’s as if he’s marking his territory, the same way a dog might piss on a fire hydrant.
“Why Moira? I thought you loved me,” I say.
“You never were the brightest crayon in the box,” she laughs. “I loved the lifestyle you were giving me. But you? Nah. Not so much.”
I feel lightheaded and like I might vomit right there on the carpet. I manage to hold it back. Though just barely.
“You’re a nice guy, and you’re sweet, but I need a man. A real man,” she purrs. “I need a man who can satisfy me. Ricky here gives me exactly what I need. Every. Single. Time.”
“How long has this been going on?”
It’s a lame question, I don’t really care and don’t really want to know, but those are the only words I can for
ce out of my mouth at the moment. Her laughter is sharp and bitter.
“I’ve known Ricky since before you and I ever met,” she chirps. “You might say he was my first true love.”
“That’s right, baby,” Ricky the meathead adds.
Rage and hatred intertwine with the grief and heartbreak that’s consuming every square inch of my soul. I feel something break inside of me. It’s almost as if the pieces of the puzzle that make up my soul have shattered but are shifting. Rearranging themselves. Becoming something entirely new. And my hands ball into fists at my sides as I glare at them.
“This is my house. I expect you both to be gone by the time I get back,” If you’re here when I get back, I’ll call the cops.”
“Mind if we finish first?” the guy beneath my fiancée sneers.
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turn and walk out of the house, slamming the door behind me. As I walk away from my house, away from her, my eyes burn with tears and shame colors my face as I get into my car and drive off, my engine roaring and my tires squealing.
“Another?”
His voice, deep and rumbling, pulls me out of my memories and back into the here and now. Sean, the bartender, stands across from me, looking at me strangely. I clear my throat and tap on the rim of my empty glass as the same ridiculous pop song that was playing the night I found my fiancée screwing another man issues from the bar’s overhead speakers, making me frown.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Hit me again.”
He pours me another bourbon. Neat. I like that he remembers my drink without me having to say a word. Makes things easier since I don’t like talking to people if I don’t have to. That wasn’t always the case. In fact, I used to be a fairly gregarious person. But Moira managed to burn that out of me pretty efficiently.
Now, where there was once emotional depth and warmth, there’s nothing but a cold wasteland. Ever since that night, I’ve felt empty. Hollowed out. It’s as if Moira slit me open and scooped everything out of me. Everything except the rage. Oh, that still burns quite fiercely in me.
But still, I know I have to play the game. I know I have to keep up socially acceptable appearances and play my role. I’m expected to be an outgoing, friendly man who relates to others. A man people can trust. I’m expected to show compassion and kindness.
And so I do. Every single morning, I wake up, put on a mask that’s acceptable to the world, and pretend to be that man people expect me to be. I’ve gotten quite adept at pretending. But I know I’m pretending because all I feel is rage, and all I want to do is inflict pain. Punish the Moira’s of the world for their lies and deceit. Give them all what they so richly deserve.
But I know how to manage myself. Actually, it’s all come surprisingly easily to me. So easily, in fact, I sometimes wonder if this has been below the surface my whole life. It makes me wonder if the man I used to be, the one who was so normal and staid, the man who wanted the wife, two kids, and white picket fence, was the actual mask hiding who I am and have always been.
Sure, I’ve had flashes. Glimpses of that darker side of myself throughout my life. I’ve had impulses I’m sure most shrinks would say were unnatural or abhorrent. But I’ve always brushed them away. It’s human nature to have dark, even violent thoughts from time to time. Humans are the most base, savage creatures on the planet, and I’ve come around to thinking that we ply ourselves with all of the trappings of a polite, civilized society in order to keep that monster that lives within us all locked up.
We all have a Mr. Hyde inside of us, but society demands that we keep him locked up and only present our Dr. Jekyll to the world. For most of my life, I bought into that. The serum I used to keep the beast at bay was material things. Achievements. Accomplishments. Success, money, and the respect of my peers. The better I did in life, the easier it was to keep Mr. Hyde hidden away.
I guess all I needed was for somebody like Moira to strip away all the trappings of my socially acceptable, perhaps even desirable life, and show me my true nature. A nature that as base and vile as everybody else in this filthy, faithless, feckless, disgusting world.
Perhaps I should be thanking Moira. After all, she showed me who I really am underneath this mask of stability and civility I’ve worn my whole life. Although my Dr. Jekyll remains firmly in control of my life and the face I present to the world, Moira unlocked the cage and set my own personal Mr. Hyde free.
“What’s so funny?”
I turn and find myself staring into eyes the color of milk chocolate. They’re framed by a face of smooth, porcelain-colored skin, and hair that’s like a rich, warm mocha.
“Excuse me?” I raise an eyebrow.
A gentle smile curls the corners of her plump, red lips upward. “You were laughing to yourself just now.”
“Oh, was I?” I reply, totally unaware I’d been doing so.
She nods. “Yeah. So what’s the joke?”
I shrug. “No joke. I was just reflecting on the duality of human nature.”
She cocks her head and looks at me, a small smile playing upon full, plump lips the color of roses.
“That’s pretty cliché, you know,” she says.
“What is?”
“Sitting at the end of the bar, brooding over a drink, thinking about all sorts of profound, intellectual things.”
I laugh softly and give her a shrug. “Then I stand accused. A cliché. If this must be my nature, I embrace it.”
But not all of my nature. Not by far. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“That’d be great,” she smiles. “Thank you. I’m Bethany.”
Over the years since that night, I’ve perfected my mask. The face of my Dr. Jekyll. I’ve given him a name. A backstory. I’ve practiced it until the details of this false face— this false life— slip smoothly from my lips. I’ve honed it until it’s natural to me. A perfectly fitted mask and second skin I crafted to keep Mr. Hyde safely out of sight. But he’s always there, just below the surface.
“Just call me Doc,” I reply.
I motion to the bartender, and she, somehow not surprisingly, orders a vodka cranberry. The girl can’t be more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Probably graduated recently and is just starting out in life. She wears a low-cut top that accentuates her full, round breasts and a skirt short enough to showcase long, toned legs, leaving very little to the imagination. She looks a lot like Moira did when she was younger. Her mannerisms even remind me of my former fiancée.
“Thanks for the drink,” she says as Sean puts her drink down in front of her.
“Sure,” I reply.
“So, why are you sitting here contemplating the duality in human nature?”
“Does one need a reason other than having a keen interest in the human condition?”
She laughs. “So what, are you like a philosophy professor or something?”
“Something like that,” I shrug. “What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m in tech.”
I nod, and we make small talk for a few minutes. It feels like things are going well. I’m catching a distinctive vibe from her, and there’s a little sparkle in her eye. I feel that connection building between us. She’s a gorgeous girl and reminds me so much of Moira. So much.
“Well, thanks for the drink,” she says. “But I should get back to my friends.”
“What do you say we get out of here?” I offer. “Maybe we can go grab something to eat, go back to my place…”
She gives me an awkward smile and looks back at her friends, who are all clustered in a booth, cackling together.
“Listen, you seem like a nice guy, but I’ve got a boyfriend,” she says.
A familiar thread of anger coils around my heart and pulls tight. My stomach lurches, and I feel a faint pounding start somewhere behind my eyes. I clench my jaw as I look at her.
“Does your boyfriend know you flirt with strange men in bars?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“L
ook, I’m sorry if you misunderstood my intentions. I wasn’t flirting, I was just making conversation,” she explains.
“Right. You women are all the same,” I growl. “Get everything you can, while you can, huh?”
Her face darkens with anger, and she frowns. Eyes narrowed, she looks ready to argue, but seems to think better of it and closes her mouth. Instead, she turns away from me and stalks across the bar, sliding into the booth and rejoining her friends. Within seconds, they’re all looking my way, casting dark glares at me.
I should have known better. Women are all the same. I was stupid to think Bethany would be any different than Moira, or the rest of these women. Places like Schooner’s expose these women for what they are. All I have to do is look around to find a host of women willing to spread their legs for anybody, so long as the price is right. They think all we’re good for is to provide them with a lifestyle. All they do is take, take, take, and give nothing back. They say they love us, but they lie. They always lie. That’s what they do. That’s all they do.
I get to my feet and throw some cash down on the bar. I nod to Sean and head out. I walk around to the side of the building where the parking lot’s located and get into my car. My mind still buzzing with a combination of anger and disgust; I settle back into my seat and wait. As I sit here, Moira’s sneering, laughing voice echoes through my mind. I hear her moans. Her laughs. I hear the things she said to me that night, and see what she was doing in my bed, with that man.
My chest tightens, and my belly churns with a dark, greasy feeling. The wound— the anger— feels as fresh right now as it did that night. It’s like I’m reliving it all over again. Moira’s voice grows louder, her taunting sharper. Crueler. I beat my fists against the sides of my head, squeezing my eyes shut as I grit my teeth.