by Tempi Lark
Fourteen
Gambrielle
“Breaking news of the hour: the boyfriend of murder victim, Stacey Hurd, has been arrested and charged with suspicion of murder. This comes four days after Hurd’s body was found abandoned in a Los Angeles warehouse. Reporter Tamara Poe has more. Tamara?”
A woman appeared on the flat screen, her perfectly manicured pointer finger directing attention to the brick warehouse behind her. “That’s right, Dan. I’m here at what used to be the most popular floral shop in town, Floral Bay Creations. It’s hard to believe but two years ago this building was the go-to leader for wedding bouquets; women across the world traveled to this location to see the hundreds of arrangements created weekly by Jan Bay.”
Murder at an floral shop?
Dear Lord…cold chills went down my spine.
“Stacey Hurd, an aspiring ballerina from San Francisco, was found hanging from a closet on the second floor. There was no suicide note, and her family says there was no indication of any mental illness. They say she was a quiet soul who spent most of her free time in a dance studio.”
An older woman, who I assumed was Stacey’s mother, appeared on screen. “She had everything to live for—which was why we found it so odd that she had taken her own life. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around what happened. Even after the detective told me his findings, I shook my head and said no, not my Stacey.”
I took a generous sip of my soda and forced a smile at Thorne, who was reciting each word from memory. Omg…my soda caught in my throat and I coughed—which earned me a soft pat on the back from Laces.
This was a bad idea.
Really bad.
I looked back at the screen. A photo of a ballerina with long, black hair, and a trim waist faded in and out. “Everything was going fine until she met him.” Her mother said.
“By him, Stacey’s mother was referring to model, Thorne Walsh. The two had met in early 2016 and became inseparable, with Stacey often telling her mother that Walsh was the one.”
“He had the looks, money—um, a nice condo in the city.” Stacey’s mother said, wiping away a tear. “Anything she wanted, he gave her.”
“That included a full ride to California University, a flashy Mercedes, and her own credit cards to spend to her heart’s desire.” Reporter Tamara Poe said. Images of shiny cars, stock footage of a university campus and candid shots of Stacey toasting at an elaborate birthday party entered the screen. “So what went wrong?”
I waited with baited breath for Tamara to explain, hoping and praying that maybe there was some kind of misunderstanding. Maybe they were doing this to me as a joke? But then the clip cut to Thorne sitting in a well-lit room with a reporter named Carlos. “Did you kill Stacey Hurd?” he asked.
Thorne rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Define kill.”
My breath caught.
“Did you put a noose around Stacey’s neck and push her off of a chair?”
“No.” Thorne’s voice was very even as he spoke. “Did I say things to her to promote the suicide—Yes.” He didn’t bat a lash. “I’m not going to be polite and mince words when someone I love says, Thorne, I’m pregnant with your best friend’s child, we’re going to get married...”
The reporter held up his finger. “So she cheated, but did she deserve to die for it?”
Thorne shrugged. “Did I deserve to be cheated on?”
“It’s not the same.” The reporter argued.
“I beg to differ. She put me through hell, and now she’s in hell.” Thorne crossed one leg negligently over the other and smiled back at the reporter. “The only reason I am being thrown shade is because I’m being honest. Honesty scares people.”
The reporter quickly clapped back, “or maybe you’re crazy?”
Thorne didn’t miss a beat. Flashing a brilliant smile he nodded, “Maybe, I guess that’s for the court of popular opinion to decide.”
With each passing minute I became morally torn about Thorne’s past. Stacey—God rest her soul—had been living the high life from model, Thorne Walsh. She had everything, except what she really wanted, his best friend. And now she was six feet under because of her stupid decision. Wait, that’s awful to say, isn’t it? My features screwed up as I looked at Varla, who was throwing back chips like they were going out of style.
“Pssst.”
She leaned toward me.
“I don’t know how I feel about this. I want to feel pity for the poor girl but…” I trailed off and looked back at the screen, which now had a photograph from Stacey’s funeral being shoved in Thorne’s face by the reporter. Thorne waved him off like an insect and the entire room broke out in laughter.
“That is the best part.” Reyes caroused as he clapped his hands. “He’s going to suffocate you with the funeral YOU PAID FOR Thorne!”
Hmmm… I chewed on my lower lip. “What am I supposed to be feeling right now?” I blurted out. Thorne paused the clip. “I guess what I want—no, need to know—is do you feel um, the slightest bit bad for pushing her over the edge?” Yes, that’s a good way to put it. He had driven poor Stacey to madness until she couldn’t take it anymore.
Thorne and Laces exchanged glances, and then Laces gave him permission to explain—which I found out technically wasn’t allowed, but they were making an exception tonight.
Propping his elbows on his knees Thorne shrugged, “She didn’t need anyone else. She had me.”
My heart picked up some speed. “Ohhh-kay, but…”
“She could’ve been honest and told me the truth, she didn’t, and she paid with her life for it.”
“Thorne hates liars.” Varla said.
“Yeah but…you didn’t just aid in her suicide, you aided in the death of a baby.” I said, stunned. I couldn’t believe the words falling out of my lips; the fact that I was having this conversation, period, seemed surreal.
“She should’ve thought about that before she fucked him in my bed.” Thorne muttered. There was no getting through to him, I knew. No matter how horrible, he was set in his ways and reasons. And as bad as I hated to admit it, I pitied him—like truly pitied him.
“I’m sorry.” I finally whispered, glancing down at my lap. My knotted up hands were as white as snow. I was anxious, on edge, and feeling somewhat sick about everything.
I got up from my seat.
“I don’t want to see anymore videos. All it does is paint you in a bad light.” I shook my head. “If you want me to know what you did then just say it—don’t be afraid to be honest.”
Reyes held up his finger. “The clips refer to us as sexy and mysterious.”
Laces nodded, clearly agreeing with his friend. “It evens out all of the bad shit we did.”
“Absolutely.” There was a fierceness to Reyes’ tone, like he was willing to fight to the death to keep entertainment night alive. “In here we’re nobodies.” He pointed at the window hidden behind a bookshelf in the corner. “Out there, they respect us. They know better to mess with us.”
Thorne nodded hard. This was something everyone, even Varla, agreed on. They didn’t care if people thought they were crazy for what they did—all they cared about was the recognition and respect that followed.
“My video isn’t going to be as elaborate as any of yours.” I said, folding my arms. “And I don’t care how pissed off any of you get for this but—the only reason I’m in here is because I told the truth.” No one spoke. I explained what had happened—the abuse I had endured, my sister’s rape, and my gathering the courage to speak to someone. “I did the right thing and I still ended up here. Where’s the justice in that, Thorne? Laces? Reyes? Varla? Do you think it’s fair that a rapist sleeps comfortably every night, while I’m bound by the state of North Carolina to be here?”
When no one spoke, I scoffed and stormed out, cursing every name in the book as I stomped down the hallway. In an attempt to feel better I made a pit stop at the library and snatched a hard copy of
Wuthering Heights off the shelf before going to my room. Breathing heavy, I crawled into my bed and opened the book, ready to escape to a kinder world—well, kinder to me; one that made sense in all-of-this ruckus.
A pair of knuckles knocked against my door a few minutes later. I knew who it was, but chose not to acknowledge his presence. I don’t know why, but I had expected more from him—not an angel by any means, but a friend.
“I fucked up.” he said right as I was turning the page. “I shouldn’t have forced you to watch any of it.”
Be strong. I took a deep breath. He needed to atone for his sins, and me smiling while he made a big elaborate—and possibly heartfelt speech—would only deter the progress he had made. “I’m listening.” I mumbled.
He moved closer. “You were right: I am a fan of Emily Bronte. She was my mother’s favorite writer.”
Oh? At that I couldn’t help but glance up from my book. He had never spoken a word about his mom, so this was a pretty big step. “Was she an artist?”
Sitting down at the edge of my bed, he shook his head. “No, she was a nurse. My father was the artist.” Putting my book aside, I crawled to where he was and for a while there was nothing but the strident sound of our breaths to keep us company. He interlaced his hand with mine and gave a soft squeeze; I felt the same as before, like an electric current was coursing through my body, lighting every nerve ending on fire. The ache formed low in my belly and moved down my thighs, causing me to cross my legs to ease the sensation.
I knew I was turned on.
I’d been sheltered from most things in life, but not this. My P.E. instructor had given us the talk the first week of freshman year, and my mother, not wanting to have any grandchildren just yet, had followed suit and voiced what she knew in the weeks that followed.
My breasts felt heavy, my panties were wet…
He needs to leave.
But he wasn’t.
So in order to avoid looking like a bigger fool I took the road far less traveled by girls like me.
“If I tell you something will you promise not to hold it against me?” I asked, clenching my thighs together.
With our hands still laced together, he turned to face me and my breathing grew heavy as the grin I’d come to know so well spread across his lips. “I won’t hold it against you—but I can’t promise not to laugh.” He warned.
“I’ll take what I can get.” My eyes fell to my feet. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. “I don’t know how to explain it without feeling stupid. Ugh.”
“Do you want to write it down and give it to me?”
I frowned. “I wouldn’t know how to phrase it, exactly.”
He blinked.
“Please just,” I paused, “don’t make fun of me for it, okay? I’ve never talked about this before so I don’t know the protocol for this type of thing.”
“Alright, I promise I won’t make fun of you.” I’d piqued his interest.
“Okay.” I squeezed my eyes shut. He was still holding my hand, which was a good thing, right? Absolutely. He hadn’t bailed on me for anything else, so surely he would understand this. I squeezed his hand, hard. “I have this ache in my um…”
Damn. I rarely ever cursed but this situation demanded it. Damn.
“In your…”
I cracked my eyes to see Laces zoned out staring at my lap.
“Do I have to spell it out?” I whispered.
His hungry eyes flashed to me. “Yes.” He rasped.
Glancing away, I swallowed the dryness in my throat. “My um—AREA—is in a bit of discomfort.” I said carefully. “And I’m not going to look at you right now because it’ll only make it worse. Can you leave, please? I’m not mad, I’m just agitated.”
I expected to hear his footsteps making tracks for the door at any second, but karma didn’t give me that reprieve.
“Look at me.” Laces said quietly, giving my hand a light squeeze.
I couldn’t.
Something was wrong with me. It had to be. Physically, Laces was the ideal male specimen; he was tall and lean, with gorgeous blue eyes and stunningly high cheekbones that rivaled most models. Only a fool would’ve turned him down.
I guess I was that fool.
“Please don’t do this to me. Can’t you seem I am embarrassed beyond belief?” I said. I released his hand and jumped to my feet, pacing back and forth like a manic as he lay back in my bed and threw his sculpted arms behind his head, watching my every move. I pressed the palm of my hand into my upper thigh, “God, when does it stop?!”
“I can fix it for you.”
What?!!?? “No, no thank you.”
“I’ll be quick.” His voice—God—the way the words fell so seductively off his sinful lips.
Stopping at the foot of my bed, I finally took a moment to really look at him. He was comfortable?—and not at all affected by my confession. His blue eyes were hazy and full of want; add in the way he was sprawled out, legs a foot apart, and his hoodie barely covering the V-crease of his hip and you had the perfect combination for swoon worthy eye candy.
I pointed at his eyes. “Stop looking at me.”
“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.”
“Baby? Don’t—what?” I fisted my hands through my hair. “What is going on right now—are you trying to seduce me?”
He cracked a smile. “That depends: do you want to be seduced?”
Do you? Did I?
“You’re not attracted to me though. Remember?” I was frantic.
His eyes drifted shut and I can’t explain it, the sense of overwhelming dread that entered my soul when he finally opened his eyes again and looked at me. “I lied.”
My lips parted. This was a first. “You’re attracted to me?”
“Mmmm.”
I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “So, what?—you’re imagining my face while getting off to Nurse Kline?” Whatever comfort he had felt evaporated instantly. The bed, which he’d gotten cozy on, suddenly became a pit of lava and he jumped up so fast. “Yeah, did you honestly think I would forget about her? That I would just spread my legs for you?”
I could see the war raging in his eyes as he grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. “That’s over.”
I scoffed.
“It is!” He growled.
I smacked his hand away, “Don’t you shout at me!”
He fisted his hands through his hair, gripping the black ends so tightly. “We can discuss this later—right now I want to give you an orgasm.”
“Ah!”
He truly was shameless.
“There’s a janitor’s closet down the hallway, right across from the men’s room.” Laces said. “Meet me there in ten minutes and I’ll rectify your situation.”
“No.”
Laces’ jaw clenched. “I wasn’t asking for your permission.”
“Good, because you’re not going to get it!” I snapped. Spinning on one heel, I marched to my bed and crawled under the sheets. This night needed to end, quickly, before I died from humiliation. “Please just go!”
Yeah, and take that sexy milk-can-do-a- body-good torso with you!
The pain, though constantly uncomfortable in his presence, was bearable. I wasn’t desperate enough to shack up in the dirty old janitor’s room. Not yet. Hearing his footsteps retreating to the hallway, I breathed out a sigh of relief and squeezed my eyes shut, willing sleep to take over.
Fifteen
Laces
Denied?
My poor cock. He didn’t ask for much: a clean pair of drawers, a shower, a hand to keep him warm—and to be fed. Basic needs, people. And now, Gambrielle Evans had taken away one of the essentials for survival, dinner.
Out of respect for my cock—as well as my own sanity—I ignored Gambrielle in the days that followed. I needed time to strategize and regroup, and also to mourn the orgasm that never was. Men outside of Hawthorne would’ve thrown back a few shots, screwed a slut or two in a bar, and ma
ybe took a picture of their erect cock and sent it to the enemy to give them a taste of what they were missing.
But not here.
In a psych ward the game was more complex. All attacks had to be covert and carefully executed for maximum damage.
“I could’ve gotten myself off, but what’s the fun in that?” I blasted days later in one-on-one therapy. “She knew what she was doing, leading my cock into the black abyss!” I slammed my fist on his desk, shaking his cup of pens and paper clips. “How is he supposed to ever trust her again?”
“You mean you.” Dr. Young corrected.
I grabbed a handful of my cock and gave it a healthy shake, “No, him! He is his own entity! I bring my hair gel and condoms—and that’s it! He’s the one making serious plays!” Couldn’t he see the position I was now in? The turmoil my body was facing at the hands of the simpering southern belle, fuck, it would take months, if not years, to recoup the dignity my cock had lost! Pushing my hair away from my face, I glared at Dr. Young as he tried to make sense of it all. “And do you know what else pisses me off, Doc?”
Dr. Young peeked up from his jotting notes down on his ever present legal pad. “You didn’t get a blowjob?”
I threw my head back and laughed, the inky strands of my hair falling into my eyes as I pointed at him. “That’s a good one, but no.” I straightened and slowly leaned forward, meeting Dr. Young at the center of his desk. “I would’ve eaten that pussy all night long, no questions asked.”
“I don’t follow. Most men enjoy—”
“—I don’t eat pussy!!!!” I shouted.
Silence filled the small confinements of his room.
Pussy was like food, and I was a picky eater.
Always had been.
But with Gambrielle I didn’t have to mull over the menu and check the ingredients to decide if she was worth my time. No. I already knew she would be. She had an aroma about her, a sweet scent that obstructed everything in its path long after she had gone, making it impossible to select anything else.