Episode Two: Look Back in Anger

by S. N. Graves

  “You mean…being a Critter Care Specialist? The animals.”

  “The bots? The little furry designer machines?” The distaste in his voice was audible.

  “They are animals. They have feelings too. They love. They get scared. They protect those they care about.”

  “Because they’re programmed to.”

  “Someone should program you a conscience. Code in a bit of empathy.” She lifted an erratic hand to flick her finger against his nose. “You’d be surprised. More and more people are removing the restriction chips every day. Free will. It lets them live just as much as we do.”

  “They are machines, Sammy. Do you have affection for your toaster?”

  “Nah, that bitch has a short. I am constantly getting electrocution for breakfast.”

  “Have you ever thought of getting a real pet, or is your refrigerator your friend too?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she felt her jaw tighten. “That a fat joke? Yeah, I know, I’m fat. It’s fucking funny. But you know what? I’d rather be fat than you—so hard up you can’t even get a fat girl to come home with you. You have to resort to kidnapping.”

  He winced and closed his eyes. “I was just going with the kitchen motif.”

  “Well, fuck you, all right?”

  He lowered his gaze to hers, the smooth pad of his thumb caressing her lips as she peered up at him. “So SynthPets. Anything else? No hobbies…friends?”

  “My life is boring as hell, I’m not at all interesting, and we’ve nothing more to talk about.”

  “You’re interesting to me.” It was almost a compliment—it certainly had the tone of flattery—but of course, the near flirtatious smirk that came with it sapped it of its charm. Or perhaps added to it. Sam couldn’t decide.

  “That’s because I’m an easy target. I know it. I’m not ashamed of it. I have victim written across my forehead.” She was beginning to get loud; the alcohol had screwed her volume dial all to hell. She turned to straddle the back of her chair, which probably wasn’t a great idea considering she was only wearing a towel, but the back of the chair was solid, and he couldn’t see where the cloth parted at her thighs. Then she reclined against the table to get a better look at him. As she pushed her hair out of her face, she tapped her forehead hard enough to bruise. “Right there. You see it?”

  He watched her, visibly enjoying her liquored display, and then pressed his palms onto the table on either side of her as he brushed a kiss on the now throbbing spot on her forehead. It caused her to lie back into her plate, might have been truly messy if he hadn’t lifted a hand in time to shove the mess farther up the table. “You’re not a victim.”

  “What would you call me, then? Your victim. Daddy’s sucker. I can be bullied or begged into anything.” She struggled to focus on his face, it being so near and her vision having all the sporadic movement of a poorly held vintage camcorder.

  He brought his lips to hers to feather his voice against them. “Fine, as my victim…what do you expect of me?” He turned from her mouth, curling his arm around and behind her as he nuzzled at her bare and shredded shoulder. “Any requests?”

  “Some clothes would be nice.” She scrunched her head against her shoulder to force him off and pulled to the side, away from the nuzzling.

  He simply carried his kissing nips along the length of her arm instead. “And cover all this up? That’s a good bit of villainy if I ever heard it.” His fingertips played lightly against her back, beneath those moist strands of auburn, threatening the precarious hold of that towel. “Fuzzy robots and pet toasters. You should be thanking me for saving you from a life of monotony.”

  “I like monotony. I like knowing what I am going to do tomorrow and the next day.” It wasn’t one of Sam’s finer traits, but she didn’t deal well with spontaneity.

  He clucked his tongue in disappointed annoyance as she started to squiggle in her chair to avoid him. When that didn’t work, she flattened her palm harshly against the side of his head and shoved him away.

  Ducking around her hand, he retaliated with a sharp nip to her knuckle, which had her jerking her hand back as if he were unvaccinated and frothing at the mouth.

  “Come on, Sam. You haven’t missed me at all? Not even a little?”

  “What’s there to miss?” She wasn’t sure where the hateful tone came from. She was finding it increasingly difficult to keep a handle on her emotions. They seemed to careen within her with no rhyme or reason, affected in some absurd way by whatever was coming out of his mouth or written on his face at any given moment. Suddenly she’d had enough of being so close and became all flailing arms and persistence as she fought to get out of that chair.

  “You’re an ass. You’re careless and you’re cruel.”

  “Tsk. What are you playing at?” He asked. “You like me cruel.”

  Her efforts won her freedom, likely only because he allowed it, but she was able to get to her feet and stagger a yard or so from him without him putting a hand on her.

  “I’ve always given you only what you expect of me.” He flashed that carnivore grin and spread his arms in a helpless yet theatrical gesture that had her turning her back on him. “It’s the natural pleaser in me. I hate to disappoint people.”

  Sam managed to shake off the chill his smile sent through her and stumbled to the wall near a high-back chair, but he stalked her. His steps were never more than one behind hers, and as she settled clumsily against the arm of the chair, his hands were once more plaguing her. He straightened the edge of her towel, seemed to toy with the idea of skewing it instead, and peered down on her with sinful affection.

  “Perhaps…if you’d like me any other way, you treat me as if I were such. It’s worth the experiment, don’t you think?”

  “So if I pretend you aren’t here and promise to mourn you at the earliest possible convenience, will you drop dead?” Sam found her own smirk, somewhere in her muddled mind deciding her jab was particularly witty.

  Her humor was awarded with a hard flick of his finger against the tip of her nose.

  She flinched and rubbed at it. “See? Cruel.”

  “You’d be the authority.” His arms slipped around her middle and pulled her up from the chair, flush against him. “People don’t just forget the things we had, Sam. So you’re lying to me now, which would be very cruel…or you were playing with me then, which is an executable offense in some circles.”

  What the hell did they have? Child molestation? Rape? That didn’t exactly equal a loving shared experience. “We didn’t have anything.”

  “So you are admitting it was all an act?”

  “What was an act?”

  “Don’t play with me.” He took her chin in his hand and lifted it. “My playing mood is about all gone.”

  “Look, you!” She forced a hand somewhat between them, just enough so she could jab him hard in the chest to punctuated her every word…and a few spare syllables for good measure. “I don’t remember shit! What I do remember is that you took from me and you took from my family and…you made everything bad. We didn’t have anything, except maybe your mother, and you murdered her! You took her too.”

  Shit. That was probably too much. Everyone knew how touchy he was about his mother.

  Sam realized her error a moment too late, when the snarl marred his perfect features and he bared his teeth. He was going to bite into her again, possibly rip her throat clean through. She winced and braced for it, but instead, he tightened that arm about her middle until it was near suffocating.

  “You remember that, do you? You can remember my mother’s death so well that you can blame me, but you can’t see anything else?” Heavy sarcasm dripped from his words, and as he spoke, his grip on her face began to constrict painfully. “How is that, Sam? It’s very selective, don’t you think?”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Then you are just getting a little bit of what you are giving. Now, answer the question.”

  “I haven’t hurt you.
I don’t even know how!” Well, outside of punching him in the balls, but that didn’t have quite the effect she’d hoped for.

  “Yes, you have…and yes, you do. What do you remember?” Having to repeat himself seemed to anger him more, but he released her chin, his hand falling to encircle her neck. There was little pressure applied, but the insinuation was there, as was the threat lacing his voice. “Can’t hide behind Daddy here. It’s just you and me now. You need to fend for yourself, and that means you telling me what I need to hear. The truth, Sam.”

  It was staggering how sober a mind could get when it realized the body was in extreme danger. Always she had been afraid of him, always he had terrified her and plagued her nightmares, but right then was the first time she could recall ever feeling certain he was about to kill her. Even the attack in the car had seemed…inspired by something else. Compliance and courtesy came easy when one’s life was on the line, as did a swift exit of pride.

  “Please, Arles. I don’t know, I don’t remember. I swear to you I don’t remember. What do you want me to say? All I know are bad things. You don’t want to know what I remember.”

  “Try me.”

  She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t recite the broken images of her past, especially with him threatening her life if he didn’t like what she had to say. There was no way she could tell him anything he’d want to hear. All her mind could conjure were distorted recollections of blood, fear, loathing, and his mother dying in the garden. Where she’d landed after he’d pushed her from the third story. Any truth she could give him would just infuriate him more.

  “Please, I can’t remember.”

  The tears that welled in her eyes were no longer under her control, the fear and stress were already more than she could handle, and as he studied her, their strength only grew. After many held breaths and vicious heartbeats, his hold on her shifted. Her throat was freed as she was maneuvered away from the chair.

  “Maybe what you need is a good reminder. Do you think so? Maybe after a good refresher, we’ll both be on the same page?”

  Sam shook her head spastically in protest, but he was no longer paying attention. He ripped that towel from her, so suddenly it sent a shuddering ripple through her, and tossed it several feet out of reach. Before she had time to cringe over her nudity, Arles had her pressed between him and the wall.

  “We’re going to see if we can jump-start anything in that Swiss cheese of yours.”

  “I don’t want to remember.” For some reason, the thought of knowing all the things she’d blocked out, having all the holes in her memory filled, terrified her more than dying ever could.

  “Sure you do.”

  There was an awkward shift in his tone, from the animosity of a moment before to something softer, like a bad actor trying to portray the faux concern of a self-proclaimed evil genius. It seemed unnatural, out of place, probably forced. She might have examined it further if her hips weren’t pinned by his, and his hands weren’t once more tainting her flesh with their touch.

  “You just don’t know what you’ve lost. You don’t remember. That is what you say, isn’t it? We’ll know soon enough, though, won’t we?” He punctuated that with a sickeningly sweet kiss to her brow as his fingers found their way into her hair, tipping her head back.

  He was going to kiss her again.

  She almost preferred he’d just kill her. At least then she could retain some dignity. She twisted painfully in his grip, willing to snap her neck, if that was even possible, so long as she could avoid that kiss. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, because it didn’t have to be this way.” There was something sadly resigned in his voice—resigned and disappointed, but utterly unyielding.

  Arles pinned her to the wall, barring any hope of escape. His hand slipped between their bodies, undoing the clasp of his belt, the hook and the zipper of his suit pants. The only thing separating their lower halves then was the thin layer of his cotton boxers, and that soon followed the others to the floor.

  She locked her attention on a thin crack she discovered on the ceiling, channeling all her fear and panic into it. She couldn’t remember where she’d learned the silly focusing ritual, but she fell into it like old habit. Her jaw tightened, her teeth clenched, and she braced for the worst.

  She held in her gasp as his hands lifted her, and her feet left the floor, leaving her legs to either dangle or seek some security about his hips. She let them hang limp in defiance. All he had to do was drive her down and the hard, eager length of him would be inside her. “I hate you.”

  “You are so oblivious to everything, aren’t you?” His brow furrowed as it pressed to hers. He inhaled, breathing her in, his eyes closing as if he reveled in what he found on her scent. Like a cat heady from the fear of cornered prey. “You’ve honestly blocked out everything we were. How does something like that even happen?”

  “There is no we. That’s all something you made up to make yourself feel better.”

  His breath shuddered from him as he opened his eyes. “What has Daddy done to your head?”

  She turned her gaze, now hazy from tears, back to him for a half second, then quickly to that crack in the ceiling. She wouldn’t let him twist things. If it hadn’t been for Dad, she might never have recovered from what Arles had done to her. He was driving her back to square one—all those years of therapy, of medications and counseling, wasted and ruined.

  “You’re a brainwashed puppet strung to his fingers.” He pressed her to the wall, freeing his hand to lift, his fingertips trailing along her neck, grazing the still-throbbing wound of her shoulder with deliberate interest. “I’m going to cut your strings.”

  “You’re crazy. You’re sick.” And if there was a bit of pity in her voice, mixed with the trembling and tears, it wasn’t entirely feigned. “You need help.”

  “You want me. You do. It’s just buried under whatever he’s done to you.” He brought his lips to hers, kissing her with a claiming fervor that left her breathless when he pulled away to nuzzle at her ear. “Snip…snip.”

  Her hands fisted in his shirt, and she barely resisted the urge to grab him by his perfect tie and choke him until he turned blue. She hated him for his nuzzles, for the touch of his lips along the cusp of her ear that sent shivers crawling down her neck. Not bad shivers either, something between desire and disgust—disgust for herself and how easily he set her blood alight and her skin burning for his touch.

  “The two of us, all beaten and used…we’re in this together now.”

  If she could have blocked out his voice, she would have, numbed herself to his hands cradling her backside, to his cock nudging between her thighs. But those words—so full of cheese they should have made her laugh—rang with memory. A movie. A song, maybe? No, the recognition was too familiar, too intimate.

  Too forbidden.

  Pain lanced through her mind with the flicker of phantom memory, like a hot knife cutting through the center of her skull. What the hell was that? Her cry nearly choked her, leaving behind a nagging itch in her throat, the sensation of a bristly-legged spider on the back of her tongue. That phantom had claws, the beast of some ugly trauma trying to tear its way from her mind, to crawl through her clenched eyes and force her to see it for the hateful thing it was. Fear returned, coiling in her belly like a poised spring ready to launch the contents of her stomach.

  “Shhh. It’s okay. I got you.” His voice barely filtered through the wicked tangle of her mind, but his scent assaulted her, suddenly so strong it might have been suffocating had it not been so…nice. She was clinging—her nose pressed to his neck, arms likely choking the life out of him, eyes no longer closed or fixed on the ceiling, but so clouded with tears she might as well have been blind.

  “Everything is going to be okay.” He smiled against her jaw, then caressed her neck with his lips. Somehow she believed him. Maybe she was becoming just as crazy as he was, because in that moment she’d never felt
safer.

  Right where she belonged.

  She bent her legs, wrapped them around his hips unbidden, and his moan of sheer pleasure struck something visceral within her. A stab of want, of utter need for Arles. She needed his hands on her, that wicked mouth leaving its mark all over her body, and she needed him inside her in a way that had only ever haunted her nightmares.

  With every taunting roll of his hips, his hard shaft grinding against her sex in the most delicious ways, the fire burned deeper, her rabid want of him eclipsing her sensibly cultured hate and fear. Before she could think herself out of it, she clasped his face between her hands and kissed him.

  It wasn’t a delicate kiss either, no reluctant peck, or the sort of awkward crushing of lips that she’d shared so often with the few exes she had. The ones who would lower themselves to make out with a fat girl. It was tentative but sweet to his hungry and demanding return. Like magic he transformed in her embrace, seemed to almost melt against her. All those jagged and dangerous edges of the man she hated chipped away to soften him as he hummed contentment against her lips.

  Then slowly, so damn slowly, she felt the heat of his arousal sliding into her. She whimpered into the kiss as the impressive girth of his cock forced her tight inner walls to open and accept inch after agonizing inch of him. There was no real pain, none physical anyway, just a welling need within her that all but demanded he take his slow and careful claiming and shove it up his ass. Or hers. No, never mind, she wasn’t quite ready for that yet.

  His care was brutal. His patient stillness, once he was buried to the hilt within her, only made her ache more. Holding her hips flush to his, he purred into her neck, and she must have been totally drunk off her ass, for she would have sworn that rumbling reverberation was that of a true feline. A big one too.