UNMASKED: Volume One

by Cassia Leo

  “I have to go.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be back?” I don’t bother trying to hide the desperation in my voice.

  He plants a kiss on my forehead. “Yes.”

  And, once again, he’s gone. But, somehow, I can’t help but feel as if it had something to do with the disproportion of my top lip to my bottom lip. Maybe I’m not as beautiful as he imagined.

  Chapter Eight

  Aasif is scratching his beard as he enters the tiny snack shack. He always does that when he’s uncomfortable. Body language is one of our worst enemies. It reveals our inner truth when we believe we are being discreet. It’s like a two-faced friend handcuffed to your wrist, shouting your secrets to anyone who’ll listen.

  He doesn’t look at me as he removes his blue windbreaker and tucks it into one of the cubbies under the snack shack counter. Aasif calls the store building the snack shack because the space is only about ten feet wide by fifteen feet long, and a large portion of the space is occupied by the clerk’s counter. The entrance door to the snack shack is always locked at nine p.m.; two hours before my shift begins. After that, all transactions are made through the slot in the bullet proof glass storefront windows.

  I never have to deal with customers coming into the floor area. There’s always a couple of inches of glass separating us, which makes this the perfect job for me. I can sit here reading a book by the light that shines through the window from the pump bays. Most customers pay at the pump with their credit cards, so I only see a couple dozen customers per shift. There’s the occasional complaint about a card reader or a pump not working. But, on the plus side, the panhandlers don’t come around here at night. So, for the most part, this is a quiet job, which I’ve come to love.

  Aasif looks up at me with that bored exasperation I’m starting to get really sick of. He’s ticked off that he couldn’t fire me when he wanted to and even more ticked off that I still haven’t bothered asking if he was threatened. I’m not stupid. If I question why Aasif didn’t fire me for calling in sick two weeks in a row, that will just open up the possibility of him telling me who threatened him. And I don’t want to know. As soon as I know, that makes me an accomplice to blackmail.

  Aasif opens his mouth to speak and he’s interrupted by a knock on the glass. I spin around on the stool behind the counter and my heart nearly stops. A man in a black hoodie slips a fifty-dollar bill into the curved slot. I reach for the money and accidentally graze his cold fingers. I snatch my hand back, still unable to tear my gaze away from the shadowy blackness where his face should be.

  He reaches up and pushes the hood back. “Thirty on number two.”

  I sigh with relief at the sight of a young hispanic guy with a spiderweb tattoo on his neck. But then I remember something that stops me cold.

  It must have been about two months ago. A man in a dark hoodie came to the window to pay cash. What kind of car was he driving? I try to recall all the images surrounding the mystery man in my mind and I’m sick to my stomach when the image materializes. The vehicle behind the guy in the dark hood. A gold Mercedes.

  “Are you gonna give me my change, or what?”

  The harsh voice snaps me out of this horrifying memory. I hastily slide a twenty-dollar bill back at him through the slot, then I turn to Aasif. His eyes are narrowed and one of his thick eyebrows is cocked suspiciously. He knows something’s going on with me and I’m not being forthcoming with him. I have to find out what made him change his mind.

  “Aasif, why didn’t you fire me?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Because you do a good job scaring off the criminals in that costume.”

  “Now is not the time to fuck with me, Aasif. Tell me! Why did you change your mind?”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy for pretending not to know. Then his features soften and his round dark eyes widen with surprise.

  “You really don’t know?”

  I glare at him, a silent reminder that I’m not in the mood to be fucked with.

  He shrugs. “I got an envelope in the mail. When I opened it up, it was a picture of my mom and sister with the top of the picture cut off at their necks. The note on the back said that I’d regret the decision if I fired you.”

  I cover my mouth in horror. “Oh, my God. That’s disgusting. Who would do something like that?”

  He looks like he’s not sure if he believes that I had nothing to do with it. “Look, you can leave now. I’ve got it covered.”

  I want to insist he tells the police, but I have no idea who sent him that letter. And I have no way of knowing if contacting the authorities will cause this person to retaliate against Aasif and his family.

  I nod my head as I tuck my paperback novel into the cubbie under the counter. He wants me gone. He doesn’t want to talk about this, and I don’t blame him.

  I pull the drawstrings on my hood a bit tighter and exit through the rear entrance. I hear the click of Aasif locking the door behind me and I stare at it for a moment, trying to figure out who would threaten his family. Initially, I believed it was my father because I refused to believe Daimon would care enough about me to do something like that. And his hasty exit from my apartment six days ago sort of proved his apathy. But now I don’t know what to think.

  Especially now that I remember a customer in a dark hoodie driving a gold Mercedes just like the one I saw the first night I saw Daimon. But it doesn’t make sense. Why would Daimon kill someone who was driving his car? He said it was a known sexual predator in that car. Unless, the predator just happened to have the same car as him. Or the man I saw at the gas station two months ago wasn’t Daimon.

  It’s too much of a coincidence to be unrelated. And now Aasif and his family have been pulled into this. But why does this person care if I still work at the gas station? What does all of this have to do with me?

  I turn away from the back door of the snack shack and head for the sidewalk. It’s four a.m. The sun won’t come up for another two to three hours. These are the hours of absolute darkness, when I should feel most at ease. But I’ve never felt more uncertain about walking home alone.

  Then I see it. For the first time in a month, I see my father’s silver Audi S4 parked about a block and a half farther down Hope Street. I get a strange urge to wave at him. To let him know that I see him. That I appreciate him. And that, despite his mistakes, I love him.

  But I can’t. Because a larger part of me still wishes he would have been a better father. Teaching your child to fight isn’t a sufficient means of showing affection. I needed to know that I wasn’t a monster. I needed to know that I was loved. And I still don’t know if my father loves me. All I know is that he loved the fighting machine he created. He loved that machine, then he kicked it to pieces and threw it away.

  I continue walking down Hope, watching as the glowing cherry of my father’s cigarette flies out the driver’s side window and he drives away. I shake my head. He still hasn’t quit. The last few years I lived at home, I had to go easy on my dad during sparring matches. All that tar in his lungs was slowing him down. I tried to make sure he didn’t know I was going easy on him, but I’m sure there were times he suspected it. Those times when he’d cut a match short and chew me out for doing something wrong. Punishing me for his own shortcomings.

  Isn’t that what we always do? Punish others for our own weaknesses. Maybe that’s what Daimon is doing to me. Maybe he hasn’t come to visit me in six days because he recognized some weakness in himself while he was with me.

  It’s a long shot, but it would make me feel better. Like I hadn’t been used.

  Still, I find it hard to believe that a man like Daimon would go to all that trouble to use a woman for sex just once. He killed someone in front of me; someone who was possibly driving his own car. Then he came to my door and introduced himself as a detective, which I didn’t believe for a single second. Until I contacted the Los Angeles Police Department yesterday.

 
They confirmed to me twice that they do indeed have a Detective Daimon Rousseau in their department and that he works the Hope Street area. They wanted to know if I had a complaint about him or if I had some information for any of his cases. I told them I did not have a complaint and that I’d call Detective Rousseau directly to give him my tip.

  I knew if I called from my home phone, Daimon would know it was me. So I called from a pay phone on Wilshire and disguised my voice. The fact that I have to go to such lengths to find out more about the man who ravaged me six days ago is disturbing. I willingly granted him access to the deepest parts of me and he thanks me by pretending I no longer exist.

  I’m near the place where my father was parked just a few minutes ago. I look at the black asphalt and immediately see the cigarette butt he tossed out the window. The cherry is still barely giving off a thin stream of smoke. I gaze at it for a moment, trying to figure something out. Then I step off the curb, take two steps into the street, and pick it up.

  Holding the cigarette butt up in the air, I smile as the streetlight shines down on it. Then I tuck it into my pocket and head home.

  Chapter Nine

  Never underestimate the lengths a person will go to for revenge. My father said those words to me the day I left. I didn’t understand if this was a threat or a warning. Who would ever want to exact revenge against a girl who’d been kept in a basement for most of her life? Well, now I know that he wasn’t issuing this warning to me.

  It’s been two days since I watched my father’s Audi S4 drive away and I’ve been a busy bee. I’ve been playing the part of Detective Alex Carmichael. I’d make a great detective.

  After renting a car and staking out the Central Community police station on 6th Street, I finally got a tail on Detective Daimon Rousseau. Turns out he really is a detective and he either has anger issues or he takes his job way too seriously. I watched him get in a fight with another officer while walking to his car.

  Or maybe he’s just stressed about something. Maybe he’s feeling the heat from that murder he committed three weeks ago.

  Either way, now I know his face, from a distance. I couldn’t see much, especially when he was scuffling in the parking lot, but it’s obvious he’s handsome. He carries himself with immense poise and an air of mystery. A bit of a loner.

  Even after discovering these new details about him, I still don’t feel like I know the real Daimon. But I do know he’s coming to see me tonight. I watched him walk into a flower shop earlier today. Then he drove to his swanky apartment complex in Venice Beach.

  I’m ready for you, Daimon.

  I’ve resisted touching myself for eight days while waiting for him to knock on my door. My body and mind are primed for a perfectly sinful reunion. Tonight will be … explosive.

  I spritz the air with a heady perfume, which I’ve mixed with a vial of pheromone oil I picked up at a local lingerie shop. Then I dab a few drops on my décolletage, smiling as I say the French word aloud a few times. It rolls off my tongue naturally. I think Daimon would be impressed.

  As expected, at 11:23 p.m. on my night off, I get a knock on my door. I peek through the peephole and smile. He’s wearing the usual dark hood and he’s facing away from the door. I unlock the door and walk straight toward the bedroom.

  “Alex?” he calls softly when I’ve reached the corridor.

  I continue into the bedroom, calling over my shoulder. “Come in, Daimon.”

  I press my back up against the wall. It’s cool against my skin as I wait for him. He enters cautiously and I can’t help myself.

  “Boo.”

  He snaps his head toward me and I’m actually quite turned on by that black, circular shadow under his hood. The small hints of light on the top of his lips and nose are enough.

  “I apologize for my absence,” he begins and I quickly reach up and press my finger to his lips.

  “Shh. You don’t owe me any apologies. I’m a woman now, remember? I understand how it is. Things get busy. You get swamped at work. Blah, blah…. Explanations are for saps.”

  He reaches up and grabs my wrist to pull my finger away from his mouth, then he’s silent for a moment. “If you don’t want an apology for your own peace of mind, that’s fine. But I’m offering my apology because I believe you deserve better.”

  “Better than what?”

  He lets go of my wrist and my hand drops to my side. Stepping forward, his hand lands on my bare waist. “Why are you nude?”

  I smile and lay my hand over his so I can slide it back onto my ass. “I was waiting for you.”

  “How did you know I was coming tonight?”

  “Woman’s intuition.”

  I brought you something.”

  He pulls his left hand out from behind his back and brings a sprig of flowers to my nose. It smells like raspberry and honeysuckle.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s freesia. It reminds me of my days as a young boy in France. I want to take you there someday.”

  I take the flower from his hand and carefully tuck it behind my ear. “Perfect.”

  He brings his hands up to cup my face. “I’ve missed you.” His hand trails down to my neck and he leans in until his lips are hovering over mine. “I was thinking about you every day.”

  “I was thinking about you, too,” I breathe.

  He runs his tongue over my top lip as his hand slides between my legs. “What were you thinking about, ma chérie?”

  I draw in a sharp breath as his finger finds my clit. “I thought of you and me … fucking.”

  He strokes me softly. “Did you touch yourself?”

  “No. I wanted to wait for you.”

  I whimper when he shoves two fingers inside me. He drives his fingers back and forth as I whine with pleasure.

  “Oh, please.”

  “Please, what? What do you want me to do?” He slides his fingers out and begins caressing my clit again.

  “Please, fuck me.”

  “Turn around.”

  “No.”

  He tilts his head back. “No?”

  “I don’t want to do it like that.”

  “You mean, you don’t want me to fuck you from behind?”

  “Yes, I do. But … I was thinking ….” This is it. I have to just blurt it out or I’ll lose my nerve. “I want to try something different.”

  He removes his hand from between my thighs and steps back. “What do you want to try?”

  “I have this fantasy and I was hoping you could help make it happen.” I step forward and grab the dangling drawstrings from his hood. “I want you to pretend … to take me by force.”

  He doesn’t speak or move while I count off the seconds in my head. Finally, at one hundred twenty-two seconds, he speaks.

  “How long have you fantasized about this?”

  “Since I began touching myself. I … It’s stupid. We don’t have to do it.”

  I lay my hands flat against his solid chest, staring at the dark fabric of his hooded sweater. He presses his fingers against the bottom of my chin to tilt my face up.

  “I don’t want to frighten you. I want to please you.” He kisses the corner of my mouth and I close my eyes, trying to remind myself to focus on my objective. “Would this fantasy bring you pleasure?”

  I open my eyes and gaze into the darkness where his eyes would be. “I’ve been pleasing myself to this fantasy for years. Is that not normal?”

  He chuckles softly. “There is no normal in the privacy of one’s bedroom. What pleases you pleases me, ma chérie.” His arm wraps around my waist and pulls me flush against him so I can feel his erection growing against my belly. “But we need some ground rules. If you are not enjoying yourself, you must say something. A codeword.”

  “How about … freesia?”

  I can practically hear him grinning beneath that hood. “Okay, and if you want me to stop, you have to say rose. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I coil my arms around his broad shoul
ders and he lifts me gently so I can wrap my legs around him. He kisses me slowly and I can feel myself growing slicker with every passing moment. He presses my back against the wall and I moan into his mouth as he grinds the solid erection in his pants against my clit.

  I pull my head back and smile. “I trust you.”

  He moves his hips slowly, crushing me with the force of his manhood. “You shouldn’t trust me.”

  He thrusts harder and I cry out. “Ow.”

  “Does that hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about about this?”

  He reaches up and pinches my nipple, hard. I let out a screeching yelp. He claps his hand over my mouth and I continue to cry as he sets my feet down on the carpet and shoves his other hand between my legs. He rams his fingers inside me and the sound of my muffled cries seems to spur him on.

  “Do you want to be fucked?”

  “No!” My reply is smothered by his hand.

  “What do you say?” he growls.

  “No. Please. Please don’t do this.”

  He’s silent for a moment and I begin to worry that he’s going to back out. Then he slowly slides his fingers out of my pussy and begins to massage my clit. Softly at first, then roughly.

  “Ow.”

  My knees begin to buckle and he presses his chest against mine to keep me propped up. “Don’t fucking move,” he whispers in my ear. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  My stomach roils at the tone in his voice. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” I try to push him away and he removes his finger from my clit so he can grab both my wrists and pin them against the wall. “I said don’t fucking move.”

  I stare in the dark hole of his face, my chest heaving as I pretend to struggle free. He leans in and kisses my neck and I whimper. No. This is not part of the fantasy. I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t form the words.

  He licks his way up my neck and to my ear and he kisses my ear so tenderly I could cry. Stop, I want to shout at him. Please stop this torture.