Red Hourglass

by Scarlet Risqué

  RED HOURGLASS

  Hourglass Series – Book One

  by Scarlet Risqué

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  2015 Scarlet Corp eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2015 by Scarlet Risqué

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Prologue

  My assigned target was Mr. Torn. He was in his fifties and married with two young daughters. Torn was a hedge fund boss and he’d expropriated significant numbers from his clients’ funds. The missing billions had been wired into fat offshore bank accounts in the names of his wife and daughters. The whole thing irked me.

  I began my surveillance. He kept his laptop with him in a briefcase, and he went to the same bar every Friday night. I watched from across the street as he left the bar week after week with a different young brunette each time. It wasn’t my concern, but knowing that made my job much easier. My real concern was that the money he’d squirreled away in those offshore tax havens didn’t belong to him.

  * * *

  I was finally ready to catch my prey. A few of the girls he’d left the bar with were wearing yellow, but there were no yellow dresses or accessories in my wardrobe. Yellow reminded me of vomit.

  I did my make up, covered the crescent scar on my abdomen with concealer, and put my brown hair up in a sexy, loose bun. I wore French lingerie and stockings under my red cocktail dress, and I secured a black belt around my waist to offset the red and highlight my hourglass shape. I slipped my tiny feet into the blood-red platform stilettos that matched my dress.

  I did a last check in the mirror before I left my apartment. A woman’s got to look perfect to catch her man.

  I hailed a taxi and went to Torn’s Friday night haunt. Then I positioned myself at the bar and waited. I knew it wouldn’t be long before he slithered up to me.

  “Hey you seeexxxy hottieee,” the money man slurred. “May I get you a driiink?”

  “Sure, that would be nice.”

  I turned and flashed him a fake smile. His shifty face made him look like a shrewd snake, and his voice made me want to puncture his long neck with one of my stilettos. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have wasted a minute talking to him.

  “How about a glaaasss of red wine?” he asked.

  “Merlot, please.”

  The man had some class, but still, he was a thief who’d siphoned the hard-earned pensions of ordinary working people into his own pockets. He looked me up and down. His green eyes highlighted the sinister undertones of his classy guy façade.

  “Veeery goood.” He sat down on the barstool next to me and waved to the bartender. “Two glasses of Merlot. Sooo, what brings a seeexxxy girl like you here?”

  “I’m new to the city, just checking out the bars.”

  “Manhattaaan is the place to beee.” He sipped his wine. “Just loook aroound. It’s the center of the worllld. There’s money to be made on eeevery corner. You picked the right city to beee in.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve noticed that there’s a lot of homelessness … and poverty.”

  “That’s because they’re the looosers at the bottom. This city is meant for winners.” He flicked out his tongue and licked his lips. “Only wiiinners make it in the Biiig Aaapple.”

  “True.” I remembered my younger days, sleeping in the subway like a pathetic sewer rat, almost starving to death. “We’re all seeking the high life here.”

  After a couple more of glasses of Merlot, he was sloshed.

  “Leeet’s you and meee head somewhere else,” he said, putting a cold hand on my shoulder. “You are increeedibly seeexxxy with that hourglass body of yours … in that red dressss.”

  “Sure, why not? I have nowhere else to be.”

  “I’ll keep you warm.” He slid off his barstool and wrapped his arm around my waist. Then he zigzagged his way to the door and opened it for me.

  I wondered if he was scheming to coil me up in his slimy body and I smiled to myself. He didn’t have a clue.

  He hailed a taxi and I suggested the hotel. The receptionist handed me the key with an approving smile.

  We took the elevator up to the special suite that I’d used before. The moment we stepped inside, he stripped off his clothes and threw himself on the bed.

  “Now, let the games begin,” I said, feeling for the knife in the sole of my shoe.

  “Bruuunettes and red … simply hot, hot, hot,” he hissed.

  I lifted my red dress to reveal my slender thighs and black garter belt. Then I tantalizingly peeled the straps of my dress off my shoulders.

  He was perched on his elbows, leering at me. The tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth, as if he was using it to pick up my scent.

  With the top of my dress hanging down from my waist, I turned around very slowly and showed him my tattoo.

  “A red … hourglasss.” He stared at me for a moment. His eyes went wide and he miraculously sobered up. “That’s the mark of a black widow spider.”

  “Yes, it is.” I grinned and bent down to take the blood-red switchblade from the secret compartment in the sole of my shoe. I flicked it open and the blade glistened as it reflected my pearly white smile.

  He frantically leapt off the bed and bobbled to the door. He tried the knob a few times, but it was locked. When he turned around to look at me the panic in his eyes was unmistakable.

  “It won’t open without the key.” I dangled the silver key between my fingers as I walked toward him, smiling. “Why don’t you come and get it?”

  He began quivering and grasping at the doorknob with both hands.

  “You sly snake,” I said as I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his greasy head back. I lightly drew my blade across his exposed neck. It was titillating. I wanted to lick the fear exuding from him.

  “Please … don’t kill me,” he groveled. “What do you want? What do you want me to do?”

  “Everything I tell you to,” I whispered as I bit his earlobe. Yummy. “Get in the bathtub or I’ll slice my blade across that neck of yours.”

  I took the metal handcuffs from my clutch as he got to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom. He climbed into the tub and I forced him to his knees.

  “Turn around and face the wall you disgusting thief,” I said as I shoved his forehead into the tiles. I pressed my blade into his neck and cuffed his wrists behind his back. “First, you’re going to give me your offshore account numbers and passwords … ALL OF THEM!” I ran my blade down his trembling spine and put the stopper in the drain. “Then, you’re going to tell me where the accounts are. If I don’t like what I hear, I’ll open your throat and you’ll bleed to death.” I dragged my blade back up his spine, resting it at the base of his skull. “And don’t even think of screaming. Got it?”

  “Ye … ye … yes.”

  “Good. Just give me what I need, and everything will be fine.”

  After I got all the information about the offshore accounts, I turned him around and began interrogating him about his despicable behavior. Whenever he gave me an answer I didn’t want to hear, I made little cuts and pokes in his skin. Thin lines of bright red blood were trickling from the wounds all over his chest and arms. I enjoyed torturing him—and making him kneel in his own blood and piss.

&nb
sp; “Please … please stop!” he begged. “We couldn’t meet the bills … I had no choice. I had to take the money.”

  “You’re a LIAR!” I yelled, thrusting my blade toward his eyes.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll give you everything I have … just let me live. I have more … a lot more than what’s in those offshore accounts. You can’t kill me. I have a wife and two daughters … they need me.”

  “Really? And does your wife know about your Friday night brunettes you pig?” I laughed and cut an X into his chest. His begging was futile but amusing. “Well, tell me how to get my hands on your other assets and I’ll let you go home to your loved ones.”

  Between pleading for mercy and begging for his life, he began spouting off assets and investment accounts that were of no interest to me. The white bathtub was a dripping red mess as he squirmed and squawked. I was getting sick of hearing his pathetic pleas and pitiful screams.

  “That’s enough you filthy snake. Shut up!” I turned him toward the wall and gouged my blade into his right wrist with a hard twist. He screamed and I slammed the blade into his other wrist with another full twist. Blood was spurting out like two mini red waterfalls.

  He began screaming nonstop. Echoes of screams from my previous targets raced through my mind. I knew he’d soon lose consciousness.

  “I don’t want to die! Don’t want to die!” he shrieked as his blood pooled in the bottom of the tub.

  The White Queen’s instructions were clear. She’d hand all the information I retrieved over to the police. I used his laptop to test the passwords on the offshore accounts. They worked. I had everything now, and I wrote it all down on a piece of paper. Mission accomplished.

  I shut the bathroom door and tuned the stereo to the classical station. I danced around in a reverie as divine music filled the room and my target’s screams turned into quiet whimpers. I was floating off into the bliss of the heavens—where I was with my mother once again.

  When I knew he was dead, I got my phone out of my clutch and called Vanus.

  “It’s done.”

  My Childhood

  My name used to be Mary Summers. My mother abandoned me in the sunflower field that we once laughed and played in. I was in fifth grade when she disappeared. The field became a wasteland of yellowy slime, and I grew to detest the color yellow. Everything sunny, bright, and cheery took on a form of yucky ugliness and filled me with disgust.

  I hated my mother with every single fiber of my being, yet I prayed that she would come back to the farm one day. I often imagined lying in her lap as she sang lullabies and rocked me to sleep on lazy afternoons. When I dreamt of being in her arms again, in-between heaven and Earth in fields of blue and yellow, it was pure joy.

  One day, not long after she left, my stepfather interrupted my peaceful daydream. I was sitting outside on the white glider bench where my mother used to cuddle me. My stepfather grabbed me by the ponytail and dragged me into the house.

  “Do the housework you useless bum! Start with the floors!” he shouted. He glared down at me with bloodshot eyes and shoved a giant mop into my small hands. “Be a good girl and you’ll get dinner tonight. If not, you’ll sleep outside.”

  I choked back tears as I mopped the floor. I hated my mother for leaving me with such a cruel man.

  We had canned pea soup for dinner that night. He stared at me as I ate, making sure that I finished every drop. On days that I didn’t finish all my food, he would hit me with a rolled up newspaper until I couldn’t move.

  I was afraid of him, but I couldn’t confide in anyone—not my teachers, not my best friend, not anyone. I didn’t want to reveal my loss, and I kept my hurt and pain hidden from the world. I held these dark secrets in a locked box in the furthest recesses of my heart. I secretly believed that my mother would come back someday … and everything would be okay. And if not, I knew that I would leave this place once I was ready.

  Going to school was an escape from my stepfather’s violence. Vibrant flowers were painted on the walls of Summerdale Elementary, and our principal was a particular woman who ran the school with a big heart. She made sure that we all ate fruit at the morning assembly. The school had a few hundred students from the surrounding countryside, and it was my only oasis.

  During one art class, I used a pair of scissors to cut shapes out of construction paper. I channeled all the pain into my work, cutting and cutting through page after page. It was then I realized that I could create art with a blade.

  My obsession with blades grew as I used sharp, pointed tools to sculpt clay. I molded and indented the clay with my blades to create a distorted, hollow figurine of myself. I didn’t see myself as a girl, or even a human being. I was a terrible monster that shouldn’t have been born.

  I quickly learned that I could use my figurines to project my perception of beauty into the ugliness that I had come to accept as myself. I began adding eyes, eyelashes, and curly hair to my creations, only to smash them back into formless lumps of clay. But for a brief moment, I could recreate myself as an imagined me.

  Over time, I perfected a figurine of my mother. I added miniature wings so that it looked like an angel. I left it to dry, and then I painted my mother’s soft eyes, long blond hair, and pink, kissable lips on the white figurine. I imagined her perfect angel figurine flying toward my disfigured figurine.

  * * *

  “Why are you always making figurines?” Anna asked as she inspected my creations with her almond-shaped eyes behind thick glasses.

  Anna was my best friend and we called each other besties. She was short and had to sit in the front of class to see the board.

  My fingers were sticky with wet clay that smelled like dung. I focused on sculpting my next figurine and didn’t answer her.

  “You’ve made ten of those now,” said Anna, pointing at the row of figurines drying in the sun on the window sill. “They all look horrible except for the angel.”

  “I look horrible.”

  “Nah, silly. You look just like the nice angel one.” She pointed at the perfected figurine. “Isn’t it supposed to be you?”

  “No. It’s my mother.” I wondered if her comment had to do with her nearsightedness. I couldn’t take her seriously because she was too blind to see me for who I was.

  “Hmm.” Anna shrugged. “Well, it looks just like you. You should make more of those. The wings are pretty.” She shoved her drawing toward my desk. “How do you like my artwork?”

  It was a picture of her family, and she was holding her younger brother’s hand. There were cows grazing in the foreground and a cottage on top of a hill. They owned a dairy farm.

  “It’s nice,” I said as a burn erupted in my chest. I envied her family … and that her mother was in the drawing.

  I used a sharp knife to shape the figurine in my hand. I wanted to create the perfect form of myself, but all I could manage was a round face, two hands, and long legs. I rolled up the clay and started again.

  * * *

  “You liar! You stole my book!” Anna screamed at me in the playground, drawing the attention of the other students.

  “I didn’t. I swear,” I said, trying to calm her down.

  “Then why is my book in your bag?”

  “Someone else put it there.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Anna pulled a small folding knife out of her skirt pocket. Her hands shook with anger as she opened it and wielded it in my direction. “You’re full of lies!”

  I instinctively lunged at her, covered her eyes with one hand, and grabbed the pocketknife with my other hand. I cut my fingers as I disarmed her. This is what it feels like to be sliced by someone close to my heart. I knew in that moment that the pain was addictive. I let go of the pocketknife and it dropped into the sand.

  “Anna, we’re besties. You know I’d never do that.” Blood began trickling down my fingers. Little droplets dripped from my hand into red splotches on the sand.

  “I used to trust you, but I’ve seen you stealing
books from the library. I just never said anything.”

  “But …”

  “This is it you thief! We’re not friends anymore!” she screamed as she ran away from the playground.

  I did steal Anna’s book. It was a storybook I wanted but couldn’t afford. I picked up her knife and thought about all the times we shared, laughing and running around in circles. Those times with her—in school, away from the pain and violence of my home—were the best times of my life. It only took three minutes to end three years of friendship. I really am a monster. That night, I slept with the teddy bear she gave me for my last birthday.

  Anna transferred to a new school the next day. With her gone, I had no friends and nothing to look forward to. All my classmates were afraid to come near me, but I didn’t care. Let them fear me. At least I’ll be safe.

  For the next few days, I couldn’t use my right hand to write. The slightest movement opened my wounds, splattering my schoolwork with drops of blood. I had to replace the bandages when that happened.

  I got in the habit of carrying Anna’s pocketknife with me wherever I went, and I played with it under my desk at school. I enjoyed folding the blade in and out, in and out, in and out.

  As the weeks passed, I realized that I would never see Anna again. Just like my mother, she wasn’t coming back. Books became my new companions. I didn’t need anyone to talk to.

  * * *

  One night, I took the teddy bear Anna gave me and started shredding it with her pocketknife. It felt so good that I sliced up all my soft toys. My bedroom was littered with stuffing and fluffy remains after the slaughter. Lying amidst the massacre remains gave me a sense of power. It was like I could do anything in the world with this blade. I was a superhero, a superstar, something bigger than myself.

  My stepfather walked into the room, filling it with the stink of cigarettes and vodka.

  “Clean up this mess you monkey!” he shouted.

  I pointed the pocketknife at him in defiance.

  “How dare you! Put the knife down you ungrateful little brat!”

  He tried to pin me on my bed and I struggled against his weight. With one grab, he took the knife from my small hand.