by Bryan Smith
Trey looked at the masked dancers, who were no longer dancing. Twelve masked faces and three more hooded ones turned to face him. The bodies of the women were even more astonishing in their utter perfection up close. Though he knew he was in mortal danger, his hormones compelled a quick inspection. He saw stiff nipples and pubic thatches glistening with moisture. Maybe the chant they’d been doing was some sort of sexual spell. That would account for Myra’s otherwise inexplicable behavior. And his own.
Myra.
“Myra!” he screamed. “Run! Get the fuck out of here!”
The man tugged him into the center of the campfire circle and tossed him to the ground. The heat of the nearby flames baked his skin. Trey reached for his jeans, meaning to pull them up, but the guard kicked him in the stomach, making him curl into a tight ball on the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. When he opened them, he saw the night’s most shocking scene yet.
Myra, nude, strode into the clearing.
The masked women bowed as she stepped through their circle.
Trey rolled onto his back and stared up at her. She stood over him, a strange, small smile touching the corners of her pretty mouth. “Trey, darling?”
A tickle of nausea touched the back of his throat. The only response he could manage was a moan.
Myra’s eyes glittered in the firelight.
“Remember when you told me how you wanted me from the moment you laid eyes on me?” Her voice mocked him, a tone of sadistic amusement that tore at his heart, pulverizing the love he felt for her. “Be careful what you wish for, idiot.”
Trey finally managed to speak. “What…what is this?”
Myra threw her head back and laughed heartily. Then she leered at him again. “This, baby, is the night you surrender your worthless fucking soul to me.”
A new chant, low and murmuring, arose from the still-bowing women.
Myra grinned.
A grin that grew wider and wider, impossibly wide, as her face began to…change.
CHAPTER TWO
Raymond Slater, principal of Rockville High School for this past decade, was in his office at the school. It was midnight, an hour at which the school was thought to be deserted. But Principal Slater was often here at odd hours. He and the night watchman had an understanding—an understanding reinforced with a generous weekly outlay of cash.
It was important that his nocturnal activities at the school remain a secret for one very simple reason—the activities in question would be considered perverse by just about any objective set of community standards.
Principal Slater was not alone in his office. Penelope Simmons, a ravishing young Senior English teacher, was slumped in a recliner opposite his big oak desk. The way she was dressed would shock her students, who were used to seeing her wear far more conservative clothes. She wore black, knee-high boots with stiletto heels and laces up the sides, black crotchless panties, a black bikini top with conical, bulletlike cups, and a black cap with a shiny brim that resembled the kind worn by Hitler’s SS. The hat was tilted low over her pale face. Her full lips, painted a whorish bright red, looked blowjob ready. The middle finger of her right hand pushed through the open slot of her panties and slipped into her sex.
Her hand flexed.
And she writhed minutely on the leather recliner, her red lips forming a wide O of ecstasy.
Principal Slater sported an enormous erection, which strained the fabric of his trousers. He would use it on Penelope when the time was right, but that time had not yet arrived. He turned away from her and faced the little mirror above the display case of his various plaques and awards for community service. The image in the mirror showed a man with short black hair shellacked in place. His dark eyes were hard and pitiless. He smeared a dab of spirit gum above his upper lip and affixed a fake mustache. Once he was satisfied with the way it looked, he stepped back and snapped off a stiff-armed salute.
“Heil!”
He spun away from the mirror on the heels of his vintage jackboots, glared at Penelope, and barked, “Achtung! Activate the boombox, wench!”
Penelope leapt off the recliner and stood ramrod straight. She looked sleek and delectable, a dazzling Aryan goddess. “Ja, mein principal!”
She pushed the play button on the boombox, which was on Slater’s desk. The recorded voice of a dead German dictator filled the room. Penelope leaned against the edge of the desk and watched Principal Slater goose-step back and forth.
She imagined ranks of Third Reich troops marching around a town square. The image sent a shiver of delight down the length of her trim body. She closed her eyes, lifted one long, sleek leg, and placed the sole of a boot on the edge of the desk.
Then she reached between her legs again.
And her mouth formed another O.
Outside, perched on a low-hanging tree branch, a crow as black as the night itself observed the decadent scene through the principal’s office window. Principal Slater often neglected to close the blind when indulging his secret lusts. His office window was not visible from a street, and there was no one around at this time of night to bear witness to his Third Reich fetish.
It would not trouble him to know the crow was watching.
The crow flapped its wings and took to the air. Had Principal Slater been able to track its flight path, he would’ve cursed his carelessness. The crow flew high over the small town, leaving the school and the nearby main drag far behind. It flew past a residential area and over a wooded area, homing in on a flickering campfire in a clearing.
It began to descend.
Sensing its approach, its mistress turned her face skyward and smiled.
The crow landed on her shoulder and whispered in her ear.
CHAPTER THREE
No one noticed the blue Camry parked outside the Good Times Bar & Grill, which was fine with the man slouched behind the car’s steering wheel. He rolled what appeared to be a coin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, a shiny gold-plated disc roughly the size of a quarter. Engraved in the middle of the coin on each side were the words “One Year.” The AA chip was the ultimate symbol of the new life the man had built for himself in St. Paul. A new life that had effectively ended a day ago, when he got the call that had brought him back here to Rockville. The last thing in the world he’d ever wanted was to come home, but there was just no way around this. This was duty.
But Jake McAllister couldn’t face what he had to face sober. He flipped the chip through the Camry’s open window and heard it strike the pavement. It rolled under a pickup truck parked at the bar’s entrance, then disappeared down a storm drain. Jake reached into the plastic Kroger bag on the passenger seat, pried a Bud tall-boy can from its plastic ring, and popped the tab. The beer felt good in his mouth, refreshing, like a reminder of something sweet from his youth, a salve for the psyche, and he felt a sense of immense relief. Getting that first swallow out of the way had been hard, but now it was done. Now he could walk into this bar without feeling like a condemned man walking into the gas chamber. He finished the contents of the tall boy, crushed it, and tossed it into the back seat, a reflex left over from the bad old days.
He got out of the car and walked into the bar.
Stepping through the door, he smelled beer, meat on a grill, and cigarette smoke. Jake slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a shot of tequila and a Grolsch chaser. He threw back the tequila, winced at the familiar burn, and savored the Grolsch.
The burly bartender had shaggy blond hair and a thick mustache. The sleeves of his white button-up shirt were rolled halfway up bulging forearms. Jake felt a spark of recognition, but he couldn’t quite place the guy. “I haven’t set foot in this town in ten years, but I’m sure I know you.”
The bartender’s eyes crinkled a little as he smiled. “Yeah, you do. You’re Jake McAllister. I’m Stu Walker.” He shook Jake’s hand across the bar. “You were about five years ahead of me in school, but I used to hang with your little brother.” Stu’s
smile faltered a bit. “Shame what happened. Mike was a cool dude. We used to party a lot. I still miss the guy.”
Jake felt a brief flash of the old grief at the mention of his dead brother’s name. A familiar blackness loomed somewhere within him. He swallowed some more Grolsch and willed thoughts of the fucked-up past away.
“Yeah. Honestly, I don’t think about it much anymore. What happened, I mean.”
Stu cleaned some pint glasses with a cloth. “Yeah. It was a long time ago.”
Later, as Jake finished his second Grolsch, he did a quick booze-intake inventory. In less than a half hour, he’d consumed three beers and a large shot of tequila. It was tempting to go ahead and get hammered, but he knew it wasn’t wise. He had some serious matters to attend to, including some face-to-face encounters with people he’d hoped to never see again. People he hated. His mother, for one. And his beer-bellied, quick-with-a-backhand evil bastard of a stepfather, for another.
Stu set a fresh Grolsch on the bar in front of Jake. “So…what brings you back, man?”
Jake picked up the bottle, but didn’t immediately drink from it. He rolled the cool glass between his hands and stared into the open mouth of the bottle. “You know my mother had another kid by that asshole Hal, right?”
Stu grunted. “Yep. Trey. He reminds me of you.”
“Yeah? That poor bastard.”
Jake took a big swallow of beer. He’d allow himself one more beer while he talked with Stu; then he’d get out of this place. He had enough discipline left to do that, he hoped. Because he was pretty sure he’d be here for the night if he stayed for even one more drink beyond that.
A blonde girl with nice legs displayed pleasingly in a short skirt and ass-lifting platform heels leaned over the bar next to Jake and ordered a Long Island iced tea. While Stu mixed the drink, the girl glanced Jake’s way. She looked maybe twenty years old, with straight white teeth, pretty blue eyes, and marvelous cheekbones. When she smiled at him, Jake forgot about everything else for a moment.
“Hello.”
“Hey. Haven’t seen you here before.” Her voice was sweet and lilting, but she sounded a little tipsy. “You’re kinda cute for an old guy.”
Jake chuckled. He was thirty-nine and not quite ready to shuffle off to the old folks home. But it was all about perspective. From this chick’s point of view, he was old. And maybe she was right. He didn’t like to think about that looming milestone birthday, but it was right around the corner and coming up fast.
He tipped his glass at her. “Thanks. I guess.” He drank some more Grolsch. “I’m new here. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
Jake shrugged. “I grew up in Rockville, but I’ve been gone a long time.”
Her brow furrowed some. “You back to stay or just visiting?”
“Definitely just visiting. But I’ll be around a while, taking care of some family business.”
The girl’s smile returned. “Wonderful. I’m Bridget Flanagan. I’m a student at RCC.”
Jake tipped his glass at her. “Jake McAllister.”
She accepted the finished drink from Stu and sipped tentatively from a thin straw. “Lovely. Well, Jake McAllister, hang out at the Grill enough and we’ll see each other again. But now I must be off.”
“Good-bye.”
“Ciao.”
Jake watched her return to a table occupied by several other college-age girls. She moved like she knew he would be watching her, swaying her hips a little more than she normally would.
Stu laughed. “Work that ass.”
Jake watched her smooth her skirt and fold herself into a small chair. “I’m way too old to be flirting with a girl that young.”
Stu indicated the nearly empty Grolsch bottle in Jake’s hand with a nod. “You ’bout ready for another?”
Jake tilted the bottle and studied its remaining contents. It still held another good swallow or two. He sighed, remembering his pledge of only minutes ago. “No. This is it for to night, I think.”
“So, why are you back, Jake?”
Jake sipped some Grolsch. “My mother called me yesterday, begging me to come back to Rockville. Her ‘baby,’ this is Trey we’re talking about, this is the term she uses for a kid almost out of high school…anyway, her ‘baby’ has apparently suffered some sort of massive psychological trauma, something he won’t tell her about no matter how much she pries. My opinion, just living with her is plenty trauma.”
Stu’s expression was grim. “I hate to say it, but I agree. Her and her old man aren’t gonna win any popularity contests, put it that way. Trey, though, is a good kid, from what I know of him. Smart, like you. So you’re here to put the boy straight, huh?”
Jake laughed. “I guess. My mother, God knows why, has this idea I’m some kind of paragon of maturity and success. She thinks Trey looks up to me. Which is funny, I haven’t accomplished shit, other than escaping this place. But go figure, she reckons my mere presence will be enough to steer Trey back to the straight and narrow path. Pure bullshit. If I’m the kid’s role model, he’s already in trouble. Luckily, I’ve got an alternate plan.”
Stu poured a Bud draft for a factory worker and passed it across the bar. “What, hire a hitman to whack his parents?”
Jake smirked. “Now, that ain’t a bad idea. But no, what I have in mind is nonlethal but hopefully just as final. Trey graduates from Rockville High in a little over a month. I’m gonna hang around until then, play the role model to pacify Mom, then, when Trey has his diploma in hand, I’m gonna put him in my car and get him the hell out of Rockville.”
Stu’s eyes widened. “Really? You sure he’ll go along with that?”
“Don’t know. Gonna give it a shot, though.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Stu’s whiskered mouth. “That’s a pretty bold plan. Maybe even a little crazy.” The smile broadened. “Shit, it might even work.”
Jake sucked down the last of the Grolsch and pushed the empty bottle across the bar. “I won’t force him to come with me. I’m just gonna roll the dice and see what happens.”
“Where will you be staying while you’re in town?”
Jake sat back on his stool and rubbed fatigue from his eyes. “Man, I’m bushed. I figured I’d look for some kinda weekly rental type place.”
Stu snapped his fingers so abruptly Jake almost slid off his stool. “Nah, fuck that, man. You can stay with me.”
Jake blinked. “But—”
“I’m serious. And you don’t have to worry about imposing. I rent a house in Washington Heights. Plenty of room.” Stu grinned. “And the price is right.”
Jake frowned. “Ah…my, um, funds aren’t…”
“You asshole, I ain’t chargin’ you.”
Jake thought about it a moment longer, then nodded. It wasn’t like he had a lot of options. “I appreciate it, man.”
Stu nodded. “Not a problem, bro. Hang out a bit longer. I’ll fetch my extra house key from the Jeep when I get a chance.”
Stu poured some more drafts and set another Grolsch in front of Jake. Jake was drinking it before he realized he’d broken his pledge. He decided not to worry about it. He’d been looking for an excuse to postpone the meeting with his mother anyway. It could wait one more day. A little more time to mentally prepare himself couldn’t hurt. Rationalization firmly in place, he cast his gaze about the Grill and saw Bridget Flanagan giggling with her friends. Something about the way she cocked her head when listening to one of her friends reminded him of someone else. He frowned, unable to place the dim memory, then it came to him.
Moira Flanagan.
The love of his life—once upon a time.
Bridget was her kid sister.
If anything, Bridget was even prettier than Jake’s former love. Looking at her had the uncomfortable effect of stirring some of the old lust he felt for Moira. An image flashed in his head, disturbing and vivid—Bridget kissing him, fondling his crotch as Moira always so boldly did when they’d made out in her
bedroom at her parents’ house. Jake wrenched his gaze away, not wanting the girl to see the desire in his eyes.
Jake looked at the bar.
His heart raced in his chest.
And he thought, Oh God…Moira.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bridget was having a good time. She liked to mess with people. Get their motors running, build up their expectations, then crush them. The old guy at the bar, for instance. Her new work in progress. She looked forward to seeing him again. Being a guy, he was gullible. It would be easy to lead him on, make him believe she wanted his old ass. The look on his face when he learned the truth would be well worth the effort. Something within her found deception of any type enjoyable. The girl across the table, a petite brunette with a pixie-style haircut, was another good example. Thinking of Bridget as a confidante, she’d tearfully confessed her sexual confusion to her the night before. Bridget fended off the girl’s tentative advances while professing profound respect for her courageous decision to out herself. Which, it turned out, wasn’t what the girl wanted at all. She just wanted to “experiment,” she claimed, and she begged Bridget not to ever tell anyone else about the episode. So Bridget made a solemn vow to take the secret to her grave if need be.
The memory made Bridget feel delightfully wicked.
“You guys want to hear something shocking?”
The women seated around the table looked at her with expressions of expectation. The girl across the table looked troubled. Not quite alarmed. Not yet. Just troubled. Her name was Jordan Harper. She believed Bridget was just about the sweetest girl in the world. Or so she’d told Bridget.
Jordan stared at her. “Bridget—”
Bridget smiled. “Jordan’s a dyke. She came on to me last night.”
The revelation was like a grenade rolled into the conversation. All giggling ceased. There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. The silence was broken by the ragged sob that tore out of Jordan’s throat. “I can’t believe you. You said you wouldn’t tell.”