What Lies Beneath The Flowerbed

by D. M. Thornton

  Not even a full thirty minutes later, there’s a light tap on my door. I mumble a quiet, “Come in,” when Jaz pokes her head in with a frown. “I knew it.” I puffed out a long breath. “Seriously, Jaz, just stop trying. Get your shit in order to where you can leave Martin’s dumb ass, then we’ll start this process over. Okay?”

  “I was so close,” she says. “Literally, I was lowering myself onto him when I stopped. Closest I have been. Fuck!”

  “Stop beating yourself up over it. Focus on what you need to, and when you finally leave the idiot you call a husband, your brain and your pussy will be ready.”

  Jaz’s head flops backward on a groan. “I’m going home.”

  “Did you release Mr. Blue Balls?” I ask as Jaz starts to walk away.

  “Yeah, he left already. I knew you wouldn’t kill him. C’mon, Gray, I know how you work. I realize you were only trying to do me a solid and weren’t planning on killing him.”

  I smile. Bitch knows me better than anyone else.

  “And I know that you didn’t actually believe I’d go through with it,” Jaz added, a frown tugging at her lips.

  I shrug my shoulders with a smirk. “True dat. But hey, I still love ya, brat. Don’t beat yourself up over this, you did the right thing.”

  Jaz nods. “Alright, I’m going home now.”

  “Peace out,” I say after her.

  Chapter 8

  Jaz

  I told Martin I was going out with Gray tonight, and that I would be home late. I guess that meant he should invite some friends over. I can’t say I recognize the two pickup trucks in my driveway, but then again, I don’t keep tabs on my husband. I honestly don’t give a shit what the hell he does with his time. Lord knows it’s not me he’s doing. I slip my key into the lock of the front door and quietly push my way through. Dumping my purse on the antique table that’s pressed up against the wall, I catch an unfamiliar sound coming from the back part of the house. The master bedroom. I cock my head to the side to listen closely. My heart sinks in my chest when I hear a gurgling, choking sound.

  Shitballs, Martin needs help.

  I sprint toward the bedroom door and burst through, skidding to a halt, expecting to see Martin on his knees with his hands around his neck, gagging and choking for breath. But that’s not what’s happening. He’s on his knees alright, but his mouth is wrapped around another man’s cock while a man pounds into him from behind. I’m too enthralled to turn away. Instead, I stand there, mouth to the floor, staring at the three men before me. They’re so engrossed in what they are doing that they haven’t the slightest clue that I’m standing here watching, in awe, their threesome...my husband being the bologna to their sandwich.

  I have to admit that I’m a bit envious at the moment. I wish it was all my holes being filled by two beastly men with huge, engorged cocks, but nope, I’m not that lucky. No, I’ve been pushed away for ten months, and made to feel like a useless slob who isn’t hot enough for her husband to fuck. And while I’ve been a goddamn saint by not cheating...which I have attempted and failed miserably...my husband has been off fucking men. Not just one man, mind you, but men, as in plural. He’s a fucking butt-pirate, a pole-smoker, a freakin’ cockknocker.

  It’s like a train wreck that you can’t peel your eyes from, not that I want to. I’m quite intrigued by this situation. Watching the guy behind Martin pump into his ass, hearing the sound of the man’s balls slapping against my husband’s rear-end, has me turned on. I’m getting worked up witnessing Martin take the other guy’s cock clear back to his throat. The gurgling of Martin’s saliva mixed with pre-cum, the air thick with the smell of sex and his moaning, has me ready to explode with my own orgasm. I’m tempted to slip my hands down my pants and click the mouse, flick the bean...anything to get off at this point, but then the guy with his dick in Martin’s mouth groans and stiffens, ejaculating in Martin’s mouth. At the same time, the guy behind Martin rams himself hard into his ass and comes with a shudder of his torso and a jerk of his hips, collapsing against Martin’s back. The man in the front slips free from my husband’s mouth, and with a swipe of his hand, Martin wipes his lips with an, “Mm, that’s good.”

  There’s a rumbling deep down in my belly, and even if I wanted to stop it, I can’t. A boisterous roar expels from my lungs, and I double over in laughter. The moment the noise bursts past my lips, Martin and his fuck buddies snap their heads in my direction. I’m laughing so hard that I can’t talk, only sputter and point while I giggle uncontrollably. “Holy. Shit. You’re. Fucking. Gay!” I snicker, punching out each word between breathy laughs. “I knew it!” Well, no, I really didn’t...okay, maybe I did and didn’t want to admit it every time Gray made a point to tell me her thoughts on the matter. I chose to keep my own opinions suppressed down in my gut, hoping...praying that it wasn’t true, but it has always been in the back of my brain. I mean, fuck, what straight man turns down hardcore, headboard nailing a hole in the wall, howling like monkeys, rough sex? I don’t say no to anything, and I’ll try anything at least once. When it comes to me and sex, I’m like a horny teenage boy humping anything that walks by. Most men would jump all of it, and by it, I mean me. I really don’t think it’s too much to ask to have my clothes ripped from my body as I’m shoved up against the wall and taken from behind, all while my hair is being pulled and my ass is getting a beating. I fucking like it rough and dirty. What guy says no to that kind of fuckery? That’s right, my flamer husband, that’s who.

  I have three naked men in front of me, all at a loss for words while I walk away, hysterically laughing. When Martin chases after me, grabbing my arm to spin me around, I can barely look at him. Tears flood my eyes, but they’re not tears of sadness. I’m too overwhelmed with relief and giddiness to feel sad. Call me crazy, but I’ve wrecked my brain over how I was going to continue on in this worthless, sexless marriage. He’s given me my out. I’m not mad. Not one bit.

  “Jazmine!” Martin cries out. “Wait, let’s talk about this.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Don’t worry, Martin, I’m not angry. Deep down, I’ve known for some time. Honestly, you did us a big favor, and I appreciate the fact that you haven’t slept with me while you’ve been banging two guys. The last thing I needed to get was some sexually transmitted disease.” I snatch my purse and keys from the antique table, but before I walk away, I stroll up to Martin and place a kiss on his cheek. “See ya around.”

  * * *

  I’m standing in front of Gray’s door, knocking until my knuckles are sore. Jesus, it’s two in the morning, and she’s probably asleep, or she very well could have stayed out at the compound, but I need to see her. I’ll drive all over town if I have to. I’m about to give up, but before I can turn away from the door, the lock makes a loud clank and the door flies open.

  “What the fuck are you doing here at this hour?” Gray asks, tucking her bedhead red hair behind her ear.

  “What the fuck are you wearing?” I snap back. It’s not every day you see a grown ass woman walking around in fleece pajamas covered in carrot-eating bunny rabbits. And we’re talking about a grown woman who’s a serial killer. I mean, seriously, her jammies couldn’t be any more ridiculous. “Are you fucking four years old?” I chastise.

  Gray glances down at her pajamas and shrugs. “Don’t judge, bitch. I like these. They’re soft.”

  I push passed her and head for the couch, slumping into the cushions with a loud groan. “Fuck me, you were right.”

  Curling up into the loveseat across from me, Gray raises her eyebrows with a smirk, like she already knows what I’m going to say, though it’s impossible she knows what I just encountered. When I don’t say anything, she scrunches up her face and snaps, “Well, are you gonna fucking tell me what I was right about or what? I mean, shit, you come here at some ungodly time, barge through my door, and sulk on my couch with a vague, ‘You were right’. What the hell is it? You’re wasting my precious sleep time.”

  My eyes r
oll on a chuckle, as if I’m at all swayed to hurry up and announce she was right about Martin just because she’s whining about her beauty sleep. Like I don’t know she’s a fucking vampire and hardly sleeps anyway. Precious sleep my ass. “For God’s sake, I don’t want your bunnies to choke on their carrots and fall down a dark and sleep deprived rabbit hole. You were right about Martin.” I pause and release a heavy sigh, then nonchalantly add, “He’s gay.”

  Gray’s eyes darken, which isn’t quite the response I was thinking she was going to give me. I figured she used that tidbit of information to laugh in my face, and toss it back at me like steaming hot dog shit, but instead, she’s sitting across from me, staring off to the side and rubbing the bottoms of her feet along the carpet...fuming. The cranks are visibly turning in her brain, and for a second, I catch a glimmer of her natural born killer instinct. I push off the couch and sit at the edge of the cushion. “Oh no you don’t,” I blurt out. I know that look all too well and it’s a look of pure hatred. It’s the look she gets when she’s about to slice open some bastard’s abdomen, reach in to their stomach, and tear out their body parts. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I won’t let you do it.”

  Her eyes snap in my direction and fixate on me as if she’s trying to process right from wrong. She’s rocking back and forth in her chair, her feet continuously rubbing along the carpet in an anxious obsessive manner. Her bottom lip becomes a chew toy for her top teeth and she growls with anger. “I fucking knew it,” she seethes. “I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.”

  “Uh, no you won’t, crazy pants. Honest to God, Gray, it’s such a relief. I won’t feel guilty anymore, and I can finally go find some hot muscle head with an eight-inch cock to fuck like a jackhammer. I don’t even care. I’m actually quite happy. Though, I’m not sure if I’ll ever fully recover from watching him suck dick while getting buttfucked.”

  A weird gasping bark passes Gray’s gaped mouth, and I know she’s visualizing the pretty little picture I just painted for her. Her lips twist with disgust as she shakes her head, trying to free her mind of the idea that Martin’s the lucky Pierre. “You have to let me—”

  “Nope,” I cut her off with an accentuation of the P. “Not gonna happen, brat.”

  “But...”

  Okay, so I’m not completely stupid. I know if I don’t give a little, Gray will most likely go behind my back and do something to him anyway. So, I grin and offer a small compromise. “How about this, we’ll bring him to the compound and let Andi rub up on him. Maybe flash him a fancy little tool or two. You know, scare him a bit. But we’re not going to kill him.”

  Gray’s head shakes and her lips purse together before she speaks. “You know I won’t be able to stop. If we bring him in, I won’t be able to control myself. I’ll kill him regardless. Besides, if we scare him too much, there’s a chance he’ll talk, and we can’t have that.”

  “Stop overthinking, Gray. He won’t talk, I’ll make sure of it. Let’s have a little fun. Please?”

  She inhales then slowly releases her held breath. “Ugh! Fine, but I’m not going to promise you that I won’t do something drastic.”

  I glare at her with a raised brow. My smile helps soften her tightly annoyed face. I don’t let up until she caves and flops back into her chair.

  “You’re such a fucking bitch. Fine! Now, if you aren’t gonna crash on the couch...get the fuck out.” She pushes herself from the chair and storms down the hallway, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  I laugh as I cozy up on her couch, covering myself with the fleece blanket that’s hanging off the top of the back cushions. We might have a little game to play with Martin, but first things first...I’m getting fucking laid.

  Chapter 9

  Gray

  This week is dragging ever so slowly, and if Friday doesn’t get here, I might have to throat punch Jaz to shut her up about going out and finding a fuck buddy. I’m in my own little world correcting papers. The last bell rang over two hours ago, and yet I’m still sitting here going through these abysmal test scores. For crying out loud, I cringe every time I write anything lower than a B on one of these simple tests. I don’t think I ask for much from my students. Put a bit of effort into your work, try your best, and if you’re struggling, come and ask for help. But these li’l punks, they let their pride stand in the way of good grades. I offer a generous grading curve, and I even give my students the opportunity to better their scores if they aren’t happy with them. But, I’m not their mother, and I will not hound them. They’re in high school for Chrissakes. By now they should be showing signs of responsibility.

  When it comes to papers, I have an internal battle that rages inside me. Do I stack my papers alphabetically according to students’ last names or the letter grade? I know it might sound a bit irrational—I mean, most people just stack the damn papers, one right on top of the other, but not me. Nope. I have to obsess over every tiny detail. I hold the papers in my hands, letting the battle of grades versus last names joust within my head. My heart is racing in my chest and my leg is shaking in a nervous twitch under the table. I rearrange the papers from letter grade to last names before finally succumbing to the big red mark on the front of the papers. Oh, who am I kidding? The grades always win because the large red ink stands out the most. But, the tense fight never fails to show its weary head...every single time.

  I seriously have an alphabetizing disorder. Everything needs to be alphabetized, including my bookcases. Of course, every day before I leave my classroom, I have to reorganize my shelves because these little assholes like to remove my books, then replace them in the wrong spot. I think they mostly do it to piss me off, but then again, some of these kids are just downright stupid and don’t know their head from their asses.

  “Excuse me,” a man who’s standing at classroom door says.

  I slip the tests in the corrected slot of my desk organizer and stand from my chair. I motion for Mr. Suit-n-Tie to come in and damn near choke on my own spit. He might be wearing a fitted suit, but when he loosens the buttons of his suit jacket and pushes it to the side, I catch a glimpse of a badge and a gun.

  Oh shit, a police officer.

  He casually strolls through my classroom and takes the seat across from me. My palms clam up with sweat, so I wipe my hand along the side of my pants, then reach across the desk and hold out my hand. “Ms. Knight. How can I help you, sir?”

  Oh. My. God. They found me. I made a mistake somewhere, and he’s come to arrest me. Holy shit, I can’t see. Everything is spinning and my stomach...I’m gonna barf.

  His eyes trail down to my neck, and I immediately adjust the collar of my turtleneck, trying to hide the last remnant of my healing bruise from where Lloyd Dawson tried to choke me. His eyes meet mine again. He offers me an inviting smile and leans forward, taking my hand, holding it longer than I’m comfortable with. “Ms. Knight,” he says with a nod of his head. “I’m Jett Roman, Thomas Anderson’s stepfather. How are you this fine day?”

  I feel my shoulders relax as a long breath seeps passed my partly opened mouth, and when he doesn’t let go, I yank my hand back and fold my palms together on top of my desk. Even though I’m very much relieved that he’s here for something other than hauling me off to the slammer, I try hard not to roll my eyes at the sound of that name...

  Thomas Anderson.

  I can’t say I’m the least bit surprised by this visit. I kind of was expecting it after the last couple of classes. Now, most parents would march into the classroom, faces red with anger, the very next day, had their child been removed. They’d demand to know why I had it out for their innocent child who’s nothing more than wasted chromosomes. Hey, not every kid is a good egg. Wasn’t this established in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? I mean, shit, the general population of children these days are mere resemblances of Veruca Salt. Parents are too stupid to come to terms with the fact their kid is a rotten egg and should be sent down the trash shoot. But all that is beside the poin
t, because I’m trying to figure out why it took Thomas’ father almost a week to come have a chitty-chat with me. But hey, I’m not one to pass judgement. Ha! I crack myself up. Of course I pass judgement, I’m a damn killer. Anyway, what surprises me the most isn’t the fact that Mr. Roman has taken an abnormally long time to come defend his stepson, but that my legs are trembling under the desk. And not from trying to organize stacks of graded papers either. Nope, I’m not flustered because a cop just strolled into my classroom, which I should be, by the way, but by fucking golly—because he’s incredibly, insanely hot.

  Let me remind you that no man does it for me. None. Being that I was tossed around as a kid, used as a sex toy for low-life loser, child molesters, I tend to have no feeling below the waist. That feeling, or the lack thereof, is what has kept me alive most of my life. Had I been able to feel the pain that came along with every one of those brutal rapes when I was younger, I may have just offed myself. But being able to remain numb has allowed me to skate by, appearing as your typical, normal young woman...school teacher.