Please, Pretty Lights (Pretty Lights #1)

by Ina Zajac

  She reached for him, but he pulled away. “I can’t believe you played me like this,” he said, shaking his head. “This fucking kills me.”

  “Please, remember how we felt that day,” she said.

  “Don’t you dare throw that in my face.” He raised his voice; his eyes drew into slits. “I was so busy getting you to trust me, ripping myself wide open for you, that I forgot I was dealing with some fucked up girl, already cheating on someone else. Did you even break up with him?”

  People were watching them, but she didn’t care. “I love you.”

  He just looked down at the floor. It was the worst kind of silence. It went on forever.

  She leaned in a few inches closer, but he stepped back again. “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “Actually, I do have one more thing to say.”

  “You do?”

  “You make me sick.”

  “Oh,” she heard herself say. “Oh, okay.” She knew her tone sounded casual, almost breezy.

  She turned and made her way to the door where she met a group of kids coming in. Carolers. She stepped aside as they came into the lobby and began singing “O Holy Night.” She looked back, but he still wouldn’t look at her. She knew he was gone. He really wasn’t her Tristan anymore.

  Uneasy on her feet, she went out into the night. Food would be impossible. Her ulcerated stomach was a scorching pit of fire. Where was she going to go? Maybe she needed to find a new sign, one that would lead to a new beginning. But, she couldn’t bear a new beginning. A wave of chills crept over her shoulders and down her arms; her fingers shook. Her wicked thoughts were all over the place. Her sick body needed to be high—or dead. Nothing was ever going to be okay. There was only one person wretched enough to deserve her company, and he would have mountains of blow.

  CHAPTER 34

  CARLOS

  CARLOS SHOOK his gold lighter up and down twice then flicked it with his thumb. He lit the new red candle on top of the bar. He hoped it would enhance the mood he was going for. Ben had just called over the intercom to announce that Via was on her way back. He picked up the vodka tonic he had prepared for her—no lime—and carried it over to the glass coffee table.

  He felt conflicted, almost sorry, about what he was about to do. It’s just the coke, he told himself. He had been hunkered down in his office smoking most of the day. Except for the Kaytlyn quickie, he’d been alone all day. His thoughts were too random, too fast for his tired brain to decipher.

  No doubt she was special, but he couldn’t let that be the case. Follow through, he told himself. She was the devil—ignoring his calls, making him wait and wonder. Her childhood wounds complimented his well, but knowing she had already gotten to him only reinforced his need to destroy her. He knew he had shared too much about Maya and Sam with her, but otherwise the story he had given her was tight. She hadn’t asked about his business, so she had nothing on him there.

  She came in and sat down on the couch. That light he had so often seen in her eyes was gone. Her sweater was stark white with busy black pattern. It did nothing to warm up her complexion. She wore a black skirt and heels. Other than being too long, the skirt pleased him. Jeans would be a hassle. She adjusted her hair so it fell back behind her shoulders, then offered a waxy smile. Her gaze lingered on the glass coffee table, which was laden with coke smudges. Would she lick her finger and swipe up the residue that Kaytlyn had ignored a just few hours ago? That would be perfect.

  Of course he knew what she wanted, but instead of going back behind his desk to fetch this princess her nose candy, he went over and sat next to her.

  “Did you and Mattais have a fight?” he asked, his cheeks warm and excited. “That’s too bad.”

  “He’ll never trust me again,” she said, bringing her shaky hands into her lap and holding them together.

  He didn’t even try to restrain his deep laugh. “Well, should he? You’re here with me, right?”

  She didn’t give him an answer, so he continued his assault.

  “Remember when you first came here? What was that, like three months ago?” This was the best part of the hunt for him. He had psychologically pulled her panties down and was prepared to give her psyche a pounding. But first, he wanted to make her squirm a little longer. “You looked so hot. I could tell right away you were special, nothing like the other girls.”

  As he expected, her face relaxed into an assured smile. “But now you’re just a another skinny blow whore. No wonder Mattais doesn’t want to fuck you anymore.”

  He kept his disdainful glare set upon her and waited. Her smile disappeared and her expression fell into a blank stare, an emotional five-second delay. This is where he hoped things would get interesting. Would she start to cry and run from the room or would she throw herself at his feet? He hoped she would stay and beg, try to convince him her body and her soul were worth a gram.

  “And now you’ve come back to me. What shall I do with you?” He wondered if she had noticed that the candle he was burning smelled of Christmas spice. He hoped it would give height to the emotional tailspin he planned to witness.

  But she just sat there. The tears he had expected to enjoy seemed to be held at bay. Instead, she furrowed her brows, squinted her eyes. Ah, she was surprising him after all. Sparking his attraction to her. She was offended and possibly furious. Her response was deliberate and condescending.

  “Using words like ‘shall’ doesn’t make you any smarter, you know.”

  Direct hit, right to the heart. He felt like a fish being gutted. Fucking whore. Of course, she would call him dumb. He tried to play it off. He would be cool and controlled. “Yes, be a little bitch. I like that.”

  It had been good before, but this time it would be rough and ruthless, and she was going to love it. He couldn’t wait to provide Mattais with the colorful play-by-play. Oops, I did her again.

  He went behind his desk. She sat there, strung out and broken hearted, just as he had hoped. He pondered his options for a moment—how to proceed, how to proceed? He could start by making her dance for him while he pointed out her flaws; every woman had flaws. Or, he could have her blow him while he told her what a dirty slut she was. But first, if she wanted cocaine—really wanted the full experience—he would give it to her.

  “Come on,” he said, sweet as candy. “Let’s just forget the drama and have some fun.”

  He didn’t want her to leave. He was getting hot thinking about other ways to put her in her place. He smiled, imagining her on her hands and knees in front of the mirror. He would pull her hair back hard enough to pull her head up—she would have to look at herself. He would need to think of some brutal insults to inflict upon her—something about poor Mattais.

  First things first, his hand still on the top desk drawer, he called over to her. “I have something extra special for you, and you’re going to love it.”

  She looked confused for a moment, but didn’t respond. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out his marbled goody box, which made her smile. Then he grabbed his clear glass pipe and butane lighter, which made her mouth fall open.

  She didn’t say a word; her silence was his answer. She could still bolt, so he eased over and sat next to her. He poured some blow into a pile. His own anticipation made him smile. She would be his again, no doubt. He began chopping it, fanning it out against the glass, fully aware of the rhythm of his hand—back and forth, back and forth. There it was, one fat rail with her name on it. He was starting to feel warm and tingly. He could feel her warm, sweet breath on the side of his neck. She was already leaning in for it. Silly girl, she didn’t know she would have to earn it first. He picked up the straw, but instead of handing it to her he placed it next to her treat.

  He brought her hands into his lap. She tensed up, but didn’t fight him. He felt himself growing harder and knew she could feel it too. “Don’t you see what you do to me?” he asked. She pulled her hands back. What a shame. “I know you’re s
ick, that you need this,” he said. “I know you want to be in a better mood for me. You want to please me.” She still hadn’t said anything, so he continued his display of reassurance.

  “I didn’t mean what I said before, you know that. First, you’re trying this,” he explained. He dropped a nice rock into the round belly of the pipe. “Then, you can do that line, if you even still want to.” He wondered if she would believe that. He wouldn’t tell her that he had plenty to smoke. That he would keep her very high—all night long and into the next. “Don’t worry, you’re ready for this.” He was almost there; he didn’t want to lose her now. She was a miserable little bitch. He was lonesome, and he would soon secure her company. Just one hit.

  Via reached over, picked up her vodka tonic, and sucked down half of it. She was beginning to shake. “I should go,” she said. “I’m not going to be any fun tonight.”

  Like hell, he thought. This little tease wasn’t going anywhere. “It’s just cocaine, just freebase. We’re just smoking it. Better delivery system. Right to the heart, baby.”

  She took another swig of her drink. He held the pipe toward her, ready to light it.

  “I just can’t,” she said, trying to stand up. The glass in her hand knocked into his arm and he dropped the pipe—his favorite pipe. It shattered against the cement floor.

  He felt cool vodka soaking into his pants.

  “Shit!” He seized her arm and her empty glass went flying, falling victim to the floor as well. “What’s wrong with you?” He pushed her back down on the couch. She struggled, but he had her by one arm, and then both. He had to hold himself back from choking the dumb bitch. He leaned over her, his hands wrapped around her wrists.

  “Stop, please,” she begged. “I’m sorry.”

  Damn straight, she should be sorry. Though this was just want he wanted anyway. He couldn’t wait to punish her. He would show her. He pulled her up off the couch, but she fought him, so he caught her by her hair. “I’ve already banged you on the couch. I want you over here. On your stomach.”

  “It hurts,” she whimpered, grabbing at his hands in her hair.

  He just pulled harder until he had her on the floor. He dragged her in front of the mirror, but couldn’t get her onto her stomach. She was on her back, flailing her arms and kicking. He managed to climb on top of her and straddle her hips. He let go of one of her hands to wipe the sweat from his brow and she reached up, and tried to scratch his face.

  He loved her for fighting, but he hated her more. He was so amped up. Only one other woman had ever been able to set him off like this.

  He pinned both her arms again, above her head. “Don’t you want to watch?” he taunted her. “I want you to see me nailing you in the mirror. I want to see you trying to look dignified.”

  ***

  VIA

  WITH HER BACK against the hard floor, Via fought him with everything she had. His eyes were dark and sick and horrifying. This was so much worse than before because this time she was alert and sober. She tried to scream, but he managed to press his hand over her mouth, still keeping her arm held down with his elbow.

  “I like that. Fight me,” he threatened. She felt him try to jam his knees between hers. He used his weight to force them open. “If this is how you want it, fine.”

  An out-of-body sensation seized her. She would pretend it was happening to somebody else. This was happening to Vixen. No matter what, he couldn’t touch her because she was Via. He had pulled open Vixen’s sweater and forced down Vixen’s bra. He leaned in and began sucking and biting her hard.

  Hell no, she realized. Not even Vixen deserved this—nobody did. This was not going to happen. She tried to get a hand free again so that she could claw into his eyes, but he only pushed down harder. How she wanted to feel her fingertips tear into his flesh. She pushed against him so hard she feared the bones in her wrists might break. He rammed his legs against her inner thighs. The harder she fought, the more it hurt.

  And then she felt herself go limp. Maybe she was in shock. It seemed automatic. Her body had decided it was time to stop fighting altogether. Her life was over. He might as well take her body now, the body her soul had been dressed in.

  She turned her head away from him and closed her eyes tight. Something clicked, and with it came a stunning sense of peace. The epiphany blazed through her—she was worthy. It was so simple. Why couldn’t she remember? The pretty lights found her. There they were, in the most stunning shades, breathtaking and pure. They twirled and spun in reflections of their own brilliance. What were they saying? She couldn’t hear them over the beating of her heart. She tried to sense their meaning. Through their hums she heard, It’s not real. You’re not her.

  She felt him respond to her surrender by loosening his grip on one of her wrists. He leaned in more and used his shoulder to keep her down while his hand moved down to his belt. What felt like his sweat was smearing against her chest and neck.

  “Baby, you can stop fighting now,” he said into her ear. His voice sounded so gentle, so sincere. “We belong together.” He kissed her neck.

  He wanted her to be Sonia, but she would deny him that pleasure. She would go for his jugular, exploit his wife’s greatest lie. It was time to thrust into his soft spot. She would torture him with Sonia’s evil accusation. She leaned into his kisses and gave him a little moan of pleasure.

  He pulled his head back and looked down at her, surprised.

  “Maya,” she said, strained. She relaxed her legs for him. “Maya.” He pulled up, seemingly baffled. She found her voice. “I’ll stop fighting, Daddy, and I won’t tell.” His weight against her lessened, and he gaped at her, stricken. The passion in his eyes flickered, sputtered, and died. Victory, she thought.

  But then, he sat up, straddled her again, and slammed back down into her left cheek with what felt like a brick. The pain resounded throughout her head, agony. He was yelling at her, but she couldn’t make out his words because her brain was sending out an all-encompassing distress call.

  And then his voice came back into focus. “Don’t fucking talk about my baby!” he yelled. “You sick bitch! I never touched her!” His hand crashed back down—into the same side of her face, but higher. Its force warped the ringing in her head. “I will kill you!” He got up.

  Such pain coursed through her. She couldn’t open her left eye; it hurt too much to even try. She felt something burning into her cheek. Tears? No, it was blood, or brains.

  She brought her hands up against the side of her face. Adrenaline jolted her senses. Her brain screamed for survival. It tried to rouse her, but she was too dumbfounded to save herself. With her right eye she saw him standing over her. Was he taking off his pants? No, she realized. He was taking off his belt.

  “You evil bitch,” he said as he sat back down on top of her. He reached up and ripped her arms down, pinning them against her sides by straddling her again. “You’ll pay for that.”

  All she could do was turn her head away. She felt his weight shift as he drew back and then whipped the belt down against her. A new, crippling pain seared into the left side of her chest and shoulder. She froze against the sound of her own scream. It hurt too much to beg or struggle anymore. The belt whizzed back down and lashed against the side of her chest and neck, overwhelming her with even more pain, too much to even comprehend.

  All sound shorted out, then buzzed back on. His voice came back into focus. “Oh God,” he was saying. “God, baby, what am I’m I doing?”

  Via felt his weight ease off of her as he rose, then moved somewhere else in the room, maybe over to his desk. She rolled onto her side and curled up tight and small. She writhed in pain and wailed against the comfort of that cold, hard floor. Her hands trembled toward her face and found what felt like an old, soggy peach. It pulsed and grew against her wet fingers. Through her good eye, she tried to look over at him. Did he still have the belt? Was he just taking a break? His labored breathing gave her hope. He was tired, done with her now.
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br />   “I’m sorry you made me do that,” he said, trying to catch his breath. He leaned against the edge of his desk. Still holding the belt. “Fuck, so now I’m the monster. You think I’m a monster.”

  She drew in breath, in brief notches, but couldn’t remember how to exhale. She kept her right eye on him and prayed he would have mercy on her.

  “Goddamn, that was low," he said. “Maybe that worked tonight.” He relaxed his grip on the belt until it became limp and then tossed it aside. His voice bordered on a growl. “You’ll want to be high again. And I’ll be here, you psycho.”

  Could he truly think she would ever come back? She couldn’t even be sure she would make it home alive. Her face, her neck, her chest, all ablaze, yet each pulsated with its own brand of heat. She peeled herself off the floor and tried to crawl to the couch. While she was beyond dizzy, her body insisted on escape. Everything became warbled, surreal, almost calm. Where was her purse? Her car keys were in it. Through her right eye, she saw it on the coffee table—next to that line of blow. She hadn’t gotten her blow, her last line; she hadn’t gotten it.

  “Go ahead,” he said as he pulled out his desk chair and sat down.

  She turned her right eye toward the table. There it was. The last line. The one she would never do. Never. Never.

  “Snort that rail. I know you’re sick. I know you need it.”

  “No,” she whimpered over the sounds of her cranial chaos. She winced as she pulled herself up onto the couch. From there she was able to get her stuff. Tentatively, she was able to stand up.

  “Don’t come back until you’re ready to play.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out what looked like another glass pipe. It was shaped like a light bulb. It was hard to see for sure. He was pulling out another plastic baggie.

  She limped to the door, utterly convinced that she would never step across this threshold again. He would never hurt her again.

  “And Via,” he called to her.