The Raping of Ava DeSantis

by Mylo Carbia

  Ava approached the elevated doorstep of the house wearing a candy-pink, fifties diner waitress uniform and a worn-out (but incredibly warm) yellow wool coat. Her hair was styled high in a girlish ponytail, completing the pompom girl persona she was forced to present to annoying tourists every night. She had serendipitously found a parking spot very close to the main entrance and walked back to her car two times before getting the courage to knock on the huge coffin, plantation-style front door.

  Ava knocked.

  She knocked again harder.

  She could clearly hear the muffled sound of music coming from inside but wasn’t sure if anyone could hear her. This must be a sign, she thought. I should go. Ava huffed in disappointment but quickly gathered the courage to try one last time. She took several steps to the left to peer through the window closest to the front door. She knocked on the glass. Shadows of co-eds stood motionless on the other side. Come on guys, see me. A tall man inside the house finally acknowledged her and gestured to come back around to the front door.

  Damn. Finally. The door opened. The frat boy behind it was impeccably dressed but so tall and redneck that he looked like the host of Trailer Park Masterpiece Theatre. “The infirmary is across the street,” he snuffed and then attempted to close the door in haste.

  Ava put out her hand out to stop him. “Wesley Scarborough invited me.”

  He scrutinized her closely. “You must be confusing our Wesley with someone else.”

  Ava immediately showed him the signature on her hand.

  Redneck Lurch cocked his eyes, begrudgingly letting her in without saying a word.

  Inside, Ava took off her worn-out yellow coat and tossed it to him. “Careful,” she said, mocking his pretentious tone. “It’s an heirloom.”

  ***

  The interior of Zeta Omega was surprising sophisticated. Wood paneling, brown leather sofas and exotic hardwood floors made it perfectly clear that these kids had hit the sperm lottery. With jazz music playing softly in the background, Ava self-consciously looked around the crowded room to see if she could find anyone she knew.

  Meanwhile, Sebastian (wearing a navy blazer with a red bow tie) and Wesley (wearing a blue, long-sleeved polo shirt, collar up) stood at the back of the grand ballroom, unable to see her enter. Both were heavily into their discussion with dark colored cocktails in hand.

  “Nope. I don’t wait for anyone. Let’s go.”

  “Just give her five more minutes.”

  “She ain’t showing up, Wes! It’s midnight. Let’s go.”

  Just then, their third-wheel-friend, David Reilly returned from the kitchen holding an overflowing glass of Scotch. He was below average intelligence, and way below average looking, with troubled skin, light brown hair and dark narrow eyes. He stood only about five-feet-seven, and was so jittery and hyper that he could make a person tired just by looking at him.

  “There’s not a goddamn drop of Scotch left in this entire place,” said David. “I looked everywhere. Nothing.”

  “What about the CDs?” asked Wesley.

  “Now those I did find. Got one for each of us.” He gestured to the breast pocket of his plaid dinner jacket that was way too small to hold three compact discs. “And these were Beau’s very last ones, so let’s get out of here.”

  “Wesley wants to wait for that possessed girl,” griped Sebastian.

  “She’s not possessed.”

  “Looks like a green-pea-soup-spitter to me.” Sebastian smugly sipped his cocktail.

  “Who the hell’s that?”

  “Oh great, there she is,” said Wesley as he watched Ava squirm through the crowd of trust-fund babies. “Hey, Ava! Over here!”

  “Ladies and gentleman, it is my absolute pleasure to present…Wesley’s latest charity case!” mocked Sebastian.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. Things were really crazy tonight,” she said panting, missing Sebastian’s comment by a nanosecond.

  “No problem. We’re just glad you made it,” replied Wesley. “You’ve already met my esteemed colleague, Sebastian O’Connor, right?”

  “Not formally.”

  Sebastian pointed to her waitress nametag. “Love their milkshakes.”

  “Oh, thanks, I forgot about that.” She quickly removed her nametag while Sebastian glared at her, completely appalled with what she was wearing.

  “And this is our third partner-in-crime, David Reilly,” continued Wesley.

  “I’ve heard a lot about Ava lately. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he slurred.

  “Same here…Cool, uh, where can I grab a beer?” she asked.

  “Beer? Let’s see, maybe there’s some in the basement. I’ll go check for you,” raved Wesley. “Don’t go anywhere, promise?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” she smiled back.

  At that very moment, Sebastian caught a whiff of genuine chemistry between them. Needless to say, he was not pleased. Why? Because despite having a steady, blueblood girlfriend at another school, Wesley had a nasty habit of bringing single-serve locals into their exclusive events. Good-looking, big-titted, working class girls who were just there to hog up the booze and hoover up their coke, the two commodities Sebastian treasured most at that age. Ava may not have been a local, but she was definitely unattractive and poor, and worse yet, she was unimportant…the ultimate turn off in Sebastian’s playbook.

  For one long, awkward minute, Ava stood in silence with Sebastian and David, straining for something to say. Finally, she came up with some small talk.

  “This place is absolutely gorgeous. You guys are so friggin’ lucky.”

  “Should be. We pay a shitload in dues,” snapped Sebastian.

  She spotted a state-of-the-art projection screen television at the opposite end of the room. There was no sound, only the images of planes bombing Iraq and the perpetually gray-haired Wolf Blitzer reporting. “So, do you guys think this is going to be the next Vietnam? This whole war thing is pretty scary.”

  “No. We’ll win this one,” replied Sebastian.

  “Really?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I don’t think American citizens should question the capabilities of our military.”

  “I’m not questioning our military’s capabilities, I just don’t think this war’s in the bag like Bush does,” said Ava.

  “Oh, shit,” whispered David under his breath.

  A blue vein popped in between Sebastian’s invisible eyebrows. “George Herbert Walker Bush personally flew fifty-eight combat missions until he was shot down by the goddamn Japs in World War II. He received a fucking medal for bravery in action. Plus, my grandfather plays golf with him at least once a year in Kennebunkport. I think our president knows what he’s doing.”

  “Let me guess…you’re a Democrat.”

  Sebastian’s pale blue eyes lit on fire while David chuckled at her ballsy comment.

  “We’re not talking politics, kids, are we?” Wesley arrived just in time and handed Ava a bottle of imported beer from Switzerland.

  “Thanks.”

  “So how was work tonight?”

  “It sucked. We were three girls short. That’s why I was so late. Again, I am so sorry.”

  “Well, that’ll all be over with soon, right?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here,” she smiled.

  Sebastian was now at his breaking point. His cheeks were full, filled with blood like an albino rhino ready to charge. “I’m ready to go home, y’all. Let’s fucking go.”

  “Now hold on, Sebastian, Ava just got here.”

  “Let’s fucking go.”

  “Ava, would you care to join us for cocktails at our place?”

  Sebastian shot Wesley a look of imminent death.

  “Wait, I thought you guys lived here?”

  “We did, but Wesley got a house for his birthday,” chimed David.

  “Wow. Okay, sure. Why not?”

  Sebastian visibly festered in si
lence.

  “Do you need to get up early tomorrow morning or something? Are you cool to stay out tonight?” asked Wesley.

  “Actually, Saturday is my only day to sleep in. I close Saturday nights.”

  “Perfect. Time to party then.” Wesley patted his pants for keys.

  Sebastian took the glass of Scotch out of David’s hand and offered it to Ava. “Here. Drink up.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the house wine of the South. You need to catch up.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t handle liquor very well.”

  Sebastian pinned her down to the mat of college peer pressure. “I’m surprised. I heard Yankee girls were way tougher than that.”

  David lightly gasped.

  Ava winced at the smell of the Scotch, then met Sebastian’s stare with equal vigor. She took the full glass out of his hand and slammed the whole thing in one shot.

  “Whoa!” said David.

  “Alrighty then,” said Wesley. “Time to go.”

  “Did you drive here, Ava?” asked David.

  “Yes,” she said, still choking from the single-malt burn in her throat.

  “Good, you can follow me then.”

  “Okay…Just don’t drive too fast.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Black Acre

  Saturday, January 26, 1991

  1:23 A.M.

  Wesley parked—no, slammed—his brand new, black 1991 BMW 525i onto the curb directly in front of a dilapidated, two-story antebellum home. “Fuck you!” he said as he swung open the driver’s side door.

  “Admit it. I can see it in your eyes,” said Sebastian, exiting the passenger side.

  “But can you see it in his pants?” blurted David, falling out of the back seat and onto the ground. Wesley curled his face in annoyance. Sebastian shrugged the shoulder tabs of his Burberry trench coat as if to say, the boy’s got a point.

  Just then, Ava’s loud, yellow Camaro pulled around the corner and drove directly towards Wesley’s parked car. Sebastian walked into the middle of the empty street. His strawberry blonde hair nearly disappeared in the spotlight of Ava’s approaching headlights. “You owe me, Wes,” he said in a solemn tone. “Big time.”

  ***

  The three co-eds swayed on the porch, freezing and dancing and freezing some more while Wesley fumbled inside his leather bomber jacket to find his keys. To keep her mind off the cold, Ava turned her attention to the outside of Wesley’s home. Quietly, she was shocked anyone would want to live there. Yes, the home was huge and beautiful and in the historic neighborhood of Ansley Park, but its dingy white façade and peeling black plantation shutters made it look like the perfect place to shoot a low-budget horror film. Even the four white Corinthian columns guarding the entrance were now dark green, covered with the oppressive vines that had strangled them years ago. Spooky house, she thought to herself. Thank God I am not alone.

  “Shit, I forgot my coat,” she said out loud, shivering in the early morning darkness.

  “Not to worry. It’ll be safe at Zeta House,” slurred David.

  “Come on, fucker, it’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra!” yelled Sebastian just as Wesley tugged the key out of his left pant pocket. Seconds later, an eighty-year-old, blue-haired woman in a flannel nightgown burst onto her large porch next door.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Lipton. We’ll keep it down,” said Wesley.

  Mrs. Lipton scowled back at him. She then reached into her flannel pocket, pulled out two neon pink earplugs and forcefully shoved them one by one into each ear. Sebastian innocently smiled and waved back to her, while David and Ava stared humbly at the floor.

  Mrs. Lipton turned away, flipped them the bird and walked back inside.

  Wesley finally opened the door. “Welcome to Black Acre!”

  Ava was eager to step through the threshold into the warmth but was immediately taken aback by what she saw. The interior of the house was structurally beautiful but a total shitfest of a mess inside. Patio furniture occupied the living room. Pizza boxes and clothing were scattered everywhere. There was no doubt in her mind that three spoiled slobs occupied this over-the-top bachelor pad.

  “Please excuse the pigsty,” said Wesley.

  “The maid got deported,” added David.

  “Wow. This place is amazing.” Ava hopped over several small piles of dirty clothing on her way the center of the wood-floored living room. In awe, she twirled around like Marlo Thomas in That Girl. “I can’t believe you guys actually live here.” She then proceeded to walk over to one of the walls, touching the hand painted parchment finish. “When was it built?”

  “Eighteen-fifty, I think. It’s been in my mother’s family for over a century,” said Wesley.

  “Wow.”

  Ava looked at the dark oak double staircase leading up to the second floor. Several spindles were missing on the railing. “What’s upstairs?”

  “We don’t know,” replied David.

  “You don’t know?”

  “We don’t go upstairs,” chimed Sebastian.

  “May I ask why?” Ava directed her question to Sebastian. Wesley listened intently as he hung up his jacket in the front closet, waiting to hear Sebastian’s response.

  “There’s a local tale that the second floor of this home is haunted…haunted by Wesley’s Bible-thumping great aunt who use to live here with eighty some cats.”

  “Sometimes you can still smell cat stench when it’s real quiet,” added David.

  “Story was that the old lady was so fucking crazy and so damn religious that she believed the Devil was making her cats multiply. At night, she would take the pregnant cats and tie their legs together with rope so they couldn’t give birth…until all of the female cats in the house died. Then, one night, when she wasn’t expecting it, the male cats got real lonely. They crawled into her bed…went under the sheets…up her legs…”

  “And ate her pussy!” babbled David.

  Wesley burst out laughing. “Y’all are so full of shit! They sleep upstairs.”

  “Oh, good,” she said, visibly relieved. “I’m not really a big fan of cats.”

  Now that was an understatement. For years, Ava absolutely hated cats. In fact, it was a cat who had run across the road on a warm summer evening in 1982, when her mother, driving home from the grocery store, swerved to avoid hitting it and lost control of the car, running head first into a telephone pole.

  Just like that. Cat. Mother. Dead.

  “Let’s get some booze, y’all” barked Sebastian as he threw his trench coat to the floor and walked over to a shiny teak bar at the back of the living room.

  Ava caught herself zoning out about how much she missed her foul-mouthed mother. “Uh, no more alcohol for me, guys. I have to drive home tonight.” She then glided over to a white and green striped plastic chair located dangerously near the fireplace.

  She sat down and started to bounce. “Is this patio—?”

  “Funny how the heir to the furniture dynasty has no goddamn furniture,” joked Sebastian.

  “Scarborough furniture?” asked Ava.

  “Now you’re really starting to sound like my daddy, Sebastian.”

  “No friggin’ way, that’s you?” asked Ava once again, finally understanding why so many girls wanted to get their M.R.S. degree with Wesley. “I had no idea, I didn’t realize…Wow. You have like stores everywhere.” As she was speaking, Sebastian handed her a dirty glass full of Scotch.

  “Actually, my grandfather started the company,” replied Wesley.

  Ava downed the shot. “Then why are you so worried about getting into law school?” she coughed.

  “’Cause daddy’s a judge,” interrupted David.

  “No, it’s because Wes is a momma’s boy,” added Sebastian.

  “What he means to say is that my mother is a lawyer.”

  “Not just any lawyer. She’s a badass bitch with a briefcase,” said Sebastian.

  “Now ain’t that your type?” joked Da
vid.

  Sebastian flipped him the bird.

  “Wow, I’m impressed,” said Ava. “What kind of law does she practice?”

  “Criminal defense,” replied Wesley.

  “And your father’s a judge?”

  “Yep. That’s how they met. She was defending the Richard Crown death penalty case and he was on the bench. I guess, somehow, through all those crime scene photos of blown out nun brains, they fell in love.”

  “Romantic.”

  “Love at first sight, I’m sure,” snarled Sebastian.

  Wesley headed toward the bar to pour himself a cocktail. “Need something to drink, sweetie? Jack and Coke sound good?”

  Sebastian’s eyes darkened. Sweetie?

  “No, I’m good for now, thanks.”

  “So where you from, Ava?” asked David.

  “Atlantic City.”

  “New Jersey?’

  “No, Mississippi you dumb ass. Damn, you’re stupid,” said Wesley.

  “Ahhh, yes. Atlantic City. The land of Donald Trump, fixed tables, and cheap hookers,” added Sebastian.

  Wesley moved closer to Ava and leaned into her ear. “Do you mind if we go into my room to talk business for a while?”

  Sebastian noticed.

  “Of course not. That’s why I’m here, right?”

  Wesley turned to address the others. “Gentlemen, please excuse us.” He gently gripped Ava’s hand, lifted her from the patio chair and led her down the dark hallway.

  “So, Ava, do you charge by the hour or by the night?” whispered David as he slumped over the outdoor patio sofa laughing.

  ***

  Oh my God, we aren’t going to have sex, are we?

  Ava was totally unprepared for this moment. She was quite drunk, heart fluttering, completely stunned to be in Wesley Scarborough’s bedroom (internal sigh). Without sobriety holding her together, she experienced her emotions full force: He’s gorgeous, she thought. But I have no underwear on…I forgot to shave my legs…I should have showered after work…she repeated over and over. But then the real zinger: God help me, I don’t even know how to do it. What the hell am I doing here?