And, on top of that, a corollary to it all and riding above it like cloud nine: Blaze and I can’t be stopped. We can do it. Pep-talk, pep-talk, pep-talk. We’re gonna deal with this! Nothing can get us down!
Pep-talks do that do you. Because you have to believe you can do it before you can.
Hell yeah, I’m pumped.
“DECLAN! Stop daydreamin out there on the damn corner! We’re not gonna win against the Seahawks with you thinkin about your damn girl all the time when you should be RUNNING, damnit! Now run! Gimme twenty laps!”
I give him twenty laps.
My lungs burn and sting.
I think of Blaze.
TWENTY-ONE
HATE
-1-
Back in NYC, near the Upper East Side, with Tatty...
Tatiana Watkins almost killed her after opening the door. She saw the tramp—those glassy green eyes and her Fuck-Me pixie hair—and Tatiana damn near took a knife and actually stuck it to the bitch!
If only she’d had a knife in her hand.
It wouldn’t be the first time, would it Tatty...?
She was speechless, unable to react, unable to rip the guts from this innocent-looking liar and thief! Because aren’t all liars innocent-looking? Tatiana knew it. Michael had also looked innocent...
She had seen through this Blaze Ryleigh the day she’d looked at her picture on TMZ. It had been a photo of Blaze with her mouth slightly open, eyes slightly closed. And the girl just looked...wrong.
“Tat—Tatiana? I—I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was wondering if you and I could talk?”
Tramp, Tatiana thought. How dare she act all polite and innocent and caring and innocent and thoughtful and...innocent!
Tatiana was speechless. Being faced directly with this child in front of her (because Blaze was indeed a child; not older and matured as Tatiana herself) was unnerving. She couldn’t answer, just felt her mouth go dry, felt her hands become clammy. She opened and closed her fists, didn’t realize she was doing it until this...Blaze...looked at them.
“Tat—Tatiana?”
“Uhm, yeah. Wh—I—uhm—sorry—what?”
She hated the green-eyed girl, just simply hated her. There was no more to it than that. Some people are just despicable, some people just need to be taught a lesson and—
Fuck it! Why did she have to justify this to herself! The hussy was just simply a detestable personality!
“Talk?” said the Ryleigh girl. The one who is being fucked by Declan, my Declan.
And that thought sobered Tatiana up, sobered her up viciously. Suddenly she could think, she could act. She realized with some personal disgust that she was naked under a silk robe, and she closed the top of it, not wanting this Blaze to “see” the sex underneath (as if that were possible.) Tatiana felt a twinge down below, a self-abasing twinge, and realized—in this blindingly clear and lucid moment—that maybe, just maybe, she’d gone too far with the Lerrington fellow...
He was old, unromantic. And Tatiana knew she was using him, using him completely.
And now she felt particularly dirty about it, looking at Blaze Ryleigh.
Blaze Ryleigh’s presence was making her feel dirty. Yes, that’s it.
Tatiana cleared her throat. “Wh—what is it you want to talk about?”
“Uhm, well, could we go grab a coffee somewhere? I saw a place just outside.”
Tatiana smiled evilly. The French place. And who would pay for that coffee? Blaze probably could not even afford it. Maybe she could accompany the little girl, order up a feast, and then foot her with the bill.
Maybe...maybe this could be a little fun after all...
She smiled pleasantly. “I’ll just get dressed. Do you want to wait inside?” Tatiana opened the door wider and gestured for Blaze to come in. And when she’s in...then we’ll see... Maybe we won’t go for coffee after all. It’ll be just us two girls, in an apartment...with many sharp objects around and accidents waiting to happen. Forget the lawsuit, all those complications, this is simpler, more direct...
Blaze craned her neck and looked inside, saw the empty booze bottles, lots of them, some pills on the carpet, and Tatiana got the disquieting feeling that Blaze was looking into Tatiana’s soul. Tatiana closed the door slightly, instinctively.
Blaze straightened. “Uhm, no, you go ahead and get dressed. I’ll just wait out here.” Blaze folded her arms.
“Sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“I can make coffee if you want.”
“No, it’s cool. I’ll...uhm...wait out here. Let’s have coffee outside. At that French place.”
Tatiana’s eyebrow twitched down once. Bitch. She forced herself to smile bright and widely. “OK, just give me a sec!”
She closed the door in Blaze’s face.
And then she clenched her fists, leaned back against the door, and growled with suppressed anger and hate.
-2-
She began to sweat. It broke out on her skin like seawater after an oil spill. Her breathing became tight. Just like when I was a young girl, she thought.
“You’re no good, you filthy whoring tramp! You disgrace us! You and your...mouth! Oh, I shudder at the thought of what you’re doing out there with those filthy men!”
That was her Mama’s voice in her head. A voice which replayed in her mind every time she had these detestable thoughts. These “unholy” thoughts. (Another of Mama’s favorite sayings.)
“Sex is wicked. Sex is sinful! Sex is the work of the sacrilegious fallen angel, you dirty child!” (She was no child by this time, she was deep into her teens.)
Tatiana had not had these thoughts in many years. She’d buried them. They’d shocked them out of her after what had happened with Michael. And they’d dulled them in her with the Yellow Pills. And the Yellows help you forget, she remembered now.
She was on the ground, her back to the door, an odd taste of stale Bourbon in her cottony mouth. Had she drunk it? Had Frankie given it to her? That was strange, because she wasn’t supposed to mix the Yellows with booze. Never the Yellows, anything but the Yellows! Doc Ramsey had told her that.
She smacked her lips and tried to remember, knowing nothing beyond the fact that she felt now a little sore, and a little thirsty, and that her mouth was a little dry. Her skin was clammy and her tits hurt, like they’d been squeezed or maybe they’d swollen up. Am I pregnant?
Her vision was hazy. Her head pounded. Was that a crystal glass on the table? Bottles? And I’m on the ground, with my back to the door. When did I get here?
She had slid down after closing it but couldn’t remember doing it. She wasn’t remembering much of anything now...
Only Michael, young Michael, my cousin. She remembered him now. And how long ago had that been? Fifteen years? Oh my, that had been a good time. My sexy cousin, two years younger in age but five years older in physique. At least five, surely. Sexy Michael.
She remembered the lust in her mind when she’d spied him naked in the bathroom, touching himself while the shower poured down on him. And she remembered how he’d groaned, and how that had made her burst with moisture. She remembered his white cream on his hand.
But he’s so young! she’d thought at the time.
And nonetheless, she’d touched herself, her eye to the crack of his bathroom door. And the feeling afterwards had been exquisite, all-engulfing, mind-numbing.
Peaceful and serene.
I want more. I want more of this. I want it all the time...
So she’d touched herself more, every night, in the day, in the mornings. She’d wait for Michael to come home and she’d wait for him to crawl into the shower (they lived together with them for a while) and she’d spy him out.
And then she’d touch herself after, in her bed, thinking of her cousin and how masculine he was for such a young boy. And she? She was only sixteen. But her breasts were hard and engorging and growing, and every time she’d touched them they’d sent stings of need bet
ween her legs...
...and what would it feel like to have Michael’s cock between my legs...
And the need took over her. She took him, bursting with want and desire, her mind a whir of confusion. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t think, couldn’t express anything about herself except “Put that fucking cock inside me now or I’m gonna put it in myself!” She said that to him, standing tall over him. She’d felt suddenly so “big” and he was so “small.” (But he wasn’t, he was larger than her, and strong, and powerful. And so beautifully young...)
He’d smiled.
And he’d put his cock inside her.
And she’d loved it.
And apparently so had he.
It’s love, she’d thought back then. And it’s legal in New York, so what’s the problem? Even the age is not an issue with the Romeo and Juliet laws...
She wasn’t so sure about that last point...
But there was that need, that constant itch, the absolute yearning to be satisfied, filled. When Michael had not come through all the time (because her need was obviously stronger than his) she’d satisfied herself, looked for magazines...
...and oh my oh my, these magazines are...A Whole New World. The men in them are huge. Gargantuan, solid and hard and...touching themselves and...each other...and, oh my God, I...oh yes, oh yes, oh I wish Michael was that large. Oh I wonder what it would feel like...
And she’d read them in her bed, and touched herself, and read them, and touched herself.
And yet the itch had remained.
But her mother’s words, which had been uttered as education when Tatiana had been growing up, were always in her mind: “Sex is evil! It is the work of sin! The pleasuring of yourself is an act punishable by the Lord God Almighty!”
And so Tatiana still went to church, every Sunday. But after Michael, after The Changes in her body...she’d struggled to sit still, to keep her mind focused. And isn’t the minister such a hottie? And, God, what does he look like under that cassock?
And he was indeed a hottie. He’d been maybe in his thirties, maybe his twenties. Who cares, he’s so hot!
So Tatiana always went to church, sometimes twice, sometimes alone... And she’d made a point, still young and burgeoning at sixteen, to speak to Father Kingsley after each service, and she’d made a point to flirt her eyes and lick her lips.
And she’d made a point, after many, many months of trying, to be caught alone with him, and to laugh at his jokes and graze her finger across his shoulder “because there is a speck of dust on there. Ha ha. (Giggle giggle giggle.)”
And after many months of trying, Tatiana had learned the final lesson in her growing up. She’d learned that All Men Are the Same. And that all men respond to one thing.
Even a man of the cloth.
And that had made her smile. Especially after he’d filled her itch.
But the itch was still there! It wouldn’t go away! It wouldn’t disappear!
And her mother’s words, always in her head: “It’s a sin! A sin I tell you!”
So in Tatiana’s mind, her insatiable desires had become acts of the devil. And every time she’d satisfy herself, she’d be convinced that she was somehow violating some inviolate law having to do with the very order of things and of nature itself.
So she’d fought within herself, struggled with this physical need that would just not FUCKING GO AWAY! And, struggling with her teachings as a young, innocent girl, she yet carried on...
Then her mother found out about Michael.
And, literally, hell froze.
Michael was kicked out. Tatiana’s acts were hushed. She was sent to a head doctor. But head doctors are only men and he was just the same as Father Kingsley. Easier, in fact. It took only three sessions and I had him, had him good, had him between my lips and I pressed down with my teeth just a little on him and he was mine! And I didn’t even need to get hypnotized!
Dr. Ramsey (the head doc) got nervous about Tatiana talking. He started offering her gifts. He offered to cancel the parents’ bills. He told Tatiana that he could explain it away to them as “an interesting case and one I’d like to spend much more time with as research. And because I benefit, I cannot ethically accept payment.” But Tatiana had said to him, “Don’t cancel the bills, but the money comes straight to me.”
Doc Ramsey had no problem with this particular arrangement.
And so began her professional career as a gold-digger.
She saw him on Saturdays, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He liked it kinky, and Tatiana liked this as well, so she enjoyed seeing him. And eventually she did get hypnotized at her request, and she gave him carte blanche to do what he wanted to her, videoed. He didn’t hesitate. And, afterwards, she remembered nothing, only that all her orifices were a little...achy. But even that had made her happy. It helped the itch...a little.
She watched the video he’d made of her while she’d been “under.” And she’d enjoyed it. And so began her love of pictures pictures pictures during sex...
She saw Cousin Michael clandestinely on her off days. And he satisfied her lingering itch for minutes at a time.
She saw her new quarterback boyfriend (we mentioned him at the beginning of this tale) in the evenings for a brief while.
She saw Father Ramsey when she wanted a challenge. He complained a lot, told her he was a man of God, that he should not see her. And she liked learning, through experience, just how to convince him otherwise. She never failed.
She was seventeen by then.
The itch, the itch, the need. It just never went away! Never! NEVER!
Until the Yellows...
The Yellows made everything go away. The itch, the smiles, the emotions, the joy, the sadness. Everything. She felt like a cardboard box on them. She could just sit in front of the TV and let hours and days go by on the Yellows.
But, along with the itch, also went the delirious satisfaction that sex itself brought, that psychotic aftertaste of mind-fluttering euphoria. The best part about the itch is getting it scratched. So sometimes she took the Yellows, other times she didn’t.
And maybe that was a bad thing. Because if she took them for a while, and then didn’t take them... Well, then she felt...a little motherfucking crazy.
The Yellows. She’d been on them almost fifteen years now—on and off. And it was the off periods that were both the worst and the best. The worst because she felt...
...like I feel now, my back against this door, that Ryleigh girl outside wanting to kill me. No, is she? Is she trying to kill me? She’s a demon. Yes, yes, a demon of beauty and she’s going to crack my golden mirror after laying a perfect egg. Huh?...
Being off the Yellows was also the best because, despite the sheer madness she felt now when she was off them (fifteen years of popping the buggers was bound to do that to a person), she also got to feel The Scratch in all its glory, all its blissful happiness, all its magnificent sensation.
Even Old Frankie Lerrington managed to make her smile when she was off the Yellows and the Reds and the Blues and all of them.
With all the bad came all the good. You can’t selectively stop the emotional water flowing. You either stop it all, or you don’t stop it at all.
“Tatiana?”
The sound came like an echo in a tunnel...
From where?
“Tatiana?”
She recognized the voice, behind her. Behind the door. Who’s voice...?
“Tatiana?”
Tatiana broke out into that nervous sweat again.
How long had she been sitting here, sinking into the past? And how long since I’ve thought of Michael and his perfect—
A knock. “Tatiana?”
“I’m coming for fuck’s sake!”
The room was whirling now, spinning. Her head throbbed like a truck chugging petulantly down the highway. And there was that thought again: Had she been drinking? And why did she feel nauseous. She stumbled to her feet, felt the unmistakable sensation of fo
od rising to her throat...
But she hadn’t even eaten.
She staggered, her vision of this magical apartment swirling. Did Dr. Ramsey give me this apartment? Oh he had a wonderful tongue. And isn’t Donald Duck for kids? No, no, what was that?
“Tatiana, are you OK?”
The girl outside was rapping now! And her voice, oh my God that shrill, painful voice sounded like the voice of a fucking banshee! Screeching and howling, like eagles poking each other’s eyes out—
“Tatiana! Are you OK?”
She thrust her hands against her ears and howled back at the source of noise. “Shut up! Shut up! I can’t...! Oh my God, they’re going to get me!”
And then the blood. The blood came. All over me. Spattered and pouring. I must have hit the juggernaut! So I stabbed him again!
“STOP! STOP IT! STOP!”
She was going mad. Yes, mad, the pills, the Yellows, she took them, yes, and the Reds, yes, the Yellow...
The blood came at me. And him... His face.
She started crying, spittle fell from her lips, and that ever-present feeling of confusing nausea hit inside her. She mumbled down to the carpet, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry, I’m...”
No, where am I?...
...The blood—
No! I’m in a hotel room! Yes! And this isn’t then! This is now! That was past! Mama handled it! She saved me! It can’t be undone!
The girl—this Blaze Ryleigh—tried the door. But it was locked!
Good! Good that it’s locked. Because maybe there are FBI out there! With guns! Coming to take me away for my detestable sins and for what I was doing with my mouth while Frankie Lerrington was here because it’s a sin, Tatiana. What you’re doing is a sin and you need your Yellows and Reds and Blues but they make you feel nothing so why don’t you just STOP taking them...?
She spun to look at the door, its knob twirling, someone banging at it. She thought she heard screaming outside now. And why is there screaming? Oh my God, the room, the room is so wobbly and hazy and...
And then the thoughts of blood hit her again. She felt it all over her, pouring, spewing like water from a fireplug while she stabbed and stabbed and stabbed!
Need Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy Book Three) Page 34