Spoiled

by Elizabeth Cash

  “Just drive. Please,” I say.

  It takes a half hour before we finally pull into Boss Lady’s driveway. I jump out of Paul’s Mazda before he even comes to a full stop.

  “Wait there,” I say, as he puts it into park.

  “No way, dude.”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Hurry the fuck up. I wanna see what the fuss is about. You better come back with this Laura chick. I didn’t drive all. . .”

  I have no clue what he says next. I can’t hear him by the time I make it to Cora’s front steps. I knock, hard, three times, before trying the handle. It doesn’t budge. I knock harder.

  Finally, after three progressively faster and louder attempts, I hear footsteps and Boss Lady’s familiar sing-song voice when she wants something. “Cominggggggggg.”

  I know the tone too well. It’s the same one she used at the office the day she couldn’t keep her dull brown eyes off my zipper. It’s the same fucking voice she used when she came over only a few days ago to “make amends” and begged me with those ridiculous black painted lips to “forgive her.”

  What the actual fuck? How could someone be breaking in while this bitch is trying to get laid? Where the fuck is Laura?

  Fuck. What if she slams the door in my face. An eye for an eye. It’d be fair. I’d give her that.

  I scratch my head, shaking it and wishing that I’d passed up the drinking dares earlier at the bar. If I had, things might make more sense. My finger catches in the tiny scar above my eyebrow. It reminds me of the same panic I felt the day I got the call from Heather—Sabrina was dead. Eighteen months old and dead in her crib. Out of nowhere. For no reason. At 11:29 in the morning. If only I’d have been there and hadn’t wrecked the fucking car. Maybe I could have stopped Heather from doing what she did next. Fucking Heather. Sabrina.

  …No. Not that again. I’m not doing that shit again. I’m stronger than that. I promised her.

  I brace myself with one hand on each of the narrow porch’s polished railings. I lean back, ready to kick the door in just as it swings open. There, in a dark entryway stands the one and only Cora Graham. Only, you’d never know it. Attired in clothes that don’t look like hers. Clothes that look cheap, and worn out. Covered in a layer of paint or food dye or something, she stands there, staring at me with those ugly eyes grinning.

  “Micahhhhhhhh,” she smiles, almost as if she’s drooling over my bullshit, not anymore, name. She licks her lips and pushes her tits up with both hands as if they are all she’s got given the crack whore way the rest of her looks. Jesus, she has no shame.

  “To what do I owe this honor? …My, my, don’t I feel spoiled. A visit from Micah Duclos. Why, come in. Come in!”

  What the fuck is happening?

  I look over her shoulder but can’t see much. The only light I’m working with is a glow coming from a room to the left—a TV I’m assuming.

  Who the fuck paints in the dark?

  “Have you seen Laura? Did someone break in? I got a call… Is Laura here with you now?”

  “What? What are you talking about? It’s just me. Hanging out. You know. At home. Alone,” she tilts her head—black hair falling over her shoulders. “Laura who?”

  I’m gonna fucking kill her. DEAD. I’m going to kill this bitch.

  “I have to take a piss. Yeah. I’ll come in. Where’s your bathroom?”

  “Silly boy. You came here to pee? You expect me to believe that? Just in the neighborhood? No. I don’t believe it. Why are you really here, Micah?”

  “I told you, I got a call,” I hiss.

  “Have you been drinking? …Well. Of course. It’s hard being unemployed and all. Stressful even, I’m sure. I’m not sure why you didn’t take me up on my offer. It still stands, you know. Of course, minus the promotion. I mean, there has to be some penalty for resigning and then, well, you know.”

  “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll come back. I need to take a leak and I’ll be out of your way.”

  I step forward, one foot on the final step into her Boss Lady cave.

  She holds her hand out—her arm fully extended. She pushes me back. Not expecting this, and off my game from the drinking, I stumble back, catching myself at the edge of the steps.

  “Not just yet, love. Karma’s a bitch.”

  With that, she slams the door in my face.

  Oh. My. Fucking. God. Game. The. Fuck. On.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Dude! Was that her? Oh my God! Epic! We gotta go back. I gotta tell Rob. Some stupid intern slammed the door in his face! Love it! Dude, I’m dying.”

  I don’t bother to turn back to look back at Paul, who stands outside his car choking down the back end of a God-knows-how-many-he’s-had-tonight butt and laughing his ass off. Instead, I watch him only out of the corner of my eye, bark at him to fuck off and wait in the car. I tell him that I’ll be right back. He can get his giggles in then. With one hand on each rail, I brace myself as I push all my weight to my left leg. In a swift motion I think nothing more about, I kick through that fucking door. It’s sheer, auto-pilot instinct at this point. Should have been Heather.

  I hear Boss Lady’s gasp. I don’t care. It’s too dark to even know where she is or if she fell on her perfect trainer-bought ass from the force of the door. Frantic, I turn to my left. I walk toward the light dancing on long black curtains covering a row of windows along the lengthiest room I can see. It appears to be a formal living room only it also has a treadmill by a fireplace and mantel. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust. Where the fuck is she?

  A velvet couch with a curved back, a black leather chaise lounge, bare white walls and more home gym equipment. Where the fuck is Laura? Why the hell did she call? Is she even here or was this some ploy for Cora to play with me more? And what’s with the God-dammed paint?

  And then, I see her.

  She’s trembling in a way far worse than I’ve ever seen her by the elevators. Now, Laura’s strapped to a chair in the far corner of the room. I squint. Her hands are behind her back and what looks like blood drips from her head and nose in thick strands. Is this a fucking joke? No. It can’t be. Do something asshole.

  Panic swallows me. I’m paralyzed. I’m back in that bathroom with Heather, a one-night stand whose life I never should have fucked up. The cops are chasing me for leaving the scene of an accident trying to get to my blue-lipped daughter. I’m holding Heather instead, breathing into her mouth and praying my dead baby’s mother hasn’t really swallowed the pills. It’s happening again. The same thoughts: I can save her. I can. If I just try harder. If I just drive faster. If I don’t quit. But I did.

  I quit. I fucking quit!

  No! Not again.

  She’s not dead. Wake up, asshole. She’s moving. She’s not dead. One perfect eye is open the other is swollen shut. A steady line of blood drips from the swollen one in a stream too steady or to be some kind of joke. This can’t be happening, but it is. What the fuck? I squint to get a better look as I run toward her, hurdling a yoga mat. She’s choking on a ball gag Boss Lady has clearly thought was some perfect prop to her twisted game. From the sides of her purple-painted lips drips spirts of saliva and blood the texture of the popsicles Sabrina loved to share on our weekends together. I race to the chair to free her, determined to get her the fuck out of here and put an end to Cora once and for all. What do I have to lose at this point? Nothing. My life—all of it: A joke.

  Bitch is dead. Dead.

  Boom!

  Glass shatters as pain shoots like fireworks through my head. I feel my torso tilt forward. Before I can stop myself, or even put my hands out to soften the fall, I land—hard. On Her Highness’s shiny wooden floors, I lay, face first and spinning. Black dots. Spots of light. Blackness. Black: Her favorite.

  It’s cold. Until it’s not.

  I’m alone. Until I’m not.

  What is happening? Am I just too drunk? …Sabrina.

  She’s in my ear first.

  “Oh, Micah. Silly
man. Thought you could get away with it? No one disrespects me, dear. Didn’t you get the memo?”

  I try to turn on my side, but she straddles me, crushing my back and that Goddammed raw tattoo between her thighs. I’m pinned to a polished floor and covered in tiny pieces of glass debris. I can’t fucking see. My head is whirling.

  “Get. The. Fuck. Off.”

  “No. Not yet, love. What’s the rush?” She lowers her lips to my ear, sticking out her tongue and running it along the edge of my earlobe. “We need some after-hours time together. Think of it as overtime we don’t have to put on paper. …Besides, I promised Laura I’d train her. She hopes to be an executive someday you know. She really has a long way to go. Bitch doesn’t even swallow. Fucks with her eyes closed. She wants to learn. Really. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

  Her Highness leaves my ear only long enough to address her newest minion; the innocent girl I came here for on some foolish belief I could actually start over.

  “Don’t answer her,” I command, as if Laura has a shot at communicating with the gag Boss Lady has strapped in her mouth. The trouble with narcissists is they are the only people in the room allowed to talk. There’s no way the bitch fucks any other way but on top. She’s the one who could take lessons.

  Kicking myself for being stupid enough to fall into this trap, I slowly shift my weight to my left arm. One. Shards of glass from whatever she hit me with cut into my palm. Like in high school, I dare to push harder. Two.

  In a hasty thrust with one arm newborn on a rebirth in my dingy basement, I push myself up, throwing the bitch off. Sharp crystals pierce my hand as 220 pounds of “fuck you” smash between it, glass, and ground. I don’t care. I throw Cora the off my back and climb to my feet.

  She laughs, from the floor now, “Jesus, Micah. You’re so strong. Who knew under all those office clothes? Fucking hot, babe. Hot.” She leans forward, trying to stand herself.

  I stumble as I work to find my own feet, taking note of a blood—not paint—stained butterfly knife in her right hand. I still can’t make sense of the room and where the light is coming from. There’s no TV. Get the knife. No. Laura first. With the upper hand of being on her ground, in her house, I need to move quickly to get Laura out. I consider calling the cops like I should have done in the first place. No. Pussy move. Too much time. I need to get her out of here, now. I’m not doing it again. Not after Heather. One wrong move and it’s over. Get the fucking knife.

  I lunge toward her. The only way to get Laura and myself out safely will be to get the knife. With my size and physical strength to my advantage, it’s easier than I’d thought. Within seconds, I’ve wrestled Boss Lady back to the floor. She now lays, face first and pinned, the way I did only moments ago. I straddle her back, restraining both her arms behind it and holding them tight in my left hand. With my right, I hold the knife, unsure of exactly what to do with it.

  She tries to squirm, but I’m not feeling it. Laura first.

  “Okay. I’ve got her. I need to tie her up.”

  Laura nods, blood streaming faster from her swollen eye. It’s making me nervous. I wish she’d open it.

  “I’m gonna get you out of here. You need a doctor.”

  I slide up, momentarily letting Boss Lady’s hands-free. I pin them to her back with my thighs, putting the knife on the floor next to her and pulling my shirt off. Using my body weight to hold her down, I grab the knife and make quick work of shredding my shirt. I tie her wrists with long strands of my cotton, brand-name-Boss-Lady-approved T-shirt. When her wrists are bound, I slide lower on her body, locking her kicking-until-now legs under me.

  “Wow, Micah. Who knew you were so kinky? Are you watching, sweetie?”

  Laura nods.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  At this moment, I hate them both. Maybe even Laura more. What kind of puppet do you have to be to follow so blindly? Then, it clicks: She’s a mother. She’s doing it for her Sabrina.

  I lean forward, pressing my lips to Boss Lady’s ear and trying not to gag on her ridiculous over-done stank perfume.

  I whisper, “Yes. I’m this kinky. Sorry you missed out. So, while we’re at it, bitch, feel free to call me Sir. Manners are a thing you know.”

  I grab a handful of her hair, pulling back and ignoring her moans. I have no fucking clue if they are of pleasure or pain. Probably both. Nothing I haven’t heard before and certainly not enough to matter in either direction. Honestly, I could care less. There are two faces of evil. I plan to ruin them both—whichever decides to attack me first.

  When she doesn’t answer me, I pull harder. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What do you say, Boss Lady?”

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  “You say, thank you, Sir. I mean, isn’t this what you wanted? Did you miss the meeting on hierarchy? It was you who planned it, wasn’t it? Shame.”

  I pull harder, yanking her neck back so far I think it might flat snap off. Laura gasps. I don’t look at her. I have no use for a woman who’d be weak enough to sell her soul to the devil for nothing more than a paycheck. Not anymore. I was her once, but I refuse to look back. At the moment, Laura can help herself. Boss Lady and I have unfinished business to attend to.

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry what?”

  “Sorry, thank you.”

  “Well, now. That’s more like it. Forgot Sir. But that’s understandable for a slow learner. Good fucking job. Way to fucking go. If you keep it up, I may just give you a promotion. You know, hook you up with Bob or something. An office with a window.”

  The words she said to Tiffany—the same ones Laura told me about that one and only night she and I talked on the phone—come back to haunt her. I spit them at her in spurts of hate and pity combined. But they are nothing compared to the others: ugly, slow, useless, sneezy, wheezy, poor, and, my favorite, “never going to be anyone more than who you are now.” I don’t have time to get to them, not with Laura’s eye bleeding like that.

  The words. The names. The lies. The twists of things like only a master puppeteer could pull off. I’ve heard it. I’ve heard them all. I’ve worked in the devil’s playground long enough to know the game.

  “You don’t know me at all,” I can almost hear her thinking it, or whining about it to Derek or any of the paid staff.

  Hell, to her countless therapists as she moans about how her ass looks fat and people just don’t get her. To the Botox guy. To the lady who sells her cigarettes. Oh, I know you well. In many ways, we are just alike. But not where it counts.

  In a second, I could kill her. I could snap her neck and leave her in a puddle. I could fuck her up and leave the cops to find her looking, well, less than attractive. Less than in full control. I could leave her for the underpaid trainer she calls a faggot behind his back. He’ll find on Tuesday for her afternoon pilates appointment. Or, I could save it for her hired help. I’m sure her maid would have a good time mopping her up. Honestly, any of them would have trouble not laughing to find her left as trash. As much as I feel sorry for her, she deserves it. It’s how she treated them—like nothing more than servants. But I’m not that kind of man.

  Loathe her or not, I feel sorry for her. Call me a coward, but I know what it’s like to be miserable. The only problem is, she will stay that way, without a chance to grow. I have two choices: I can kill her, or I can teach her something. I ponder this, while tying her ankles with T-shirt shreddings and keeping one eye on Laura, whose head hang lower and lower. When Cora is fully hog-tied like the money-loving pig that she is, I stand up. I look down. I spit in her hair, just because I can. And then, I move to Laura.

  Chapter Twenty

  The monster in me wants to hit her. I want to kick her or knock over in the chair and leave her there. I want to scream at her for being weak and following Cora in her every command. She was the one, after all, who called me over here. She played a part in this the same way Her Highness did. The only problem is, she likel
y didn’t know. Laura was an innocent—simply another pawn in Boss Lady’s arsenal.

  You can’t know the enemy until you’ve been to bed with them. I’ve been there—with Cora—more than once. I’m no innocent and never claimed to be. I’ve helped her hide offshore accounts. I’ve kept her secrets when her father came snooping around. Hell, I’m the same asshole who got Derek out of jail after the whole Ponzi scheme that almost made Graham Incorporated bankrupt. I’m part of it. I’ve played along. Laura, well, she was just an intern hoping for a better life.

  If this hadn’t happened, would she have stayed on board? Sure. It happens to the best of us. She’d have gotten her hands dirty, too. She’d have secrets and her own ego to protect. Fuck, she’d have had goals bigger than getting off her mother’s couch, too. They’d have grown as she felt more and more invincible. I would know. I was there not that long ago.

  I move slowly, so as not to scare her, a habit I’ve been in since those guiltless days by the elevators. I untie the gag, untangling it from her blood-soaked purple hair and letting it drop hard to the floor. It lands with a thud so loud that even hog-tied Cora bounces. I laugh—out loud.

  “Thank you.”

  They are the only words that come from Laura’s mouth. They startle me at first. I’m not used to hearing them voluntarily. They sound good on her tongue—almost, hot?

  “Wow. Fucking manners. Hear that, Boss?”

  “Fuck you, Micah.”

  Fucking feisty one, she is. I’ll give her that. And in another world, I’d love to fuck her. I’d make that bitch scream so loud the cops would come to find out who was beating who. But here, in her sterile living room with no sign of anything but vanity and fancy things, I have no interest.

  I don’t bother to untie Laura. Instead, I move back toward Her Highness. I lean down, push her onto her side, throw the gag in her mouth, and fasten it behind her head. It fits just fine.

  “You can shut the fuck up at any time.”