The Love You Crave dc-8

by John Locke

  Maybe frowns.

  Dr. Scott says, “What’s going through your mind right now?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I need to know. If we’re to make progress here.”

  “What’s going through my mind is I’m wondering if you really think I’m going to let you shove these disgusting things into me.”

  “I normally let the patient introduce the devices as it suits her.”

  “And what if it doesn’t suit me at all?”

  “That’s always a matter of your choice. But as we’ve discussed-”

  “I know what we’ve discussed. We’ve discussed it endlessly! And now that we’ve spent an hour a day for six weeks talking about the physical and mental implications of vaginismus, you’ve somehow come to the conclusion today’s the day I’m supposed to spread my legs and give you a vertical smile?”

  “It’s not a matter of exposing yourself. It’s a matter of taking the next logical step forward in your treatment.”

  “So now we enter phase two,” Maybe says.

  “If you wish to call it that, I won’t quibble.”

  “I’d call it the rape phase.”

  Dr. Scott sighs. “Let’s take a step back to consider the effect the mere presence of these devices is having on you.”

  “Yeah, let’s do that,” Maybe says. “What if I brought out the same tray and told you to shove them up your ass while I watch?”

  “There would be no purpose served by that exercise.”

  Maybe stares at the purple dildo and comes to the conclusion it’s actually larger than it first appeared, if such could be possible.

  “You must treat farm animals,” she says.

  “What draws you to that conclusion?”

  Maybe points to the tray. “Mr. Purple.”

  Dr. Scott follows her gaze. “Perhaps I should remind you how babies enter the world.”

  “Don’t waste your breath. I can’t get a tampon inside me, let alone a penis. So you can put Mr. Purple back in the sack with the rest of your baseball gear.”

  “Mr. Purple, as you call the device, is simply here to give you a visual perspective of what’s possible. It also serves the purpose of showing you how small our goal is for today.”

  “And what is the goal for today?”

  “We’ll introduce the smallest device today, and introduce it repeatedly, until we’re completely comfortable. Tomorrow we’ll continue working with it. Eventually, we’ll work our way up to the larger sizes.”

  “I notice you’re saying ‘we.’”

  “Yes, of course. I’m your doctor. We’re achieving this goal together.”

  “Your part sounds awfully damn easy.”

  “In what way?”

  “You get paid two hundred dollars an hour to watch me play with myself.”

  Dr. Scott frowns.

  Maybe says, “I assume you intend to watch?”

  “As we’ve discussed numerous times, I’m not a voyeur. I need to observe what happens to you physically in order to judge your reaction emotionally. We don’t have to do this today, if you’d rather not. But if not now, when?”

  They go back and forth like this for ten minutes before Dr. Scott brings her two gowns.

  “What’s the second one for?” she asks.

  “To place beneath you on the recliner.”

  “Do I have to take my top off?”

  “No. I’ll leave the room while you get undressed.”

  “Just turn your head.”

  He does.

  As she disrobes from the waist down, she says, “This is bullshit.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s no benefit to the gown. The whole point is for you to stare at my vagina while I try to insert the yellow dildo.”

  Maybe first heard of vaginismus six months ago, when she finally sat down with her OBGYN for a heart-to-heart. It took her another six weeks to get up the courage to talk to a specialist about it. According to Dr. Scott, vaginismus is a reflex of the PC muscle that causes the vagina to suddenly tense, making any type of vaginal penetration painful or impossible. It’s a condition that prevents Maybe from having any type of vaginal penetration, including inserting a tampon, receiving a gynecological exam, and of course, having sexual intercourse. Nothing enters the V.

  Wasn’t always that way.

  That’s what makes it so frustrating. Two years ago Maybe had no problems with this. She was able to use tampons, receive proper exams, enjoy sex a time or two-was in all respects going through life happy as a bearded clam. But then something happened. Something psychological, according to Maybe’s OBGYN.

  Dr. Scott spent six weeks testing that theory, during which time Maybe has made exactly no progress on her own while playing the home version of the game. Now it’s time to test the physiological response in a clinical atmosphere. According to Dr. Scott, Maybe isn’t shutting her vaginal doors on purpose. The vaginismic affect is similar to the way your eyes involuntarily close when you sneeze, or when an object comes flying toward them. The degree of pain varies from one patient to the next when penetration is attempted, but Maybe’s pain is intolerable.

  “You can turn around now,” she tells him.

  He turns and scoots his chair closer and takes a position directly in front of her.

  Maybe says, “What, no table and stirrups?”

  “In my experience, the recliner is comfortable, and far less clinical. Our objective is to improve your everyday life, not condition you solely to accept gynecological examinations.”

  Maybe takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and slowly lifts her gown. She remains that way for half a minute, feeling the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. She slowly separates her legs until her ankles are three feet apart. She opens her eyes and sees Dr. Scott staring at her private area.

  Which causes her tears to flow twice as hard.

  He hands her the yellow dildo.

  “Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me?” Maybe says.

  “I do.” he says.

  “ Do you?”

  12.

  Present Day… Donovan Creed.

  “This better be good,” Callie says, when I show her the device that had been resting comfortably behind Gwen’s boob two hours ago.

  Gwen doesn’t look at me before speaking. We’ve already made a pact. She’ll assume full responsibility for the surgery if I don’t tell Callie what happened between us in the hallway.

  “Donovan took me to meet Dr. P.,” Gwen says, “and he did a scan.”

  “Dr. Pee?” Callie says, looking at me.

  “Dr. Petrovsky,” I say. “The surgeon who reconstructed my face.”

  She looks at Gwen. “And that didn’t concern you?”

  Gwen giggles. “Donovan is gorgeous. You’ve said so yourself!”

  I look at Callie. “You said that?”

  “She’s delusional. Must be the pain meds.” To Gwen she said, “I thought we had an understanding about the boob job.”

  “You said I needed to do it. You just told me not to let Donovan bully me into it. And he didn’t. When Dr. P. saw the scan, he said it would only take ten minutes to remove.”

  “And aesthetically?”

  She looks at me.

  I shrug. “How would I know?”

  She looks back at Gwen. “Show me.”

  “Well, there’s a bandage, but Dr. P. said in twelve weeks you won’t be able to tell the difference.”

  “Twelve weeks?”

  Callie looks at me.

  “The recovery is only two weeks,” I say. “Gwen’s referring to the scar.”

  “Under my boob,” Gwen says. Then winks. “Don’t worry, sugar snatch. It’ll be fine.”

  “Sugar snatch?” I say.

  Callie’s eyes blaze. “I ought to kill you both.”

  “Why me?” I say.

  “For going behind my back on this.”

  “Why her?”

  “For her big, fucking
mouth.”

  Gwen’s face falls. “I’m sorry,” Gwen says.

  “You should be. I wouldn’t repeat anything you say to me in private. Nor would I cheapen our relationship by revealing our pet names. You don’t deserve me. Move into some attic with him, if that’s all our relationship means to you.”

  Gwen starts crying.

  Callie watches her a minute, then looks at me. She shakes her head. “Females.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” I say. Then add, “Don’t be too hard on her. This procedure didn’t just save my life. It might’ve saved Gwen’s, too.”

  Callie’s anger fades the slightest bit. “What do you mean?”

  “According to Dr. P., an object like this, placed where it was, receiving electronic signals-could have had a lethal effect on Gwen’s heart. Not to mention it significantly increased her chances of developing breast cancer.”

  Callie says, “I wish Phyllis Willis was still alive.”

  “What would you do to her?”

  “Very bad things.”

  She looks at Gwen and sighs. “Men are so much easier.”

  “Especially us gorgeous ones,” I say.

  Callie gives me a look I’ve seen before. Staring into her eyes, I can literally see the light draining out of them. All emotion has left her face. She’s completely detached. It’s amazing how the most beautiful creature in the world can look so devoid of human warmth. This is Callie’s death face. It’s how she looks when people are about to die.

  When she speaks, her tone is flat. “The day our friendship ends?” she says.

  “I know.”

  “Say it.”

  “Our friendship ends the day I call you sugar snatch.”

  She holds my gaze a full minute. It’s such an uncomfortable minute, I finally say, “I’ll never even think those words again.”

  “Yes you will. You’ll think them every time you see me for the rest of our lives.” She looks at Gwen. “Thanks to you.”

  Gwen puts her lower lip out, like a child who’s been caught telling a family secret.

  Callie looks back at me. “But you won’t say those words out loud.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Ever.”

  “Ever.”

  13.

  One Week Earlier… Maybe Taylor.

  The man who likes to be called Daddy said Professor Jonah Toth could be found teaching civics at Viceroy College in Charleston, South Carolina. Maybe didn’t ask why Daddy wanted him dead. You’re not supposed to ask, he’d told her months ago, shortly after they began their unusual telephone friendship. That was fine with Maybe. It wouldn’t help to be sidetracked by questions or doubt. She would trust Daddy, kill the man, and move forward, toward bigger and more important assignments. Lucrative ones.

  This will be Maybe’s first murder for hire. She’s going to receive ten thousand dollars for what will probably amount to a few hours work. She’s already received the down payment, along with the murder weapon, in the handbag wedged under the spare tire in the trunk of her rental car. Maybe doesn’t know how Daddy managed it, nor does she care. What she’s thinking is, this is almost too easy!

  The handbag contains five thousand dollars in cash, and a handgun equipped with a silencer. She’s been told she won’t need to remove the gun from the purse, she can just reach in and start shooting. If she’s within ten feet of the target, the bullets will pass through the handbag and into Toth’s body with relative accuracy. Since the gun is small caliber, she should be prepared to take multiple shots.

  It’s Wednesday morning.

  Maybe locates Toth’s 10:00 a.m. class and monitors it from the back row. Toth is in his forties and dresses as pretentiously as possible, with his tweed jacket, crew neck sweater and designer jeans. He wears his dark brown hair seventies style, and has a short, well-groomed beard. All that’s missing to complete the picture of what a hip professor is supposed to look like is a pipe.

  Professor Toth’s class is as boring as most of the classes Maybe attended her freshman and sophomore years. It’s classes like this that made it easy to leave college after her second year. When his lecture finally ends, Maybe’s one of the last students to file out. She lingers fifty feet down the hall, holding her large handbag to her chest. For this occasion she’s wearing a cinnamon-colored wig and non-prescription Sarah Palin glasses.

  Maybe’s plan is to follow Professor Toth at a distance and wait until a killing opportunity presents itself. She’s prepared to tail him all day and half the night, if necessary, but she catches an amazing break when Toth exits the classroom and walks into the men’s room directly across the hall!

  Don’t professors pee in the teacher’s lounges?

  Apparently not always.

  Maybe seizes the opportunity, and quietly slips into the bathroom after giving him a twenty second head start. The bathroom is laid out with two sinks on the right wall as you enter, then a divider, and four urinals beyond the divider. On the left, across from the urinals, are two stalls. Maybe can’t believe her good fortune. They’re alone in the men’s room, she’s at the sink, he’s peeing at one of the urinals behind the divider, and neither can see the other. But she can hear him peeing. She removes the gun from her handbag, even though she was told not to. But Maybe’s thinking if they’re interrupted, she can shoot her way out of the bathroom, if necessary. She turns the water on in the sink so Toth will think someone’s washing his hands, and then moves behind him, as if planning to use one of the stall toilets.

  Toth never turns his head, content to stare straight ahead at the cement block wall eight inches in front of his face. Probably been taught all his life not to look around in case some other guy thinks you’re checking him out.

  It occurs to Maybe that this is one of the great differences between men and women. A woman will always turn her head to see who’s entered the bathroom.

  Maybe watches Toth moving his right hand up and down and realizes he’s shaking his penis. How odd, she thinks. She’s never had a penis, and hasn’t seen but a few in her life, but she can’t imagine it requires that much effort to get the last few drops of pee out. When Toth tucks his butt to stuff his mighty sword back in his pants, she walks right up behind him and fires two shots in the back of his head from less than a foot away.

  Big mistake.

  Maybe’s never shot anyone before, and hasn’t allowed for blood spatter. It’s everywhere, including her face. There’s so much blood she can hardly see out of her glasses.

  But she can see enough.

  She steps out of the way while Toth falls to the floor. He lands sideways, and rolls onto his back, and…

  He’s still alive!

  The back of his head is gone, and the man is still alive! His mouth is moving like a baby bird that’s waiting for its mama to drop a worm into it. What a wondrous machine the human body is, Maybe thinks, as she squeezes another shot into the space between his eyes. She goes to the sink, checks herself in the mirror, removes the bloody windbreaker she’d worn to give the impression of being twenty pounds heavier.

  She stuffs the jacket in her purse, along with the glasses, and quickly scrubs her hands and face with soap, water, and paper towels. Then she stuffs the towels in her purse and heads out the bathroom door at a brisk pace.

  14.

  “Hi Daddy,” Maybe says to the voice mailbox. “I kissed a professor!”

  Five minutes later her cell phone rings.

  “ Already?” he says.

  “Yup.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She does.

  Then he says, “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “There were no witnesses.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “I was good.”

  “You were good,” he says. “Now tell me about Dr. Scott.”

  Maybe smiles. “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “No!” she says. “Tell me it’s not true!”
/>   “Talk to me, Maybe.”

  “I like it when you use my name.”

  “It’s not your name. It’s the name you chose.”

  “Still, you usually call me Baby.”

  “Tell me about Dr. Scott.”

  “What is there to tell?”

  “I thought the therapy was working.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  “What do your sources say?”

  “I don’t have sources. I’m a hacker. I find things out the hard way. The reports are inconclusive.”

  “Inconclusive is good.”

  “Apparently, you’ve come up with a way to kill people that’s undetectable, at least till toxicology comes back.”

  “Are you impressed?”

  “Mildly. But they found the injection site, so it won’t take long. What might they find?”

  “They might find a high concentration of nutmeg in his system.”

  “Nice. Did you distill it yourself?”

  “You’re starting to sound impressed.”

  “I am impressed. It’s a poison that can be found in anyone’s spice cabinet. They’ll never be able to trace it back to you.”

  “What else did the report say?”

  “Dr. Scott was found dead in his office lying face down on the floor.”

  “Anything else?”

  “His pants were pulled down to his knees and a giant dildo had been pounded into his rectum.”

  “You should’ve heard him scream.”

  “Why would they use the term ‘pounded?’”

  “There was a toolkit in his supply closet. With a large rubber mallet.”

  “You should’ve told me you killed him.”

  “Why?”

  “To warn me.”

  “You’re either good enough to take precautions, or you’re not,” Maybe says, indignantly.

  “I took the necessary precautions.”

  “Such as?”

  “I used a fake name and a different bank for every check. Sent them from different places, disguised my voice. Used throwaway cell phones for each call. I don’t make mistakes.”