Need

by Stephanie Lawton

  Her soft footfalls echo mine as we head back to his bedroom. I sit on the bed and make room for her, but she declines. “I’d rather stand, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” She hugs her elbows and glances around the room, eyes landing on a photo album in the “keep” pile. I push it closer to her. She flips through a few pages then sucks in a breath.

  “So it’s true. Look.” She hands me the album, whose pages are open to two well-aged newspaper clippings, obituaries for a Kay Dodd and a Warren Carter. Listed as one of their children is Mrs. Angela (Robert) Cline. Listed as a brother to Warren Carter is a Gary Carter. “That’s my granddaddy,” she says.

  “So we are related.”

  “Just barely, and only by marriage. Here’s the part I want you to read.” She points to a paragraph further down in Warren Carter’s obituary.

  I read aloud, “‘Mr. Carter was once a well-respected businessman in Biloxi but moved to Mobile, the ancestral home of his beloved wife, with whom he spent many happy years.’ Yeah, so?”

  “He also moved to Mobile to get out of the mob. He and my granddaddy had a falling-out that got pretty ugly from what I understand. When he fell in love with Kay Dodd, he made a clean break and moved here to Mobile.”

  “This is ancient history. I still don’t see what it has to do with now.”

  “This is where the rivalry started,” she says. “This is why my mama still has a grudge against your family.”

  “I don’t get it. So they fought. Big deal.”

  She sighs. “My mama was a daddy’s girl. Whatever he said, she believed, and if he put it in her head that the Mobile Carters were trash who turned their backs on their family and moved in on his territory in Mobile, then that’s what she believed.”

  “So…this was an old-school turf war?”

  “For my granddaddy, yes. For my mama, I think it’s more personal.”

  “Personal?”

  “Look at this picture of your Aunt Angela. She and my mama were cousins.”

  “I’ll admit the similarities are kinda creepy. Can’t believe I didn’t see it before, but then I was little when she died.”

  “But there’s one huge difference.” When I shrug, she continues. “My mama married for money and status. Angela married for love.”

  “Then I really don’t see why they didn’t get along. Your mama’s all about money and status. She got what she wanted.”

  “But she had to really work and sacrifice for it. She had to marry my daddy—who she didn’t love—in order to get it.”

  “Okay, I’m still not following. Uncle Robert made next to nothing as a musician. He certainly wasn’t rich.”

  “No, but your Aunt Angela was. Her daddy did very well after he moved to Mobile. Nearly put my granddaddy out of business. My mama had to marry into money to keep the family afloat, while your aunt got the best of both worlds.”

  “Look around you. They lived in this tiny house their entire lives together. They didn’t have any money.”

  “Have you checked the bank account he left for you?”

  “Haven’t had the chance yet, no.”

  “I think you’ll be surprised.”

  “Okay, so your mama hated my aunt, and my uncle by proxy. That’s why she hates me?”

  “That, and you tried to date her daughter, who she was grooming to take over the family business. When she found out about how far we’d gone, well…”

  “Last straw, huh?”

  “I think she wanted to humiliate you. That’s why she did what she did in the driveway that night.”

  My mind flashes back. Yeah, I was definitely humiliated.

  Heather takes a deep breath. “That’s also why she crawled into your bed the other night.”

  Down the hall, a clock ticks. Outside, rain pelts the windows. And yet I swear I hear the sound of my balls shriveling like the discarded foil wrapper on a candy bar.

  “Isaac, are you okay?”

  I nod, though truth be told, I’m still trying to process this bomb she’s dropped. “How do you know it was her? Are you sure?”

  She digs in her purse and pulls out her phone. “Geoffrey was in on it. He didn’t really want to have a brother-sister talk the other night, he just needed to keep me away from you. Take a look.”

  She hands me her phone and there on the screen is the explanation for the bright light I saw before passing out. My eyes are at half-mast and my hair’s a mess, but yep, that’s me in bed with Marcie Swann.

  “Scroll,” Heather says.

  In the next picture my eyes are closed, but I have my arm around the naked psycho. The third is a vulgar picture of our, uh, union. I say a silent goodbye to my boys, who will never descend again.

  “Isaac–”

  I hold up a hand to make her stop. “Excuse me, I need a few minutes. I’ll be back.”

  I walk straight down the hall, out the front door, and into the unrelenting rain. Only the naïve would dare hope it could wash me clean, but I trudge down the driveway toward the sidewalk all the same.

  One phrase repeats in my mind with every step I take: I slept with Marcie Swann. I slept with Marcie Swann. I slept with Marcie Swann. I slept with…

  A car races by, splashing a plume of water that dowses me in muddy run-off. For a second I wish it would hydroplane—but only for a second, before I come to my senses. I can’t undo that errant thought, and I can’t undo getting splashed. Neither can I undo getting fucked by Marcie Swann.

  I can, however, decide what happens next. I think of Baby Jayne huddled on the sofa at the visitation and how I swore Marcie Swann wouldn’t infect another generation of our family with her poison. The woman is clearly unhinged and should be stopped, no matter the consequences.

  This is bigger than me. It’s about a psychotic woman willing to exact revenge on people who weren’t even born when she was supposedly wronged. It’s about a woman willing to hurt her own daughter time after time in order to satisfy her need for vengeance. It’s about finally standing up to the woman who stole my young adulthood and took away my freedom to decide my own course in life.

  No more.

  This ends with me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Heather’s sitting with her legs crossed in a rocking chair on the front porch when I return. She blows thick smoke into the misty air before returning a fat cigar to her painted lips. Then she plucks another out of the antique humidor on the table to her right and hands it to me, along with a box of matches that’s older than either of us.

  For a long time we sit in silence, each trying to outdo the other with our smoke-puffing abilities. I manage to make a few rings like Uncle Robert taught me. He only ever smoked while fishing. Swore it kept the mosquitoes from eating us alive. Today it keeps my rage from eating me alive.

  “So,” she says, tapping the ashes from the end of her cigar, “what do we do now?”

  “Now we plan how to take down your mama once and for all. You in?”

  “One hundred percent. Got a plan?”

  “I need to know more about this Biloxi business, but yeah, I’ve got an idea.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  I rock back and forth in my chair a few times. “You willing to throw your whole family under the bus?”

  “Not Daddy, no. But Mama and Geoffrey, yes.”

  “Why not your daddy?”

  “He’s basically a good man, just got stuck in a bad situation. He loved my mama but couldn’t make her love him. He’d bring her flowers and she’d complain that he was wasting money. He’d get a promotion and the first thing she’d ask was how much his pay raise was and how many more hours a week he’d be gone.” She sighs. “I’d watch his smile disintegrate and his shoulders slump as he trudged to their room to change clothes. Sometimes I’d follow him and sit on the bed while he’d yank off his tie. ‘Darlin’,” he’d say, ‘you do what makes you happy in life, ya hear? Don’t let anyone push you around, but don’t you go pushing anyone into what they don�
��t want, either.’”

  “So clearly he doesn’t know about your psycho dominatrix side.” I dodge a punch to the arm and we both laugh—something we haven’t done enough of lately.

  “No, he doesn’t, but he does know I love him and detest my mama. He might even be willing to help us.”

  “Yeah?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “Never know. He has reasons for wanting to see her get what’s coming to her. So what’s the plan, big guy?”

  “Ever read Dangerous Liaisons by De Laclos?”

  “No, but I saw the movie a long time ago.”

  “Close enough. The Marquise de Merteuil, Glenn Close’s character, is a manipulative bitch, but at the end all her sins are revealed in public. She’s run out of town penniless, friendless, and she catches some horrible illness that leaves her blind in one eye and disfigured. Everyone agrees it would have been better if she had died.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Well, I don’t wish your mama dead–”

  “I do.”

  “Heather, you don’t mean that.”

  “No? You only know the things she did to me that also involved you. There’s so much more. Believe me, it would be no skin off my teeth if I never saw her again.”

  That throws me for a second. “Okay, but I’m not willing to bust out of this figurative prison just to go into a real one, so let’s keep the bloody murder fantasy to a minimum, shall we?”

  Heather chuckles. “Yeah, okay. But I can still think about it, right? As long as I don’t say anything out loud?”

  “Whatever makes you happy, sweet pea.”

  “Thank you, Isaac. You’re so good to me.”

  I shake my head and continue. “Anyway, the Mystics of Dardenne will be holding their annual charity golf scramble at the country club next week. Sounds pretty public to me, plus all her so-called friends will be there.”

  Heather chews her lip for a few seconds before slowly nodding. “It could work. It gives you and me an excuse to be there, too.”

  “Technically, I was kicked out of the society.”

  “But I wasn’t, and you can come as my guest,” she says.

  “Won’t that create a stir?”

  “Isn’t that the idea?”

  “Point taken.” Heather makes a good partner in crime.

  “So, as you said, how do we reveal her sins?”

  I take another long drag on my cigar. “She probably doesn’t have a paper trail, but she does love to rub everything in whenever I see her. Wouldn’t be too hard to get her to talk about what she did in high school, what she did at the ball with Juli, and then what happened the other night. If we can record her… What?”

  Heather digs in her purse. “Voila,” she says, holding up a small digital recorder. “I use this for depositions. This is sort of the same thing.”

  I put down my cigar to slap my knee. “You devious little minx. What else you got tucked away in that purse?”

  She sticks her hand in, pretending to get it stuck. “Handcuffs, a mini-flogger, rope, extra panties. I’m kidding. Mostly. Close your mouth.” She laughs, but throws a very real pair of underwear at me.

  “Um, right. Your mama loves to make me miserable, so email me those pictures, which I’m sure she thinks she can use to blackmail me. For what, I don’t know, but–”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  I shake my head.

  “Isaac, she wants you and me to break up. She wants both of us miserable. I’m positive she figured if Geoffrey showed them to me, I’d freak and never speak to you again,” she says.

  “But you did just the opposite.”

  “Damn right I did. Her games have gotten stale. I know how she thinks, but she hasn’t a clue how I think.”

  “Neither do I, but I like your keeping me on my toes.” I nudge her foot with mine.

  “That’s because you’re one of the good guys. Anyway, you were saying?”

  “We can turn this around on her and use the photos to blackmail her instead. I’ll have to come completely clean, too, but I’m sick of hiding. Don’t mind putting my ego in the blender if it means she’ll leave my family alone forever.”

  “We’ll have to move fast on this.”

  “I’ll go talk to her at the shop tomorrow. Get it all on tape, then we can play it back Sunday at the scramble.”

  “Okay. She’s usually there from about nine to maybe three,” she says.

  “Perfect.” I fling her underwear back at her.

  “So, now that we’ve planned to take down the viper, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “Now that you’re here?” I waggle my eyebrows at her.

  “Ew, in your uncle’s house? That’s even weird for me.”

  “My house now,” I remind her.

  “And I suppose you want to christen it?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “What did you have in mind?” She flings her black panties back at me.

  “Something I’ve always wanted to do, but…”

  “But what? Come on, tell me.”

  “It’s kind of cliché.”

  “Oh, pretty please? You’ve got me curious now.”

  “Let me see your purse.”

  She hands it over and I dig through it. Turns out she does have rope in there, along with a few other fun toys. “Paybacks are a bitch, sweet pea.” Her eyes widen at my evil grin, but before she can protest, I grab her hand, yank open the front door, and close it by pinning her against the glass with the full length of my body. She struggles a bit, but her heart’s not in it. Not according to the way her back arches, pressing her chest into mine, and not according to the quick pants escaping through her parted lips.

  “I dare you to fight me,” I tell her. A wicked gleam appears in her eyes. I drink it in as I would a fine Scotch—slowly, deliberately, and without reservations. She struggles to bring up her knee between my legs, but that’s too predictable. I block her attempt by pressing my thighs against hers even tighter. Every square inch of her is trapped against either my body or the door. Still, she struggles and twists, wriggles and manages to bite my shoulder. The pain unleashes something I’ve kept under lock and key since the last time I was with Juli. It snaps its restraints, flips Heather over my shoulder, and hauls her into the parlor where I spent hours as a teen fantasizing about her.

  Tonight, the fantasy becomes reality.

  Turns out those Boy Scout knots are handy things when you’ve got a feisty blonde you want laid out on top of a piano, wrists and ankles secured to the mahogany legs. I stand back to admire my handiwork when it hits me that, in my haste, I forgot to undress her first.

  “Hope you’re not too fond of those clothes, sweet pea. They’ve got to come off.”

  “Isaac, these cost–”

  “Don’t care. Actually, you talk too much. I want you mostly silent for this.” One shove and her skirt’s up around her waist, exposing her pink lace panties. To be honest, I’m surprised she’s wearing underwear at all. They’re so delicate, all it takes is one quick rip and they’re shredded. Heather’s quick intake of breath spurs me on. I finger the material for a few seconds before moving up to her head so she can see my smirk and feel my breath near her ear.

  “Paybacks are a bitch, darling.” With that, I pinch her nose so her mouth is forced open. In that brief second her panties go onto her tongue—not far enough to choke her, but secure enough to keep her quiet. Her cheeks flood crimson. My cock approves.

  “What shall I do with you, Miss Swann? Leave you here while I finish cleaning out the closets? Grab a camera and take some naughty blackmail photos of my own?” At that, her back arches off the piano and she squirms. “You like that?” She rolls her eyes in response. “Still such a brat. Let’s see if I can take you down a peg or two.”

  Carefully, so I don’t break any of the antique ivories, I climb on top of the piano with her, hovering over her just enough that she can’t help but tense up while trying to bri
ng our bodies together. I don’t let her. Instead, I kneel on either side of her hips while tracing her collar bone with the tips of my fingers. I can smell her reaction—she can feel mine against her stomach.

  “I hate this shirt,” I tell her. My first instinct is to rip it off like her panties, but it’s overridden by my desire to torture her the way she’s tortured me, made me beg, humiliated me, and ultimately set me free.

  The first button of her shirt slides open with ease. Same with the second. The third I open with my teeth and tongue, making sure to lick the salty sweat that’s formed in the hollow between her breasts. She pushes them at me, but I move on to the next button, repeating the move until her shirt falls open, revealing her small expanse of perfectly smooth, tanned flesh expanding and contracting with every labored breath. I draw a finger down her stomach to her navel, then further down, over her bunched-up skirt, and skim up the inside of her thighs with my thumbs. She writhes and makes a rather vulgar noise through her gag.

  “Have something to say, dearest?”

  She nods and bats her eyelashes. As soon as the gag comes out, she yells, “Fuck you!”

  The gag goes back in before I reply, “I love you too, Heather.” At that, she stops struggling. I kiss the tip of her nose before sliding back down her body and carefully climbing down onto the piano bench once more.

  Now, I’ve played at most of the biggest venues in the world—New York, London, Venice, Paris—sat at the most magnificently crafted pianos in existence. Nothing compares to my current vantage point. With the sheet music tray folded down, I’ve got a front-row seat and full access to the softest, sweetest, most beautiful lips I’ve had the pleasure of servicing. I can also see exactly how turned on she is by the small puddle forming under her ass.

  The rain continues to pound outside, casting the room in dim shadows. I flick on the small Tiffany-glass lamp at my elbow. It throws off a yellowish tint that’s every bit as erotic as a candle. Heather wiggles a bit, so I check her feet to make sure they’re not cold and stroke her calves to calm her down.

  Then I begin to play.

  I start softly on the upper register of the keyboard, knowing she’s wondering what on earth I’m doing and how long I’m going to make her listen. I think she gets the idea when I move down a few octaves and the sounds reverberate through the frame of the piano. She moans during a pause in the music, so to push her further, I pick up the intensity and add pedal to rock the frame. No idea where this composition is coming from, but it’s definitely doing the trick.