Dead4u

by H E Johnson

  Needing to pee I wandered out to the bathroom. The door was partly closed. Light peeped between the cracks. I stopped dead. Hadn’t I set the alarm before bed? Because I was certain that I had. So, unless I’d gone sleepwalking earlier tonight, someone had broken into the house. Looking for drugs? McCord kept prescription stuff in the medicine cabinet. Sleeping pills. Painkillers. But if this intruder was an addict looking to score pills, he or she would’ve snaffled the lot and scooted by now.

  My first instinct was to grab a weapon. But time was a crucial element. Facing an adversary, the big mistake most people make is running away rather than attacking. Boldness succeeds where all else fails.

  I stopped. Took three slow, deep breaths. And threw myself against the door . . . to find no one there. A message in lipstick had been scrawled on the mirror. It read:

  Get Out!

  My heart thumped against the walls of my chest. Squatting, I opened the vanity and grabbed a pair of brass knuckles cached behind a stack of toilet paper.

  The tub shower’s curtain was drawn across. Cocking an arm to punch, I yanked the curtain back. Nothing. Again.

  I sprinted to the control panel. The green light told me the alarm was on. Meaning the intruder was inside. Had been inside with me all night.

  Returning to the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet I found the scrawled note wiped away. In its smear a single word:

  NOW!

  Screaming, I obliterated the intruder’s second message with brass-knuckled fists. Again. Again. Again . . .

  Calling a dead woman’s name with each blow.

  ◆◆◆

  I woke screaming. T-shirt and panties clung to my skin. The top was bathed in sweat. Even the panties felt dampish with no reason to suspect a bladder leak. Upgrading to twenty-one-year-old plumbing was a big plus.

  So what the hell was going on with me?

  All I felt sure about was that I’d been dreaming. Judging from the state of my clothes, it had been one doozy of a nightmare. But I’d never reacted like this to even the worst nightmares.

  I checked my phone and cursed. It was Tuesday—still. Rationally I knew time hadn’t stopped. Just my heightened attention span stepping on the brakes. It was a simple survival mechanism. Same one that let athletes feel like the game around them had slowed down.

  Except this wasn’t a game. Dragging out the agony felt like . . . no, it was torture.

  As I calmed down, I felt the need to relieve myself. So I rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. I peed a furious torrent, no doubt due to increased water intake. Then went to wash my hands. The face staring back at me from the mirror bore an angry scowl. Nothing like what I was feeling. So I stuck out my tongue.

  “Aren’t we in a mood.” It was Novak. Lucky me. “Exactly what was all the hollering about? Find a cockroach in the sock drawer?”

  “You tell me.”

  “We see and hear exactly what you hear and see. That’s all. We’re not telepaths, Nikita.” The sarcastic tone in Novak’s voice grated on my nerves. She continued: “I went to make tea, and next thing I heard was this godawful scream. By the time I get back to the monitors, there’s your tongue hanging out in midair.” She clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. “Most unattractive.”

  “Bad dream,” I muttered. “We were making out and you wanted to be on top.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. It occurred to me that insulting the person holding my fate in her hands wasn’t the smartest move ever. But I hadn’t been selected for charm or small talk. If I had, well, all was lost.

  When Novak finally spoke, her voice held an edge. “Homophobic remarks in this day and age? Really? I thought we were all adults.”

  She was right. It had been a cheap shot. So I apologized. Grudgingly. When I was done grovelling, Novak reminded me that my mission was time-sensitive and I was on the clock—just not getting paid. I agreed—anything to stop that incessant corporate speak—and told her I needed to prepare by taking a bath.

  “A bath?” said Novak, sounding baffled. “How is that going to help you get ready?”

  In response, I stripped off the wet undies and stood in front of the mirror where I admired McCord’s firm breasts. “Well I got all steamy dreaming about you.” Yawning I stretched my arms overhead. Fingers trailed over both nipples as I arched backward. “And now I got to scrub those dirty, dirty thoughts away.”

  Novak’s tone cracked. “You fucking bitch.”

  “Don’t peek now,” I retorted, wagging a finger at the mirror. “Otherwise Human Resources will need to chat with you about harassment protocol.”

  It took a moment for her to reply. When she did Novak’s voice held a harder, sharper edge.

  “Do remember Detective Chen that you’re NOT a police officer any longer. So far as anyone knows or can prove you’re a stinking cop-killer. Ponder THAT while enjoying your bath.” She paused to catch her breath. “Don’t worry. I won’t look dear. And if someone tries to strangle you? Good luck.”

  ◆◆◆

  So I took a bath. Why not? I could be dead in a few days. Sooner if Novak had anything to say about it. Besides, a late night soaking would do wonders to improve my mood.

  Hunting for bath oils, I found a set of brass knuckles tucked behind some toilet paper in the vanity cabinet. There were no bath products, unless you counted liquid hand soap. It appeared that McCord wasn’t big on sloshing about in suds.

  Oh well. At least I knew where to find a weapon if attacked on the crapper. That was gold.

  Holding the brass knuckles felt oddly familiar, like one of those deja vu moments that make you doubt the reality of everyday life. Simplest explanation: McCord had used them and I was experiencing residual muscle memory. Duh.

  Still . . . I was getting a weird vibe from these knucks that I didn’t like. Not one little motherfucking bit.

  Despite a lack of bath goodies, I took my time in the tub. Working cases, I never seemed to find time for leisurely things. The kinks in my back and shoulders were just starting to loosen up when the phone rang.

  I stared at it for a moment. I didn’t want to answer. I knew it would be Sweet. Who else would phone me?

  But I did answer. And it was Sweet.

  “Epstein’s coming by to pick you up,” he said. “In fifteen. Wear something nice.” With that, he disconnected.

  Nice huh? When you’re a supervillain, manners are superfluous. No need to ask the girlfriend if she’d like company. Just send your goon in the middle of the night to hustle her ass around for a quickie.

  Oh well. Pulling the drain plug, I stood up and towelled off. There was just enough time to make myself pretty. Or some reasonable facsimile thereof.

  ◆◆◆

  Epstein was in my driveway in fifteen minutes as promised. He didn’t look happy about it, though. When I slid into the passenger seat, he advised me to hang on and pulled out before I buckled my seatbelt.

  I was wearing a knee-length red dress with classic single-strand pearl necklace and white pumps. The pumps had three-inch heels. I looked like some smalltown gym teacher out for Friday night kicks at the local pizza joint. Hopefully this qualified as “something nice” but who knew?

  “How do I look?” I asked Epstein, fingering the necklace with a coy finger. “To die for—or not?”

  He grunted.

  I said, “What? Am I hideous? Is there food in my teeth?”

  “Cut the crap. You didn’t doll yourself up for me. If you’re fishing for compliments, ask your boyfriend.”

  What was the man’s deal? I decided to try another tack.

  “Sorry for the late-night booty call.” I put on a smile. “Hope you’re getting paid overtime for this.”

  Epstein shot me a quick glare. He snapped back, “Long as the boss man puts money in my account I do like he says. Same as you, Crys.”

  “Plus you have the pleasure of my company.”

  “Yeah. That too.”

  “Is that why you didn’t rat me
out to Sweet?”

  Epstein said nothing for a moment. Knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel. The big muscle of his lower jaw clenched and unclenched.

  “I don’t share everything with Sweet,” he said. “Or you.”

  “How did you know I’d be at the memorial service?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “More like psychic, I’d say.”

  He didn’t reply. Just kept driving. Hands on wheel, eyes on road. Mr. Professional. His frosty attitude made me want to kick his ass. Or grab it.

  Fucking hormones, yeah?

  I watched the city whiz by. I didn’t want to think. So I turned on the radio to fill the silence. Rap music filled the car. I glanced at Epstein. But he still seemed distracted. Distant. The way men get when they’re not getting any. Or right after getting some.

  So which was it? And why did I care?

  Fortunately, the trip didn’t take long. When we arrived at Sweet Spot, there was a lineup of late-night stragglers. The club’s bouncer, spotting the car, rushed over to open the door as Epstein pulled up.

  “Have a nice night,” I told Epstein as I stepped out of the car.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, “you too, Crys.”

  With that, I stepped out of the car. The bouncer ushered me into the club past a surly night crowd of druggies, whores and thieves, all of whom regarded me with undisguised hatred. Seemed like McCord made enemies everywhere she went.

  I went straight to the back door where Big Boy sat propped on a stool. Spotting me, he pulled out his phone and turned on the iris scanner, which blinked red in response. Then, hauling his bulk off the stool, he stood in front of the machine. The green light came on, followed by two beeps. Then the door clicked open.

  A Mouthful of Sugar

  Upstairs I found Sweet at the desk by the windows. He was frowning at a laptop through a pair of reading glasses. A gold satin robe, hanging from those wide shoulders, gave him a regal aura.

  I walked over to him. The tap of stilettos rang out from the marble floor. In the swanky red dress, I felt more than a little overdressed. Hadn’t he asked me to wear something nice? I’d expected him to be wearing a suit if not a tux.

  Sliding onto the desk, I crossed my legs demurely. “Are we staying in?” I asked. White pumps dangling, I gathered the pearl necklace into a bunch and let the beads drip slowly through my fingers. “You asked me to dress up, so I figured we’d be going out.”

  Sweet didn’t look up from whatever he was doing.

  “Did I say anything about going out?” he asked in the mildest of tones.

  “No, but . . .”

  “What did I ask you to do, Crystal?”

  Had I forgotten something? I searched my memory. Was I missing some essential social cue that McCord would’ve picked up on?

  “You asked me to wear something nice.” I gazed down at my outfit. It was a bit retro but fun still. “Don’t you like this?”

  Still not looking at me, he replied, “It’s perfect.”

  I did the math. He wanted me to look nice but not for public display. Okay, so what the fuck were we doing?

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  Shit. I was missing something here—but what? Sweet calls me up in the middle of the night, asks me to dress “nice” and sends a car over to pick me up. Then I find him working at his desk in a robe . . .

  Oh.

  With Novak working the monitors, there was no point requesting a timeout. She’d made that abundantly clear.

  Fuck my life.

  Squatting onto haunches, I tried crawling on all fours. The black marble floor felt hard and cold as ice. My head banged sharply against the underside of the desk. Ouch! Sighing, I lowered my belly to the floor and squirmed forward till I reached Sweet’s legs. Raising my head cobra-like, I poked my face through his satin robe and found his dick ready and waiting. With delicate flicks of tongue, I lashed the underside of the shaft, felt blood throbbing into the meat. Next I rolled the head about in my mouth while stroking both inner thighs with my hands. This was my go-to, never-fail move. Only it wasn’t doing the trick because Sweet kept tapping away at that damned laptop with not one word or groan of appreciation for my efforts.

  Time to take one for the team.

  Without removing the pearl necklace, I used it to lasso his balls and yank it under my chin. Sweet’s cock twitched in response. Bingo. Moistening two fingers with my cunt, I corkscrewed them up his asshole as I took a long, deep suck. The keyboarding stopped abruptly. Two hands gripped my face. Tightened into claws. Holding my head in place, he began ramming his whole length over my tongue to the back of my throat. I took my revenge on his asshole, reaming it fast and hard in rhythm to my mouth. Felt him clench, try to hold back, but there was no stopping that tsunami of semen jetting from his cock. It tasted salty. Too many fried foods?

  “Fuck!” he screamed.

  As I choked on a rush of fluid, Sweet hauled me out from under the desk. Seeing my breathless state, he removed a softening dick from my mouth and wiped it on my cheeks. I felt two gobs of cum dripping down my face like clown tears. Stifling the instinct to vomit, I stuck out my tongue and lapped up the drippings.

  Sweet watched this performance with a dreamy expression. Here was the real thrill for him. Not the actual orgasm or preliminary sensations. Anointing me with body fluids was no different than a dog pissing on a fire hydrant to mark its territory.

  Men.

  “You might want to clean up,” he suggested. “That dress will stain.”

  ◆◆◆

  I went to the bathroom and washed my face. Luckily, I found a new toothbrush in the vanity, which I used to scrub teeth and tongue. As I spat, Novak whispered into my head:

  “That was fairly intense. Are you okay?”

  I looked into the mirror and nodded.

  “Good girl,” she said. There was no trace of irony in her tone. “Just a few more days, huh? Hang in there, Nikita.”

  I nodded, left the bathroom and returned to the main part of the loft. Sweet was watching television in bed. He helped me unzip the dress, which I dropped onto the floor. Kicking off the pumps, I got into bed, slipping under the covers beside him. I started to remove the necklace, but Sweet wrapped those big hands around mine. His skin felt warm.

  “I like it on you,” was all he said.

  Good to know. I said fine, you’re the boss.

  I checked out the television. Sweet was watching a local news program about the city’s dope trade.

  “These guys are idiots,” he said, pointing at an infamous drug lord whose face flashed across the screen. “Tech’s the future. This stuff,” here he gave a dismissive wave of his hand, “is penny ante crap. If you want to maximize return on investment then you need to appeal to people with disposable income. Otherwise you’re dealing volume rather than value. Low-end shit versus premium product.”

  “Is that all I am to you? Premium merchandise?”

  He shrugged. “Any monetized commodity is product, babe. Including me. I’m a salesman but I’m also the merch. When people purchase my product, what they’re really buying is ME: my time, my efforts, how I choose to present myself to the world. See?”

  A thought occurred to me.

  “Is that why you wanted me here tonight? To show me my place in the supply chain?”

  “Exactly. Think about all those dudes shooting cum on their screens. Everyone’s a whore, Crystal. Only honest ones are those poor bitches on their knees in the street. You got to take it to make it.”

  “Catchy. You should copyright the fuck out of that and print it on T-shirts.” I rubbed my hand across his chest. “Is that why you sent Helga to me? To see whether I could take it?”

  “Helga? Who the fuck is Helga?”

  I related my encounter with the killer masseuse. When I was finished, Sweet nodded thoughtfully as he stroked his chin. He said:

  “Looks like our competition’s got you in their sights. Why didn’t you say something befor
e now? Feliks would’ve found that bitch and squeezed the truth out of her.” He sighed. “No point now. Whoever sent your ‘Helga’ has shut her up by now.” He gave me a look. “This is business, babe. No secrets, okay?”

  “I thought you might be testing me. Like tonight.”

  “Are you kidding? Anything happens to you, DEAD4U would go tits up.”

  “So I’m really nothing more than a commodity to you, am I?”

  “He’s not inviting you to the prom,” Novak whispered into my skull. “Work the bastard, Nikita. Men can’t think with both heads at the same time. And only one of them talks.”

  I stifled a laugh. Not that it mattered because Sweet didn’t seem to be listening to me. I followed the direction of his eyes. The news anchor was doing a piece on the murder of a police officer. My former face filled the screen.

  “This was Detective Nikita Chen, one of Cybercrime’s finest officers. She was found stabbed to death in the Starlite Motel. According to police officials, Detective Chen was investigating a pedophile ring at the time of her death.”

  The camera cut briefly to a background shot of the room where my body had been found. Then it flashed to a news reporter.

  “I’m speaking with Captain Miranda Dobbs of Metro Division’s Cybercrime Unit. Captain Dobbs, does Detective Chen’s death signal a rise in violent sex crime?”

  Sweet muted the volume. Dobbs’ mouth opened and closed like a toy bulldozer ripping up a sandbox. Sweet shook his head.

  “I can’t listen to this shit,” he complained. “No fucking pedo offed that cop. Guys like that don’t have the balls.”

  Desperate to sidetrack this conversation, I said, “Speaking of balls . . .” and grabbed his sac. It pulsed in my loose fist.

  He grunted. “Babe, you’ve got a one-track mind.”

  “I’m a simple commodity. I like to be used frequently and frantically.”

  A hand explored the contours of my belly. I opened my legs. Bunched fingers probed, split the wet divide and widened till a moan was forced from my lips.