by Sarah Noffke
Lonely people. Distracted ones. Uneducated Middlings. They’re the easiest. And in a high-security locale such as Monte Carlo I needed to be careful how I played my tricks. I’d made a lot of money and I planned to make a whole lot more. My bank account would never be large enough.
I picked a table with only two players playing Texas Hold’em. I didn’t really care for the game. Hell, I hated cards altogether. I wasn’t there to play cards though. I was there to play people. I took an empty seat between the two players, both with their heads down. One was an Asian man about my pop’s age. He was wearing a suit that wasn’t as nice as mine, but close. He had a suave confidence that I would have admired except that it was slightly irritating. I’ve never admired anyone. Instead I’ve observed and copied worthy attributes, adding them to my repertoire. Everything is a competition. Everything. And those with the best skills win every time.
I nodded at the Asian when I took the seat. He didn’t return it. On my other side was a woman. She wore a backless red dress that clashed awfully with my orangey hair. That was fine because I had no interest in her keeping it on. I was there to take the Asian’s money and then the woman’s dress off of her. I love one-stop shopping. I didn’t grace the woman with a look. Actually I pretended as if she didn’t exist and for the time being she didn’t. Business before pleasure.
The dealer, a bit older than me, dealt me in when I laid my chips on the table. I folded the first three hands hardly looking at my cards. The Asian took two hands. The woman who had absolutely no idea what she was doing got a weak win. Even losers win every now and then. She reminded me of the popular girls in school. No talent but a spark in her eye that somehow garnered her people’s favor. She was newly married by the look of her unscuffed wedding band, not yet welded to the engagement ring. I bet they got married there at the Monte Carlo. But I wondered where the groom was. Probably making the money to afford that four-karat atrocity on her finger.
On the fourth hand I played. My cards were shit. I didn’t need good cards to win. Mr. Asian-Businessman had a good hand by the glint in his brown eyes. Plucking a chip off the table, I twirled it through my knuckles. Again and again the chip glided over knuckle, under finger, and then back across. Again and again. He’d caught the hypnotic gesture. Luckily he was the only one. I doubled the bet.
“You going to play?” I said to him, a calculated control behind the words.
His eyes were still on the chip gliding nimbly over my fingers. He nodded, not breaking out of his trance. “I’m going to play,” he said in a robotic voice, pushing his chips forward.
The river came and I didn’t have a hand. He did though. I was certain of it. I doubled the bet again. He was still fixed on the chip making a rapid motion through my fingers. He eyed it and then me.
“Are you going to fold?” I asked, as more of a statement. An alluring inflection on the last word. A commanding one. This was how my hypnosis worked. Rhythmic actions and forceful words. Combined, they got me anything I wanted.
The Asian nodded again, pushing his cards forward. I dropped the chip and as I pulled in my bounty a small clarity returned to his eyes. He seemed to want to grab for the cards he threw away but refrained. I knew I’d have to play this guy fast. I used the same hypnosis on him on the next hand. Mrs. Legs beside me folded immediately. I put in half my chips before the river. Ten grand. The man had that and more but I didn’t want it all. No need to be greedy. And I couldn’t have him go all in with the shit hand I had. Never play the cards.
To my relief he called after the river. Now the game would begin. I threw in another ten grand. The man’s confidence had considerably waned. From the corner of my vision I knew his eyes were back on me. Again the chip began its dance through my fingers. I flicked a sudden menacing gaze at him. He almost flinched. I had him right where I wanted him.
“Fold,” I mouthed silently. Immediately he pushed his cards forward. He stood from the table, taking his remaining chips with him. I didn’t have to hypnotize him to win those hands, but it was a choice. I could have used my mind control. And although mind control was easier to hide, it was also more taxing and I’d planned to save it for the lovely lady to my right.
For the first time since I sat down, I turned and looked directly at the woman. She was in her mid-twenties. Her brown hair cascaded over her slender shoulders.
“How about I buy you a drink?” I said, angling to my chip stack. “To celebrate my wins.”
She regarded the chips and then me, a look of bewilderment on her face, like she wasn’t sure what had transpired over the last few minutes. Finally she shook her head. “I’m married.”
“So that means you don’t drink?” I said with a condescending tone. “You must be dreadfully dehydrated.”
A small smile quirked up the corner of her red lips. “You’re British,” she said.
I hadn’t even turned on the mind control yet. Being rich with an irresistible accent made this whole game much easier.
“I like your accent,” she said.
Yes, they all do. Too many times I’ve heard, “Say my name, Ren. I want to hear it with your accent.”
I always obliged. Whatever it took to have them screaming my name later.
“And you’re American,” I said to the woman. “The east coast, right?”
She nodded.
“Well, I don’t like your accent. It’s detestable,” I said.
A look of sudden offense jumped to her face, wrinkling her forehead.
Oh, now this was going to be real fun. Where’s the challenge if I didn’t first turn her off.
“So that drink? How about it?” I said.
“Are you out of your mind?” the woman said, pushing back from the table and giving me a snobbish glare. “And don’t you remember that I told you I was married?”
“I briefly recall you mentioning it. Never mind then. It was lovely to meet you Mrs.…?” I extended a well-manicured hand to her.
She eyed it and then me. “Mrs. Davenport,” she said, taking my hand and wringing it softly. Her shake was loose, too flimsy. And now I knew where Mr. Davenport was. He did get pulled away for an emergency meeting. On their honeymoon. And Mrs. Davenport was so pissed she was throwing away his hard-earned cash with lousy hands and no skill. Now that my curiosity was satisfied it was time to close this deal. I could control people using hypnosis, influence them by suggestive speech, or I could just get inside their head and place a well-crafted thought and image. For this newlywed, I was going to employ all three tactics, just for good measure.
Mrs. Davenport stood from the table. “Well, I must be going,” she said, her nose high in the air.
It was at precisely that moment that I pushed the idea of an obsessive attraction for me into her simple mind. The working of her mind, I could sense, was less complex than that of a chimpanzee. She had turned away from me and then turned back suddenly, completely struck by the thought I placed in her head. Her eyes roamed over my face and hair and then unabashedly she let them trail over my shoulders and down my suit. I pushed my chair out, giving her a full view of me, and regarded her with a hypnotic grin.
“I bet you really don’t want that drink now,” I said.
She shook her head and bit down on her lip. Mind control works with a well-crafted idea, but it’s strengthened with images. I was inserting them into her mind one after the other. A red flush rose up her neck and around her chest. She fanned her face and blew out long breaths.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Davenport?” I said, a sly smile on my face. “You look flustered.”
She stepped back toward the table. Toward me. “I just had the strangest experience.”
When I stood I was only inches from her. Her chest rose and fell suddenly like she was out of breath.
“Maybe you should lie down,” I said and followed the statement up with some pretty provocative images I sunk into her head.
“Yes,” she said half in a daze, her attention obviously distracted by the v
isuals flashing across her cortex.
“I would be more than happy to escort you to your room,” I said, running my finger along her porcelain jawline. She shuddered under my touch.
“Your room. Take me to your room,” she said, looking like a fruit ripe and ready to be picked.
“Of course,” I said, offering her my arm. She took it without hesitation and we left the casino, my pockets full and my mind steadily supplying her with thoughts which ensured I’d have a satisfying night.
Chapter Nine
October 1995
It was an oppressive autumn evening when I got the steady knock at my door. Cold winds were howling against the windows and I was curled up reading, as I did most nights. I’d been in London for nine years and I knew who the knock belonged to. I cringed visualizing the blonde bimbo who was responsible for the racket. The problem with bringing ladies back to my flat was they then knew where I lived. Often they would pop over whenever they wanted what only I could give them: the best lay of their life. My telepathy linked to my touch ensured I knew what every woman wanted. And as a kind and charitable man, I was willing to give it to them.
I could have gone to these women’s places but it would have been covered in their germs and their inadequate furnishings. My place was immaculate. The Russian cleaning lady I hired made sure of it every day. She thought that cleaning so regularly was a bit unnecessary when I contracted her, since I was a fairly neat individual who lived alone. However, the woman worked for money and I paid her well. Anyone who laundered my knickers should be paid better than most.
Cindy knocked for a full minute before I couldn’t take it anymore. The last time I let her go a whole five minutes. And the only reason I opened the door on any occasion was because Cindy didn’t like to talk, unlike most girls. She liked to take off her clothes. And after she peeled off everything but her stilettos I didn’t really care if she did talk. I wouldn’t be listening.
I pulled the door back and regarded her with a vicious stare. “What?” I growled.
Cindy trotted past me and into my flat, smacking her gum louder than a jackhammer. She scanned the living room like she was certain she’d find someone. Probably another girl. “Good to see you too,” she said, whipping around to face me.
“I’m sure it is,” I said, shutting the door, irritation in my every movement.
She was wearing a miniskirt, knee-high boots, and a blouse that showed the perfect amount of her wide cleavage.
“I got tickets to see Dahlia at Royal Albert Hall tonight and guess what lucky man gets to escort me?” she said.
“If you say me, then we need to discuss your use of the word ‘lucky,’” I said, strolling past her.
Her pink lips shot straight into a pout. Oh, she had the most practiced pout. “But Daddy got me these tickets and I’m dying to see Dahlia in concert.”
“Look, I don’t really do pop music,” I said. “And I definitely don’t do huge venues with screaming teenagers.”
“Oh, but we have a private box. No lines. No other people. And total VIP access. And just think of all the things we can do in that balcony box,” Cindy said, walking up to me and swiping a hand down my shirt. “Please,” she begged. “Be my date. Anyone would die to go to this concert and I picked you. Tickets to see Dahlia are expensive and go fast.”
There were few female vocalists who could get away with only having one name and being iconic. Cher. Madonna. And Dahlia. Even as removed from pop culture as I made myself I was still aware of her superstar status. But what convinced me to accompany Cindy to the concert wasn’t a chance to see a famous vocalist. It’s where Cindy rested her hand while I considered the proposition.
***
Once in the VIP booth I was grateful for the seats. They were away from the crowd of sweaty teenagers down below. Cindy was just trailing her hand up my leg when Dahlia took the stage. I’d seen her face on billboards but it didn’t do her justice. It wasn’t the sequined dress that caught my attention. I didn’t think she was beautiful because of the ridiculous amount of makeup on her face. She was beautiful despite it. Dahlia was my age, mid-twenties, but she had a confidence that people as young as us never have. I only knew of one person with that kind of poise and I had the honor of waking up to stare at his reflection every morning.
The stadium of fans rose to their feet and cheered, a deafening roar of voices. Cindy’s hand was to my mid-thigh and then Dahlia opened her mouth and belted out something that was instantly captivating. I didn’t listen to music and I had never heard one of her songs, but suddenly I was assaulted by inspiration. Words and vocals and instrumental music weaved together creating perfect symmetry. I had one immediate thought. She’s a Dream Traveler.
I rose to my feet, blocking Cindy’s attempt to get closer to me. I found myself at the edge of the balcony. The entire concert I spent hanging over the railing trying to get ever closer to the magnificent angel hovering on the stage in front of me. I had a clear mission now. I was going to meet Dahlia and break this bubble of sorcery. No one was as perfect as she seemed. No one should have this effect on me. What she was doing to my heart made me feel like I actually had one. That was unacceptable. She was a vixen. Medusa. A siren. I’d prove it and then I’d add her to my list before leaving her satisfied and exhausted, and all before morning.
“Does VIP come with backstage access?” I asked, turning my attention to Cindy. She was still sitting. Smacking her gum. Looking bored.
“Of course it does, but I was hoping that we could—”
I snatched her hand and pulled her toward the exit. “The concert is almost over,” I said, half dragging Cindy behind me. “Let’s get down there.”
Of course I could have gotten backstage without a problem but any time I could save the strain on my mental prowess was good. Those powers aren’t cheap and I thought I’d need the stamina for getting into Dahlia’s head.
The bouncer’s eyes lingered a touch too long on Cindy’s rack when we flashed our “all access” badges. Maybe he’d take the bleached blonde off my hands. I made Cindy go grab us drinks while I stationed myself by the back entrance. The bartender chatted Cindy up while I waited.
Like all good divas, Dahlia made us wait. It was worth it. When she strolled through the door I realized what had kept her. She’d removed the show makeup and as I suspected she was more beautiful without anything to obstruct her natural beauty. Her topaz blue eyes contrasted with her dark brown hair, which flowed over her shoulders and hung in loose curls at her chest. She wore a simple black cocktail dress and a row of diamonds hung around her neck. When our eyes met she paused. As if connected by a cord we both seemed tethered in our stare. Politely she pushed her shiny hair behind her ear and refocused her attention on the snotty teenager asking for a dozen autographs.
Cindy had just returned with the drinks and pushed a dry martini into my hands. I didn’t drink because it obstructed my powers, but I never turned down an alcoholic beverage because it led to questions.
“I can’t believe we’re about to meet Dahlia!” Cindy said too loudly. It caught an ounce of Dahlia’s poised attention on the other side of the room. Her eyes roamed over me and then to Cindy at my side. In an instant she’d studied us. Gathered information. I knew it. And I just knew she was a Dream Traveler. We’re a rare race and I had only met a handful since my time in London.
I turned to Cindy. “Go on then,” I said.
She blinked at me, confused. “What?”
“To the loo,” I said, waving her away.
“What? I don’t need to go.”
“But you just said you couldn’t hold it any longer,” I said, pushing the firm intention behind the words.
On cue she crossed her legs like trying desperately to hold the pee in. “Oh, that’s right. I’ll be right back.”
Cindy had been gone for less than a minute when Dahlia excused herself from the fans and strolled in my direction.
All right, witch, let’s figure out what kind of vood
oo you use, I thought to myself.
Dahlia was used to people falling all over her and lavishing her with praise. That wasn’t what she was going to get from me.
She stopped a few feet from me, a strange intrigue in her eyes. “Hello,” she said in a voice that made me pause. I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how for a few seconds.
“Hi,” I finally managed in a voice that wasn’t mine. It was too low. I extended my hand to her. “My name is Ren Lewis,” I said.
“A pleasure meeting you, Ren,” she said.
I wrung her hand and then the most startling thing occurred: I didn’t hear her thoughts. Nothing. Not a single, tiny thought.
“Are you thinking anything right now?” I said, realizing it was a ridiculous question, but I had to ask it. Humans are always thinking, even the stupid ones. Their thoughts are just dumb.
She raised her perfectly manicured eyebrow at me. “What do you mean?”
I slipped my hand from hers. “Nothing,” I said, trying to cover my suddenly flustered state. Never, not once, had I met someone whose thoughts I couldn’t read when I touched them. And I touched a lot of people, mostly women.
I had thought I’d simply shake her hand and figure out her secrets. I reasoned it was a mistake. I’d just have to find a way to touch her again. That shouldn’t be too hard, I thought, smiling inside.