by Ryan Ramsay
“No,” she drags. “It never has been.”
“I know what you’re doing,” I quickly say, thus disarming her.
She smiles back, holding the smoothie in her hand a little looser.
“And what is that?”
“Trying to get me into one of your programs, perhaps a Say No to Halloween Bonanza.”
She laughs.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good, because I have to be getting back to college after this break.”
“Which goes for how long again?”
“Two weeks.”
“Ah. It’s enough time.”
“Enough time?”
“Yeah, to relax with family and breathe in the old air that is home.”
“That wasn’t sinister at all,” I laugh.
“Come off it.” She pauses. “Are you into this whole Halloween-is-Evil theme?”
What is this?
Did Dad put her up to this?
Or is Mia starting to be less of the dick she was when we were in high school?
Is she being cool?
“No, actually. I think it’s all a farce.”
“A farce?” she asks.
“Mmmhmm, a farce. I actually attended a Halloween party, organized early, of course, back at school before I left.”
“Wow,” she responds to my apparent daring. “How did it feel?”
I can still taste the confetti on my tongue.
“It was amazing. It was the first time I dressed up, too.”
“As what?” she asks interested.
“A bunny.”
“A Playboy bunny? You go, girl!”
“No, like an Easter bunny. You know,” I mimic with my fingers at the top of my head, “like chocolate eggs?”
She sips on her pumpkin juice quietly, her bright eyes never leaving my face.
Mia comes closer to me, as if ignorant of the laughing and sharing of food that was going on directly behind her.
“I think you’ve got your holidays confused, Jesse. If you want a real Halloween party, come to Chester Peak at midnight on Halloween night. And wear the right kind of bunny costume this time. Be a Playboy one. Or something else that’s sexy like that. It’s a party for adults, not kids.”
She whispers the shortcut to the Chester Peak Mansion, which I find quite unnecessary. All kids who’ve grown up here know that house. The windows, all gray and some broken, always seem like pairs of eyes watching all who walk outside, daring them to walk in and shut the doors behind them.
I shudder as Mia walks away into the light, leaving me to my own hurried thoughts and twisted imagination.
Chapter 4
Simon
I open my eyes. The world is still mine. And I am bored.
The numbers line up perfectly in the affidavit that lies still under the palm of my hand. The facts check out.
Standing from where I am, the earth seems curved. The sun, beautiful in all its glory, gets briefly clouded. No worries. It’s still there.
I drum the toes inside my Oxfords and walk back to the desk.
McIntyre, Philips and Philips runs like clockwork at 3 in the afternoon. My law firm, started while sitting in a red motel restaurant booth, sipping on pina coladas with Jerry and Mike, the other partners in the firm, made millions on the fast track.
I did my job and did it right. The money speaks for itself.
“Hey buddy!”
Jerry knocks on the doorframe lazily.
Behind him is Mike.
“Wanna go for happy hour downstairs? Mike’s buying.”
“I bought last time. You’re buying,” Mike protests.
“Fuck no.”
“I’ll buy,” I heavily say.
They turn to me and nod in approval, both in agreement on something for once.
“So,” starts Mike, “why so glum?”
“I’m not glum.”
“Amanda says you’re glum,” says Jerry. “You didn’t eat her baked treats on Friday.”
“Oh, God, she told you that? I swear I missed the note. I didn’t mean to throw the box of homemade brownies into the trash.”
I gaze far out through the blinded windows. Amanda’s steely eyes, aged and close to retirement, look back. I purse my lips.
“Alright, fine. I’m glum.”
“Why are ya glum, ol’ chum?” rhymes Mike, with a swift rub of his left lapel.
“I don’t know man. I just think having everything gets to me. Doesn’t it get to you guys?”
“Even after winning Vin v. Thompson Enterprises? Come on Simon. We won! There’s excitement in victory, at least.”
The room falls silent.
“I just don’t know,” I say. “I need a new mountain to climb.”
“Well,” says Jerry. “A drink ought to make you see some of those mountains. Wanna wake up in Colorado?”
“What’s in Colorado?” asks Mike.
“Something that sure as hell isn’t in Seattle,” says Jerry.
He laughs as Mike throws a paper clip at his head.
An email pops out from the corner of my screen.
For McIntyre Eyes Only.
“Um, why don’t you guy go ahead?” I tell them. “I’ll catch up with you.”
“You’re sure?” Jerry seems concerned.
“Definitely. I just need to check up on this Simpson case one final time. Drafts and all, you know how it goes. Don’t drink all the vodka.”
“Keep on wishing, pal,” says Mike. “Don’t stay too long though. I’m leaving instructions to Amanda. Five minutes tops or she comes in here and gives you hell.”
“She’s got a secret broom she keeps hidden, Simon. She’ll spank you sore,” mimics Jerry.
Mike looks at him, disgusted, then pats him on the back before shoving the door shut.
The email is spam free according to the expensive virus-prevention software I pay for every month.
I click it.
Dear Simon McIntyre,
It is my hope that this reaches you well. It has been two weeks since you last masturbated, and two days since your last blowjob. The redhead you hired did not finish you off. Sad, really.
I push myself off the desk, feeling threatened. I pace around, making sure the door is locked, and walk-run back to the laptop.
We’ve been breached, but how?
So much for the expensive software I pay for.
I compose my breathing and watch the screen as the words continue.
Do not be worried or stressed. This is just an introduction. I am Mia. I work for an organization that watches the 1%. Call yourself lucky that you are part of this.
Okay.
The beating calms.
The day just got interesting.
This sounds like it could be awful, but in a strange way, it relieves me somewhat of the boredom of which I had just been complaining.
The email goes on.
This is a message that will self-delete by the time you finish it, so whatever thoughts you have of tracing it back to me or showing it to the authorities are obsolete. Why would you, anyway? Considering how much fun you’re going to have when we meet.
So it’s a ransom.
But at least it promises a fun time.
This is not a ransom. It’s an invite.
An invite to what, exactly?
You, Sir Simon McIntyre, are hereby invited to the most exhilarating fun of your life, where you, the billionaire of the story, get to hunt a virgin.
The link attached will show you the exact location of the party. Do not worry. We watch and never tell. Your secrets are safe with us, Simon. See you on Halloween night at midnight.
Love,
M.
Now this is what makes Thursday afternoons worth the fucking wait.
Chapter 5
Simon
“So, I just got Cheshire Holdings in,” says Mike, with a full glass of brandy in his hand. He chugs it down. “What have you lazy boys been up to this year?”
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“We know already. Anything else you’ve done that is remotely spectacular, or is that just it?” asks Jerry.
Mike pauses.
“Thought so.”
Jerry sips down his ale and turns to watch the waitresses pass by. Short checked skirts excite him.
“Why do they dress ‘em up like that?” Mike asks. “I know it’s to play with our schoolgirl fantasies, but damn. I mean, you could get your niece working here or something, then what?”
“Wow, Mike, it’s been that bad, huh?” I interject with my beer in hand.
He turns to me and scoffs.
“For your information, I got laid last night.”
“Yeah, sure. A foursome as a matter of fact: Miss Hand Lotion, Miss Computer Screen and Mr. Kleenex thank you very much for a delightful night of going to town on all of them at once.”
Jerry can’t hold in his laughter.
Mike’s chin is a little bit tighter.
“Dude,” I ask. “Why is the Kleenex a Mr.?”
“Yeah, why is that?” asks Mike.
Jerry shrugs.
“I don’t know. Because he wants to be what he wants to be?”
“A dude?” Mike and I ask simultaneously.
“Fuck off, you guys,” laughs Jerry.
We three turn to the stage.
There’s a man, hunched over, playing the Blue Danube happily.
I smile and wonder.
Should I share?
“By my count, boys, I have you beat on the inclusion numbers this quarter,” announces Mike smugly.
Ha. A competition of wills is so much better than this constant and nonsensical bragging about who brought which client onboard.
“What would you boys say to a little game?” I ask, playing with the cap of my bottle between my fingers, wistfully enjoying the strings of the piano one key at a time.
Chapter 6
Jesse
It was the dead of night on April the 1st, five years ago, when I lost the will to fight.
The walls didn’t matter. The padding on my bedroom door could hardly contain it. The soft palms of my overworked hands tried their best.
But the words still came through.
They cut like glass at the unsuspecting soles of tired feet.
That was the day I knew two truths.
To never to make him angry.
And to run.
***
I feel the tremble coursing through my elbows with each twist of the fork. I sit facing the door, quietly contemplating on the events of the night.
It is the 31st of October, the day my parents dread the most.
The Day of the Devil.
Dad passes the mashed potatoes happily to Mom. She places lumps of it on her half-filled dinner plate and nods in my direction. I drop the fork on my napkin, stretch out and grab the bowl, placing some of its contents on my clean, empty plate.
Dad stabs at his steak heartily, smiling at me, chewing loudly.
I gaze at the door and cross my toes, hoping for something, anything.
Ten minutes pass solidly by; there will be no trick-or-treaters joining us this evening. He made sure of that by turning off our front lights and adding a handwritten “No Trick or Treaters” sign next to our regularly-displayed “No Soliciting” sign.
“So, I got asked to a gathering by an old friend,” I start out, after downing a sip of grapefruit juice. They both turn.
“Gathering?” asks Dad.
“Old friend?” asks Mom.
“Yes. Both. It’s about to start, actually. I just wanted you to know.”
The wooden clock that Dad made for himself when he was recruited strikes 8:45. The second hand makes little choking noises as it gracefully moves along. There are no crickets outside.
I’m 22 years old and afraid of my parents. So what? It’s better to let them know than wait for that ominous call or text from a waiting Dad.
I shudder at the thought.
He looks on and chews his food, a little slowly, deliberately.
“Is it a Halloween party?” asks Mom.
“Not really. I would call it a Halloween gathering, of friends,” I add hastily, careful not to raise my voice.
“Then no,” she says definitively.
“Why?”
“You know why— it is the day of the devil. Does that need reminding?”
I pause and eye the very curious slab of steak on my plate.
“No.”
“Good. Now eat your dinner. You should be in bed at the latest by 10.”
I am 22— right?
But this is their roof, and they like to remind me of that fact, while also always guilt-tripping me to come stay under it way more often than I’d like.
Fuck.
I chomp down my supper mildly anger until only bone is left.
Wiping down my lips I say, “May I be excused?” ever so politely.
“Not yet.” Dad places his arms on the table. I gulp. “I want to talk to you about something I found.”
“Okay.”
He pauses and reaches out to his phone. He unlocks the screen and swipes for a few moments. He nods lightly at the findings, and then passes it along to Mom.
A look of absolute disgust fills her flat Cheshire face, before she, solidly, passes the phone to me. It takes me a minute, but I can recognize those threads anywhere.
“You were in my room? You went through my bag? You took photos?”
I am in more confusion than betrayal, I think.
“It is my house, Jesse, and you brought those things home with you. Care to explain?”
The door to the kitchen swings wide open, letting in a cold gush of wind, and my brother Alex along with it. He shuts the panel and clicks it shut, turning to us and beaming heavily.
In his arms is the old basketball we used to play with, muddy and scratched up a ,lot. He looks windswept.
“What’s cooking?” he joyfully asks.
“Oh dear boy, come in already!” says Mom, rising to relieve him of his weight. “You’re here so early! I didn’t think you would come.”
“Does that mean no food?” he pouts.
“Nonsense!” yells Dad. “There will always be food here for my champion. You need to keep your strength up for the coming championships.”
Alex sits heavily by my side. Mom gets into a frenzy serving him this and that as my father is barking orders.
Alex’s hair looks like mud and water mixed and split at his scalp. He smiles at me just when Mom sets his plate right before him.
She sits and leans in, as if watching a puppy do trucks on a pedestal. He chomps at his food like a maniac.
“Whoa, whoa, easy there, son. What’s the rush?”
“I’ve got this… party at Lee’s house… a basketball thing… coach said we should all go and have fun… are there any more yams?”
Damn, the boy can eat. They nod and add more onto the plate, each successively done with by the time a fresh spoon of soup is added. Finally, he lets up and leans back on his chair.
“Mr. Chipper called today while you were in school,” says Dad. “He says your last game was ‘quite the surprise mixed bowl of tactics and talent.’ I think he’s really going for you, Alex.”
“You might be in line for the national recruitment too. Oh,” tears Mom.
Alex beams stupidly.
It’s like I’m not even here anymore.
Jesus.
“Excuse me,” I utter, dragging my chair back and leaving the dining room table.
I clamber up the stairs and shut my door. The bed feels surprisingly cool tonight as I stare out the dark window frame.
That was fucked.
I ask one time if I can go to a party and they say no. He comes in, late, dirty, and doesn’t even ask to go, and what do they do? They worship him. He’s in fucking high school!
Dad went through my luggage. Of all things, he takes fucking photos of the skirts I brought, because they aren’t long enough for his liki
ng. Jesus, I hope they don’t fall over while fawning for Alex. It’s like he’s their only kid, for crying out loud. When do I get my turn?
Maybe… no.
Can I?
Should I?
Okay, what do I have to lose?
I check the door and listen for footsteps.
Silence.
I hope he didn’t find it, hidden inside my tampon pack. I’m sure I would have heard about it— or would have been shown photos of it— if he had. I rummage and stumble through the soft material till I grab onto the smooth black rubbery exterior.
The thrill of getting caught lights my clit up instantly. I lean on the headboard, hike my skirt, pull my panties to the side and pan my legs wide open. I watch the door and click the vibrator on. It sings in redundant chorus. Beautiful.
I close my eyes and place the tip on my clit.
“Oh God.”
My throat dries up. I can feel my nipples tighten, and my body whispers in throbs of bumps all across my skin. It’s been too long, and I am in desperate need.
My fingers skate across my thighs, dipping up and down at my moistening cunt. I kiss a nonexistent man, loving me in the modesty of thin passion. He kisses me back with tongue then rolls down below my waist.
He gently puts his tongue in and licks around the reddening flesh. I shudder. He tends deeper to my affliction, careful to hit the right fucking spots at the right…oh God…fucking…fuck!
“Mmh.”
It feels like heaven, grasping at his hair and pulling slightly. He moans at the pain. So do I.
The men I have met, all of them at campus, are not like him. No. They only wish to be him, the man of my dreams. He’s the guy who knows what my cunt tastes like even before he kneels under me. He’s the guy who runs his mouth all over my skin under a Sahara sun.
Him. The man who cares enough to wash me over and over while the men wait in line for him to finish. He’s the guy that rubs his penis all over me, smearing my virgin cunt with his juices.
He’s the guy… he’s the guy, who puts it in… just the tip. And pushes the thick cock gently… gently… inside me… till it breaks me into a million shattered pieces…