LGBTQ+, gay men, best friends, first time, unintentional prostitution, hot dogging
Girth (sorry, I meant “length” ;D)
About a 30-minute read. Just a sip of sensuality!
Setup
Avery has been on furlough for months after starting a new job with the federal government in Atlanta. He’s too stubborn to take handouts from his parents. Tonie, his well-off, insanely hot, cam boy best friend has tried to help out as well, even encouraging Avery to become a sex worker himself. Avery compromises. He tells Tonie that he’ll let him find something temporary that he can leave as soon as the government opens back up, and it absolutely cannot be cam work. Tonie takes the deal.
And Tonie will deliver.
Story Cover
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On Wednesday evening, Nick, Qatar, and I arrive at his school. The Monday meeting was used to make students aware of their classmate’s passing, allow them to ask questions, give them a forum to verbalize their feelings, and invite them all to the memorial service that had been scheduled for this evening. Kantrelle’s parents hadn’t been up to attending in person, the pain being too fresh. If people could agree to not dress like they were going to a funeral, the ailing mother and father agreed be virtually present. Nick and I wore sweaters and pale dress pants. Most of the other attendees looked like they were attending job interviews or wanted to look good for a cookout hosted by a new acquaintance.
Unsurprisingly, Qatar is the only one of about a hundred attendees so far who was dressed in her Clausian mourning attire. A long, dark red gown drapes to within a half inch of the floor, the fabric heavy and soft. Her sleeves bell open dramatically beneath her palms. She tops herself off with a massive hat adorned with fake poinsettias housed in rings of vinyl Christmas ferns. The most exasperating point being the crimson, lace veil unfurled in front of her face.
We keep a few paces behind her, though I think most people realize that she’s married to me and gave birth to Nick. People refuse eye contact, find a reason to move away from her, or even abruptly turn their back and shake their heads as Qatar nears them. As she passes, I see the looks of disdain, shock, and confusion as their eyes settle on me. I watch the tips of our canvas sneakers as I lead Nick over to the office off to the left, allowing Qatar to continue on her path through the center of the lobby.
“You okay?” Nick asks.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
He just nods and drops his eyes to the floor before responding.
“I don’t really know. I’m…it’s not like I knew her but…I don’t know. It still doesn’t feel…right. I’m not as bad as her parents or her friends, I guess. But I’m not…okay, really.”
“I think that’s okay,” I smile to a woman passing by with a smaller child, maybe a first grader. “Normal.”
“Normal?” Nick looks over at me with one eyebrow raised. I only seem to remember how tall he is when we stand side-by-side like this. Another growth spurt and he’ll have to start looking down at me.
“Well…” I look away. “Let me know if I can do anything.” I feel, more than see, him turn to look ahead again, into the swirling pool of uncomfortable parents, administrators, teachers, and children.
He nods before walking away toward a cluster of students about his age. Dire is among them, so they must be his classmates. Her green eyes are glistening with tears and she turns in my direction with a sorrowful smile. I respond by copying her face and nodding to her. She wraps her spindly arms around Nick’s waist as he approaches, burying her face into his stomach. Her bronze hair is covered with a pale blue scarf, but ringlets peak out on her forehead and the nape of her neck. Nick murmurs into the scarf, rubbing the back of her long, black, wool coat soothingly.
The motion makes me sad. He’s far too young for such a mature situation. Being in a position to make major strides, or major failures, in this case in unsettling. Hopeful and terrifying at the same time. None of these people, the nearly infantile to the nearly adult and beyond, deserve this. Guilt pulses within me. How foolish was it to get excited about solving these murders like they’re a puzzle. Recreational and calmly challenging. As if the stakes aren’t desperately high.
Press my back up against the wall beside the administrative office door helps steady the quaking as it begins to spread across my body. In essence, I am responsible for all the lives in this building now. All the lives in this city. Every beating heart.
That clenching of my chest begins. It feels like the ground is moving beneath me. I’m sweating.
The next body—or whether there will be one—is in my hands.
Spreading my legs and splaying my fingers across the tile behind me, I focus on slowing my breathing and reassuring myself that I’m not about to slide from the floor and into the depths of Hell. Chief Chitara promoted me for a reason. I can do this. I have to. I will.
When I open my eyes again, Qatar’s face makes me flinch. I’d give anything to be anywhere but in front of her. Hell sounds just fine.
“Faking another panic attack? All by yourself? Who’ll gasp and applaud for you, Allon?” She grabs my arm and links it with hers, nearly literally dragging me into the center of the small lobby. I hate that I cling to her, still feeling like my next footfall won’t land on solid ground.
“This is a time for this safe, quiet community to come together and support one another.” She stops and turns to face me.
“The community wants to hear from the people who are supposed to keep us safe. Even when they’re failing”
No.
“Everyone!” Qatar trills cheerfully, drawing the attention of the people nearby. Gradually, citizens come toward us from the auditorium and the gym where they’ve been milling about.
“Qatar, please—”
“My husband,” she says over my whisper, “Detective Allon Lee-Page, has graciously offered to answer questions about the apparent serial killer we have living among us.” She turns on her smile, which is more of a snarl, though maybe only I can tell. She bows, handing me the floor. “Snowflake?”
All these worried, confused eyes look at me and my body is stiff and cold, like a shell I just entered instead of the flesh I was born with.
My knees nearly give out when I hear the Chief’s voice from behind me.
“Qatar, you’ve been an officer’s spouse for more than a decade.”
She steps up beside me like nothing is wrong with her. Standing to her full six feet in a solid black suit, she looks to be in top form. As if she wasn’t in the hospital at all today.
“You forget that we don’t discuss ongoing investigations?”
The air between the two women is stifling. Thecrowd starts to back away, like they’re giving two martial artists fighting space. The seconds drag on, but neither Qatar nor Chief Chitara’s feet move an inch, though the pairs of shoes surrounding us all trickle out of my field of vision.
Finally, blessedly, Qatar’s blood-red pointed boot shifts one inch toward the gym.
“I have not forgotten, Yari.” she says, in a voice like lava. I sense the chief bristling at the use of her first name by someone she hates as much as I do. Qatar takes a few steps toward the chief, stopping in front of me just long enough to huff, before moving on.
I exhale.
“Jesus, Allon. You need to ditch that scrotum shredder. Breaking her neck almost seems like a fair trade for my job and freedom.”
“Thank you.” I might wet myself with relief.
She sucks her teeth and flicks her hand dismissively.
I begin to ask a question with “The Hub–” but she widens her eyes at me. So, I start again, more quietly. “How are you here?”
She motions for me to follow her and uses her badge to override the administrative office locks. Once the door is shut behind me, she lifts a pant leg. Beneath it, she has turned her calf so that I can see a black strip, like a band of electrical tape, along the back of it. It reaches higher up her thigh and on down into her shoes.
“An exo-skeleton. It helps refine and intensify my brain’s commands so that they actually reach the appropriate muscles.”
“So…that’s it? You’ll be okay now?”
She lets her pant leg fall in time with her face.
“Not exactly. This is a prototype I had to threaten the Hub director to get access to, let alone take out of the building. And it’s only good for about five hours.” Hands on her hips, she starts to pace in front of the long, white front desk. “It’s not a long-term solution, no.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Allon, don’t do that.” Her voice doesn’t rise, but it’s not warm either, and she continues to pace. “None of this is your fault. Or mine. It’s just life. It’s just…shit.”
She shrugs and then stops mid-step, one foot hovering a couple of inches above the ground for a second before she lowers it. She looks into my eyes for a split second, startling me. I look over at the holographic brown bear, the school mascot, stalking across the empty stone beside us.
“I know you’ve accessed the files.”
I nod. The silence builds alongside my discomfort. I swallow my knee-jerk apology and wait for her to do or say something. Finally, she brushes her thumb against her lips before asking, “And…do you have…questions?”
“Okay. Many.” I can hear the puzzlement in my own voice.
“Fuck yeah, you do,” she mumbles at the ground, still rubbing her lip. “There’s so much. And no time. The point is, I…was in love with one of them. She committed suicide.” The chief pauses, staring unblinkingly at the floor for a few seconds, then continues. “The point is…” she repeats, like a nervous tick. If Yari Chitara is anxious, things are much worse than I even imagined.
“You think this is real?” I ask. She immediately stands up to her full height, about to defend herself. I turn my palms up between us. Trying not to judge or scare her, just to show my concern and desire for understanding. She relaxes slightly.
“I don’t think so. I have no way to prove what we meant to each other, the things she did, the things their kids could do. It was…nothing I could tell anyone else about.”
Her pacing resumes and I become more perplexed. As direct as she has been in the nearly two decades that I’ve known her, this behavior is like a completely different person. Softspoken, contemplative, restrained, subdued. But that points to everything she said she experienced being the truth. I’d probably behave similarly if I had to tell someone something so outlandish. It has to be true. But how? Magic doesn’t exist. Humans don’t have special powers. Has the city’s police force really been led by a mad woman all this time?
“I don’t think there’s any way around it,” she comes to a halt again in front of me. “You’ll just have to see for yourself. Just like I did during the investigation, I can tell you everything I experienced. But, just like the other officers who heard what I knew, you’ll probably think I’ve been hallucinating or misunderstood something.” Her face goes hard, just like during the interrogation.
“Okay. Where can I see? Who can I talk to?”
“One of them. All the Wellingtons are Arrids. But none of them want to speak to me, of course.”
“Wellingtons? Like the orphanage? Solo Wellington is one of these…beings?”
“Yes.”
Wellington House is an orphanage near Ali International. The only one within about 200 miles, the number of orphaned children being so low there is no need for masses of facilities in a single city. The same way we only need a handful of officers to manage crime in Louisville. Now I remember the moment I stepped into her hospital room last week and she’d been watching Solo, the eldest, and his siblings receive a key to the city from the mayor. That look on her face had been because she’d known what they were. But why would her knowing mean she couldn’t talk to them, or that they would refuse to talk to her? If they weren’t human, and she knew about them, they could’ve used their powers to keep her from talking. But they hadn’t. Or had they?
“Allon. Come back to Earth, please.”
“Sorry, I—why did you say they won’t speak to you? Why ‘of course?’”
Her eyes flit around the room and she starts pacing again. It probably just feels good for her to tell her body to do something and have it obey.
“Solo’s one of four kids. Solo, Duo, Trio, and Hark. I met their mother and fell in love with her and we had a relationship.”
“Okay,” I say when she’s quiet for a few seconds. Her mouth tightens and she huffs, like I’m forcing her to speak against her will.
“She was…married. It was an affair.”
“An—you—” A monsoon of clarifying questions swells up within me, but I can’t get a single clear one out. Chief Chitara is one of the most honorable, responsible, upstanding people I’ve ever met in my life. The idea of her being romantically involved with someone who’s married has me reeling as much as her revelation about these “Arrids” she’s seen.
“Don’t focus on that,” she says, keeping her eyes on her feet. I close my gaping mouth, trying to fulfill her wish. But this is a bit much to take in all at once during a memorial for a dead teenager. My boss, my friend, is a cheater.
My mother’s face and my father’s wounds fill my head.
No. It’s not the same.
“We need to go. It’ll be starting soon.” She walks past me, calling her badge up on her wrist unit. I follow her out the door. Alejandro and Ngoc are just coming through the front doors, Alejandro rubbing his hand across Ngoc’s back. Her eyes are pink and she looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. Alejandro’s expression is shockingly compassionate as he pulls Ngoc closer to him. We nod to them as we pass.
“Allon, I am going to be in surgeries for the foreseeable future, so you really have to dive into taking the lead on this one. Even with the media.” She waves to people who greet her as she makes her way into the auditorium. “I’ll hang back here. Batterie’s almost done. It’s a safe bet to consider yourself on your own from here on out.”
My boss may have broken up a marriage, magic is real, I am hunting a supernatural killer, and I’m on my own. Fuck me.
Chief Chitara takes a quick step to the right as she enters the auditorium door and leans back against the polished, white wall, eyes roving over everyone who is filing into the room.
“Get a meeting with Kantrelle’s guidance counselor,” she says in a low voice.
“Flora Manning,” I pull from my memory of the case.
“Yes. Go sit.”
I comply, headed to a seat just a few feet in front of the chief. As far away from Nick as I can get. If Qatar comes to find me, she won’t bother him. He’s on a rear row across the room, one arm around a sobbing Dire, her face buried into his chest. His eyes are wet and the site pulverizes my insides, so I look away.
There is a holographic display hovering above the right end of the stage, Kantrelle’s miserable-looking parents framed within it. They nod to sympathizers who greet them before being seated, get up as they need to grab a tissue or something to drink, and console one another through fits of despair. Solid, supportive. How could Yari interfere with something like that? Then again, if my own parent could, why couldn’t someone who didn’t have any children? No wonder the Wellingtons don’t speak to her. It’s probably just her luck they haven’t had her assassinated. Or done it themselves.
I turn to the door, throwing my left forearm over the top of the seat next to me, hoping to wave Qatar over to me before she gets too close to the display and the parents see her ridiculous attire. But a group of people entering the auditorium in a cluster gives me pause. There are six of them total and there is no question that they’re related. Noticing Solo among them, I realize they are the Wellingtons.
I don’t know the man at the front of the group, but he could be a model with a tall, slender, powerful physique, long sable locs reaching down to his ankles. He’s dressed in a snug, navy blue sweater and jeans. He—along with the other five people—has locked eyes with me. There is a small, stunning woman with short, electric blue locs curled all over her head in a way that reminds me of Medusa. Another woman is taller, but with a short, red mohawk, the shaved parts of her head an inky black. The other men look more like trees than humans, with massive chests and arms straining the fabric of their matching scarlet button-up shirts. My heartbeat picks up. The look on their faces is not one of familiarity or even curiosity. It’s something more desperate, almost predatory.
The long-haired lead man puts his arm out as Solo looks like he’s about to come my way. He’s too far away from me to hear his words, but whatever he says makes Solo step back and the rest of his family visibly relax.
I feel a hand press my forearm hard into the back of the seat. I look up to see Chief Chitara smile wearily.
“That’s Duo, with the longest hair. You know Solo, and the woman with the blue hair is Trio. The redhead is Hark. The big guys are Daddy Wellington, Pace, and Uncle Lux…Vanity’s brother.”
The new names and faces are committed to memory as she speaks. The pain in her voice labels Vanity as the deceased mother.
Turning back to the group, Duo is starting at me with a pair of unsettling silver eyes. Not the pale gray that I’ve seen in other people’s irises, but a hard, glistening metallic hue more like polished platinum. I could swear they’re glowing from across the room. Too bright to be so far away.
“Allon, look at me.”
I do.
“I chose you for a reason. Not Oleg. Not Alejandro. You. You can do this.”
With that, she turns and walks out into the lobby. The entire Wellington group’s eyes follow her. There is disdain thicker than the tension between Yari and Qatar directed at the chief’s back.
Duo snaps his head back to me as if I called out to him, but finally directs his group to continue on down the center aisle. I find myself standing, unable to take my eyes off of his, and he doesn’t break eye contact with me. He uses Solo’s shoulder to guide him so he can keep staring at me without running into anything. Finally, he reaches a row at the front of the auditorium. Looking into his eyes is not uncomfortable or awkward, even though I don’t know him. I have an alarmingly strong urge to walk over to him. Why? To say what? To do what?
When he sits and turns to the stage, the connection is severed, an odd spell broken. I slowly descend back into my chair.
“Jesus help me, I’m in the ladies room for two minutes and you…why did you sit all the way back here?” Qatar’s voice makes me cringe. She’s looking around for a better pair of seats, or maybe for Nick.
“I saved one for you,” I say, glancing at the back of the Duo’s head, the profile of his face as he turns to talk to Solo.
“What a dumb thing to say. I can see that. Santa bring you a brain,” Qatar waits for me to step out of the row and allow her inside. The seats are filling in quickly. I don’t dare glance at Nick lest she follow my gaze and spot him.
The lights dim and the principal calls for everyone’s silence and attention. She says some consoling words to the parents and thanks everyone for their attendance, noting how much of a rare tragedy it is to have someone so young taken in such a heinous manner. To my surprise, the next person she calls up is a Duo.
He ascends the short stairs to one side of the stage and stands at the podium in place of the principle. He looks ill standing up there, nodding his acknowledgement to the screen showing the sorrowful faces of Kantrelle’s parents before he begins to speak.
“I’m not sure how long I can stand to be up here. But I just want to say that tutoring Kantrelle really was a joy. She’s…she was a bright girl. She struggled with personal living skills a little bit.”
Kantrelle’s parents and many of the staff smile or laugh softly.
“And we worked hard on that, but I think…I think that, for her, it was difficult because she had a mind that was always going about big picture concepts so much that she couldn’t focus on the little things very well. She could dream about owning her own house, but couldn’t pay her bills on time in a simulation. That sort of thing.” He smiles, but his head drops. He takes a step back from the podium, still clinging to it with his hands so hard even I can see the veins on the backs of his palms. My throat constricts.
He composes himself and stands up straight again, waving off the offer of a tissue from the principal.
“I want justice—vengeance for Kantrelle. No one had a right to do this. No one.” Duo turns to Kantrelle’s parents. “Kandice and Trellion, I am so very sorry. If there is anything at all that you need from me, please just call me.”
Her father, the one who attacked me the night she died, opens his mouth to reply, but just swallows and nods instead. Duo does the same and then descends the stairs and collapses into a chair next to Solo who puts an arm around him. When Solo looks back at me, I avert my gaze.
“So sad,” Qatar murmurs.
What is it with me and this family? Do they know me from somewhere? I don’t know that I’ve ever interacted with any of them until now, but they look like they want to pounce on me for some reason.
The rest of the service consists of various people who knew Kantrelle getting up and talking about their relationship with her, their fond memories, and how brokenhearted they were to hear of her murder. I spot Alejandro and Ngoc just a couple of rows in front of us and slightly to the left. Alejandro looks intensely uncomfortable while Ngoc shudders in his arms. Kantrelle’s parents were able to tough it out, but the strain this event puts on them is evident in their faces. Finally, after about an hour and a half, the principle calls the memorial service to a close by announcing that one of the trees in the park across the street would be dedicated to Kantrelle and cared for by her classmates until they graduate at the end of the year. As soon as she’s done speaking, every Wellington’s gaze locks on me as they rise to leave.
I get messages from Nick and the chief back-to-back at that moment.
Nick is going to go to Dire’s house instead of coming home with us.
The chief thinks the killer might see this memorial as the next best thing to the scene of the crime. Here, they’ll get a full dose of the impact the murder had. The power they have over the state of the city.
Whoever killed Kantrelle is in that auditorium with you right now.
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The next scene in the public sample of Manifest Agony is here. Happy reading and don’t forget to order the full e-book on Amazon or TeneshaLCurtis.com.
Manifest Agony: 1.1
THERE IS a gas bubble attempting to escape my rectum. But the woman I am married to, Qatar, has stiffened each of the other two times I’ve excused myself already to “use the restroom.” In reality, I simply walked to the entrance hall of St. Nicholas of Louisville Clausian Collective and watched parents escorting children to the toilets as I farted freely in a corner, wondering what part of breakfast caused this mild gastrointestinal distress. I am certain there will be further interpersonal repercussions at our house, and on the way to it, if I get up a third time.
The idea of relaxing my sphincter and finessing the exhaust out amongst our neighbors has crossed my mind more than once. I can imagine the raised eyebrows and grimacing faces. Some coughing may ensue, maybe even a gag, and I would have no choice but to follow suit and feign disgust so Qatar wouldn’t be singled out by her congregation, giving birth to further marital tension. I take a deep breath, focusing on keeping the tepid fumes inside of me.
My fourteen-year-old son, Nick, is succeeding in his attempts to mask his intermittent lack of consciousness. He leans his head of loose, brown curls into my shoulder, his pooling saliva leaking through my suit jacket and dress shirt. His ear is pressed so hard against me that his head still appears to be held upright in rapt attention. My chest is just thick enough that Qatar can’t see his slumbering face. I will only nudge him if he starts snoring.
The woman at the front of the sanctuary is telling us how the power of Santa Claus himself brought her through her recent brush with death during a car accident. When she finally finishes, the two hundred or so members in attendance speak a soft, droning “noel,” in acknowledgement of her blessing and wait patiently for someone else to move to the front of the room to testify.
My phone’s ringtone trills into the silence.
I tense, hold my breath.
Qatar turns her head in my direction by an inch.
“Allon Lee-Page,” she growls, the movement of her lips almost imperceptible. She presses her thigh more tightly against mine, the red fabric of her ankle-length dress hugging my gray pants. She wears no makeup, so the flare of crimson in her russet cheeks is easily visible as her fists clench and her nostrils flare. Nick is undisturbed as I remain as still as possible while sliding my sleeve up to show the band of my phone. I see a missed call and a text, both from one of my colleagues. The text is a skull and crossbones accompanied by “SJC now.”
First Shively, then St. Matthews, now Old Louisville. That’s three bodies in three weeks. For a city with a grand total of 4 murders in the past five years, this was a terrifying turn of events. After the second murder last week, I am struggling to find a pattern in the locations of the killings, or the victims, but there is no obvious one at hand. Maybe if I were heading the case up instead of the chief covering it on her own, I’d have more, maybe even stronger, evidence to guide me. But, for now, St. James Court appears to be just another random location for another installment of homicide. The chief is keeping as much of this case to herself as she can, even though I’m technically the force’s only detective. My natural curiosity makes me want the challenge the case represents. A change from hunting down missing pets and “investigating” the occasional case of park bench vandalism.
I can sense eyes on the back of my head. We always sit in the front row, per Qatar’s insistence.
“Work,” I whisper into her flushed ear before nudging Nick, standing up, and grabbing him by his bicep so that he will lead me out. “We’ll get a driverless, I’ll drop him off at home.”
I know she wants him to stay at the feast, but I have barely spent any time with him since the murders began and I think this is the perfect opportunity to steal a ten-minute car ride. Nick and I nearly sprint away from the mass of worshippers—I finally release the mushroom cloud I’ve been holding in, all the way down the long aisle between the rows of pews— bursting through the collective’s front doors as if they’ve been holding us under water. We both sigh deeply as we exit. I request a car with my phone and slip my wedding ring off and into my jacket pocket.
Nick stretches, yawns, and blinks himself more fully awake as I notice a vehicle with scarlet, diamond-shaped lights on its hood and trunk approaching us, homing in on the phone that ordered it. We jog down the front stairs and enter the car through a rear door.
“Fuck Santa, you’re my savior!” Nick says, yawning again. “You need to tell Qatar you’re allergic to dairy, Dad. Seriously. I could hear your bubble guts in my dreams.”
“It’s fine. I’ll manage.” My stomach gurgles loudly and I see Nick shake his head like a disappointed teacher. I’ve never told him that I have disclosed my lactose intolerance to his mother at least five times over the course of our marriage. Even after I realized that telling her anything that made me vulnerable was arming the enemy.
“Suit yourself. As long as I don’t have to smell the consequences.” We laugh at that. Laughing with my son is something I want more of in my life. I have been working hard and saving up to support us both when I leave Qatar. I haven’t told Nick my plans to divorce her, but I get the feeling he suspects my intentions. Once I have $250,000 in my private savings account, I’ll be ready. She can have the house and everything that’s in the joint accounts and I’ll still be able to live comfortably with Nick. This last paycheck put me at just over $240,000. I’ve already got the divorce forms completed and saved. When I’ve found a place for us to live, I’ll submit the forms to the county, email copies to Qatar, and finally be done with her. Now, I can start looking for a condo for Nick and me. Though I only have a few years left to be his father full-time, I will do what I can to make them the best we have ever shared.
“It’s time to go clothes shopping,” I point at the few inches of his lower abdomen showing from his ill-fitting dress shirt. He smiles and tries to pull the hem down.
“Yeah, she’s asked about that. I told her you said you’d take me,” he responds, looking through the glass door of the small refrigerator tucked under the seat on my side of the car. I scoot over slightly so he can get a better view of what’s available.
“Right. I’ll do that. This case has just been…”
“Bewitching you?” His brown eyes fill with a cheeky light. I grin.
“That’s accurate.”
“You always get this way—pass me a strawberry water—when things don’t make sense. You get…fixated.”
“That’s accurate,” I say again, bending down to open the refrigerator door and retrieve his drink. I grab a can of hemp milk for myself. Nick has downed the bottle and motioned for me to give him another within thirty seconds. The way he takes in nutrients, it’s no wonder he seems to be having a growth spurt on a quarterly basis these days. I hand him another bottle of strawberry water.
“I’m going to Dire’s later, maybe after dinner. Haven’t hung out with her in a while.” “Maybe she’s sick of the neighbor’s kid who’s been following her around since she was five years old.” Nick gives me a flat look.
“Sure, Dad.”
“Hey, ya know, maybe she’s found someone to date and doesn’t want you cramping her style anymore,” I’m smiling, but Nick’s look tells me I’ve gone too far. It’s Qatar’s face after I’ve failed to notice an updated hairdo.
“Sorry, Nick,” I apologize quickly. He shrugs and looks at his shoes.
“I wouldn’t care. If she wants to date some loser, that’s her problem, not mine.”
I push myself not to laugh. Him being so upset at the mere mention of someone else being with her romantically is comical, but it also makes me proud. Unlike his father, Nick steers clear of destructive partners. Dire has a good head on her shoulders and is kind. She would be a perfect fit for him. She could offer the kind of relationship that had eluded me these past fourteen years.
I look out the window, imagining Dire and Nick on their wedding day. Unfortunately, that takes me back to my own wedding. The desire to be rid of Qatar makes my heart feel heavy, even as visions of what life could be like without her give me hope.
“We’ll be arriving at your destination shortly. Please gather your belongings,” a pleasant male voice sounds over the speaker system within the car.
“Who tried to call you?” Nick asks, gathering his empty bottles and pushing them into the recycling bin beneath one of the seats on his side of the car.
“Officer Ortega. There’s another body. He probably just wants me to help with cleanup or the report. Chief Chitara is still in charge of the case. I just want to stay involved.”
“So, you’re writing reports for an asshole you outrank.” Nick states, rolling his eyes.
“It’s fine. I’m just trying to be as helpful as I can.”
“Uh-huh,” Nick dismisses. As we pull up to our single-story, two-bedroom marble and glass fishbowl that Qatar wanted, he slides to the curb-side door. Qatar liked the idea of living in an open space allowing anyone walking down the street to see our living room and dining room in their entirety because it “speaks of purity” and that pleases Jesus, apparently.
“Later,” Nick says, stepping out of the car as it comes to a stop at the end of our driveway. I nod to him as I voice my next destination to the car. I watch Nick strolling up to the house, his black dress socks showing below the hem of his pant legs. It reminds me of when he used to wear my clothes as a toddler, saying he wanted to grow up to be a dad, as if that were some form of lucrative employment.
I use my phone to enter my new destination, read about a tungsten fountain pen sale at Wriot Gear, and check my balance again.
“Freedom” available balance: $240,005.46.
Saving the $200 I can each week, I estimate that I’ll be at my goal by September 27th of next year. Not even a full twelve months away. Just me, Nick, and peace.
I grin, optimistic, as the car chimes confirmation of a new trip, and pulls off.
Love crime fiction? Check out the opening scene of Manifest Agony!
0
“YA KNOW, I don’t even feel like I need boobs?”
Kantrelle Yaba savored the scents of cooking dinners and damp foliage on the foggy autumn air. She had a sense that the sun was setting behind her, but the fog filtered the dying light through a cool haze.
“As long as he comes, I don’t need anybody else, Jetta, ya know? Well, maybe you!” Kantrelle laughed, tapping the ebony Labrador Retriever puppy in her lap on its pink nose. The bundle of fur shivered with delight and rolled over for a belly scratch. Kantrelle lightly scraped her short nails against Jetta’s stomach while she stared across Fourth Street. She knew there was a row of Victorian mansions there, but she could just make out the light from a few windows and a bright yellow, heart-shaped sign advertising a unit for sale. What she wouldn’t give for a place of her own. To be there with him. To spend days and nights together. To shed the uncertainties, shames, and guilt about her body to embrace the unfettered, full-fledged love and pleasure he made her feel. She knew she could do it alone, but she wanted him there. Every time.
To her right, at the far end of the park, she could barely make out “And must torture be immortal!” from an actor on the outdoor stage. The crowd had been relatively thin when she walked past with Jetta earlier, so she assumed it wasn’t the normal Shakespeare performance. And the way the fog was thickening, she knew it was some sort of thespian stubbornness that kept them performing when the audience was probably struggling to see them, or abandoning the amphitheater because they no longer could. Joggers and speed walkers hurried past her slim bubble of vision. She took it all in peripherally, but her mind was mainly focused on her next move as an adult. How she was going to set up a place for herself in the world so that she could have the privacy and independence she needed to get her mysterious visitor as often as she wanted.
With her hair up in a blossom of black spirals, the chill nipped at the back of her neck, but she barely felt it since erotic memories fueled a golden lust inside of her. All the jealousy and rage she’d felt when she saw the other girls’ bodies at school was gone. Almost as if it had never existed. She didn’t need Kendra’s D cups, Lana’s endless legs, or Anka’s swollen ass. She didn’t need makeup or perfume or the most expensive clothes. She was amazed that it only took a single being on a single night to show her that. To change her entire perspective on the things she had been about to do for the sake of fitting in with the crowd and feeling like she mattered to people who didn’t give a shit about her.
“I’m legally an adult now,” she said, Jetta nuzzling into her shirt to escape the cooling air. The people and sounds around her seemed to slowly dissipate.
“I’ll get my own house, maybe that condo for sale right there. And then I can just stay there and…” Kantrelle sighed, her face heating up again. She put her hands on the lightly pimpled, brown skin of her cheeks and heard a miniscule yelp as Jetta tumbled over her knees and onto the ground.
“Oh!” Kantrelle knelt to pick Jetta up, apologizing as she did so, patting Jetta’s fur to clean it of dust and dirt from the sidewalk as she sat back down. A brief, low sooop caught her attention at the same time that she felt a sharp pain across her shoulder blades. Immediately arching backwards, she stood, clutching Jetta to her chest.
“What the hell?”
Kantrelle looked around, following the slightly darkened path the object had taken through the fog. To her right, a long, metal rod was stuck in the ground. She figured that must have been what hit her, but couldn’t understand how. To her left, she saw nothing but the thick, slowly twirling mist. She noticed the splotches of blood on the back and seat of the bench. The injury worse than she’d thought.
Even with her house only a block away, she felt like she was too far for comfort. Instead of setting Jetta back on the ground, she kept the creature cradled in her arms as she started speed-walking south, toward home. The stinging across her back intensifying as she moved.
When she heard footsteps behind her, she broke into a sprint. She looked over her shoulder and saw no one, but that didn’t comfort or slow her. She would obey her fear until she knew it was safe. She could feel the hair on her arms standing on end. Jetta started to whine.
“Shh shh…it’s okay,” Kantrelle panted, looking both ways as she approached Magnolia Avenue. Her chest hurt with the force of her terror and the exertion of her running. She could just make out the shadow of the fountain at the center of St. James Court, the one that stood just in front of her house. She focused on that instead of the urge to drop Jetta and bolt.
Kantrelle was two front yards away from her own, had filled her lungs to scream for her parents, when an iron pole exploded through her chest.
Her body stopped its forward motion, all energy focused on the struggle to remain upright. She wanted to scream, but only a gurgling mewl escaped. Her mind was drowning in panic. Though no thicker than her middle finger, the rod might as well have been a boulder in the center of her body. She couldn’t bring her hands together to activate her phone. She could hardly breathe now, let alone cry out or talk. She tried to take another step, but her knee buckled and she toppled over onto her side. At first, she thought she’d dropped Jetta again.
But her eyes finally landed on the defunct body of the tiny canine at the end of the pole, slicked with blood from both of them. Her soft, floppy ears and chubby legs hung limp, the metal having pierced her neck.
Now Kantrelle’s shock gave way to tears. She wanted to go home. She would do chores forever and throw her lightboard in the trash and get good grades all the time if she could just get home. If she could just get back to her family.
Her vision dimmed as someone lifted the rod—and her—from behind. The pain was like nothing she had ever experienced, too intense for her to cry out, even if she could somehow find the strength to do so and clear her throat of the blood. A cruel antithesis to the colossal pleasure she’d been exposed to just a few weeks before. She could sense the life draining out of her. Even the pain was fading. She felt more bone and cartilage separate, heard it violently vibrating in her ears, mingling with the far-off sound of someone else’s weeping, just before the world went dark.
