Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller (8 page)

Stuart disliked this woman already, he knew.

But he would have to keep an open mind, and try to make it work.

She was sitting on the couch when he reemerged from his bedroom with two thousand dollars in hand. He kept his weekend cash in a Folgers can under a hat in his closet. Because his grandmother had willed him the house, he’d never had mortgage. Thanks to that, saving money was easy. He had about ten thousand dollars in the Folgers can, and nearly a hundred grand in the bank.

He handed the prostitute the cash.

Instantly, she donned a coy expression, and said, “How do you want me, Jon?”

“Not like that,” Stuart said.

She scowled, but quickly checked her attitude.

She smiled and said, “Okay, tell me your fantasy, Jon. I love a man in charge.”

She was missing a tooth, Stuart noticed now.

Which wasn’t part of his fantasy.

“Don’t smile,” he said. “Call me Mr. Renly.”

She dropped the smile. “What else should I do, Mr. Renly?”

Stuart grabbed the plastic Walmart sack in the rocking chair beside the couch. He opened the sack and began handing her the contents, which included a white tank top, a lacy white bra, and a bottle of lilac-scented perfume.

“Put that on,” he said, meaning everything.

She held up the bra. “This bra won’t fit me.”

“It might,” he told her.

“How? It’s enormous.”

“You can try it on, at least.”

“What’s the point?”

“Didn’t you agree to be sweet?”

She stood up and removed her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra of her own, and when Stuart observed how pitifully small her chest was, he turned away in frustration. Worse, the nipples were way too dark, an auburn color, rather than rosy pink.

That wasn’t what he had in mind.

Keeping his back to her, he said, “You’re chest was larger in the picture you sent me.”

“Are we starting that conversation again?” the woman asked, her tone challenging. But then she sweetened it, saying, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Renly. I promise I’ll try harder. May I have a second chance?”

That brought Stuart around.

Okay, he decided, at least she was trying. He could give her an “E” for effort.

The bra sagged loosely, though, and didn’t look sexy at all. In fact, it looked nothing like his vision of Bailey Howard.

“Take that off,” he said, gesturing dismissively with his hand. “Put on the tank top. I’ll have to use my imagination.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m disgusting,” she said, “because I’m not.”

“You’re just nothing like my fantasy, that’s all.”

“And you’re
my
fantasy?” she asked, making a disgusted face while looking him up and down.

“That’s irrelevant,” Stuart told her. “I’m the payer. Two thousand dollars, which is a lot of money.”

“Depends on what you’re expecting?”

Stuart Renly sighed. What he was expecting from this woman was that she followed instructions and acted like Bailey Howard. He had it all planned out, the perfect romantic evening, but her personality was getting in the way.

Being alone tonight would be worse, though, he decided. At ten o’clock at night, it was too early to ward off depression if he grabbed his money back and sent this woman home in a cab.

He said, “I want you to act like this sweet, young girl I know named Bailey Howard. She’s seventeen. She’s smart. She’s shy. And she treats me with respect. I’m her teacher. Does that clear it up?”

“Oh, you’re one of
those
,” the prostitute said. “Yeah, that clears it up. Mr. Renly, can you teach me how to fuck? I mean, how to loose my virginity?”

“Go into that bedroom,” Stuart Renly said, pointing.

She walked over and peeked into the bedroom.

She turned back around, giving him a bizarre look.

“You have a hospital bed in your house?” she asked.

He had pointed to the bedroom where his grandmother had died. In her final years, it had been easier for her to sit up and eat in a hospital bed, because a hospital bed inclined. Plus, the rails kept her from falling out.

“Go in there, shut the door, and disrobe. Everything but the tank top,” he instructed, “and don’t forget the perfume.”

Shaking her head, the prostitute went into the bedroom. While closing the door, she said, “This is getting twisted. I’m probably going to leave.”

“You’re fine,” Stuart said. “Tell me when you’re on the bed and ready.”

This experience was a far and pathetic cry from what he’d envisioned. In his imagination, he had dreamed of spending a quiet evening with Bailey Howard—incarnate, so to speak—romancing away the hours and watering the bud of their mutual respect and affection. They would probably have started on the couch, her holding an Algebra textbook in her lap, wearing shorts, of course, knees exposed, smooth and soft, and, of course, wearing her revealing tank top. He would masterfully explain quadratic functions, a beautiful thing, until she finally understood, and then in her gratitude, she would start to slip closer and closer to him—which he would notice—and she would eventually take his hand and place it on her bare leg, to feel how smooth, say, or whatever. From there, they would move into his bedroom, not his grandmother’s, where she would first light two candles, then crawl over the bed atop him while he reclined, now nude, on the pillows. And she would lower those lovely, lilac-scented, womanly blessings onto his face, and then they’d do whatever else they wanted to do. And such would continue all through the night. In the morning, she might cook him breakfast. Then he would drive her back to her parent’s house on Wilton.

Something like that, had been in his mind.

But this particular prostitute, although her hair was similar to Bailey’s, was about as opposite to Bailey Howard as opposite could be.

And everything this skanky harlot said and did ruined the vision he held in his mind of how things would likely develop with Bailey Howard.

“I’m ready,” she called.

He opened the door and went in.

The room illuminated with pale light that filtered in from the living room.

“Bailey?” he called softly, role playing, trying to make the best of it.

“Yes, Mr. Renly. Come to bed. I’m horny.”

Stuart Renly cringed. Bailey Howard would never have said that, he knew.

“Keep your mouth shut,” he told her.

“Yes, Mr. Renly. But before you close the door, I have a condom for you to wear.”

He cringed again!

Stuart Renly wished this woman, this whore, would simply quit talking! She was ruining his fantasy!

Ignoring her, closing the door, he whispered, “Hush, Bailey. Let’s just snuggle a while.”

“Your money, dude,” the whore said. “Do I need to stay awake for that?”

“Relax, Bailey. Everything will be okay,” he said, mounting the bed.

As soon as his face neared hers, she writhed away, turning sideways. “Man, go brush your teeth! Please,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take another whiff of your coffee breath! I’ll die if I do!”

Stuart Renly grabbed her by the hair, dragged her back to the middle of the bed, and began to choke her neck with his hands. Her knees came up defensively. She tried to scream. He plowed his knuckles into her mouth. When she tried to bite him, he worked his entire fist into her slobbery hole, practically jamming it down her windpipe. She twisted away, freeing her mouth, and he used her twisting momentum to flip her over and stuff her face down in the pillow. Repositioning his hands to the back of her neck, he cranked down repeatedly, like giving her CPR, until the small bones inside her neck cracked loudly and gave.

He caught his breath, inhaling deeply.

She hadn’t sprayed enough perfume on, he decided.

A few hours later, at two o’clock in the morning, he shoved her body under the bed.

C
asey Crawford arrived
late with the sound system, so at 7:15 on Saturday evening Eric called Bailey with an apology and asked if she could drive herself to the barn.

Of course she could, she had answered.

She was brave and courageous, wasn’t she?

Yeah, right!

All day, she had felt physically drained, waiting around in anticipation of tonight. Eric’s picking her up and escorting her to the party had been her only solace. Now, the thought of having to walk into the party alone spiked her anxiety to a level that was almost debilitating. It was ridiculous and absurd, she knew.

Driving to the farm, she felt jittery.

Parking her car, she felt short of breath.

Walking to the barn, she felt she could puke.

It wasn’t until she stepped into the barn and saw Eric Cady, Brad Townsend, and Casey Crawford still working like a road crew, setting up speakers amongst bales of stacked and pre-arranged hay, that a sense of relief overwhelmed her.

No one’s here yet,
she thought.
I can handle this.

Eric helped her relax even more. He noticed her come in, set down a coiled power cord, and hollered something to Casey.

The volume in the barn came down a tad as Eric, smiling, made his way toward her standing in the barn’s entrance.

She thought he looked more handsome than ever, for some reason, at that moment.

“You look fantastic in blue,” he said.

“Thanks,” Bailey said, beaming. Partly, she beamed because Eric was smiling so brightly at her, and partly, she beamed because Jany had been right about the shirt. Jany had a knack for all things social, a knack which Bailey herself sorely lacked.

She slipped her hands into her back pockets so they might stop shaking.

Eric seemed fidgety, too, Bailey decided. But he was probably only nervous about getting everything working by 8:00 p.m., when the first Freddy flick was supposed to begin.

“I could use some help running power cords,” he said, “if you’re up for that kind of fun.”

“I can help,” she said.

She felt relieved to help, actually.

When she followed Eric over, both Brad and Casey greeted her warmly, but without stopping their work.

Eric handed her one end of an orange power cord.

“Drag this to that outlet there on the wall,” he said, pointing.

She backed toward it, uncoiling the cord as she went.

He took the opposite end to a big black box that sat on the wooden floor. The floor was dusty from the hay. The hay-smell in the barn was very pungent, but it was a euphoric smell, and Bailey like it.

Once she’d plugged in her end of the cord, she walked back across the dusty wooden barn-board floor to Eric, who plugged the female end into a black cord jutting off the back of the box. Then he flipped a switch, that lighted red, powering the unit on.

“What is that thing?” Bailey asked him.

“A subwoofer,” he said. “All the low-end comes through these, like the sound when Freddy’s right behind you. There’s another sub over there.”

One black subwoofer sat on the floor on each side of the barn. Four big speakers, raised on stands, surrounded the hay bails, aiming into the center.

“Will I be totally freak out?” she asked.

“Hopefully,” he said. “If you aren’t, I’ll feel like a sissy. I’ll be acting cool, but inside I’ll be a coiled spring.”

“You’re just saying that,” Bailey said.

“I wish I were,” he answered.

“If it makes you feel safer, you can stay close to me,” she offered. “You know how brave I am.”

“Believe me, I’m counting on it,” he said.

Bailey continued to help set up, mainly pulling cords straight, tucking them under hay bales, and plugging them into outlets. The work made her feel good, welcome and important to the evening, almost a part of the planning.

Clearly, that was how Eric wanted her to feel, too, she decided, because once the cords were set up, and the speakers and the projection screen were ready to go, Eric asked her to help with the arrangement of the hay bales. Soon, Eric, Brad, and Casey were all heaving bales according to where Bailey thought they should go.

It was an empowering delight.

They were still positioning bales when people began to arrive. Mostly guys at first, with Eric playing host at the door. Brad and Casey continued asking Bailey about bales, and treated her as if she were actually in charge.

It was a relief, Bailey thought, to be doing this, which was wonderful, as opposed to what she’d envisioned throughout the day, especially the vision of her walking into the party as Eric Cady’s date, and all eyes flashing to her.

That horror was so opposite reality that she shook her head in disbelief she’d even been worried at all.

Until Carla Cummings walked in.

“Oh, you found some slave labor, I see,” Bailey overheard Carla mention to Eric at the door. “I didn’t know Bailey Howard ever left her house. Wow!”

“Bailey’s my special guest,” Eric answered.

“No one told me this party was catered by the Chicken Shack,” Carla said wickedly. “Kudos, Cady. You know how to throw a party.”

“No chicken dinner tonight, Carla. Sorry,” Eric said.

Bailey seethed just looking at Carla. It was difficult to believe that any woman could actually embody enough viciousness to throw another person’s happy mood straight into the gutter of despair within one second of setting her trampy, cum-soaked feet onto the scene.