Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (14 page)

TAKEITALL61 SEEMED TO
be the perfect man: sweet, caring, and wanting to give me every dollar in his wallet. We chatted for almost two months before he dropped off the face of the earth. I’m assuming he finally hit rock bottom. I hope the orgasms were worth it.

Our first chat was almost six months ago.

“Hey, takeit!” I smiled and reached back, unclipping my bra and sliding it off, exposing my breasts for the cam.

“Hey, Frank. What are you in the mood for today?”

takeitALL61 was the first financial dom client I ever had. He was patient with me, as are most clients with unusual requests, and by our third chat I understood exactly what it was he wanted.

“Don’t you pull out your fucking cock, Frank—that is not what I want!” I pointed into the camera, my face fierce and angry.

“I want you to pull out your fucking wallet. Did you go to the bank today?”

“Did you spend any money since then?” I knelt, a silk robe wrapped around me, all trace of compassion gone from my eyes.

“Good boy. I want you to open up your wallet, and then I’ll let you pull out that cock. You’re going to have to give me every dollar in that wallet before I let you come. Do you understand?”

“Fuck that! You aren’t paying the bills this month, Frank. You are going to give me your money, every last cent of it, until you are broke and living in the gutter. Do you understand me, Frank? You jack off that cock if you understand.”

Frank never gave me a dollar over the preset $6.99 a minute. He didn’t even use the “tip” button that is displayed so prominently over our chat window. I could have used that as part of our play, but it seemed too cruel. Especially to a client who was already doomed to financial ruin.

Four years earlier

When there is evil in someone, it grows, unattended by all and fielded by its harborer. I know this; I feel it each and every day, growing stronger inside of me till one day—
snap
—it will take control, and every logical thought process, every thought of survival and preservation, will disappear, and I will be a loose cannon, fired and on my path of destruction, with nothing but my own doom ahead of me and the demise of whoever lay in my final path.

RalphMA35 hasn’t snapped yet. But I can see his path as clearly as I can see my own. And it is coming. His demented evil is growing, and I am undoubtedly fanning the flame. I promise you, that is not my intention. My intention is only to save her.

JEREMY COULDN’T STOP
thinking about her. Part of it was the fucked-up-ness of it all; part of it was the image of her, naked beneath him. Part of it was the infatuation that had kept his mind and heart occupied for the last three years. Two long days had passed without any packages for her. Today, salvation had come in the form of an overnight express package from Instruct DVDs, the parcel addressed to “Jessica Reilly.” Twice he stopped to buy her flowers and both times idled at the florist’s curb for a few minutes before he ultimately talked himself out of it and pulled away.

Now there is nothing to do but knock. He had spent all day trying to figure out what to say and had come up with absolutely zilch. He hesitates, then lifts his hand and knocked.

There is a pause—a long pause—during which he has to remind himself to breathe. He fantasizes for a second that today would be a repeat of last time; that she would not respond, wanting him to burst in, and she would be naked and waiting. Then she speaks, and the fantasy evaporates.

“Leave it. Thank you.”

The same short response he had heard for weeks…months…years. She had the same tone, inflection, and utter lack of connection. It was as if it had never happened, as if she had never been naked beneath him, as if they had never kissed, caressed, thought about doing more. He stands there, tongue-tied, the small package in his hand.

“I thought maybe—” His sentence dies abruptly, and he wets his lips and tries again. “I—”

“Leave it. Thank you.” Same tone. Same inflection.

He sets down the package, scrawls her name with slow strokes, and tries to think. Then he turns and walks to the elevator, glancing back twice at her closed door.

I stand at the door, my eye to the peephole, watching his strong profile as it turns, pauses, and then continues. My body twitches, a battle raging. Need driving my core. Need for interaction, for his touch, and for his blood. My hand shaking, I loosen my grip, and the knife drops harmlessly to the floor, the sound loud in my empty apartment.

I sob, the cry bursting uncontrollably out of me, and sink to the floor. There, against the hard door, I allow myself one brief moment of tears. Tears for the missed opportunity, for the life I am missing outside these walls, and for the utter waste at letting that beautiful man walk away alone.

Self-pity.
Millicent Fenwick describes it as a terrible squirrel cage of self. For me, it is a futile waste of time. I breathe, suck it up, and stand, wiping tears and heading back to my pink bed of distraction.

ANNIE LIES IN
bed and looks at the ceiling, plastic glow-in-the-dark stars glued to its surface. The stars don’t glow anymore, but they still sit there—stuck on and forgotten about. The room is hot, but her momma doesn’t believe in turning on the air-conditioning until at least June. There is a slight breeze from the open window, and she turns her body so that more of it hits her skin. The trailer creaks and settles, and after a few minutes, her eyes close.

Two hours later, the man walks silently down the side of the trailer, the dead ground quiet beneath his feet. He reaches the open window and waits, still, listening to the sounds of the fields surrounding him. Bending, he sets the stool on the ground and then climbs onto it, the additional height allowing him to lean his torso directly into the window. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the long silver flashlight he has stuck there. Leaning forward, he switches it on, moving the beam through the girl’s room, illuminating clothes, a plastic drawer set, and the bed. He slows the light’s movement, playing it over pale legs, pink cloth, until finally it rests on a face, pale and slack with sleep, yellow hair framing it against the white sheets.

Something is bright, hurting her eyes. She squints, moving a hand, and the light disappears and then reappears. Then it is gone, and she opens her eyes to darkness. Out of the darkness, there is a voice.

“Annie.”

“Yes?” She sits up, confused.

“It’s me. See? Come to the window.”

She yawns, sits up slowly, and rubs her eyes, her limbs uncooperative, her mind sluggish and confused. Why is he here? In the middle of the night? At her window? She pads to the opening, the plastic blinds pulled up by her mother last night, the small window barely accommodating his big size. “What?” she whispers.

“I have a surprise for you—out in the car. Be quiet, sweetie, and go unlock the front door. Meet me on the front steps. Don’t wake your mommy, she’ll make me take it back.”

Every part of Annie is instantly awake, trembling with excitement. “Is it a kitten? You know I’ve been wanting a kitty—”

“Shhh!” The sound is harsh, mad, and she quickly stops talking, the next words stuck in her throat. “Go to the front. Be extra quiet and wait on the step.” She nods quietly and turns, tiptoeing out of her room and past her parents’ closed bedroom door.

The man breathes a sigh of relief when he sees her pink-clad body sitting on the step, arms wrapped around her little knees. He is close, so close. He holds out his hand and she stands, rushing forward and grabbing it, her small hand slipping into his. They turn as one, walking past her bike, turned over in the dirt, and on to his car, which sits at the outside corner of their lot, dark and silent in the night.

She realizes something is wrong earlier than he had expected. She had believed him when he said that the kitten was down the road in a box. She had gotten in, fastened the seat belt, and leaned forward expectantly—scanning the fields and approaching roads for a sign of it. But now, six miles down the road, she is silent, her questions less frequent, her face tighter.

“How long before we get there?”

“About fifteen minutes, sweetie. I forgot, I decided to take the kitten to our house instead. It’s there, drinking some milk.”

“But what about my mommy and daddy seeing it? Aren’t I going to get to keep it at my house?”

He reaches over, rubbing her knee. “Of course, Annie. We’re just going to make a quick stop at my house first.” He reaches for the cupholder and lifts out an opened bottle of Coke. “Here, Annie. Drink this.”

She reaches for the soda, her eyes wide. Soda is a luxury not allowed in her home; the few sips she’d had were taken at others’ birthday parties and friends’ homes. She grips the cold bottle carefully and lifts it with both hands to her mouth, the bubbly taste of the soda foreign on her tongue.

He watches her, his mouth curving into a smile. “That’s good, Annie. It’s a hot night. Go ahead and finish it all.”