Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (9 page)

MEN BRAG. THEY
just can’t seem to help themselves. Even when they are paying me to spend time with them, when it is guaranteed I will “like” them, they feel the need to brag. Richard, username SentfromHeaven, is like that. He is a senator, a position that does not impress me in the slightest, but something he is obviously over-the-moon proud about. He mentioned it in our second session, his voice a muted whisper, as if there were someone in his empty house, or my lonely loft, who might hear his confession. He also mentioned it on our third, fourth, and fifth sessions, just in case I forgot it or didn’t catch it the first time.

For a senator, he is fucking stupid. He’s on a website that requires his credit card and tracks his IP address, and he uses a webcam, flashing his face during half the chat, when it isn’t zoomed in on his limp and uncooperative penis. I’m not “that girl”—I don’t have any desire to record our sessions and sell the photos to the highest bidder—but it is only a matter of time before another camgirl will. I told Richard as much. He should be cautious, use my personal site, and not mention his profession to any other camgirls. I know that advice went in one hairy ear and out the other.

Richard doesn’t have any particular sexual hang-ups or secret fetishes. I think his ego is why he logs on. It is the forbidden thrill. It is the need to have anything and everything he wants, one of those things being the perceived worship by a naked young woman. It is just a matter of time before he is exposed, his firm stance on morality defrauded.

But not by me. Killer: yes. Exploiter of secrets: no.

AT FOUR A.M.,
my eyes flip open as a thud sounds against my door. I wait, my mind catching up as my ears listen, waiting for a hint of what is outside. A series of thuds, someone pounding against the solid steel of my door. I stand, moving quickly, at the door before the pounding stops, my eyes recognizing the top of his head, the wheeze of his voice. Simon. Drunk, from the sound of his voice. It’s two days before delivery, and I can pretty much guarantee you he has gone through his supply. The door handle jiggles, a stiff shake as someone twists it the limited space that is allowed. Left. Right. Left. Right.

I am fully awake, my hands flexing without thought. This will be so easy. He will open it for me. All I have to do is tell him that I have more. I have pills, and I will give them to him if he opens the door. I move quickly, yanking open my kitchen drawer, my eyes dancing over the rows of knives. They are all dull, butter knives—the only type I will allow myself to use. The rest of the knives—stilettos, switchblades, butcher knives, and the like—I keep locked up, my daytime sanity composed enough to make times like this cumbersome and slow. My hope, when I locked up the knives, is that by the time I finally get to them, I will have calmed my demons enough to step away—return to bed—literally put my demons to rest.

I hop over boxes, squeezing between two tall stacks, and shove aside books and packaged paper towels until I get to the safe. The combination chants through my mind, giddiness fueling its excitement as I hear a kick at the door. My door bangs slightly, words muffled as the knob jiggles again.
Simon.
I will slice his gut—shoving my knife in and dragging it sideways, slicing organs and tissue as I stare into his eyes and watch the pain. My hands tremble over the combination dial, and my first attempt misses, the handle doing nothing when I tug. I slow my movements, hearing the click of tumblers as I roll right to 62, left to 37, right to 95. Clunk. The handle pulls downward and the door swings open, my eyes feasting on metal, silver, and cash, my hand reaching in and moving excitedly over handles and sheaths until I find the one I want.

“Jessica…” A whine from the door, a weak thud of something that is probably a fist. I grip the knife handle, yank it from its leather sheath, and move back through the boxes, vaguely aware that I am naked as I reach the door and put my eyes to the peephole.

A peephole gives a distorted view of the world. It turns attractive people ugly, thin people fat, a short hallway rounded and curved. Simon’s eye, pressed to the hole, is perfectly in focus—a hazel pupil surrounded by bloodshot eyes.

“Simon…” I speak clearly, my voice raised so he can hear me through the heavy door. My door is different from all of the others. Everyone else in this shithole has a pressed-particle door that one swift kick will break. I’ve sat at this peephole and watched angry exes, drunks, and up-and-coming burglars break through, hitting the door hard on the side by the knob, the door saying
fuck it
in one easy concession. Splinter. Entry granted. Early on, I had mine replaced. Paid $700 for the super to order a steel one and swap mine out. It was a rare situation that required human interaction, the superintendent’s beady eyes too interested, my hand shaking as I handed over the ridiculous amount. He probably thought it was nerves. If only he knew what had really been going through my mind. His blood. His death.

Simon’s head snaps back at my voice, then his eye gets closer. His words tumble out fast, tripping over themselves in their haste to be said. “Jessica. Look, I know it’s Monday. I know it’s Monday and the delivery doesn’t come till Wednesday. It’s actually Tuesday now. It’s four a.m. Four a.m. on Tuesday, which is only one day before Wednesday. And I’m in pain, Jessica. Really, really fucking bad pain. And I thought you might have something, anything, I need something really bad. And the delivery doesn’t come till Wednesday. It’s Tuesday.”

“I have pills, Simon.”

He moans against the door, his eye closing, his hands fisting and pounding on the metal, the sounds dull on my side. “You gotta give ’em to me. Please open the door and give them to me.”

Idiot.
“I can’t open the door, Simon. It’s locked.” I speak clearly, my hand sweating as I grip the knife. I roll it in my palm, reintroducing myself to its feel, welcoming an old friend with open arms. “I need you to unlock the door, Simon. You have the key.”

He shakes his head, his jaw moving rapidly back and forth, back and forth, sawing the air and making him look, through my warped window, deranged. “No. I don’t have it. Open the door. I need something, Jess. Anything, please.”

“Simon. Go to your apartment, and get your keys. On your key ring, you have a key to this door. Go get it.”

He moans, bending over in what looks like pain, his face tight and pinched. “No… No, I don’t have my keys. That bitch Rita took them because I was drunk.”

I inhale, anger burning through my veins, my mind racing with panic. “Simon, I gave you two keys. Do you remember? Two years ago, I gave you two keys. Where is the second key?”

“Two keys?” He closes his eyes tightly. “You gave me
two
keys?”

Fuck.
“Yes,” I say shortly. “Two fucking keys. Where is the other one?”

He looks toward his apartment. “It’s Tuesday. I can’t make it to Wednesday. It must be in my apartment. You got pills in there?”

I exhale, trying to calm my heart, trying to keep my voice calm. “Yes. Go get the key.”

He moves, his feet slapping the thin carpet, and a moment later I hear the bang of his door as it slams shut. I stand, poised and ready, the knife tight in my hand, my mind counting the seconds, waiting for what is coming. The click of my lock, the swing of my door, the stab of my knife, the gasp of his breath. Finally. Blood spurting, covering my hands. Pain in his eyes, control in my grip. A life in my hands. 72 seconds.

124 seconds.

648 seconds. I slide to the floor, rolling my wrists as I watch the knife flash in the darkness.

793 seconds. I press my ear to the door, straining for some sound, some clue as to what is happening.

921 seconds.

1,122 seconds. My knife falls to the ground and I feel tears drip down my cheeks.

1,400 seconds. I fall asleep, my bare skin curled against the door, my head drooping at an uncomfortable angle.

THE SHED HAS
not been used in some time, cobwebs stretching across the doorway when he opens it. It is small, barely the size of a walk-in closet, a counter lining one side of it, the rest of it empty. When he first opened the shed, it held a push mower and chain saw, the large items taking up the majority of the floor space. He pulls out the mower and saw, moves them underneath the overhang, and returns to the space. In it, he stands, his feet on the concrete floor, his eyes passing carefully over the room. The walls are sturdy, the window and counter high enough to make escape unlikely, especially if he can set up a restraint system of some type. He returns to the truck and pulls out a bag of hardware, his drill, and rope. Then he walks back in the space, kneels in the corner of the room, and places a large eyehook mount against the wall, low and close to the floor. He pulls out six screws and sets the first one against the wood, placing the drill bit on its thread. As the squeal of a drill and the sound of splintering wood fill the small space, his excitement grows.
It is almost time.

You know those camming rules I mentioned? The ones I break with blatant disregard? Some rules involve sexual acts. I can’t piss or defecate on camera. I can’t fuck animals or men on camera. And I can’t pretend to be any age under eighteen.

I’ve never had any trouble following those rules. I have no desire to go to the bathroom on camera or sexually assault a dog. I’ve certainly never wanted to pretend to be young, to engage in pedophilic chat.

My clients, even the ageplay clients, obey the rules. They don’t ask me how old I am or put me in situations that are uncomfortable. But Ralph, he is different. He pushes the boundaries, every time taking it further, younger. I could easily end this sick game. Block him and never hear his voice again. But I can take being scared. I can take the sick words he gushes, because I am safe in my apartment, somewhere he can never touch me. And because I am not the object of his desire. My fear is that if I cut his cord, end his virtual fantasies, he will turn to reality. And that won’t be good for anyone.

WHEN THE PHONE
rings at 4:59 a.m., Jeremy lies in bed, his body stretched across the length of it, white blankets tangled at his feet. His room is dark, the television turned off at some sleepy moment during the night. He reaches out, his hand fumbling across items until it brushes against and grabs his cell.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know why you even bother with this, J.” The voice of his boss rings loudly from the phone.

Jeremy sits up, running his hand through his hair as he tries to wake up. “You got one for her?”

“Yep, a small package not even worth mentioning. Why don’t you let Mark take it, or I’ll put it on your run for tomorrow?”

“No. I’ve told you before—I’ll handle it.”

The man’s voice lowers. “You know how much trouble we could all get in if corporate knew you were running these packages off the clock?”

“I know, I know. I owe you.”

“You’ve been owing me for three years. Enjoy your day off and deliver the thing tomorrow. I’ll blame the delay on New Orleans if anyone asks.”

Jeremy shook his head. “No. It’s the first of the month—she’ll want that package. I’ll be by there around eleven to pick it up.”

The man laughs. “Whatever, Jeremy. I’ll see you then.”

Jeremy rides the elevator up, looking at the soft package in his hand. He shakes it, hearing the familiar rattle of pills. This is an old game, one he tired of early on. It is a game that, despite his irritation, she seems to find necessary. That’s why he didn’t push this delivery to Thursday. This package is one that has more than one recipient.

When he exits the elevator, the redheaded kid is already there, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His eyes light up at Jeremy’s arrival, and he shoots to his feet, fidgeting nervously. “Hey, man.” He holds his hand out for the package.

Jeremy shakes his head and knocks on the door, meeting the kid’s irritated face with a calm stare.

“Come
on
, man—she always says yes.”

Her voice comes through the door. “It’s okay. Give it to him.”

Jeremy holds out the package and the kid snatches it, ripping open the plastic and walking away, muttering to himself excitedly. Jeremy looks at the dead peephole, wanting to say something, anything, but he can’t think of anything. He scrawls her signature and walked away.
Nothing is normal with this chick.

He steps off the elevator and strides out to his truck, the sun warm on his face. He checks his watch and grins as he pulls out. With this errand done, the day is officially his, and he pulls out his cell phone as he merges into traffic.

An hour later, he jogs onto the field, fresh-cut grass underfoot, the afternoon sun warm on his chest. Bending over, he tightens his cleats, then stands and flashes a grin at the athletic group before him. “Sorry, guys, got here as soon as I could.”

“No problem—you can just cover beers when we win,” one man says, tossing a soccer ball his way. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

The game, against a difficult opponent, stretches late, the field lights flickering on and illuminating the play as it stretches out—a tie game that neither side backs away from. And finally it happens, a perfect shot by Jeremy toward a small window of opportunity. The ball stops, its forward momentum captured and restrained. And the game is over, won by the proper victor.

He collapses on the grass, the tickle of blades gentle against his legs, the warm night allowing a breeze to float across his hot skin, his eyes opening to find a sea of stars above him.

I can’t see stars from my apartment. It’s one of the things I miss. The sun comes in the windows, the windows that don’t open. So I can see the sun’s light, feel the warmth of the glass when I press my hand to it. But the breeze is not there, and at night? The stars are blocked by the surrounding buildings. If I lie on the floor and risk neck injury by craning and twisting into some unnatural position that God never intended…then I can see a baby sliver of black night sky and occasionally a faint flicker of starlight.

But I want the whole shebang. A galaxy above me, stretching from horizon line to horizon line, one unbreaking expanse of universe that says “You are not alone.” After my family died, when I lived in my grandparents’ home, I would spend the evenings in the grass behind their house. No other homes as far as you could see, no sounds of traffic, no city lights. I would lie on the grass and look to the sky and relax. Let the stars take my pain, my agony. I would lie out there until my eyes grew heavy and I felt myself slipping off to sleep. Then I would move, quietly reentering the house, climbing the steps to my room, and crawl into bed, grass stains on my back, dirt between my toes. And I would sleep.

Maybe stars would help me at night. I shift on my bed, my nude skin sliding under the fabric of the sheets, and stare at the vaulted ceiling, wishing for about the hundredth time that I could cut a giant hole in it, a skylight to the world. I stare at the ceiling until my eyes droop and I fall, restless and twitching, into sleep.