In the Nick of Time (56 page)

It had been
a long time since she could actually recall the feel of sweat collecting in her thick tresses. She paused, ran her fingers through the damn curls, then plucked her ebony drawing pencil back up, gave it a careful sniff. The scent of freshly purchased art supplies did something to her, sent her into a tailspin of glory. Her hand took flight across the page, as if she knew exactly where she was going, but the human body’s natural lag was cramping her style. She grunted a time or two, as though in a one-woman tennis match, and in a way, she was. She’d laid low for a few days, trying to regroup and cast a spell across her bad luck. The notion that she could reinvent herself had come and gone like weight loss and gain for a bulimic ballerina, yet, she couldn’t shake the shit free. Needing some new scenery, a new pace and place, and not wishing to overstay her welcome, she’d left Ambrose’s chic brownstone and now surfed on another friend’s couch. It was her lucky day, for Ricki happened to be in San Diego for a shoot, and she had the whole place to her damn self for three days. All she asked in return was that she pick up her favorite grocery items and store them in their appropriate places in her apartment for when she arrived.

Luckily for Taryn, Ricki had champagne taste in clothing and make-up, but her eating and drinking style was totally beer budget. Despite the woman’s very thin frame, the sparse weight of an emaciated Goddess, the woman could suck down food like nobody’s business. Ricki dined on cheeseburgers and thick slices of pepperoni pizza, along with cheap box wines, greasy fries, and a side of dark chocolate. To make matters even more bizarre, the lady didn’t have an eating disorder, nor was she exactly a glutton. She simply ate like a child, and that was her ‘thing.’ Now, Ricki’s strangely decorated apartment filled with pops of bright shades of pink, and art with bold curse words framed in silver and red teemed with Taryn’s virtuosity. The thick purple carpet was covered in art sketches from hers truly. Taryn simply couldn’t help herself; she felt fucking inspired. What had gotten into her? Whatever it was, she wanted to work it to the bone.

She cast her sight toward the corner of the living room, gave a sly grin at two drawings in particular that she rather fancied, then began a new sketch, and then another and another. Nothing would spoil her mood, not even the textbook morning she’d had. Much to her chagrin, earlier in the day, dear ol’ mom had sent funds. Word must’ve spread faster than the divorce rate in Hollywood that she was down on her luck, and though she considered her mama to be a kind-hearted woman, the lady was also very particular about appearances. No daughter of hers would be walking around the streets of New York with a dusty duffle bag filled with last year’s fashion trends and no place to call her own.

Since she wasn’t allowed to help, the lady helped herself and did what many who had birthed their best friend would do: she wrote a check and dared her stubborn daughter not to cash it. Taryn had not deposited it, though it sickened her that it had indeed afforded relief should she run out of money and friends to help her until she got a paying gig. She kept a tally of everyone she was going to pay back, despite their constant reminders that she was loved, it was okay, and she’d done so much for them in the past, yadda yadda yadda, blah, blah, blah…

She had big, towering plans! She’d use that first pay check she earned and put it down on an apartment, move in, get settled, and do whatever she needed to do to make her
true
dream materialize… yet, it was still a mystery, kept under lock and key. No one, with the exception of Ambrose, knew of her aspirations, for she feared if she told them to another soul, the damn things would evaporate like hot breath on a window in the dead of winter.

I just need one good modeling gig, just one… Shit, maybe not. Maybe I’m not even supposed to be considering that any more, even in these times of desperation. Maybe this is some sort of a sign….

She looked at all the pictures she’d sketched, scattered about the room, and then, returned her attention back towards the corner, where she’d placed the two she loved the most.

Is it a sign, Nick?

She walked over to that corner and drew the curtain back, allowing the last stingy streams of sunlight to enter the dwelling. The mellow rays cast themselves across the thin, shaved canvas, making her drawings come to life, breathe in a new look—the appearance now changing right before her eyes. She bent low, picked up the illustration, and looked at it closely, going over the thing as if she were to assign it a grade.

I’m going to do this. I have to do this… It’s the only way. I think I figured that out just now, that I no longer have a choice and I can’t waste one more second…

I, of all people, know that tomorrow isn’t promised…

It’s my dream. GO.GET.IT.

It was hard
to watch, and he hated admitting that shit. How much easier it would be to have nothing but contempt for the man, to make him go down in a sizzling haze into the land of retribution, knife deep street justice, and suffer dire consequences. He wasn’t on the goddamn clock, but he was there to get his own fucked up life back on track, to put his world together, make it look like something worth holding onto. He had better things to worry about, like keeping his hand on the pulse of his own sobriety and wishing upon stars late at night like some pathetic lovesick puppy… yeah, he did that.

He’d look out of his little efficiency bedroom window and daydream of things that could only embody the one who claimed his heart. He’d stand there clutching one of her headscarves that smelled of tangerines and something expensive from the perfume department at some fancy boutique. Then, he’d look out and up, and wish on everything in his warped world that he could see her face, hear her voice…something,
anything
.

She’d refused to endanger him, to break those rules. It was clear… she’d drawn a line in the sand. Former residents were not to contact current residents who were still in treatment and she stated before her departure that they both had already been on paper-thin ice. One more crack in the foundation, and he’d be history, kicked out of Firststone, especially since he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t be a damn look-out for Frieda’s continued internal investigations. He’d look down at his phone, hoping she’d call any ol’ way, but she never did. And…she never gave him her number.

One day, he’d contemplated calling his buddies at the station, having them supply it after he’d looked her up online. He knew it was foolish; why would a super model have her information public? But he’d taken a desperate stab at it anyway. All he ran into were things that made his heart ball up tight and pulse and pump out blood until he was weak at the damn knees.

Google images can go straight to hell!

There she stood in various poses, walking the catwalk, owning that shit. He saw clips of her on YouTube and his dick woke from its slumber and simply said a lazy ‘hello’ from his nether regions. He missed those fucking legs—the way they’d wrap tight around his waist as he bounced her up and down on his hungry cock. That sweet, delicious pussy…tight and all soft ’nd shit… She was perfection in his eyes, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t shake her off the damn pedestal. She’d become his Queen, and though he was her King, he bowed down to her, time and time again. Yeah, that was the shit he was interested in, not the saving grace of a motherfucker named Oliver… or Don… or whatever and whoever the hell he
really
was…

The despicable tyrant had interrupted his peace, but not of his own accord. It appeared that the mess he’d mentioned was true. The little boy’s father was gunning for him within the facility and now that he’d narrowed down on the target, fear ensued. In a world of eye for an eye, it seemed rather fitting, for justice was about to be served. Another part of him, though, understood that Oliver was mentally ill and a victim of his own tormented mind. He’d sought to inspect the man’s history after he’d confessed the horrid details of his crimes, and found he’d left out some crucial pieces of the puzzle, not uncommon for men such as him.

In the early stages of his sickness, Oliver had rung the alarm, tried to get help before the hot shit hit the fan. His family seemed more concerned about their image, and discouraged the then sixteen year old from going into therapy, believing it would shame the clan. Nick had obtained this information by simply speaking to him, during a visit to his room. But that wasn’t the full story…

Oliver opened the door and exposed a black eye so hideous and menacing, it was surprising he could still see out the damn thing. He was unquestionably terrified to tell anyone how’d he gotten it, for he’d been threatened, and it was the type of threat that tasted quite similar to a promise.

Nick didn’t dare confirm the man’s greatest fears, but he knew it wasn’t over; that assault was only an appetizer to the main course. He’d checked out Trey a bit in more depth. The man was no joke. He’d killed once, and he’d kill again, certainly in the name of his own damn son. What better reason to snuff a life than for the well-being of a child? During his most recent visit with Oliver, he asked him more about his family life, his previous treatment attempts, the works. The man struggled to confess, to admit the whole sordid truth. Instead, he pulled out several tattered journals and handed them to him. He explained he started writing his feelings down at the age of twelve or so, and never stopped. He couldn’t speak the shit, but he could write it, so he did…

Nick took the hand-written leather bound books back to his room and read them, one by one, until the wee hours of the morning. He couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed, drudged through. It was like being held captive within an insane man’s brain, forced to ride shotgun amongst a muck of convoluted craziness. Oliver
knew
he was insane; he was shockingly self-aware. The man had the brilliant mind of a lunatic, the makings of someone on the brink of doing the unthinkable. The only thing stopping the man was that he
did
in fact have a conscience. Nick had had countless experiences with the Olivers of the world; thus, based on his observations, he couldn’t classify him as a sociopath. It was evident from the man’s writings and ramblings, he felt terrible remorse, a feeling that manifested way before he was caught. He struggled. He struggled
big
time. His sexuality was in question, his derelict behavior profuse. It hadn’t been just boys, but little girls, too. The genders, body type, race, and specific age were not important, for he considered it a free for all, and that wasn’t a common sexual predator type of behavior. Oliver was unique.

What a strange man—nauseating, intriguing and yet, one could feel pity for him as well. For one, he’d never been in a committed relationship. He’d never had sex with a grown woman or man. All of his sexual behaviors were destructive, deviant, and by strict definition, Oliver was still a virgin at the age of forty-one. He’d even tried to kill himself, according to his book-bound confessions. He’d almost overdosed a few years prior, and cursed his Creator when he came to in the hospital, mad as hell that he’d awoken to draw another breath. And now, he felt he was close to death’s door yet once again; only this time, he wanted to live…

During their conversations, the man told him he’d called Nick’s colleague on the card, but the guy had never gotten back in touch with him. This put Nick in an even more precarious situation. He became all Oliver had. Nick resisted the man’s urgings though, and grappled with himself for days on end. He was of the mindset that these people could not be rehabilitated. Adults who preyed on children were beyond help; their fate was sealed and locked shut like a vault with an ever-changing combination. He’d seen it too many times to count. The thought of Oliver roaming around in the free world was darn frightening, so, he’d had a heart to heart with the man, trying his damndest to control the situation, find out the heart of the matter… for it was in him to leave no stone unturned before making a call to action.

That following afternoon after he’d read the disturbing journals, each page sending him into a tetchy world of the inexplicable and grotesque, he approached the man right after lunch. They sat down, shoulder to shoulder, discussing things, all sorts of topics. Nick needed to get his foot in the door, gain the bastard’s trust, for only those trusted gained access to truth. There was no doubt about it; Oliver was too damn smart for his own good. That made him all the more dangerous, and also let Nick know that he
wanted
to be caught. He didn’t slip up and tell his father that shit in a drunken stupor or while high off his damn rocker. No, he’d blurted the details of his deeds knowing full well what was transpiring. Oliver confessed it for two reasons and two reasons only: To hurt the man he hated for treating him so poorly as a child…and for the man to love him enough to make him stop. He only received one of the two, and that simply wasn’t enough…

“Oliver, I read your journals…” Nick began, slowly moving away from their mundane discussions, getting into the heart of the matter.