Red & Wolfe Part 4: An Erotic Fairy Tale (6 page)

BOOK: Red & Wolfe Part 4: An Erotic Fairy Tale
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I roll right over Paige’s pristine grass, yank the keys out of the ignition, and practically jump out of the Lambo. I ignore my sore, tired body as I try one door on the east side of the massive garage, followed by another.
Unlocked. Good.
Inside, the garage is divided into segments: cavernous rooms packed with import and antique cars. I walk through the first two rooms, feeling hot and slightly dizzy. I wonder what the hell I’m looking for and stop for a second, trying to listen for voices.
I don’t hear any, but in the next room down, I swear I hear footsteps.
I pick up the pace a little, weaving between cars, looking up at the rafters—for what, I don’t know. Lately Cookie likes to play with rope. I’m moving so fast now, I almost run right into a door that’s shut between this room and the next. So far, they’ve all been open. I grab the handle and find it greasy. Wipe it on my slacks, keep going. I’m sprinting now. I open and close my hand as I curve around two hummers.
Fifth garage now, then sixth. I’m gasping. Could be this cold-flu bullshit. My heart’s pounding so hard I feel it in my head.
I think I hear tires peel. Goosebumps crawl over my skin.
I dash through this room and into the next—the last one, surely.
Cookie!
My mouth itches to call her name but the unnerving silence in the garage has imposed itself on me. I run past two sports cars and what looks like a dune buggy, and before I reach the closed door out in front of me, I slow so much I’m almost stopped.
My throat feels swollen. I can’t swallow at all. I listen to the air and something hums around me. Intuition. Prescience.
I push the doorway open slowly, and before I’m even in, the dim light that spills from the room shines on me, illuminating, among other things, my hands. It’s not gasoline or oil on my left hand. It’s blood.
Two steps in and I start to turn a circle. I see him first. How could I not? The ropes that hold Paige are strung from rafters to floor, an elaborate spider’s web. And in the center, Paige, nude, dead.
I know he’s dead because of how his body hangs. Ropes pinch his wrists, his ankles, and his ass cheeks. His cock is cased in a steel sleeve. His head lolls sideways, bloated red. I clutch my chest, my neck, but it’s too late. I’m ralphing on the oil-stained floor. The splatter seems to echo on and on. I wipe my mouth on my fever-hot arm and search the room’s corners for Cookie.
“Baby—it’s okay. I’ll help.”
And it’s horrible, or maybe wonderful, because I know I will. I’ll help Cookie any way I can. It’s too late for Paige, but I won’t let it be too late for Cookie.
I fortify myself and complete the circle, turning toward the side of the garage encased in shadows.
Cookie!
My mind rebels but my eyes can see her: Cookie, dressed in black tights and a lacy bra, swaying in a noose.
Her cheeks are swollen like a hamster’s. Her pretty olive skin is purple. And her eyes. Her eyes are open. Every blood vessel is broken.
My mind is starting to churn, I’m starting to wonder how it happened, when I hear a howl. I jump back, turn around, and realize that’s me.
I’m screaming. Screaming. God, it can’t be.
NO NO NO. NO NO. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO.
Not Cookie.
Not Cookie.
I grab a ladder, look frenziedly around for a knife or scissors. I can’t wait. I don’t want to touch her but I have to get her down. She’s not dead. She’s just passed out. I have to get her down, it’s hurting her neck!
All I have is my Zippo. I whip it out, climb higher on the ladder, and I burn the rope. I start to burn the rope, but the fire climbs quickly toward the ceiling.
I do the only thing I can: I grab the rope above her head and bat the flames with my bare hands. A minute later, it snaps. Cookie’s body falls to the cement floor, and I fall off the ladder, landing hard on my ass.
The fire alarm is wailing now. Water starts spewing from the ceiling, and I look her over, head to foot. Maybe it’s cold enough to wake her up!
When it doesn’t, I scramble over.
“Cookie!” I take her head in my lap and then I drop it. It’s so loose on her neck. I cover my mouth but I don’t get sick because that’s wrong. This is my wife. I’m not going to vomit at the sight of my own wife, I think irrationally.
Instead I turn her over, face down. That’s when I notice: her ass looks shiny.
There’s blood on Cookie’s tights. There’s blood on her ass.
And the water from the ceiling reminds me of rain. It rained last Tuesday—in D.C. I stood in cold rain, on the steps of the Truman Building, before I went inside to surprise Cookie’s father.
Cordial greeting, closed door, plush chair, fake smiles.
And then I dropped a bomb.
“If you don’t quit calling her, if you don’t quit harassing her, if you don’t quit acting like a possessive, fucked up freak,” I told Robert Smythson, “I’ll tell the press it was me instead of her.”
Wide, gray eyes. “What was you, Jimmy?”
“I’ll tell the media you raped me. Every summer in the Hamptons. You stuffed your cock into my ass.”
“This is blackmail,” he said.
And I shrugged. “Whatever works.” 
I look down at Cookie, at the blood on my hands. On my legs now. On the floor. And I know what happened. I know who, and I know why.
I start to sob. I’m so, so sorry.
Sorry doesn’t stop the rain or bring her back.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

RED

 

 “Hands up! Don’t move a fucking muscle.”
My body, limp in its binds, snaps to attention at the sound of that voice.
His
voice. Relief is a drug, lighting up my insides.
The bastard in black has gone from sitting with his ankle on his knee, smoking a cigar on the bench in front of me, to sitting stick-straight. The cigar is on the floor. His jaw is tight. His eyes, turned up toward Race, are furious.
But it doesn’t matter. Not at all. Because Race’s gun is pointed at his temple.
“Race! Oh God!” I don’t plan to talk, but the words just bubble out. My arms and legs jerk against the ropes. I want to throw myself at him.
He looks up at me with wild eyes. His face is bruised and blood-caked. He pushes the gun’s nose into my captor's head and holds my gaze.
“Did he rape you?” The words are tight and clipped, pushed from his mouth as if he can’t bear to have them in his throat.
I shake my head, and as Race says something else to the man, my eyes close without permission. It’s warm and bright here. Kind of like floating in a current. Time breaks into pieces, and I can’t keep up. I hear Race’s voice, deeper than ever, filled with rage. Then a low thud, followed by men’s shouts.
I can tell they’re fighting because I hear their bodies beat the wooden floor. Grunts and curses.
Win, Race, win!
I hear a gun shot and my body jerks. I wait for the swaying sensation that always follows any movement I make in these ropes, but it never comes. I peek my eyes open, startled to find I’m on the floor now, curled into a ball. My slashes sting. My body trembles.
I look for Race, slanting my gaze up, and I don’t see him at first because he’s kneeling in front of me. A gargling sound comes from somewhere behind him.
He bows down low, so his face is near mine. “Focus on me, okay. I’m here now.” He pulls me into his arms, and I wrap myself around him.
I see the man’s form on the floor and then we’re going down the stairs.
I blink a few times, looking at Race’s blood-streaked neck. It looks strong and sort of hard, for a neck. It's nice.
Will he be mad at me? Will he be mad I let myself get caught?
The thought makes my stomach feel like a deflating balloon.
I’m aware of the gentle bouncing of him walking down the stairs. Abruptly he sinks down on one of them, hugs me tight enough to hurt, and pushes his face into my neck. I cry, and his hand crawls up my cheek, wiping the tears tenderly away.
“I’ve got you now, Red,” he whispers. “I won’t let you go again.”

 

*

 

Time spools out ahead of us. We’re at his house in what, to me, feels like seconds, and he’s opening the back door—the one I must have been carried through after my attacker hit me in the head. I cling to Race’s strong neck, feeling weak and hot, like I might get sick. My arms and legs are numb and I am only stomach.
Race stops in the doorway of the bathroom, looking down at me with soft eyes. “He really didn't...? Are you
sure
?”
I tuck my chin against my neck and nod.
I watch his gaze break away from the hot mess that is me and sweep the room: where I crashed through the shelf, where I was caught. He steps past the mess, to the tub, and tucks me against his chest while he runs the water.
As the echo of water fills the bathroom, he looks up and down my body. His face is stern, unfeeling, but his eyes pop wider as his gaze falls on my arm.
“He cut you?”
Fresh tears blur my view of him. I nod.
He rises up from his crouch, still holding me secure against his hard, bare chest. He steps into the tub and sinks down slowly. Despite how gently he is moving, his muscles are tight.
He settles me close to the faucet, leans my shoulder against the wall, and, when he’s touched my shoulders and tucked my hair behind me, he steps out of the tub. Water cascades down his legs, onto the plush, brown rug. He steps out of his jeans and toward the cabinets, where he reaches inside and pulls out a First Aid kit.
He drops it on the counter, turns to look at me, and then, with his jaw locked tight, he strides to the wall and drives his fist through it.
“GODDAMNIT! Goddamnit! Goddamnit! GODDAMNIT!” Between each roar, he smashes a new hole in the wall.
I hug my knees. My pulse races. Should I give him privacy? Maybe, but I can’t just sit here. I stand up, wanting—needing—to go to him. As I step out of the tub, a line of blood flies through the air, and I realize he’s using his right fist. The hand he paints with.
“Race, no! STOP!” All my cuts sting from the water and the paint dripping off me, but I rush over to him anyway, twisting so he doesn’t catch me with his elbow. I grab his forearm. “Stop! Stop! You’re gonna hurt your hand! Stop!” I cling tighter to his arm as he drives it into the wall again, and when he pulls it back again, I throw my other arm around his waist. I press myself against his back.
“Stop it! Stop it! Please Race, stop!”
He’s so big compared to me, and he’s filled with such fury. Every punch jolts his body a few inches. My wet feet slide against the floor. I cling to him, saying his name over and over, pressing my forehead against his bruised back.
Finally—finally—he stops. Two deep breaths, and he pulls me around in front of him, wrapping his arms around my back so we’re chest to chest, cupping his hand behind my neck.
BOOK: Red & Wolfe Part 4: An Erotic Fairy Tale
6.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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