Temptation, The Complete Serial Series 1-4 (The Temptation Serial Series) (2 page)

Gripping the steel tightly in my hands, I remembered back to my childhood, back to when Daddy actually gave a shit about me—instead of telling me he was embarrassed to claim me anymore—just like Peter. Back then, he’d take me and Grace out in the field. Just the fading sun, a ball, a bat and a few gloves.

“Swing true!” he’d yell before pitching to us.

So I did. I swung the tire iron until it connected, shattering one headlight and then the other. Then I took care of the side mirrors, all while tears streamed down my face.

Ashamed. Why were all the men in my life ashamed of what I was?
Who
I was?

Embarrassed.

Grinding out the words, “I. Am. Not. A. Hooker!” with every swing, I dented the shit out of his baby, reducing her to a pile of something else he could be embarrassed about. Then with the sharp end, I carved one word across the hood: Dick.

Let him suck on that for a bit
, I thought. That was before the police showed up, slapped cuffs on my wrists, Mirandized me and stuffed me into the back of a cruiser.

I smiled at the horrified expression on Peter’s face as the car pulled away; seeing him rush over to take in his perfect baby, now that I’d carved that shit up. And the old lady? She was waiting on the sidewalk with a wink and two very enthusiastic thumbs up.

Hell yes, woman. Hell. Yes.

Present Day...

Streetlights cast their orange glow onto the sidewalks beyond where I stood in the shadow. To most people, light was a subconscious security blanket. Much like our parents told us when we were children, light would chase the darkness away. That wasn’t true though, was it? Darkness lurked just beyond the light’s reach. And there were always dangers in the shadows.

Brooklyn was dancing tonight. Manny made sure she was on the schedule. She was the best—no doubt about that—and he always wanted her on the stage. She owned it; she became a part of it. Her body was the music, but her voice brought the crowds. Brooklyn outshone the lights and sparks used in all of Manny’s productions. She sang sweeter than a songbird and her body was flawless; like the soft curvature of a music note, from the edge of her collarbone to the swell of her hips.

I wished I was there to watch her, but more important business awaited. Her apartment wasn’t in the worst part of Vegas, but it wasn’t in the best, either. Once she decided to move in with me, she would have far more amenities.

My thighs burned as I climbed the metal steps that led to the second floor of her apartment building. Brooklyn’s was at the very end, in apartment two-sixteen. I spent much of my days lifting, molding my body into what she seemed to prefer since Peter Donovan broke her apart. I was relieved when she broke things off with him, because that left room for me to pick up the pieces. So far, however, she hadn’t responded to my advances. But I would be steadfast and strong.

While pressing and squatting, crunching and even stretching, I kept my eyes on her.

I’d taken a picture while sitting on the long, concrete stair steps of a building as she left to meet her best friend Morgan for lunch. The two sat outside beneath a red, outstretched umbrella on black metal chairs, sipping their glasses of white wine and happily chatting the afternoon away. Brooklyn wore a white sundress with straps that delicately grazed her collarbone. That was my favorite part of her body, and I had seen it all. I wondered if my preference would change once I had a taste . . .

The hem just reached the middle of her thighs. Her hair was arrow straight, instead of curled like she normally wore it. My camera was better than Morgan’s, and she was a professional.

In the photo, one could see the droplets of condensation and the pathways they carved down the tuliped glasses sitting on their table. One could see that Brooklyn loved Parmesan cheese on her salad, and also that she had a tiny mole beneath her right ear, only visible when she swept her hair back or on the rare occasions when she pulled it up.

But tonight, I needed to focus on Brooklyn in a different way.

It didn’t take long for me to shoulder her door open, since she had no deadbolt. No one in this complex did. Though it made for easy access for me, the landlord should really install them for the safety of the residents.

I pushed the red painted door closed behind me and inhaled deeply. Everything smelled of her.

I undressed.

Tonight was better. No note or long-stemmed rose waiting for me when I got to work. I could breathe a little deeper, but my eyes didn’t stop darting around. Morgan and Shane were in town, so we were able to have dinner and catch up before I had to go get ready for yet another night on stage. Reality sucked, and my reality was that I was getting too old for this shit.

Sure, it paid the bills, but I would be thirty next week. Besides that, it felt like I’d been balancing thirty cinderblocks on my shoulders lately. Worn out didn’t cut it. I even slipped during practice earlier in the week and bruised my hip, earning me the nickname, “Old Lady.”

I could have yelled that I’d fallen and couldn’t get up, making a joke out of my clumsiness, and any other day I probably would have. But there was this one girl—a new girl who was hell-bent on showing me up—who cackled louder and longer than the rest. So when she tried to walk around me, I stuck out my rhinestone encrusted, seven-inch Mary Jane and tripped the snickering wannabe, watching as her ass landed right beside mine on the scuffed, black stage floor.

Maybe I was still in a bad mood from that.

Maybe it was the fact that Peter was texting me relentlessly. Apparently Kate left him after the ‘incident’, which led me to believe that he’d probably told her we were already broken up when he began seeing her. She was a smart girl to get rid of that trash.
Dick. So not going down that road again.
I blocked his number and waltzed on with my life.

Or maybe it was my secret admirer. Manny had taken extra precautions this week. He installed four new cameras in different locations around the building, but nothing showed up on tape. The security system had never been set off. Someone was sneaking around, leaving all sorts of fucked up stuff for me to find, yet no one could find
him
.

I called
him
a him. It could have been a woman, of course, but whoever it was, that someone was a sandwich or two short of a picnic.
He
typically left me gifts before a performance, and most of the time the gift was a typed letter accompanied by a flower—usually a red rose. Once it was a pendant, emblazoned with a symbol that looked a lot like the caduceus (Thank you Google, because I searched for ‘medical symbol’ and found you), with the winged staff that two intertwining serpents climbed. However, this symbol looked like a sword with only one snake curled around it. Whatever the symbol meant, it was weird and Google wasn’t able to help me find out more about it.

His
letters began to get more and more intense; more frightening and possessive. Although I called the police every time he left something, mostly because Manny made me, they were worthless. Most of the officers looked at me like I invited the attention, while others looked like they’d rather be scrubbing toilets than wasting their time on a girl with a record, even a record as minor as mine. But they all did their jobs, again mostly because Manny told them he’d have theirs if they didn’t. He knew people. They knew that. So every time I called, they came by to collect evidence and then sent a letter that said nothing conclusive could be found. No prints. Nothing. Nada. “He must be wearing gloves,” Manny surmised.

One time I found a diamond tennis bracelet accompanied by a note that said he couldn’t wait to see it on my wrist, a package of tissues when I had a cold, and last month he even left a box of tampons on my dressing table. Yes, it happened to be that time of the month, which scared the hell out of me. He
knew
.

I was tired of hearing it all and thankful that he decided not to show tonight. I finished the final dance; my chest expanding with air that I couldn’t suck in enough of and my ankles wobbling from exertion. Along with the rest of the performers, we held hands and stretched out in a long, arced line across the stage. As one, we bowed to our audience, holding our smiles taut and saving our groans for backstage.

We descended the stage stairs in single file and made our way to the back. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I let it out. My dressing table was exactly as I’d left it: a mess. The entire wooden surface was littered with hair products and pins, make-up, brushes and sponges.

Ordinary. Funny how you could want it so bad when you didn’t have it in your life, but when all you had was normal, you wanted something—anything—to liven things up a bit. We always seemed to want what we didn’t have.
Grass is greener
syndrome or something.

Echoed chatter and giggles filled the dressing room. The showers were steaming up in the bathroom next door, and as tempting as that was, I just wanted to go home. I could get a non-communal shower there and then crash into my own bed and get some much needed sleep. Maybe I wouldn’t dream of freaks tonight.

My duffle was light but I couldn’t think of anything I’d forgotten. Somehow I was on autopilot on the drive home, because when I pulled into the parking lot I realized I’d made it, even though I didn’t remember any of the drive. I grabbed my bag and trudged forward, deciding that either the staircase had gotten longer while I was gone, or somebody put lead in my shoes.

It was probably the little tart I tripped. Her name was Kelly. Kelly reminded me of Kate and my vow to hate all women whose names began with the letter
K
.