Do Not Disturb, Page 3

  “Good morning Marcus.” His attorney’s voice speaks of an awakened man.

  “I want this anklet off sooner. This is bullshit. I’m a respected man for Christ’s sake. I have a business to run; can’t do that from the house.”

  “It’s been six days. I can’t petition the judge till you’ve been out for at least a month. Just try to behave.”

  “How can I not? Jesus, couldn’t you have at least stocked the house with some ass?”

  Silence. “It’s three months, Marcus. Three months during which the judge will be examining every move you make. As will the McLaughlin family, the press, and every one of your enemies. You need to stay away from women. Preferably forever. But at least during this time. Otherwise, you’ll be back in prison, simple as that.”

  “I’ve been locked up for a year and a half. It’s been so long my housekeeper is looking attractive.”

  “Masturbate,” the man says flatly. “Then focus on something other than sex.”

  Marcus hangs up the phone. Takes a long pull of coffee. Decides, when the girl returns, that he’ll ask her for breakfast.

  The black bitch never comes back.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  A man he doesn’t recognize rises from a seat at the kitchen table, silverware mid-polish before him. Black uniform, the slacks and monogrammed button-up indicating he is a member of the staff. No name tag needed because he doesn’t give a damn about their names. This one has red hair. Ugh. He’d never met a redhead he cared for. Case in point Katie McLaughlin. That bitch would stalk him to the grave.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Renza, which girl?”

  “The one who filled my coffee. It’s been an hour. I’d like some fucking breakfast without having to walk halfway across this house to get some. I have things to do.”

  The man blinks. “I’m so sorry. Diana was fired, Mr. Renza. She left.”

  “Fired?” He puts his hands on his hips. Glares with all the strength possible considering he is still in his bathrobe. “By who?”

  “Mr. Theland did. I was brought in by the—”

  He turns, unconcerned with whatever bullshit is about to come out of the man’s weak mouth. Another example of his punishment. How he is free, but isn’t free. His decisions are not his own.

  Marcus moves down the hall, his bare feet smacking on the unpolished granite, entering the bedroom with one stiff push on the door, yanking at his sash and dropping the robe to the floor. Falling back on the carefully made bed, he yanks at his pajama bottoms with a frantic hand, his fingers digging at and withdrawing his cock, its length already hard and ready. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his toes, and wills his mind to focus on images that will take him to release.

  Jerk.

  Tug.

  The over-conditioned prick does little to respond. He spits on his palm and tries harder.

  Recloses his eyes and tries to focus. Tries to push past twenty-two months of abstinence and remember the curve of a woman’s ass. The squeeze and grip of her body as he thrusts inside. The way her breasts bounce when she fucks. The moan when she is broken.

  Somehow, despite the faint memories, he manages.

  CHAPTER 8

  I SIT AGAINST the door and eat apple pie. It doesn’t really taste like an apple pie. It tastes like an apple Pop-Tart warmed in the microwave, with sprinkles of bland crunch on top. But I’m bored and not ready for bed, so what the hell. I chew, the consistency soggy as it is pushed around by my tongue and ground into nothing by my teeth. I chew and stare, my eyes glued to the window as they’ve been for the last seven minutes. I don’t know why I find it so appealing. Appealing: wrong word. Tempting: better. I have survived, for three years, by not focusing on this window. I avoid it most days. Alternate between covering it with paper and ripping it bare and staring outside. Back when I moved in, when I was idealistic and scared, and doing everything in my power to restrain my urges, I painted it shut. Added a fresh coat when I went rose-petal-pink crazy on my cam bedroom a year later. Tug on that window, and it doesn’t matter how many push-ups I do, it isn’t budging. But suddenly, swallowing a thick glob of apple, I want it open. I want the scent of night, to stick my head through and see stars.

  That night, when I drove to Annie, I saw stars. A blanket of them stretched carelessly across the sky, as if their existence was no fucking big deal. For nine hours I got to see them. And now, as I crunch my way through stale apple substitute, I suddenly want, even have, to see them again.

  I toss the paper plate to the side and stand. Walk to the kitchen counter and open the drawer. Grab the only knife I keep readily available, a butter knife. Wild woman I am. I grip the knife in my fist and walk to the window. Slide the edge down the jamb and start to scrape the paint.

  Scrape. I don’t focus on the task, or the growing pain in my hand from the effort. I sit on a stool by the window and scrape at the dried pink paint. Wonder, with each dig of metal into pink, if I will regret this. Is seeing stars worth the temptation of fresh air? Worth the removal of a barrier? I break through the final piece of paint and set the knife down. Move the stool aside and flip the window’s latch, placing my hands on the wooden frame. Pause for a beat as I analyze this poor decision.

  Yes, this is wrong.

  But my sanity is worth a little risk.

  I need this step. I need to prove I can handle this step.

  I yank, the window sticking an inch up, the crisp night air sneaking through the crack. I tug harder, the whistle of air blowing stronger as the wood behaves underneath my palms and slides all the way up. I smile despite my better judgment, and lean through the dark hole.

  Stars. A galaxy of them, stretching above me. I stare, my breath gone for one moment, stolen by the awesomeness of our galaxy. Wonder at the view from the heavens. Wonder whether my family is up there, watching me, watching this step. Wonder if they are proud, or if they are screaming at me to get the hell back inside. That is the issue with being my own police, the responsibility to decide if the decisions I make are right. Annie was right. I know that, I have to believe that. I return inside for a brief, depressing moment and grab a blanket, gingerly sliding a foot through the open window and sitting on the ledge, the blanket around me, my forefinger running over a small blister on my thumb. I opened the window and it is okay. It is night; I am, in a small way, free. My reward: the stars, stars I have missed, stars I’ve spent three years imagining on the ceiling above me. I lean my head back against wood and look up.

  And here, under this sky of impossibility, I feel the first slice of understanding at the enormity of things out of my control. I am one of thousands underneath this sky, not someone particularly special or unique.

  Yes, I’ve killed. Yes, I still want to kill. But, looking up at thousands of lights that could harbor unknown galaxies and universes, could hold my missing family, I feel a bit, there, somewhere… yes… a flicker of hope.

  There has to be a plan. I have to have a purpose. I am, despite all that rots in my core, a good person.

  I sit, my head resting on the frame, a pile of pink paint shavings beneath my dangling foot, and stare until my eyes become heavy and I finally move to bed, leaving the window open, the fresh air my excuse.

  Star light. Star bright.

  First star I see tonight.

  I wish I may, wish I might.

  Not kill those whom my heart holds tight.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I WANT TO see you naked.”

  I fight a yawn. Shocker. This guy is original. With a name like PluckTheBirds I would have expected more. But that’s what I get for a guy whose webcam is turned on, yet facing a blank wall, his need to speak versus type indicating a desire for full hands-on masturbation. I smile, shimmy out of my teddy and step closer to the cam, slowly pulling off my shelf bra as my eyes watch the cam clock. It’s a delicate balance, stretching out the minutes without pissing off the clients. But it’s something that I, in my online persona as JessReilly19, have mastered. I turn, my back to
the cam, and crawl onto the bed, bending over before the cam and sliding my panties over my ass when he speaks, the words giving me pause.

  “You like pain?”

  I pause. PluckTheBirds better not be wanting to pluck my hairs, or watch me scrape on nipple clamps and tug my girly points to bloody bits. There are other girls on this site for that. Girls that get wetter the more pain that rips through their body. Girls that rival me in craziness. “In what way?” I almost stop my panty removal process, ready to sit up, lean back and press the “End Chat” button.

  “I like pain. I’d like you to tie me up. Hurt me, cause me pain.”

  I relax, kicking my leg to the side, watching my panties fly across the room.

  Yeah. Yeah, I like pain.

  Twelve minutes later, I am about to come. My excitement builds at the realization. It rarely happens in a chat, my body too bored with the constraints of digital interaction. But this man, this sub, wants pain. It’s something I rarely do; the clients wanting that normally go for the dominatrix types. But today has been slow and my fingers are numb from the vibration of my toys, so what-the-hell, I’m here, my legs spread, my fingers strumming across my clit in a frantic movement that would make Keith Richards proud. And I am pouring my soul out to him. Our role-play has me straddling his body, his hard cock inside of me. My hands wrapped tight around his neck. His hands tied, spread-eagle to the bed, helpless to stop me. The frantic pumps of his hips as he tries to squirm free pushing his cock deeper and deeper, the thrash of his body creating additional friction against my clit. He is hard despite himself. Unable to resist my body. The soft touch of my fingers, even as they dig into the muscles of his throat. I make him stare into my eyes as he gulps for air.

  I can physically hear his gasps, his begs as he, as excited as I am, pleads for his life. And when he comes, when his breaths become short and fast and finally stop—I imagine that I am done. That the life has left his body, that he is dead and I have killed him. And that final image pacifies my sick mind for the rest of the night.

  That night, I sleep like a baby.

  CHAPTER 10

  TWO NIGHTS LATER. I pull a load of laundry out of the dryer, the job made easy by the fact that 90 percent of the items are in delicate-garment bags, mesh pouches that protect my lingerie and subdivide the majority of my laundry, a few pairs of sweats added in. I hold the phone in the crook of my shoulder, glancing at the wall clock as I move.

  “I’ve got to go. I have a call scheduled in a few minutes.”

  “I should be headed to my sister’s house anyway. Is it Paul?”

  I grin at Jeremy’s response. “Yes, it’s Paul. I’ve got to stop talking to you about clients. I’ll lose my rep for secrecy.”

  I shouldn’t talk to him about my clients. I’ve always freely discussed them with Dr. Bryan, my sex therapist, our conversations protected by the beautiful cloud of doctor/client confidentiality. But my conversations with Jeremy don’t have that protection. If he wanted, he could put a billboard on the side of I-10, broadcasting my clients’ secrets across four lanes of freeway traffic. I’m not sure who would pay attention. No one knows who IWearMommasPanties42 is. I could find out, if I cared enough to sic Mike on them. But I don’t dig, and Jeremy doesn’t know usernames or specific intimate details. I’ve only discussed a few clients with him—my regulars. Paul, the sweetheart who calls me daily, madly in love with a figment of my imagination. Frankie, my latest FinDom client, a relationship which will last until he depletes his bank account. DoctorPat, my resident physician, who prescribes me the pills I pay Simon with in exchange for watching him corrupt his ass with whatever phallic-shaped item he has handy.

  “Paul gets more conversation time in than I do.”

  I hesitate in my steps to the bed, unsure at the tone in his voice. Is it jealousy? I am so out of practice that I don’t know. But it seems, from the subtle hints he occasionally drops, that the emotional clients bother him more than the physical. Which, in some ways I get. In other ways, this entire relationship is screwed six ways to Sunday, an hour-long chat with a lonely man being the least of our hurdles.

  “We still on for the movies tomorrow night?” he asks.

  I upend the laundry basket onto my cam bed, tossing the plastic bin to the side and beginning the super-exciting process of unzipping and dumping out the mesh bags of lingerie. “I don’t know if you can call four o’clock night… but yeah. I haven’t made other plans.” My other cell, the one I use while camming, vibrates against the wood of my desk. I speak quickly. “I got to go.”

  “Bye, babe.” There is a smile in his voice and my own face responds, curving upward.

  “Bye.”

  I end the call and answer the second¸ moving to my computer as I speak.

  “Hey, Paul.”

  “Hey. I’m in the chatroom.”

  I scroll through my site, find the private chatroom with Paul’s username in it, and click. Start the clock, then put my laptop down, moving back to the laundry. “Got it. I’m in. How’s your day going?”

  We settle into conversation, the words flowing easily. I know him, in all honesty, better than Jeremy. I can predict his responses, can tell you the name of every member of his family, his best friend growing up, the last five repairs he did to the barely-a-classic Bronco he’s driven since high school. And he thinks that he knows everything about me. I stopped making up things on our third chat, when I realized his memory could be listed as a registered weapon it is so sharp. I use as many real names and details as I can, dutifully recording everything that I tell him on a notepad I keep for our chats. During our calls I live in a world I once knew—that of a college freshman, sharing details of my old roommate, Jenny, a girl who is probably now pregnant and married, but—in my warped sense of time—lives in the connected apartment and never buys laundry detergent, hangs wet towels all over the porch, and goes through relationship drama with every male she can find. He knows about Summer and Trent, though—in my fairy-tale world—they are still alive, anxiously waiting for me to get home for break. Trent recently developed an obsession with video games, Summer is trying out for Pee Wee cheerleading. I love our chats. I love the admiration and warmth that fills his voice, the way he pictures me. In Paul’s mind, I am perfect. And, in the world I create on our calls, my life is perfect. No thoughts of murder, no blood in my past. My family is alive and normal; they love me. My world is open and free; I am a normal college student with normal problems. Finals. Best friend drama. The difficult decision of whether I should spend spring break in Cabo or Panama City Beach.

  I fold and sort thongs, panties, boyshorts. Line push-ups, underwires, and camisoles in my drawer. Hang up teddies, silk robes, and schoolgirl button-ups. Organize my leather crops, dildos, and ball gags. Strip off sheets that smell of lube and replace them with a fresh pink set. Lie back on said sheets and stare at the ceiling. Wish I saw stars instead of beams. Listen to Paul’s smooth voice and glance at the time. One hour twenty-one minutes so far. I close my eyes and laugh when he jokes.

  There is a knock on the door, and I sit up with a frown.

  Jeremy? I don’t know who else it could be. But this is odd, especially since he should be chewing on a ribeye at his sister’s house right now. I move to the door and look through the peephole, right at the time that another knock sounds.

  Simon, his black hair sticking out in all directions. My frown deepens, and I hold the phone away from my mouth, covering the receiver with my hand. “What?” I call out to him.

  The druggie’s head snaps up, his eyes at the peephole. It’s a weird experience when someone looks directly at you through the warped viewing glass. When you look back, knowing that they can’t see you, despite the proximity and directness of their stare. “Hey. I just wanted to see if you were home.”

  “I’m always home.”

  He laughs awkwardly, looking up and down the hall before looking at the peephole again. “Right. Can I come in? I thought maybe we could hang out. Get to kno
w each other. I wanted to apologize for the other night… I brought beer.” He holds up what looks to be a six-pack.

  He brought beer. Like six bucks’ worth of alcohol will change our entire relationship, cause me to open my door and welcome a stranger inside, to “get to know each other.” I’ll get to know him all right. Every inch of what lies underneath his skin. I bet his muscles are dry, the drugs in his system eating at any extra blood or fat. It’d probably be a breeze to skin him. I almost salivate at the thought and am brought back to earth by Paul’s voice in my ear. “You okay?”

  Paul. Oh, right. The guy paying me seven bucks a minute to break his heart. I step away from the door, move the phone in front of my mouth. “Just a sec. My neighbor’s asking for something.” Asking for me to cut him open. Feast on his skin with every utensil in my safe.

  I almost move to it. Roll my fingers over the safe’s dial to unlock the heavy door. Just in case. Just so I won’t have to struggle with it while Simon is here. Just so I can move the weapons to strategically convenient places around the room. Almost. Instead I take a deep breath, move away from the safe, back to the door. “Go away, Simon.”

  “But—I…” He continues holding up the beer, a pathetic waste of a gesture. Ice-cold soda and he may have been granted entry. A root beer float, the ice cream still bobbing on top of dark carbonation? I’d have broken down the door in my haste to let him in.

  Instead, I rest my forehead on the door, my eyes stuck to his image. “Leave me alone,” I bite out, my hand gripping the phone so hard I worry about breaking its cheap frame in half.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul’s voice sounds worried. I ignore it, staring through the peephole.