Wicked Little Words Part 11

As I reach my Range Rover, the police light still spinning blue and red into the quiet night, my eyes drift back to the metal b.a.l.l.s hanging from the back of his truck... those stupid f.u.c.king metal b.a.l.l.s. I hate those f.u.c.king things.

"My Name is Human"-Highly Suspect "How long's it been here?" I ask as we pull the Charger up behind a mess of county police vehicles taking up the side of a two-lane country road outside the city.

The road is completely closed, with police tape surrounding a jacked up Ford F-150. A swarm of cops and medical personnel stand around, presumably bulls.h.i.tting as they await our arrival.

"Farmer called it in around noon. He'd seen it sitting here all morning," Tommy says as he groans his way out of the pa.s.senger side.

I meet him at the shoulder of the road, and we both duck under the police tape. A sergeant-Sergeant Callahan, his name tag reads-meets us behind the truck.

"How y'all doing?" he asks, extending a hand.

I shake it, and Tommy follows suit.

"Just another day in the life. What do we got here?" I ask.

"Well, first off, you noticing anything odd about this little scenario?" The sergeant motions to the truck.

I scan it, see nothing out of the ordinary, and my eyes meet his again. He's got a knowing look in his eye and a smile tugging at his lips.

"Look closer." He smiles.

I look again, scanning the truck more intently, and I can tell Tommy catches it as I do because he bursts into a wild fit of laughter. The other officers around the scene look at him judgingly, shaking their heads, and after seeing what I've just seen, I can understand why.

A set of b.a.l.l.s-a human set of b.a.l.l.s-sack, p.u.b.es, veins, and all, is tied with rope to a pair of metal b.a.l.l.s that hang just below the tow hitch.

I crouch to look at them, my hands rubbing my cheeks and my head shaking slowly.

"That's got to be the funniest s.h.i.t I ever seen right there." Tommy snorts, continuing to laugh obnoxiously loudly.

"We've got a murder victim in that truck, Detective," the sergeant says sternly, pointing toward the truck.

Tommy tilts his head, a smirk on his face and an easy look in his eyes. "Sergeant, with all due respect, go ahead and f.u.c.k yourself. You need us. We don't need you. Remember that." Tommy takes one last look at the b.a.l.l.s with a chuckle before he walks to the driver's side door hanging wide open. "Hoooo s.h.i.t, partner. You're gonna wanna see this mess."

As I meet him by the open door, the smell of ammonia hits me hard and forces me back a few steps. "Holy f.u.c.k," is all I can manage.

"Yeah," Tommy responds. "Looks like somebody was trying to cover their tracks, huh?"

"You're not f.u.c.king kidding," I say, scanning the man slumped over in the driver's seat with his pants around his ankles and a patch of fatty tissue where his d.i.c.k and b.a.l.l.s should be. "You think he f.u.c.king used enough ammonia?"

"I think he wanted to be real d.a.m.n sure." He nods toward a German shepherd lying limp beside its master's head, a gunshot wound to its stomach. "Think it had anything to do with the dog?"

"I think you're on to something."

"London Bridges"-Second Skin f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. I pound the steering wheel as I speed down the country road to the nearest twenty-four-hour Walmart ten miles away, a b.l.o.o.d.y aftermath left in my wake.

I can't believe I could be so f.u.c.king stupid. Why did I go back? Why didn't I just leave it as it was?

As I steer with my knee, I wrap a dirty T-shirt from the backseat around my bleeding hand. That piece of s.h.i.t dog bit me. My blood at the scene, my own f.u.c.king DNA, has the downfall of my entire career playing out in my head. If a trooper happens to be driving by, as unlikely as it is, and sees a truck abandoned on the side of the road, he's likely to check it out. When he discovers a mutilated body on the other side of the truck window, I imagine it's only a matter of time before they link it to me. My whole life spent as careful as can be, yet I wind up f.u.c.king myself in the end.

Walmart is only moments away though, and I pray they have what I need. Whom I pray to, I'm not quite sure, but somebody better f.u.c.king listen.

As if a punchline to a f.u.c.king joke, a car jerks out from the side of an overpa.s.s onto the road behind me, and blue and red lights pierce my back window in flashes.

I toss the b.l.o.o.d.y T-shirt to the floor and kick it beneath my seat, digging the revolver from my pocket. I imagine killing the officer as he approaches then speeding back home. I'll take my briefcase with all the necessary escape material-fake pa.s.sport, driver's license, cash, and disguises-and Miranda to the Asheville airport where my private plane sits waiting, ready to take me to South America forever.

Miranda and I will begin anew, killing and writing under a new name. My career-our career-will be reborn. She'll have to learn Spanish of course, but I can help her with that.

Instead, I slip the revolver into the middle console and slide my bleeding hand beneath my leg, readying my driver's license, insurance, and registration with the other.

A portly officer approaches, a flashlight shining into my open window. "Good evening. Any reason you're going so fast this evening?"

I hand over the doc.u.ments and he takes them, a.n.a.lyzing each. I force a smile. "Just got caught up in a night drive, officer. I'm an author, and when I get writer's block, sometimes I just gotta get out and drive. Lose myself to the music, you know." I laugh as I scrutinize the officer.

His focus is still directed toward my driver's license. He finally looks at me with an eyebrow raised, a slow smile creeping over his lips.

"Lucky for you," he winks and disgust ripples throughout my body, "I've met my quota of tickets for the month." He hands me back my doc.u.ments before rapping two knuckles against the car door. "You have a good night and slow down, alright?"

"Sure thing, officer."

Then he turns on his heel and heads back to the cruiser with a dance in his step. A wide smile takes up my face as I pull the Range Rover back onto the road, shaking my head at my own d.a.m.n luck.

"Take Her From You"-DEV I watch a flock of geese fly over the top of the pine trees, losing myself for a moment. I glance back at the screen, my eyes drifting to the word count that's barely budged over the past day. Yesterday, Edwin refused to write and locked himself in his bedroom.

This morning, he sat down, wrote a disjointed paragraph, started swearing at the computer, chucked the keyboard across the room, then hopped up and went out to the shed. All morning he's been going back and forth from the cabin to the shed.

And now, he's just pacing, his cheeks red. Finally, he plops down on the sofa, turning the TV on, and flips channels. Stopping on the news, he groans and leans over his knees, dragging his bandaged hand through his messy hair. I glance at the time on the computer screen and breathe a sigh of relief. Janine should be here any minute, and she can't get here fast enough.

I pull up my email, reading over Jax's messages for the tenth time today: I bet that pretty little voice of yours sounds even better when you beg.

I don't beg, was my reply.

You say that now, but wait until I get you all alone and naked, teasing you with my mouth. I will have you begging me to be inside you.

And I find myself smiling like an idiot. These emails started off innocently enough, but over the course of a few days, they've turned into foreplay. Message after message. Each one more descriptive and vulgar than the last. I skim over more of his promises-threats-and exhale.

I'll ruin you...

I'll let you.

I like it rough.

I like to be choked.

It's much easier for me, at least, to come across as flirtatious by using unspoken words, when I'm not face-to-face with someone who can hear the slight tremor in my voice, the uncertainty. I am, after all, a writer. It's been two days since I saw him, and no matter how hard I've tried, I can't get him out of my head. A distraction-Jax is a distraction. I try to plot or write, and somehow, my train of thought veers from screaming girls and hacksaws to his lips pressed against mine, his hands in my hair... me naked beneath him. To me being that girl.

The floorboards creak. The smile fades from my face as I turn in my chair to find Edwin looming behind me, his gaze glued to the computer screen, his nostrils flaring. I glance back at the message, close the screen, and clear my throat.

"Uh..." I push back from the desk and stand, skirting around Edwin, whose stare has yet to move away from the computer screen. "Janine should be here in a few. Sure you don't need anything from town?"

"No."

I swallow and give a quick nod as I grab my purse from the coffee table and head toward the door. It's cold as s.h.i.t outside, but I don't want to be in here with him. "Okay, well-"

"When are you going to be back? We need to write."

Write? Now he wants to write. No, I think he just doesn't want me to leave. He wants me here with him.

I freeze, my hand on the doork.n.o.b, my hairs standing on end. "I don't know."

I breathe a sigh of relief when I pull the door open and see Janine's car already in driveway. When I turn to close the door, Edwin's crossing the living room, his jaw tensed, fists clenched at his sides. "Miranda..."

Janine's horn honks. She clambers out of the car, shielding her eyes. "I've got another splitting headache." She opens the pa.s.senger door and plops down into the seat.

"Annoying b.i.t.c.h," Edwin mumbles, catching the door and slinging it open. He shoves past me and stops on the steps.

Janine rolls down her window, and I quickly walk past Edwin. I swear I can feel his eyes boring a hole into the back of my head as I hurry down the stairs, nearly missing the bottom step and tripping. I catch myself and go straight to the car, opening the door and climbing in without giving Edwin another glance.

"Oh"-Janine arches both brows and nods toward the porch-"he looks p.i.s.sed."

I don't look back. I don't want to.

"Janine," he shouts from the porch.

"Yes, dear?"

"I need to meet with you." His voice is shaking, and I imagine that if I were to look at him, he'd be talking through gritted teeth. "Soon," he says with a growl.

"Anything you want, EA." She waves and smiles before we pull off. "He's such an a.s.shat," she says with a laugh. "No wonder he doesn't have a woman. What woman is gonna put up with a moody b.a.s.t.a.r.d like him?"

I shake my head and stare out of the window, lost in my thoughts as I wind down the mountain.

Janine glances at me with a raised eyebrow. "So, drinks first? Don't you stand me up."

"Trust me, I need a stiff one. A really stiff one. You're a saint for dealing with him for as long as you have."

Nodding, she smiles. "Drinks to get you relaxed and your inhibitions lowered before you're off to that beautiful specimen's house to be manhandled like a two-dollar hooker."

"Dear Lord."

"And I do want the gritty details, hun. My p.u.s.s.y's starved." She cackles, slapping her knee.

The chilly breeze sweeps across the patio, cigarette b.u.t.ts and napkins tumbling over the concrete pavers. I shiver and pull my jacket tight across my chest.

"Now, this is cla.s.sy. Two ladies out on the patio for a midday gla.s.s of wine." She holds up her gla.s.s and winks at me. "Cla.s.sy."

"Yep. Winos have always been the top-notch of alcoholics."

She covers her mouth to keep from spitting out her wine, choking at the same time as she laughs. "Well, who knew? Little Miranda Cross does have a sense of humor after all-a dry sense, but a sense nonetheless."

"Sometimes." I lift my gla.s.s to my lips and take a steady sip, the bitter white wine sending another chill through my already cold body. "I should have had coffee."

"And Baileys? Oh, oh, or Jameson. Irish whiskey in coffee is phenomenal."

"Or just coffee." I eye Janine. She's always drinking. And while she manages to keep it together, at the root of it all, she is, in fact, a drunk.

"Nope. You need alcohol." She smirks before raising her gla.s.s once again. "Because you need to live a little. Remember what I said about experiences?"

"Yeah, yeah..."

The waitress brings a mother and her little girl out onto the patio and sets menus in front of them.

Janine glances at them, her lip curling ever so slightly. "Kids. Yuck."

"What?"

"They're like little parasites. They suck you dry and leave you for dead-and with a bunch of nasty stretch marks." She glances at me. "Anyway, you need to f.u.c.k him. Just to say you did it. Don't expect anything from it except maybe a good o.r.g.a.s.m."

"Janine..."

Her eyes remain fixed on mine, one brow arching, one corner of her lips curling up into a devious grin. "Men like that... that's all they are good for, hun. Trust me on this one. If you let them get their grubby little claws in too deep, they'll just break your heart." She nods. "f.u.c.k him. And leave him."

"f.u.c.k him and leave him?"

"Yep. Be that girl. f.u.c.k him hard and fast and good. Be the one he'll never be able to get out of his mind. The one he always wonders what the h.e.l.l happened to."

I stare off, not at anything exactly, just a random patio paver. That girl. She would f.u.c.k him and leave him.

"Mommy..." The little girl at the other table is attempting to whisper, but she's only talking in a rather hushed voice. "That lady. Look at her."

"Shhh."

I turn just in time to see the mother scolding the little girl, her eyes briefly flicking up to mine before she looks away.

"Rude little demons, see." Janine adjusts her shirt, tugging the neckline down enough to showcase her impressive cleavage. "Marilyn Monroe, she said something along those lines," she says, pushing back from the table and grabbing her purse as she stands.

"Said what? That kids are rude little demons?" I down my wine so fast a momentary wave of nausea settles over me.

"No, that 'a wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves before she is left.' Something to that effect." She smiles. "And Marilyn was that kind of girl."

"Who had an affair with a president and died before she was thirty..."

Janine's already to the gate, one foot on the sidewalk. "Exactly. She experienced life, hun. All you've done is write about it."

"Strange Love" - Halsey I stand on the porch, staring at the doorbell, my nerves completely rattled. I go to ring the bell but stop, quickly digging through my purse for a tube of lipstick. I touch up my lips, comb my fingers through my hair, and take a deep breath. Ring it, Miranda. Just do it.

And I do, my finger shaking. For a split second, I debate turning around and leaving. Because what am I going to do once I step through that door? It's six in the evening. And I'm at his house. Why? Because he thinks he's going to f.u.c.k me? That is what that email basically said. And here I am, because I want him to f.u.c.k me... s.h.i.t...

The lock clicks. My pulse speeds up. The k.n.o.b twists. I take another deep breath. The door opens, and here I stand, my mouth hanging open with not one f.u.c.king word to be found.