Black and Blue (Chubby Chasers, Inc. Series Book 3) Read online

  I wonder absently whose dick you’ve gotta suck to get black roses.

  Did he go on the web and type in black flowers? I bet you Flowers.com have them. Probably one of his people whom he pays handsomely for favors. Maybe they left something!

  I raise my head, no longer concerned with flowers.

  It’s the vase I’m interested in. I peer hoping to see Crystal, maybe a vase with diamonds glued to it. Something with the feeder emblem at the very least.

  But it’s not an heirloom, just a throwaway, mass-produced. No one’s coming back for that.

  My heart clenches in my chest. He was never here.

  The moon was shining on them. That’s what I saw. Same as the sun is doing now, throwing violet blue dots around the room.

  My lungs feel like they’ve outgrown last year’s box. A side is rubbed against with every respiration, but there’s no more squeezing. I’ll take the tight feeling over actual squeezing.

  My arms are pinned, shackled. My hands feel like they’re dipped in cement. I can barely even bend my elbows.

  I stop pulling and just let my arms hang, splayed unnaturally against the headboard.

  I continue to wait. For nothing. Wiped out from my full-blown panic attack, I taste copper in the back of my parched throat.

  I am thirsty.

  I am fucked.

  I observe the sun blazing a trail across the room, creeping towards me. There’s nothing else to do.

  Day one AJ has begun. AJ. it makes me snort. After Javi.

  My old friend Denial shows up at some point. I welcome him with open arms.

  Javi

  First stop…food. I’m shaky, jittery. After-effects of adrenaline.

  Must be.

  I can’t believe I fucking left her there like that.

  What the fuck is wrong in here? I smack the side of my head, hard.

  She was a nice girl.

  She was a liar. There’s no way any of that was real. All of her whispers, romantic words…support. How could it all be true? She never met the real me.

  So I introduced her. To Javier.

  Okay, I pushed it with the roofies.

  The flan…was fun. I duck my head to hide my smirk.

  I shoved it in her face when I checked myself in. This will be it. The final straw in this milkshake. I’ll never hear from her again. Right?

  Nope, she staged a sit-in outside the psych facility. Just wouldn’t take a fucking hint.

  Kept coming back. No matter how bad I tried to fuck everything up…she was there. Is that love or stupidity? Maybe she’s the crazy one.

  I couldn’t be sure. They’re such fakers! It’s hard to tell!

  Not until the final snick of the restraint were her true feelings crystal clear. When she let me do that, submitted to my commands. Trusted me with her life. Gave it to me on a silver fucking platter. That was when I knew.

  She absolutely loved and trusted me completely.

  And had to fucking go.

  Love is power. Mother had the power. Blue wanted the power. But I took it back and snapped the fucking cord.

  Great, I’m working myself up now. I breathe and repeat the words till I start to believe them. I’m real, she’s not. They’re not. I’m real, she’s not. They’re not.

  I’m the one. Everything that happens in this world is happening for me. All set dressing, actors, playing their part in my world. Interchangeable, obsolete.

  I’m real, you’re not Blue.

  I’m real. Flesh not plastic.

  I’m real.

  As I wait my turn, I let the best pieces of her—her smile, her eyes, her heart—slip through the sieve that is my mind. I don’t fight the creaking door this time, just let it bang wide open and sweep the crumbs from the floor. Her laugh, the way she blushes, all gone on a cloud of dust.

  When it’s my turn to move, I give the truck too much gas and almost kiss the bumper in front of me. Almost. But the bitch still has to put me on blast.

  Her horn blasts, loud and insistent, just like the driver. Her pissed off eyes shout at me from her rearview mirror.

  I see your angry eyes in the mirror, Gordita. I didn’t hit you…yet.

  I leer back till I see her expression change from frustrated to puzzled, and then…wary.

  She looks away first, as she should. Not real, not like me.

  Great job on keeping a low profile, Javi. Just get some food and get on the fucking road.

  I move in line, careful of the witness who keeps darting glances back at me.

  I make no sudden movements and don’t meet her glass eyes again, no matter how much they beckon me. I will not draw any attention to myself. No one here can know that I’m the one.

  My mind wanders back to a fluffy white sweater and the kiss. The first time Blue tried to get the upper hand. Pizza and heavy petting. I release the absolute helplessness she made me feel and toss my soft feelings for her in as well. Her soft skin under my fingers, the sweet sighs…goodbye.

  Like a fucking little kid looking for a crumb of affection, I was pathetic. That was when I knew she could never love this. As I watched her sleep, I came in my pants and left.

  And should have just stayed away. Instead, I was like my father, giving her everything she wanted. I softened like butter and gave in. Letting her see only the parts of me she wanted to see.

  Sweet Javi, not the real me. The worst part? I believed that the adoration one feels for their creator was something it wasn’t. Real.

  I left Sweet Javi back at that cabin with the doll.

  I work at clearing away every shred of Blue from my psyche. Out it goes with the trash. The last bit goes kicking and screaming, down into the black depths. I almost feel sorry for her; I know what fiends lurk down there, in the darkness. She’ll have to toughen up if she plans on making it inside my mind.

  Another car moves up. I’m almost there. Food. Fuel for my body.

  The guilt is gone. The fake pain I saw in her eyes dropped down the rusty trapdoor that is my mind.

  There is something wrong with me, no doubt about it.

  Probably the reason I had to trade the Jeep in.

  Too much exposure. Too much easy access to my inner thoughts. Ideas I might have lying around, they’re always watching, trying to figure out what I’ll do next.

  I give all sides a quick once over, but even Dragon Eyes in front of me is no longer looking this way.

  Nobody sees me.

  Not in this bad boy. A suburban with tinted windows, Gretchen and her buddies will never find me here. I hit the roof and am satisfied by the thick clang of steel.

  Not like that fucking Jeep with the soft top. No protection there.

  Anyone could just reach in, right through the flimsy fabric top, and steal my thoughts, my dream girls.

  Add in the migraine that sickening smell was giving me—who uses that much raspberries and vanilla? That car was a rolling bad memory.

  Is Gretchen real? The thought is so foreign to me, my empty stomach lurches and I stifle a gag. Is she?

  “Yes, yes, she’s real. I know she is!” I hit the steering wheel for emphasis, the horn blasts. Gordita Dragon in front gives me terror eyes, then rolls her window up as fast as she can. I watch the sunlight reflect off her glass eyes. No emotions, just a drone. I should have fucking hit her, wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

  What about Sasha? I nod my head. That one, I’ll concede maybe, might be plastic. Someone else’s discarded broken trash, it’s possible.

  But not Gretchen, I won’t believe it!

  Of course she’s real. I shake my head at the ludicrous thought. She has to be. She’s the only one who can see me, can know. If she isn’t, then I’m all alone.

  But the evidence proves it.

  ‘12.’ When I was done with her, it wasn’t nice, not the way to treat toys that you’re supposed to care for. She went into her own trunk.

  But she almost killed me! Got loose from the scarves and got the slip on me.

 
I turned my back on her for one minute. I should have known. “12” was too streetwise. Even made us take separate cars to the motel. Like I was some kind of psycho she couldn’t even take a car ride with. But, she let this psycho feed her, huge mistake.

  I was making her a banana split with whipped cream. So high on sugar and sex, I didn’t even see it coming.

  The phone cord. The very same one that I’d cut, used as an example earlier, was now my noose.

  Over my head and around my throat before I even knew what was happening.

  She got a good grip on the snare and threw her weight into choking the life out of me.

  My throat closed. I clawed at my own skin, trying to get it off of me. Air was squealing in and out of my chest. Still, the snare tightened.

  I reached down, knocking empty plates and containers to the floor. Where the fuck is it?

  There should be a sharp knife right here. Sticking out of the…cheese wedge!

  The edges of my vision blackened, smoke over water, but I saw it. The black handle.

  I nicked myself as I jammed the tip of the knife under the digging plastic around my neck, cutting through skin and snapping the cord.

  I whooped in great gusts of air and kept an eye on the traitor. ‘12’ fell to the floor, shocked. I pounced before she could recover. She was bigger than me. I shoved her arms above her head and held the knife to her throat. Once I had her, under me. I surveyed the mess she’d made. Salvageable?

  Maybe. I grinned down into her smeary face, but all I saw were huge, round terrified glass. I squinted looking at her eyes from all sides. She blinked, and then it was just ordinary frozen eyes that screamed up at me.

  Oh, she begged and blubbered, but it was too late, I’d seen it. It was there.

  “Don’t fucking move, Muñeca! I’ll pop your fucking plastic head right off your neck.”

  She got it. As I used the shorter piece of phone cord and tied her hands in front of her, I wondered, stupidly, why I didn’t do this in the first place.

  Restrain her. I blew out a breath and looked down at her. “You almost did it!” I rubbed the tender flesh stretched over my Adam’s apple, feeling a welt as thick as my finger rising around my neck.

  I bent over and screamed in her face. “Tried to fucking kill me? Who sent you? Gretchen? My mother? Whose army do you march in!”

  That was it! Then I saw what I was looking for, under the broken table. “You better hope you didn’t break the nozzle.”

  “I told you, but you didn’t want to listen. You’re not going anywhere til you finish your dessert.” I grabbed the whipped cream can, and mounted the bucking bronco, spraying the can dry down her throat. Fighting, she bit my spray finger down to the bone. But I was past all that now. I scooped melted ice cream out of the stiff carpet and rubbed scoop after linty scoop in her hair.

  Then I saw it. Faker. Her face. It changed. I reached down, and she tried to squirm away from my bloodied sticky fingers. Still trying to hide till the end. One gossamer stroke of her chin and all my suspicions were confirmed.

  Plastic, not flesh.

  Into the back of her trunk, she went. There was a bright spot in all of the betrayal. Irony at its finest. I had to pull a black trash bag full of used toys out of the way so she’d fit. She was a big one. But I liked the cushion.

  I move with the line. Once I’ve got some food in me, I’ll be stronger.

  So, yeah, Gretchen may be more authentic, more real than even I am. Even though I texted her before I left that parking lot, stopping by my girl in the trunk and giving a victory honk, she didn’t come running. It took Gretchen twenty-four hours to go “find” her.

  Her tests are a lot harder to pass than mine.

  A whole day stuffed in the trunk, sitting in her packaging, waiting for someone to open it and find her, touch her, make her come to life.

  That was all Gretchen. Hell hath no fury like a boss scorned. I didn’t believe any of the lies the faker said about Gretchen. A back stabber? Gretchen’s loyalties have been proven over and over. She’s had many opportunities to stab me in the back, call the police, tell Tony, and all that that entails, but she’s remained true “blue.”

  I stretch my neck, trying to relax the sudden tension I feel there. Enough with the blue.

  But, what about…Sasha? Hmmm, that’s a tough one. Before the business with the Weight Watchers girl, I would’ve defended her till my death. As genuine as they come. Real as rain.

  But the deceit, the lies, the going behind my back. And she fucking knew, too. She knew the Weight Watchers girl was getting out of hand, going to therapy, school, and she did nothing to stop it. Just let it happen. That means either she’s not real, or is real and is plotting against me. Neither of those situations is stellar.

  Ever since my father left me without a look back, I found out the hard way. Real people can hurt you.

  I wipe a shaky hand over my face. It was the fucking Jeep that started all of this inner turmoil.

  The damn soft top. I was exposed! That’s what’s got me feeling this way.

  I’d driven until I found an Avis rental car and traded it in. No questions asked.

  It’s a good thing, because I didn’t have any answers.

  This one’s better, smells just how a rental should. Nondescript with an undertone of dirty feet.

  I tap the wheel, but I’m still careful. My eyeballs crawl with an itch I can’t scratch. Like I should be seeing something. I scan the parking lot.

  No one’s looking at you. Knock it off.

  When I’m absolutely sure, everyone’s eyes are on their own paper, I can breathe. So I do.

  I start a list to help calm me. Doesn’t really matter what I’m categorizing, just as long as I have something to organize. I go through the recipe for flan. It’s soothing, smooths out my knotted nerves.

  The secret to a great flan? Wet cooking. The best way to keep your sugar from getting burnt while you wring out every drop of sweetness.

  “Hi. $5.32, please.”

  I jump and look around, expecting to find my keeper glaring at me.

  But it’s not Gretchen.

  Just the drive-thru girl, who’s looking at me funny.

  Dammit, get it together!

  I hand her a twenty, avoiding her eyes as I do, and wait for my change. No tips at McDonalds.

  I don’t look it in the eyes again. I didn’t like what I saw there.

  I don’t want to do anything that will make her remember me.

  Not trusting myself to drive yet, I pull over to eat.

  I run through my honey do list of all the things that need to be done back at the casa. For some reason, it feels like nothing ever gets taken off the to-do side and moved to the done pile. Up at the crack of dawn, I usually start my day with a whistle and a smile, enthused to be getting shit done, only to get lost, sidetracked.

  Maybe the doc should add ADHD to my growing list of diagnoses.

  Added to the very top of my chore list? A recently vacated room in need of a makeover.

  Blue is such a virginal color, isn’t it? Reminds me of angels, clouds, sorrowful eyes, secret whispers.

  A crack ricochets through my head, making me wince as bolts of agony stab my brain. I look around, but no, no one else heard it. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel until the worst of the pain subsides.

  A fissure line deepens before a large piece of blue gingham breaks away. I envision it falling, tumbling over and over, into the dank, black void inside of me.

  Thank God.

  My mood evens out as I finish my hash brown. They’re so tasty here. I’ve never had another that tastes even half as good as this little guy in the white wrapper.

  I feel better, invigorated. I just needed to recharge.

  So, what color then?

  Perhaps, something in silver, shiny and cold.

  No hearts and flowers this time. No soft edges. I shiver and turn the air vent away.

  I bite my lip as I think. A robot room
? Maybe a steampunk salon? And what would be a good name for this Muñeca? Hmmm. I daydream about top hats and gears, which leads my thoughts to sterile places lined with cold metal tables. Sterile, cold, clean...a surgical suite?

  I shake my head and give up on this vine. Biopsies and appendectomies will never fly with the ladies.

  But it feels good to be moving forward, planning again. All it takes is a seed, just a kernel of information and boom! Instant girlfriend.

  This is how it always starts. I haven’t even vacated the last tenant and I’m already putting out the For Rent sign—my own personal doll collection come to life.

  I dream up the perfect scene, complete with the lead character’s persona. From her name to her dress size, I make that shit up in my mind.

  She doesn’t exist until I make her exist.

  For a while I was into pinups, but I’m over that now. The last one was the very last one. I need a change.

  In my mind it begins. How she will bend for me. Molding to fit whatever niche it is that I want her to fit into. Eager, pliable. That’s how it works, from my head to paper. No detail too small, from the hair to the shoes, she’ll talk, dress, eat, act, just for me.

  I am the maker, and I take my job seriously. I write everything down with a painstaking eye for detail, in a pink notebook, with only the roughest of sketches. They look like the crudest form of paper dolls. I don’t pretend to be an artist. Just a conductor. But I don’t conduct the entire symphony. I get help from the Ladies, who have the ultimate veto power. It has to be that way. There are times when I’m…not myself.

  This is my Favor, a living, breathing, walking doll.

  Off the pages of my meticulously thought-out blueprints and brought to life.

  I don’t always get my way.

  Part of her rules. This is not a monarchy. Sometimes I think Gretchen’s more trouble than she’s worth. With her rules and friends?

  Sasha, her friend pet, makes her happy, so I let her keep it. I love it, too, so long as it doesn’t bite me, shits where it’s supposed to, and remembers who fills its food bowl.