“My father died in prison.”
“ Prison? But you said-”
“I know what I said.”
She sighs. “My father really was a lawyer. But he was also a wife-beater. One day he went too far.”
“He killed your mother?”
“Yup.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly.”
“How old were you?”
“Almost fifteen.”
“Was this in Cincinnati?”
“Nashville.”
“Did they put you in foster care?”
“Those who were willing to take me didn’t have space yet, so I was placed on a waiting list. But I didn’t wind up in an orphanage, or children’s home, or whatever they’re called.”
“What happened?”
“At the last minute my aunt and uncle stepped up to the plate and took me in, which I thought was pretty nice of them, considering there was no inheritance or insurance.”
“Were they good people?”
“Were they good people?” she repeats. She thinks about it a moment.
“You know, they went to church sometimes, and they both had jobs. They bought me clothes, drove me to school each day, took me to the doctor. But things didn’t work out. I stayed with them a couple of months, then ran away.”
“Why?”
“My uncle tried to grope me whenever his wife wasn’t around. I could deal with that. But when he raped me, I felt he crossed a line.”
So Bobby was wrong. He wasn’t her first sexual partner.
“Why didn’t you tell your aunt?”
“He’s my father’s brother.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s just say Aunt May didn’t get all those black eyes by running into doors.”
I ease myself to the floor and sit with my legs crossed, facing her.
The last time I sat on a floor was in Chris Fowler’s kitchen, while gloating about fucking and robbing this same young lady, and her best friend.
I look up into her eyes.
“How’d you get away from your uncle? Where did you go?”
“After my uncle fell asleep that night I stole all the cash from his wallet and ran to the bus stop, hoping to get out of town before he discovered I was missing. But when I got there I read the schedule and learned the last bus had already come and gone an hour earlier.”
“What did you do?”
“Put my head in my hands and cried like a baby. I kept crying off and on until a guy showed up on a motorcycle and asked if I needed a ride.”
“Bobby?”
She nods.
“And you’ve been with him ever since?”
“Until just recently,” she says.
Right. Until just recently.
Because just recently I killed him.
I work it around in my head to make sure I understand the full impact of my actions.
Last Thursday evening, to blow off steam, I made it my life’s mission to seduce eighteen-year-old Willow Breeland, an orphaned cancer patient who’s suffered physical, emotional, and sexual abuse at the hands of her uncle and boyfriend. I manipulated Willow, humiliated her, and provoked her for no other reason than to get in her pants.
But that wasn’t enough.
I also felt the need to fuck her best friend, Cameron Mason.
Then I pulled a gun on both women, slapped Willow twice, threatened them, frightened them, and stole their money, including the cash Willow was hoping to use for her cancer treatments. In the process, I upset her boyfriend, Bobby, who basically saved her life three years earlier. Then, when he was wounded, unarmed, and helpless, I killed him, even though I could have easily saved his life.
And now I’m sitting here on the floor of my five million dollar penthouse, in perfect health, worried she wants something from me, like a place to stay for the night, and perhaps some sort of guidance regarding her terminal illness.
If that’s not enough, while all these thoughts are going through my head, I can’t help but think how incredible it would be to get into her sweet pants again.
I’m a bad doctor.
She says, “I brought you something.”
“You mean like a gift?”
“More like a get-out-of-jail card.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sit tight. I’ll bring it to you.”
“You’re not going to pull a gun on me, are you?”
She stands, walks across the room, and gets her suitcase. She extends the handle and rolls it across the floor behind her.
Now she’s standing over me, four feet away.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
“I’d rather not.”
She laughs. “It’s not a gun, Gideon.”
“Still.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
She turns away from me and unzips the main compartment and removes something. When she turns back to face me I realize she is, in fact, holding a gun. My first reaction is to jump to my feet, but she cocks the hammer and snarls, “Don’t even think about it, Gideon. I’m dying, I’m angry, and have nothing to lose.”
In the last few minutes Willow has put me through a lot of emotions. I’ve felt superior to her, inferior to her, sorry for her, curious about her, and even horny for her.
Now all I want to know is one thing. And hope I can ask it without allowing my voice to crack.
“What is it you want, Willow?”
33
“Lie down on your back,” she says.
“Why?”
“Just do it, Gideon. I’ve come a long way to be here.”
“If you’re looking for money-”
“Don’t insult me. I’m here because I have nowhere else to turn. Yeah, I was dying of cancer before you ever blew into town. But thanks to you, I’ve lost my boyfriend, my job, my best friend, and my apartment. Now lie down!”
I lie on my back and say, “Think this over before you do something stupid. I’m in a position to help you get
