|
Benny sprawled by the fireplace and sipped with greedy need at a steaming cup of coffee. Two ice water baths in one day were way too much. Even his bones were shivering. He glanced out the sliding doors of Ron's den. How the freek long does it take to dry one pair of jeans?
Millie bustled in with a pot of coffee and a grin. Benny smiled at the pot, slurping down the dredges in his cup and in silence cursing the scalding liquid even as he held out his cup for more.
She topped it. Heat stealing through him, Benny sighed. Delicious, liquid gold. The fire spat a hot spark of pine up the chimney.
"Would you like to watch a little TV?" Millie took a remote from a small table beside the couch and tapped the power button. Panels of black gum wood slid apart on the wall to reveal a glowing sixty-inch wall screen. Millie held out the remote. The power button glared a mocking red eye. Benny shrank from it.
"No?" She gave him a puzzled look. The panels closed. "Well, if you change your mind, it's right here." Millie lay the remote on the coffee table. Intent only on the red, winking eye, Benny gave a faint nod.
Evil. It was evil. Agadoli Buu, Eye of the Devil.
"I'm going to town to see Ron. Benny, will you be all right?" She frowned.
Barely able to hear Millie over the thump of trapped hiccups, he gave the woman a scant nod.
Millie cast a worried glance over Benny. Eyes quizzical and wondering at Benny's odd change of behavior, she slid the doors shut.
He was frozen, unable to tear his gaze from the thing on the table. A car backfired. It jolted Benny out of the mesmerizing effects of the malevolent eye. Benny scrambled over the back of the couch and huddled there. The mug shattered on the immaculate floor. All he could do was lay there, hands over his head and tremble.
It looked one from the Manse. Like the kind guards used for the merest infraction of a multitude of rules. The sadistic bastards didn't need a reason. Ghosts of pain rose to choke him. Mocking whispers tormented him.
Hey, whore-boy. Back-door whore-toy. You will go with that old bat and do anything, and I mean anything, you little cock gobbler, that she wants. Hear me, tipi creeper?
Screaming an inarticulate cry, Benny clawed his way out of the den. Chest heaving, Benny fell to the kitchen floor. Breath strangled in his throat. The collar. It's gone. It-is-gone. Gone. Please, God, make it be gone.
Trying not to weep in shame, Benny wiped cold sweat from his face with a shaking hand. The remote. Only a TV remote, like plenty he saw in Dubcheck's foster home, Children's Homes. Like the ones guards used. Like the one Cindy VanTur-McAllen used when she wanted her pet to do tricks.
Roll over, Benny. Sit up, Benny. Play dead, Benny. And do exactly as I say or feel my wrath on you, Benny. If I told you to kill your own mother, you would, Benny. I swear it to you. I swear it, boy.
Shuddering with self-hate and shame, Benny crawled to his feet, staggering to the heavy oak trestle table in the kitchen. He slumped in a chair.
Christ, dear God.
The coffeepot shined in the bright morning's light. Benny reached for it and a new mug. No way he was going in that den and acting like some chicken-ass bimbo. Most of the coffee he poured went into the cup. With the tail of the tent-sized bathrobe Millie loaned him, he mopped up the spill.
That kid of hers, Boone, must be built like a brick outhouse. The picture of a mountain of muscle, topped by a head the size of a pin made him laugh.
With a shake of his head Benny said, "Nah. Two brains like Ron and Millie would never produce a pinhead. Not like Mom did." Benny fingered the faint scars of training collar he once wore. A sick shame welled in him. Friggin Chillin McAvoy and her half a K blow job. No bim was worth that much for a piece, and he ought to know. Still, the Manse was collecting a couple of grand a night for him, but he worked for them to earn it, too, and worked hard at pleasing the women. Bastards.
The coffee in his cup sloshed over his fingers. Benny very carefully sat it on the table.
The dryer bell rang. Benny raced the length of the kitchen to the pantry for his things. He snapped on the jeans and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth when hot steel of the button met very tender flesh. He scowled and finished dressing. Millie tossed his socks in the trash. Women, always wanting to run a guy's life. Hey, those socks would do. Charity was for losers.
The boots he found up side down over the ends of the kitchen's fire dogs. They were warm enough from the blaze in the fireplace, but still wet. The one that colt played with had a drop of water hanging out of it. Wincing at the rasp of leather over raw blisters, he dragged them on.
Out of the house, Benny trotted to his ride and pulled a leg over the saddle. Man, the old lady was nice, and Ron . . . Who cared what happened to cops? Even a good one like fat boy. Risking death came with the job. But Millie -
Millie was way too much like Mom. He kicked the starter, and Millie's car pulled into the driveway.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
|
