In the corner of his mind or maybe his ear, he could hear a familiar sound, the same one that had brought them to their knees and pounded inside his mind.
Stay a while.
He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, and he could sense there was someone behind him. He jerked to his side. Nothing. He walked cautiously over to the washroom and turned on the tap. Cold water to his face was refreshing. The presence came once more. Stay a while. Lifting his head, he saw a shadow move through the corner of the mirror, gone as fast as it was there.
He stepped into the living room to find nothing again. “Come on,” he called out angrily. Trevor moved back to the bathroom to grab an extra first aid kit from under the sink. He grabbed a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet and made his way back toward the entrance. He stopped. Their bedroom door at the end of the hall was closed. It wasn’t closed before. He never closed the door during the day. Trevor set his supplies down on the kitchen table and made the dreaded walk down the hall. “You think you’re good, don’t you? You want me to look crazy, is that it? Want me to think I’m crazy? Good luck with that.” Trevor wiped his forehead on his sleeve. The room was too quiet.
“You’re all going to need a few more IQ points to make me question myself. So keep working at it. It will take you quite a while!” He stopped in front of the door. “The second-rate theatrics are just pissing me off now. Kidnapping, emotional damages, the parade of liability concerns… Keep serving it up on a platter. I suppose the longer you feel like conducting your skit, the angrier I’ll get, and the more fucked you’ll be.”
Trevor exhaled. Whatever he had felt earlier in the woods, it had its grips on him again. The walls were closing in, suffocating him. Reaching for the knob, he was powerless, giving into his unknown desires. The door cracked open and he paused, grimacing before revealing a darkened uncertainty.
Trevor threw the door open, slamming into the wall, causing pages upon pages of newspapers to flutter up into the air, circulating back down toward the floor. On his bed laid hundreds of newspaper articles, each of which had something circled in red in the bottom right corners. Page three of the Times, business insider, although it wasn’t so much business involved in the write-up. Instead, it was a follow up to Trevor’s severe wrongdoings. Throw a pebble, there’s a ripple effect. In this case, drop a bomb, destroy someone.
Gary Valencia, hard-working second-generation American, originally from Mexico City, grew up poor; father took a chance and got out, that whole story. They were good people. Made the sacrifice for their children, children seized the opportunity given, and Gary built something solid upon nothing.
After Mr. Valencia’s shares had been diluted without his approval or understanding, Trevor had lost tabs on him. He supposed it was on purpose, given that he couldn’t sleep many nights.
And now, hovering over the bed, single newspaper in hand, Trevor stared down at the circled portion and read. Gary Valencia had shot himself in a hotel not two blocks from his home. The article mentioned the business mishap on Gary’s end and labeled it more as a disagreement among the newly formed partnership with Angel Investors at Fairway Capital, whereby they were forced to oust him—buy him out, when in reality he hadn’t received as much as a dime. It read that financial compensation was omitted for the time being. To tie it up in a nice bow dipped in anthrax, the article went on to explain his intentions of getting a life insurance claim for his family to help keep them afloat. It had been more than two years since he had committed to a sizable insurance policy and from his understanding, suicide would still prohibit a payout if executed after the two years of owning the policy. But the crafty insurance company found a way around that of course. It was a fine-print screw job of sorts, leaving the family without a penny.
Trevor backed himself up against the wall, reading the article over and over again, trying to smash the black print into his mind. Somewhere in the black smudgy words under his sweaty fingerprints, the same image of his father being shot in an alley crept in. Would Gary Valencia have hired a hit? Or maybe it was a disgruntled relative evening the playing field?
He staggered toward the door, and when it opened, Cassidy was there waiting for him in the living room, vindictive smile and all, the curves of her lips causing her sexy dimples to cave in.
“Race you,” she said. After a moment, she took off toward the beach. He followed at a half-jog and rounded along the north side of the sand to find her step onto the dock, and into the villa out on the water.
By the time he arrived, she was already naked on the bed with two glasses of champagne and a rose stem in her mouth, mocking him in his moment of despair.
“What the hell is going on?”
She dropped the rose to the bed and licked her lips. “That’s how you greet a girl?”
“What do you know about Valencia?”
Only another seductive smile followed.
“Tell me you bitch.”
She looked dangerous despite her beauty. “Your pillow talk needs work.” She proceeded to sip her champagne casually, but there was still flatness in her eyes.
“You killed him. You or Bruce, you tracked him down, is that it? Made it look like a suicide?”
“Is that what you want?”
Trevor flinched. Before he could formulate another question she waved him off.
“It’s no matter, Trev. I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re rambling about.”
“Why would you--What is it, money? You’re holding some piece of evidence. Waiting for the right moment to dangle it over me? Or you’re helping Stefan with this?”
“Trevor, are you hearing yourself? You sound awfully crazy. It’s not making me feel sexy.” She caressed her breast, then reached into an ice bucket and ran a cube down her neck to her nipple, circling it around, her eyes never leaving his. “I can handle some crazy. I like some crazy. Know the limit though, yeah?” She plucked a pedal off of the rose. “He loves me.” She plucked another. “He loves me not.” She winked, smiled, then closed both eyes and laughed softly, breathing the humor through her nose. “Calm yourself,” she said, handing him a glass of champagne from the nightstand. He took it.
“Explain to me what’s going on.” She spoke to him as if he was a third grader trying to spill the beans about him and Timmy’s failed science experiment that made a mess.
“Don’t—Don’t do that. What were you doing in our place?”
“A girl can’t play a little chase game? The foreplay is the best part.”
“How’d you find that article?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She bit the tip of her finger and then slid it into her mouth, her lush lips sucking gently. She removed her finger as slowly as she had put it in. “Your shorts. Off, preferably.”
He wanted so badly to take the bait, but the thought of doing it after everything that had happened was beyond ridiculous, but still… Extremely agitated and confused, he downed his glass of champagne and cleared his throat. “What is it you really want?”
She arched her back and cranked her head and neck backward, her sternum and rib cage showing below her perfect breasts. She exhaled and returned to form. “I want you.”
“And I want you to tell me what the hell is going on. What is Stefan actually up to?”
“Stefan is a child. And you, you are the man, Trev. You are the man that is going to fuck me.” Abruptly, she shattered her champagne glass on the bed frame and removed a large shard. “Wouldn’t you like that?” She dragged the sharp side of the glass along her breast, cutting a small portion. Blood oozed out slowly, a single line running down and circling around her nipple. Her face twisted in confused contempt. “Why would you do that?”