I hear Audra's huff of frustration from beside me, but this is the way my world works. If she wants to reap the benefits, she'll put in the work. Clarice smiles at me as I move between her legs, and the expression only serves to ignite my fury. I scowl and slip the gag back into her mouth before she can say anything to piss me off.
“This is our last session, Mrs. Braxton,” I say, thrusting into her to soften the blow. I fuck her hard and fierce, using Audra's face, Aliyah's … even Robbie's, to get myself into it. By the time she finally fucking comes, I glance over my shoulder to find that Audra Holiday is missing. Without skipping a beat, I leave Clarice tied to the bed and steal one of Mr. Braxton's expensive suits, pausing in the doorway to the ugly bedroom to nod my chin at Clarice. “Farewell, my darling,” I say, turning away as she starts to thrash and scream beneath the gag.
On my way out, I run into Mr. Braxton dressed in a furry, pink bunny suit with two flamboyantly gay men on either arm. I tip my new hat at him, and we both go on our way. Neither of us bothers to speak.
The Italian silk couch is beyond cleaning, so I strip off the fabric, carefully cutting away anything with a stain and burn it in my backyard, covering the evidence with piles of dried grass and the pruned branches from my rose bushes. While the debris goes up in flames, I pull the couch outside and stick a 'FREE' sign on it. Somebody will take it, repurpose it, and it will disappear from my life along with any leftover DNA evidence. Before dropping into bed for some much needed rest, I call my favorite furniture store and order a similar model in chocolate silk.
I stumble into my room and strip off the jeans and T-shirt I switched into as soon as I got home. On the drive back, it had suddenly struck me that I'd thrown my other suit in the washing machine. I haven't had a chance to check on it yet, but considering it was dry clean only, I assume it's ruined. My new suit is worth ten times what that one was, so I cut my losses and hang the damn thing up.
“Tomorrow will be a different fucking day,” I say, paraphrasing my mother in the worst way. She never used the word fuck, not even when my father was beating her. Or me. But she always did have such a pathetically hopeful view on life, one that rubbed off on me and stayed stamped into my skin until Aliyah died. Oh, no wait, let me rephrase that: until she was murdered. My right eyelid twitches and the rage washes over me like it has every single day since then. Darkness swirls in my mind, reminding me that I might've been normal, that if Aliyah hadn't died things might actually have been as okay as my mother always thought. I scowl and climb into bed. Fortunately, when I sleep through the rest of that miserable day and well into the night, I don't dream.
When I wake up, I find an apple pie sitting on my front porch.
“Goddamn it, Robbie,” I snarl as I snatch up the dessert and rip the note from the top, tearing the plastic wrap in my anger. I still like you, Luke. And it's okay. Robbie. I squeeze my fist tight, crumpling the piece of paper and the swirling blue ink into a ball. I consider tossing the pie at the wall to get out some frustration, but my meticulous cleanliness won't allow it. Anything that destructive or messy isn't worth it. Instead, I gather myself together and put the pie on the kitchen counter. I know what I need right now, and it isn't a visit to a client. Right now, I need to cook.
Wrapping an apron around myself, I pull out the most domestic ingredients I can think of: sugar, flour, butter, eggs. Looking at the picture perfect display on my counter makes me feel as normal as I ever do, and eventually I find myself whipping up a recipe from memory. An American classic, the chocolate chip cookie, and the perfect thank you present for my completely untouchable and inappropriate little neighbor.
I put the cookies on my best china plate and cover them, taping a note to the top just as Robbie had done.
Thank you for the pie. My girlfriend and I enjoyed it immensely! Lucas.
I know the words will hurt Robbie, but I also know it's for the best. However much she reminds me of Aliyah, she isn't Aliyah, and I'm no longer an eighteen year old with more hopes than sense. I put the apron in the washing machine and clean up, dressing in my new suit before taking the cookies over. I don't bother to knock, simply set the plate in front of the Carrells' door with a grimace. Turning the full force of my rejection on Robbie feels right, but it doesn't necessarily feel good. Ah, so all of a sudden you're a bleeding heart now, Lucas? I scowl as I descend the porch steps and head towards my car. As I'm making my great escape, the phone in my pocket rings and I pull it out to find Margarite Simmons on the line. Hmm. I certainly could've used her help the other day, but now I don't think I have the energy for a client that dark. I ignore the call, silence the phone and climb into my Chrysler.