“Well, maybe if you didn't drive such a pussy ass little car, you wouldn't have so many problems?” Margarite giggles, closing the door behind me and spinning off into the kitchen to check on a whistling teapot. “Would you like some darjeeling?”
“I'd love some,” I say, fighting back another scowl. I've had enough lapses lately. I need to pull myself together. I sit gingerly on the edge of a faded brown recliner and glance around at the holes in the drywall. There are only three visible at the moment, but I'm sure there are more hidden behind the paintings of cottages and labrador retrievers. A few texture free portions of the wall attest to holes long patched and left unpainted. “So you're still operating under the ridiculous notion that a man isn't a man unless he drives a pick-up truck?”
I hear clinking glassware and the sound of a violent curse from the kitchen.
“Damn it. Where is that fucking oven mitt? I'm going to burn the biscuits if I don't get them out of the oven.” A pause. “And yeah, I think you're a limp dick pussy fuck, Lucas. Your hair is too styled and you shave your pits. That's disgusting.”
“I didn't see you complaining last time I was here,” I say absently, glancing out the window at the pine trees, the brown grass, the gentle slope of hill that dips away from Margarite's house. Well, I suppose it isn't her house, just a foreclosure she's managed to squat in for two years without detection. A dilapidated little country house that nobody wants.
After a moment of silence, I realize I'm in trouble. My instincts kick in as I stand up and spin to find Margarite with a knife in one hand and a blank look of rage splattered across her face. Born wrong. That's Margarite. Something is terribly off with her, and the one thing in the world that managed to pull her out, her husband and her kids, is gone. She's a shark in a swimming pool, a rabid dog without a leash, a tiger without a cage.
Margarite lunges at me with the knife, and I step back, grabbing her around the waist and slamming her back against my chest. My right hand squeezes her wrist until the knife falls to the carpet. My left arm goes around her throat, tightening until Margarite starts to struggle, kicking and flailing violently. I tense my muscles and wait, letting the lack of oxygen suffocate her brain until she passes out. As soon as Margarite is limp in my arms, I drag her into the bedroom and leave her on the pink and tan comforter, retreating to the kitchen to remove the biscuits from the oven and make myself a cup of tea.
Twenty minutes later, she's back and threatening me with a machete – a big one. What a shame any psychopath can pick one up for ten bucks at Walmart.
“Lucas Carter, you son of a bitch,” Margarite spits out between her tiny teeth. She has a nice mouth, but it's always twisted in a wicked scowl or spewing backwoods bullshit. Margarite is a highly religious, right wing republican who can't seem to take her beliefs and translate them into actions. I've never once found her attractive enough to get it up, but that's okay – Margarite's toolbox hardly needs a dick in it to get her off.
“Put the machete down, Margarite. I'm not in the mood for games today. Either you have my money and you want to move forward or I'm going home.”
“Oh, screw you, Lucas.” Margarite drops the machete to the floor and kicks it with her bare foot, ignoring the slight splatter of blood that hits the white wall to her right. Margarite's had her soul shredded, so what's a little physical pain? Or a lot. A whole hell of a lot.
Margarite rakes her fingers through her springy blonde curls, and turns away, lime green eyes narrowing on me in disgust. After retrieving a wad of cash from her safe – Margarite doesn't trust banks – she returns and tosses the bills into my half-empty cup of tea. I tap my nails on the green tile counter for a moment, pulling my anger inside and soothing the beast with promises of blood and pain. This is perfect. This is exactly what I need.
I take the cash, shake off the excess liquid and reach down for my briefcase. Margarite clears her throat impatiently as I put the money away and stand up, nodding with my chin for her to continue down the hallway and past the missing pieces of drywall that reveal electricity in desperate need of updating. We come to a stop at the end of the hallway, and I watch as Margarite opens the door to an unfinished room with concrete floors and a moldy utility sink. My obsessive need for cleanliness makes me want to pack up and leave right now, but I don't. I can't. I can't go home and face Robbie, think about Audra, deal with Mrs. Braxton. I just need to be the Lucas Carter I've shaped and sculpted over the years. This is how things have to be. I don't remind myself that I didn't shower after I fucked Robbie. I still have her virgin blood on my dick. I should be disgusted by the fact, repulsed, in desperate need of a shower. I can't explain the disconnect between my need for order and hygiene and Robbie Carrell. She seems so pure somehow … Maybe I'm putting her on a pedestal? I have no fucking clue.