Invasion (3 page)

I should play the lottery, luck like this is rare indeed. I have better odds of bumping into the godfather of Death alley.

Closing the curtains, I creep to the bedside table, switching on the lamp. Standing dead still I peruse my environment, finding it too generic. I can read people, I can read the vibe from any situation or street, I can read insects out in nature, but inside a home … I can’t read this at all. It confounds me.

I can’t read taupe and cream and dusty gray in neo-modern bland. I can’t read clean bedside tables with twin lamps, devoid of personal effects. There are no clear male/female markings on the bed, or around it, yet valuable jewelry lays scattered across the dressing table. This is a burglar’s wet dream, a cum in your shorts moment because idiots live and breed in expensive bedrooms.

They vote!

They fuck and eat and consume. They were created for men like me to walk in and purloin.

My recon isn’t honed for indoors. It was made for disorder and conflict, not pretty vases and silky comforters. Examining the bedroom I can’t tell if a couple live here, or just one person. I can detect the scents and aromas of a female occupant, but that doesn’t negate the threat of a man coming home to find me in his abode.

This is the stuff of fairy tales, the bare bones o
f‘
who’s been sleeping in my bed’. Home invasion is nothing new, we preach it to our kids and call it entertainment. Goldilocks, she picked the locks darlin’. The clue’s in her name. Perspective is everything. It’s the one thing to separate the successful from the failures, the intelligent from the zombies.

I’ve been casing the neighborhood with an agenda. I need someone who works, lives alone, and has a place big enough for me to go undetected – preferably female in case it goes ass up. To know I can overpower my victim if push comes to shove. I’ve had to show my dominance before, my shove if you will. No one’s push has ever been strong enough to withstand mine.

Stalking the closet doors I slide them open, then the other doors opening off the main bedroom. Uncovering an en-suite, what I discover matches the previous detail, the three-sixty intel forming and molding into a cohesive impression.

This home has a single occupant. The closet is walk in and filled edge to edge with female clothing. The bathroom is cluttered with bath bombs, bubble bath, scented candles, pink razors, twelve different varieties of body moisturizer, and embroidered towels. It’s an assault on my outdoors-christened nostrils. My nose hairs are tickling in revolt, a sneeze pending.

The medicine cabinet contains tampons, extra birth control sachets, waxing kits and enoug
h‘
stay young forever’ potions to shame a wizard. She takes oral hygiene seriously, so I entertain the thought that she could be in the dental industry.

The tension bunching my shoulders alleviates, my stress level subsiding. If this is a kingdom, I can overthrow its ruling monarch without breaking a sweat, without expending valuable calories or effort.

She could be armed, have a black belt in eight styles of karate, or be built like a quarterback with a righteous left hook, and I won’t feel at ease until I have gone through this house from top to bottom. I will have every corner and dust bunny memorized. Know your opponent. Research and recon until you are prepared.

I will uncover your weaknesses so I know where to hurt. Whatever your secrets, lady, by the time I’m done I’ll know them all. Your money problems and the dildos you hide for rainy, drunken nights, will soon be discovered. I will lift up the shroud from your perfect, drab, pretentious world. The veneer you project is more of the same. We’re all just carrots. You pretend wealth makes you impervious, and I pretend destitution makes me weak.

Then I’m using your spa-bathtub to soak my weary bones.

Triple checking the other rooms for male apparel, I’m satisfied no dude will be walking in because he lives here.

I don’t like surprises. Cover every base, be prepared. Note every exit, check the windows for security, memorize, stay alive.

On my way to the staircase I notice the instrument panel.

Punching the air, I grin like I’m three bullets shy of a nine-mil, hittin
g‘
total blackout’ for all the windows.

Now we’re talking!

Posh pussy thinks total blackout affords her privacy. Must be for those rainy nights …

No baby, it gives
me
total access, undetected. I’m finding myself wanting to pillage this place, but recklessness is not in my nature.

Grateful that total blackout means her neighborhood peeping Tom can’t spot me, I continue with my room-to-room sweep, scanning for motion sensors and alarm paraphernalia.

Nothing.

Money also makes people stupid, apparently.

Considering my instincts I would have to assume I’m either a professional criminal, or I don’t come from wealth.

Re-entering the kitchen I head straight to the fridge, blowing a kiss of thanks to the ugly Fate sisters when I extract a beer. A lady who stocks beer is either my soulmate, or she’s hunting for a mate. The lady likes to be prepared, I respect that. Cracking it open and guzzling it down in one, I help myself to another, then check cupboards until I find the pantry.

Opening the freezer I discover frozen dinners. Tons of the things. So, Lady Luck doesn’t like to cook. That, or she’s practicing to be Martha Stewart and catering all meals in advance.

I don’t care what it is, I grab the one on the top, slam the chest freezer shut, and head back to the microwave. I put it on defrost for eight minutes, taking a leisurely meander through to the lounge while I wait.

With the lamps on, I survey the deep chairs, thick pile carpet, pre-stacked fireplace, sound system, CDs and DVDs, crammed bookshelf, and the mind boggling widescreen TV. This woman has spent so much money in here that I can taste the tears of the starving kids in a third world country.

Adrenaline spikes again when I spy the photo. Advancing, I reach for it, lifting the heavy bronze frame, staring at the woman. Who the fuck is the dude? Dead? A brother? Who?!

Why do I care?

I don’t.

But I do.

Do she and I know each other? Was this address in my default setting? My autopilot destination? Muscle memory – instinct? An ex? A sister? Who the fuck are you and why do I give two shits?

Staying here does no harm to anyone, not with no one here.

What do I care?

Fuck, there’s a sentience lurking deep inside, one who knows right from wrong. And in this photo is the wrong. It bleeds spiritual angst into the onlooker.

Not many women can wear short hair like that, but this babe wears it well. She’s a pixie, all angles and curves, cuter than puppy snuggles, and … fragile … broken?

Photos never lie. This woman is smiling, but it’s because she’s a carrot, pretendin
g‘
we’re happy’. Rancid and still. Behind that smile is a shattered soul, one left in fetid swill for too long, fed septic smiles and contaminated coitus. She is held static in the formaldehyde of oppression.

Her eyes are deader than Odin. The dude is smiling, but his arm around her is too tight, the tension in his grasp so severe his fingertips are white, forcing her skin to depress, locking her in his grip.

Dude likes bruises. We have something in common …

He craves control,
needs
it, suppressing and diminishing so his altar becomes his pedestal. The precious has perished.

They’re a couple who love to hate each other, or he loves to beat on her, or fuck her in the nought without lube – something. My reaction is irrational. I wanna punch him, break the glass and tear him out of the frame.

Fuck this.

Turning away I sprint through her massive foyer and up the staircase, back into the bedroom. This time I’m thorough, looking for evidence.

Who’s the man? He’s aggressive, that much is patently clear. If I’m going to get him walking through the front door I’d better be prepared to use lethal force.

Sitting at her dressing table, distracted when I sniff each perfume bottle, imagining them on her pale skin, behind her short hair where the soft curl covers the back of her ear, I am hit with a wave of melancholy. Women are an ingredient no man can diet over. They’re better than carbs for a man’s appetite.

Blood surges with an ache long ignored. My dick strains in my trousers, but I dismiss it when my need to uncover more of the pixie pretty’s story consumes me.

Yanking open drawers I find what I’m looking for. He’s been erased with thick black lines of permanent marker in this photo, his face a scrawl of ink. So they split up. That, or this is her witchcraft drawer. He’s not full of pins, so I take it the lady isn’t deep into psychic acupuncture, spiritual torture with poppets and mojo bags.

Rummaging through the postcards, old birthday cards, knickknacks and sundry, I find a stack of letters.

Putting my beer at my feet so I don’t leave a ring on the dresser, I open each one, reading the first few lines until I discover a Dear John.

It has no date.

Fuck.

Carly

I’m aware you hired a P.I. That is what broke us. I wasn’t seeing Carrie until I confronted that prick you paid to follow me.

If a relationship doesn’t have trust, it has nothing.

I’m just thankful I discovered what a deviant bitch you are before we renewed our vows. You broke my heart, Carly. Thankfully Carrie was here, and seeing what you put me through she stepped in to patch it back together again.

It was nice while it lasted, but darling invest your money wisely next time. Pay a therapist, not a detective. Then your money will be well spent. The late nights really were for work, the weekends I didn’t answer my phone I was on the golf course. Learn the rules of the club before throwing around accusations of your husband being a philanderer. It can’t be about you
all
the time, darling. You’re so needy it’s embarrassing. I am ashamed of you, and I hate to break it to you but you’re not wife material. I don’t know what you are, but I suggest you enroll in a decorum school which teaches women how to be a decent wife.

Grace and class are two things you desperately need to acquire. Money can’t fix what’s missing in you. You have no elegance, decorum, panache, or charisma. High society is too lofty for you, you’ll never acclimate. I took the girl out of the middle echelon, but I could never get that bourgeoisie out of the girl. You certainly proved that point when you went behind my back to frame me for fucking my secretary so you could take me in the divorce, to cheat me out of my empire instead of confronting me with your suspicions.

I’ve moved on, I suggest you do the same.

If you have me followed again I will sue you for invasion of privacy, defamation of character, and invest in a restraining order. If you love someone, set them free. Prove you loved me, Carly. Leave me to be with Carrie. Leave us alone. You got the house, now try to be dignified about it and accept it as restitution for being a decent slut in the sack.

You were a great lay, but that isn’t enough for me if you have trust issues. I’m a lawyer, not a shrink. I can’t fix you, and quite frankly the time for that has long perished.

This is on you, darling.

Get over me, have a nice life, and next time you land a decent man look after him. A happy man comes home. An unhappy man bangs his secretary. And yes, Carrie is an excellent P.A, and now she’s under my desk instead of opposite it.

Thanks for that.

Mark.

PS: Carrie is pregnant with my son. She gave me the one thing you didn’t. Thanks for pushing me into her arms, I’ll always be grateful for that. Mumsy thanks you too.

PPS: Mother has a message for you. “Good riddance.”

Tut tut darling, you really made an enemy of the one woman you should have bent over backwards to please. It saddens me to say she was right about you. A career woman will never make a good mother. If you couldn’t put me first, or give me children before the loyalty to your paycheck, what kind of role model would you be?

If you’d just given me a child to perpetuate the Carmichael name, bridges could’ve been mended. Now you’re past your prime. It’s too late, for all of it. At least you’ll have the memories to keep you warm when you’re old and alone, the bitter you already have.