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NIX
Nix
“I’m coming!”
Fuck. I hate when they speak. And I say ‘they’ plural, because I’ve lost count of the number of bitches I have had on my dick this last month. Bitches who don’t know when to keep their mouths shut. I should have just let her blow me and be done with it. Can’t speak with a mouth full.
I close my eyes as she shrieks out. A loud, ungodly moan that wouldn’t sound out of place in a bad porno. Like I care if they come or not. It’s almost comical how they all yowl like cats on heat, as though it’s some kind of turn on. I’d prefer it if they were silent. As if one yowling bitch isn’t enough, the girl Dacre is pounding has started moaning as though not to be outdone.
It’s like the cat’s chorus at dawn. I try to concentrate, but the pair of them have put me off my stride. I grab the brunette’s hair and yank it back roughly. Almost immediately, the porno fake moaning turns into a sound that’s real. A cry of pain. If I’m going to have to listen to them, I may as well make it mean something. It’s getting harder and harder to come with the endless parade of simpering wannabes desperate to dance on my dick. Now I find causing pain the only way I can get off, but even that’s not working. My attention moves to the TV that’s been left on in the corner. An image of a blonde-haired girl comes on screen that has thoughts of the dark-haired girl falling away in an instant. It’s like my fucking past has reached out through the TV to grip my throat, tightening it. I’m still thrusting away as I reach for the remote and press down to increase the volume. The brunette squirms slightly, but with her hair bunched in my other fist and her impaled on my cock, there’s not much she can do to move.
The anchor, a middle-aged balding man, speaks with deep gravity as though the end of the world is coming. Maybe it is. I stare at the picture to his right. The last time I saw those sapphire eyes staring at me, I thought my world had ended. Maybe because it fucking had.
“Lucinda Waldgrave, socialite, model and daughter of Oil Magnate, Peter Waldgrave was kidnapped yesterday as she was walking in the grounds of Waldgrave House. So far, the police have no leads, though a million dollar reward has been offered for her safe return. If anyone has any information, please call this number.”
A phone number runs across the screen before the anchor starts another segment. I flick the TV off, my fists bunching tighter in deep-rooted anger as I grab more of the howler's hair. I’ve not felt anything as deeply as this in five years. An obsession I once had begins to pound through me once again. A ghost I thought I’d exorcized a long time ago. I close my eyes with memories of sun-streaked blonde hair and load myself into the brunette to the strains of her anguished screams. When I'm done, I shove her to the floor, where she lands with a dull thud. She whimpers then grabs her clothes quickly, and rushes out, still naked, clutching the back of her head with my cum running down her inside thighs. The other girl has stopped yowling now. Her eyes are wide with fear as she takes me in. If I wasn’t spent already, that look would be enough to give me another hard-on. She takes less than half a second to follow her friend through the door, leaving Dacre with his still hard dick sitting on the sofa. Strands of dark hair are entwined around my fingers. I probably did go too far, but she was replaceable. They all are. Besides, she’ll run to daddy and get a three hundred dollar haircut to sort her out. She won’t miss a fistful of hair.
“Thanks Nix. Now what I’m supposed to do with this?” Dacre groans.
He gestures to his dick as I flick through the TV channels to find out if she is on any of those. She’s on every channel. The ghost from my past. The bitch that nearly destroyed me. I flick through the channels, trying to find out more information while Dacre grunts, loading himself into a tissue. It’s all a variation of the same theme. She was kidnapped. The police don’t know who by. They don’t know where she is and her father is offering a reward. One million dollars. That’s all she’s worth to him. Peter Waldgrave, a billionaire many times over, is the biggest dick on the planet and where Lucinda Waldgrave started my destruction, Peter Waldgrave was the one to finish it.
“What the fuck, Nix,” Dacre mutters, buttoning up his jeans, his wad in a tissue next to him, ready for one of his sycophants to clean up. He’s clearly irritated at me. “You could have waited at least until I came. I really fucking hate having to finish off myself.”
“Forget about jerking off into a tissue. You’ll have a steady stream of bitches lining up their pussies and begging for your sorry dick when we are millionaires.”
Dacre’s face creases as he gives me a strange expression. One I’ve seen on his face more than once in the years I’ve known him. Dacre and I have known each other since high school. Just like me, he came from a place of wealth and power. He squandered it all by doing everything his parents told him not to. He rebelled. I didn’t. I wasn’t given the chance to rebel. I had my life taken away from me. The night my parents died, a deal was signed to take over their company and by the time the pair of them were buried, I was penniless and homeless. My parent’s lawyers were so fucking useless that they didn’t see the biggest, most hostile takeover in history coming and so, by the time the will was read, there was nothing left to leave. Nothing but a prestigious name and a future of anger and despair.
I was fucking fifteen years old.
One of my father’s business partners, Jonathan Dacre and his wife felt sorry for me and took me in. And when I say felt sorry for, they took me in for what my name meant and not the kindness of their hearts. They had an immaculate house and filthy souls, but I met their son Dacre, and the rest, as they say, is history. A couple of years later, we were both thrown out after having one too many parties in which his mother’s precious Picasso had a mustache drawn on it with a pen. We ended up in a cheap as shit house near university with our best friend, Nolan Mercier. Unlike us, Mercier came from a place of neglect and abuse, but he knew how to survive. For two former rich boys, No Mercy, as he’s known for his don’t give a fuck attitude, was just the type of friend we needed to survive in the real world. Now, years later, we rule our corner of the world. Between the three of us, we have barely two pennies to rub together, but our presence and reputation on campus has girls falling at our feet. All three of us are tall and tatted, and between Mercier’s psycho attitude, Dacre’s perceived wealth and posh English accent, and my jacked up physique gained from hours at the gym, we’ve become fucking gods. Our parties have become the stuff of legends. Not having any money doesn’t matter when everyone falls at our feet. Besides, we have the illusion of money. I came from wealth and know how money works. I have a name that used to mean something and to the rich fucks we surround ourselves with, it still does. Same with Dacre. His parents frequent the Rich Lists more than most people frequent fast-food joints and, even though they haven’t spoken to him in two years, they pay for the shit hole we live in. And I say shit hole lightly. It’s a huge terrace house, not far from campus that most people would kill for, but with only a small stipend, keeping up with it is becoming harder and harder.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dacre says irritably. “That Waldgrave girl? Lucinda fucking Waldgrave. Give it up Nix. What makes you think that we’d have any luck finding her? She’s the most famous woman on the planet. The police have no leads and we have the last couple of months of University to think about. None of us have time to go look for some fucking lost rich bitch. I’m close to securing an internship with a Wall Street Fortune 500 company and I’m not planning on pissing my chance up against a wall for some fucking stupid wild goose chase. Let the cops find her, or find her body.”
Tension pulls in my head and body despite the mediocre orgasm I’d just had. Bristling, I reach for a cigarette and twirl it around through my fingers without lighting it. She isn’t dead. She can’t be dead. I let the cigarette hang in my mouth as the images from another life fill my brain with intrusive thoughts. Images of a girl with long white blonde hair who loved to run barefoot through the flowers away from her overbearing father and house full of rules and punishments. “She’s not dead,” I say, trying to hold on to that certainty. She can’t be dead because I’ve not made her pay for what she did to me. Not yet. “Besides, I know something the police don’t.”
“Really? What’s that?” Dacre says, sounding bored with the conversation already. He picks up his t-shirt from the floor and pulls it over his head.
I pin him with a stare and pull the unlit cigarette from between my teeth. “Lucinda Waldgrave. I know Lucinda Waldgrave.”
2
LUCINDA
The wind whistles through the cracks in the old cabin. It’s almost summer, but the weather doesn’t seem to know that. It’s bitterly cold and I’m still damp from running through the forest for hours. I don’t know if it’s the biting wind or the adrenaline of terror that’s making my body tremble, but I can’t seem to keep still. I wrap an old blanket round my shoulders to stave off the cold, but it’s thread bare and moth-eaten, and barely keeps the chill from my bones. The whole house smells damp, as if no one has been here for a long time. They probably haven’t. It belonged to my mother, but she died giving birth to me and as far as I’m aware, this place has long since been forgotten about. Lost to time. An old shack in the middle of the woods that no one cares about. I can relate.
My stomach rumbles loudly, reminding me that I’ve not eaten all day. I grab a chocolate bar from my bag and pull the wrapper off quickly. The kit-kat won’t sustain me for long, but it’s all I have right now. Tomorrow, when the heat is off, I’ll make my way to Manhattan and from there, the rest of the world. Somewhere warm where I can feel the sun on my skin and can bask in warm waters. Somewhere far away where I’ll never have to worry about my father ever again.
He doesn’t care that I’m gone. It will be a miracle if he even notices, but of course, he will make a fuss all over the media. He has to. He’s played the part for so long, he won’t drop it now. The once grieving husband, now the doting father. So much grief. To the public, he’s the picture of perfection. Philanthropist, family man who never found love after the death of his dear, sweet wife. All round American hero who just happens to be one of the wealthiest men in the country. To his business partners, he’s a ruthless, spiteful bastard who’ll do anything to make another dollar, including taking over businesses and putting people out of work. To me, he’s nothing. He’s a man who would willfully groom his own daughter, showering her in gifts and parading her to the media whilst behind closed doors, beating her black and blue for any minor indiscretion, then when she was sixteen, passing her round to his friends for their perverse sexual pleasure in exchange for information, money, power. That’s all his daughter means to him. A tool to get what he wants. He was the one that made Lucinda Waldgrave what she is. Famous. But the media doesn’t know the truth. They don’t know who I really am. I’m not the precocious actress and wild socialite they want to see. Just like most of Hollywood, it’s all a lie, propagated by my father to use my fame for his own ends.
I suck on the chocolate bar and try to put him out of my mind. I only have one more day to think about him and then I can exorcise him from my mind forever. One more day and then my lifelong nightmare will finally be over.
A bang has me bolting up. The low level anxiety that I’ve been feeling all day creeps up to a new high. The old cabin has been moaning and creaking for the last couple of hours, but the bang is something different. It sounds like the front door. Panic tightens my chest as my heart begins to pound. I thought my father didn’t know about this place. I thought I’d run far enough, for one day at least. I thought I would be safe. Looks like I was wrong. He’s found me. I can hear them now. Police, or some of my father’s private guards. Either way, they’ll take me back to him and I’ll be punished. Taking the blanket with me, I rush, dragging my fingers along the damp wall as a guide.
Once inside the wardrobe, I sit quietly, huddled in the blanket. Just like the rest of the house, the wardrobe stinks of damp and neglect. It’s been a long time since there were any clothes hanging in here. The banging sound has stopped, and I wonder if I misread it. Danger is everywhere, but a bang could be something as innocent as a branch tapping on a window.
I jump when the bang comes again, but this time it’s unmistakable. Someone is at the door and is trying to get through it.
