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Once more her skin pimpled in revulsion and she wondered if the intruder had taken any of her panties or a bra. Shuddering inside, she double-checked to make certain the garage door was locked again, then walked around her car and into the kitchen, leaving the adjoining door open for the cat. Bending down and peering to the dark space under her car, she said, “You can come in if you want.”
Two small unblinking eyes stared back at her. “Tell you what. I’ve got something you might like.” Then she straightened, found a couple of small bowls and filled one with water, the other with milk, and left them just inside the doorway next to her boots, beneath the pegs where she hung her jacket.
Just to be on the safe side, she did another thorough search of the house, found no one hiding, then went upstairs to her office and searched through the footage from the camera again. She’d looked once, when she’d received the first card, but hadn’t been able to ID who had left it.
Now, she scrolled through the last two days of footage, but there was nothing; obviously whoever had left the card had accessed the house through the unlatched window. Well, that was going to end right now.
No way could she get a repairman out within the hour, so she found a YouTube video on how to fix the latch—too difficult; she didn’t have all the parts, but she could take the existing one off and install another, once she bought one. In the meantime, she took four heavy nails and a hammer from the garage, then went to work, hammering the nails to the sides of the window, so that they stuck out over the sash and prevented it from opening. Then she tried pushing the window open.
It didn’t budge.
Once more, really putting her muscles into trying to force the sash upward.
Again it held.
A temporary solution, but effective. She thought about Jay’s gun, a small caliber that he kept in a case up in the closet, locked away. She could use it, of course. Her father had taught her about firearms when she was growing up, but she didn’t much like them. She’d find another way to handle the situation.
“That’s my girl.”Jay’s voice was clear as a bell and for once she didn’t tell him to leave her alone, he was a figment of her imagination. “Okay, then, what’s next?” she said to the empty room. “Huh? Tell me: what would you do from here?”
Find that son of a bitch and bring him to justice!
Not Jay’s voice. Her own plan.
She thought about returning the hammer to its spot on the garage wall, but decided against it. Instead she ran her fingers over the flat head to the sharp claw, then opened the drawer to her nightstand and slipped the hammer inside.
Just in case.
* * *
Red silk, or a leopard print?
She held up the tiny dresses, each on a hanger, and pressed them to her body as she stared into the full-length mirror standing next to her makeup table in the alcove that had once been a closet.
Did it really matter? Her client wouldn’t care and the clothes would go into a heap onto the floor, unless he wanted a slow strip tease, then she would make certain they would fall into a neat puddle. And if he was rough and wanted to tear at her clothes? She’d make him pay. Oh, she’d make him pay. In more ways than one.
Her dresses weren’t cheap. Not that she cared. Not really.
She shopped at the best consignment stores in the city as well as online, under an alias, of course. “Gently used” or “barely worn,” some with designer labels, though usually, she saved those for her steady customers.
Cocking her head to one side and imagining how she’d look in tonight’s persona, she decided on the red, shaking the hanger under the soft lights, watching the fabric shimmer seductively. She showered, toweled off, slipped on a wig cap, then, seated at her expansive makeup station, added her face prosthetics—thin, sculpted silicone pieces that added shape to her cheeks, chin, and nose. It was a long process as she took care in blending the silicone, trimming it, and melding the edges so that they became seamless, invisible to the naked eye. Next her teeth caps and dark contact lenses, then her makeup, a red lipstick to match the dress, a fine layer of gloss, deep gray shadow, and eyelashes that were black and thick. Satisfied that her face was the way she wanted it, that no one would be able to recognize her, she dressed with care, checking her garters, the push-up bra, and slipped on the dress, making certain it fell over one shoulder and draped deep to display her cleavage. Next she put on the black wig—thick and full, piled high with soft tendrils falling loose around her face, and stepped into four-inch clear stilettos.
Finally, she eyed her array of jewelry—most of it cheap costume stuff, but a few pieces much more expensive. She decided on a silver ankle bracelet and a slave-girl bracelet for her upper arm. Of course she’d wear her Apple Watch with its blingy band for the opposite wrist, add oversized hoop earrings, and just to spice things up a bit, a silver necklace with a bejeweled cross that settled seductively between her breasts.
After the finishing touches, she checked the mirror again and smiled. Perfect!
“Hello, Helen of Joy,” she said in a low whisper, and smiled, reveling in becoming her alter ego. This was her act, not just as if she were on stage, but a form of her own personal rebellion, and it felt good.Sogood. She was careful, of course she was. She had to be. She had too much to lose if her true identity was ever revealed. She eyed her reflection and liked what she saw.
After all, she wasn’t in it for the money.
As for the sex?
It was okay—even exciting at times.
But usually not. And secondary.
Because all of this was for the thrill of getting away with this, her alter ego. She loved the little edge of danger that fueled an adrenaline rush, the heart-pumping excitement that was lost in her “real” life.
Tap! Tap!
