Belle Pearl (13 page)

I followed her, my breath white in the chilled air, my collar up, my boots squeaking on the powdery snow. It made me think of something Pearl said once, and I laughed. “Love is like snow,” she told me. “You never know how many inches you’re going to get.” Inches, in more ways than one, I thought, feeling myself expand inside my jeans the second I set eyes on her. It was insane; just seeing her from afar could get me aroused. And I couldn’t deny it now; I was plagued with the idea of never fucking her again. It was driving me to distraction. I couldn’t concentrate on work, she was in my dreams, my daydreams—all our lovemaking sessions, both rampant and gentle, were playing and rewinding and playing and rewinding in my sexually deprived, love-obsessed brain. All Laura’s talk about my getting her pregnant had done only one thing: make me obsess about getting
Pearl
pregnant. Father her child. The idea of even
touching
Laura was abhorrent to me.

My inner animal was awoken as I watched Pearl now; wearing her little wool hat, her blonde hair peeking out, spread over her shoulders as she held her head up, catching snowflakes on her pink, fresh tongue. I had to kiss her. I wanted her hand to alleviate my aching groin that held so much seed, only for her. Like the park perverts, I stalked her into the wooded area, in hope that she would speak to me—my fantasies had me fucking her against a tree. My cock flexed again, imaging how sweet that would be—I could feel that rod of mine pining for attention, eager to fulfill its biological role.

I was the prowler and Pearl my prey.

“Pearl!” I shouted after her. She carried on walking. Rex was darting in and out of scrubby groves, chasing squirrels. “Pearl, stop!” I hurried up to her and closed my hand around her coated elbow. I pulled her towards me and wrapped my arms around her. I rested my head against hers and breathed into her mouth, my breath hot, my desire scorching. She pulled her face away from mine and shot me a disdainful look.

“Why are you following me like this? What do you want?” Her eyes were darts.

She knew what I wanted, and she wanted it too, although her head was telling her to disbelieve her heart. I needed
all
of her, every single inch of her: her mind, her body, her sweet, kind soul. I pulled her into me again and could hear a growl rumble from within myself. I wished I had more self-control. I pressed myself up against her, holding her hips into my hard groin with one hand and her shoulder with the other. I began to kiss her all over her face, the melting snowflakes soft on my lips, the smell of her skin like honey as I inhaled her scent. I maneuvered her so she was up against a tree, my tongue parting her mouth as I probed my own inside, flickering it, letting it tangle with hers. She moaned and I imagined her wet pussy pulsating with yearning for me. Another wave of desire surged through me, coupled with visions of fatherhood, and I groaned into her lips.

“Leave me alone, you bastard,” she breathed into my mouth as she whimpered through the kiss. “Oh, God, Alexandre, why can’t you leave me alone?”

“I need you, baby,” I whispered, rubbing my groin against her. All she had to do to make me come was brush her hand against my crotch—I was that horny, but she didn’t. I took off my glove on my right hand and slipped my palm through her coat, around the flesh on her waist, forcing it down her belly and down into her panties. I slid my finger along her slit and felt the oozing wet warmth—but only for a second before she pushed my hand away with a thud. I slipped it behind, onto her ass and up to the small of her back. I wanted to feel those little dimples there, but she slammed her butt back against the tree, trapping my hand.

“Fuck you, Alexandre Chevalier, who do you think you
are
molesting me like this?”

“You’re mine,” I growled, clawing the ass that belonged to me. “I have to have you, I can’t stand this anymore. You and I belong together, Pearl. Every waking moment, every sleeping second, I’m thinking about you, baby, dreaming about you. I’m so crazy and obsessed with you, it hurts.”

“You just want to fuck me and go back to Laura, that skinny ‘asparagus stick’, as Sophie so brilliantly described her. Keep away from me, Alexandre—stop torturing me with your games!”

But her protestation was fruitless as her frail arms tried to beat on my heaving chest. I kissed her nose, her eyes, her chin, her hair, then back to her full, soft lips. I murmured into her mouth, “I love you Pearl, I love you more than you can possibly know; my life is an empty shell without you. It means nothing without you by my side.”

“You want to have your cake and eat it too,” she objected into my kiss.

“You’re—” I trailed my tongue along her lips— “the only cake I want, I swear. The sweetest cake there is.” It was true—she smelled delicious; her skin more fragrant than ever; not perfume but her own Pearlish scent that was indescribable. It sent shivers of lust and love right down my spine, pounding into my dick—all a mélange of beautiful, confusing chaos of love.

The drama carried on, the banter about Laura as I tried to protest my innocence in vain. I told Pearl that Laura had something I needed, which only blew her fire to flare up into a full-on bonfire—I could not slake her fury. There was a new, defiant look in her eye as if she were protecting something more than just her pride. I wasn’t going to get my way, although I was trying damn hard.

“You and Laura deserve each other,” Pearl hissed, her breath a mist that caught my tongue mid-sentence.

“Pearl, please, we—”

“You two,” a voice from behind me yelled. “No sex in public, it’s a felony.” It was a police officer, strolling toward us, half amused, half serious. I stepped back; Pearl ducked from under me, slipping from my grip. She ran off, trammeling fresh snow, Rex racing after her, his deep paw prints testament of his adoration for her.

Even Rex was against me or he would have stayed loyal by my side. I felt wrath swell in my heart—the kind I experienced in the Foreign Legion, because I felt a sense of hopelessness; that the world was outside of my control. Destiny taking its own pigheaded course. I needed to expel the pent-up energy spiraling though my veins. I needed sex to calm me. That obviously wasn’t going to happen.

So I needed to fight.

That rapist fuck had had it coming to him for nearly twenty years.

Payback time.

12

T
he muscle memory was about to kick in again. In a trance, I drove to Mystic where one of the guys who’d raped Pearl lived on weekends. His house, where he was cozily ensconced with his wife and kids, was pretty plush. I’d had him tracked down; and found out everything I needed to know. Revenge was bubbling, like Laura’s cauldron, in my hot veins. It was my way of showing Pearl how much I loved her, although I wasn’t going to reveal my violent side to her. No, this ‘escapade’ would be my secret.

I followed him to his drinking hole by the waterfront and took him by surprise. It felt good to scare the living shit out of him, even though I did it with a fake gun; one of those cigarette lighters. He had raped my girl, albeit eighteen years ago. He had defiled her with his stinking dick. I hated mankind. Man, not kind. Man—so often a fucking piece of shit. Pearl and Natalie were right to expose all those fucks in their documentaries—merciless nothings who were ruining women’s lives in such a cavalier way. I felt so proud of Pearl. She had that all-consuming sense of justice. She was a fighter. A warrior. She wanted to right the world. This was my chance to help her.

Few people have guts to do what she did for a living. Everyone is so busy trying to seek approval, be popular, be ‘liked’ on Facebook or HookedUp. Pearl didn’t care about being liked. She cared about integrity. She was on a mission to defend others through her job as documentary producer, but somehow, she hadn’t believed that she, herself, needed shielding. This was my way of protecting her, albeit too late. I enjoyed laying a few punches into this overweight, ex-football-playing cocksucker, swinging my leg hard into his chest—letting him know that he had fucked (literally) with the wrong person.

He’d fucked my girl. In the nastiest, most despicable way. Which meant he’d also fucked me.

Revenge is a dish best served cold. And this revenge had been on ice for eighteen years.

I remember two distinct things about that night in Mystic: the cold. And the man’s expression on his milky white face when I told him he’d have to part with two month’s salary—a hundred grand to be wired to a charity I’d set up in Pearl’s name. In ‘Jane Doe’s’ name. With a ten percent discount if he revealed all his rapist buddies’ names—each and every one who participated in the gang rape that fateful night. Of all the punches and kicks, the financial punch was the most painful to this pathetic man; hit ‘em where it hurts most—in the wallet.

It gave me momentary satisfaction.

But it reminded me of Pearl’s vulnerability. She needed to be protected. She needed me by her side, whether she knew it or not.

I couldn’t stand to be without her a second more. Despite my promises to my mother, I’d have to tell Pearl the truth because I was dying inside.

I left Mystic and drove back to New York, singing along with the car radio to the Kinks,
You Really Got Me
. I had to make Pearl mine, whatever it took.
You got me so I can’t sleep at night
…so true.

Sleep…it was hitting me now. I pulled the car over. I felt spent and needed five minutes shut-eye before I continued driving—I didn’t want to have an accident through tiredness. The image of Pearl had me needing to jack off—to expel the heat I felt inside after the fight. I had blood on my knuckles, a bruised lip; the idea of her kissing it better made my cock swell with longing. I came fast and hard, her tits and ass on rewind and play, rewind and play, as I raced myself to an intense orgasm. Better this way—I needed to see her and didn’t want to behave like a feral animal, the way I had in Central Park. Now I was less frenetic. I closed my eyes, calmer now, reclined the leather seat, and drifted off into a brief but heavy catnap.

“Don’t fucking move.” One hand is clamped on my neck. His breathing is heaving fast and furious, his nails like bear’s claws digging into me. His other hand is pulling down my pajama bottoms. Am I dreaming? I open my eyes wide and try to roll forward but he’s got me in a tight grip. I jab my elbow backwards and it whacks into his shoulder but I can’t escape. Maman is in the hospital for the night. Because of him. Yesterday, I attacked him, trying to protect her, and he left the apartment, saying he wouldn’t ever return, muttering under his whiskey breath as Maman lay in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. I dialed the fire brigade because the ambulance is always too slow.

I didn’t hear him come in tonight. I didn’t bolt the door from inside, in case Sophie came home late. Stupid me. I’m all alone. He’s naked. He smells of sweat and whiskey.

“I said don’t fucking move or it’ll hurt.” I hear him grab his bottle and slug down the booze. I take the moment to slither out from his grip but it makes him roar. “Why can’t you just let me love you, goddamn it? You’re my son; I love you.”

I hop to my bedroom door—my pajamas are around my ankles so I can’t move fast—I can’t open the door in time. He chases me, tackling me like a rugby player. We both fall with a thud to the ground.

“Papa, please, you’re drunk. Let me go!” I crawl up on my knees. I’m panting hard but he pushes me down on the floor again. My teeth smash against my lips. I’m bleeding. “Please, Papa,” I beg, my face crushed on the black and white tiled linoleum. I thrash like a snake but he holds me down. My pajamas are still caught around my ankles like a net. He’s sticking it in and it hurts. I scream out in pain and manage to get to my knees so it slips out.

“Stop jiggling about, Alexandre Dubois—stop disobeying your father!”

I roll on my side. I’m on my back now. I take his arm, bring my mouth up to his shoulder and bite into it with all the power I have.

“Ah! You fuck!” he cries out in a blood-curdling yell. He gets up and staggers towards his whiskey bottle, grabs it and races at me, swinging it wildly. My hand is on the doorknob and I turn it. The door is ajar; it’s open. I stick my barefoot in the gap but I’m too late. He smashes the bottle against the door. I shove my head through—whiskey spills all over my back. I feel a thump on my bottom and see blood pooling on the floor. My bottom is stinging as the whiskey trickles between my crack. It’s my blood I see. He jams the broken bottle inside me, twisting it like a corkscrew and I’m screaming in pain now. Shards of glass, whiskey, blood—my blood—all over the floor. I hear a noise. I look up and see Sophie rushing towards me. She’s clutching a kitchen knife—

I sat bolt upright with a jerk. Jesus! I was lying on something sticking right into my butt. My wallet. I let out the breath that I had been holding in without realizing. That memory hadn’t been around for a while. Why now? I thought of the guy’s blood tonight in Mystic, pooling around his ears after I struck him with my ruthless kick. I remembered my own blood, the glass, the metallic taste in my mouth, my chipped tooth, my father with the knife stuck in his groin, and how Sophie and I ran and ran and never returned.