I stare at the fading tombstone before me. Its evidently ancient, just like everything else in this creepy arse graveyard.
Here lies Grace Bertrand. Mother, friend and lover. Gone but never forgotten.
And how could she be? Forgotten, I mean, I had to get my whole god damn identity in order to get away from those bloodthirsty reporters. When Grace killed our parents, the police took a fourteen year old me out of state, across the country and in to one of California's skankiest of care institutions. There I was given a new name, Emma Bates. Emma was an orphan and had no siblings to speak of. She had been brought to America from France by her now deceased parents, just as Grace and Charlotte Bertrand had all those years ago.
I tried to become Emma Bates, I really did, but it was so god damn hard. No matter how hard I tried, I could never rid the core and soul of Charlotte Bertrand from my body, and the most perplexing part of it was that I had no desire to. I tried to have desire, but desire is something I have discovered cannot be forced. Of course, Charlotte Bertrand, a quiet, artistic soul, would never of done some of the outrageous things Emma did throughout her adolescent. Snorting crystal meth by the high way, screwing coco skinned boys in deserted alley ways, you name it, Emma did it. Perhaps that was her way of trying to eliminate Charlotte. By doing these things, Emma was able to pretend Charlotte didn't still exist within her for a little while, she could let go of all the memories and all the confusion stirring deep within her gut and be free.
Kit Walker, a disorientated young man blessed with devilish good looks and two beautiful infants, stands beside me. When I got the guys call, I was certain I wouldn't come to the funeral. But it seemed to me that if I managed to force myself to attend, perhaps I could leave Charlotte Bertrand behind me once and for all. Now Grace was dead, perhaps Charlotte could die too. "You look like her, you know." I hear a distinctive voice whisper next to me. His breath, warm as a winters fire, catches my exposed neck. "That's not the kind of thing I want to be hearing." I breathe back, emotionless.
"Why not?" Kit Walker asks. He is now studying me intently, observing me, attempting to make a conclusion of who I am. But I shall not show him. It is none of his business, he has no ties to Emma, only to Charlotte, and soon, Charlotte will be gone, just like her sister. So I stay silent. And so does Kit for a while. It seems like hours before he speaks again, and I find myself praying him to release some words, any words, as this stony silence( just as the bullshit filled service hadn't), isn't helping me let go in the slightest, and perhaps the words of her lover would give me more success. Like Grace was though, I am stubborn. I will not make the first move. "I…um…I have something for you." He delves in to the deep pockets of his overcoat, bringing out a small, black leather bound notebook. "It…um…it was Grace's. I've read it. I…um…think you should too. It might help you." Before I can apprehend what I am doing, I am grabbing the notebook from his grasp and tucking it in to my own coat pocket, careful not to catch the man's gaze. "Thank you." I murmur, before making my way out of the graveyard.
When I arrive back to my apartment in Los Angeles about an hour or so later, I find Jack sitting in the front room with a square looking bastard in a pin striped suit. The man looks as though he's in his mid fifties, and when he catches sight of me in the door way, begins to bare his teeth hungrily. Great I think to myself. I've just come home from my sisters funeral and you want me to screw someone? Not even a hot someone, no, a straggly old piece of shit is what I am shouting within, but the logical side of Emma Bates knows better to argue. Instead, I bite my tongue, taking half of my bottom lip with it for good measure, and paint on my best inviting smile. Hookers don't get a day off, is what Jack has always said, and they should know better to complain about it. "This is Michael." He grunts, signalling at the man. Michael gives a pathetic little wave with his hand, in which I respond to with one of the fakest moans I've ever had to muster. "Oh, well hello there." I say, strutting over to greet the client. Scarlett flushes over Michael's face. Serves the bastard right. "I'm so horny right now, Michael, you have no idea how glad I am to have you to take care of." I flirt, snaking my arms around the mans neck. "Well…um…if you don't mind…I'd rather look after you…if you…um…know what I mean." The son of the bitch actually wiggled his eyebrows whilst saying the last part. What a god damn square. "Oh of course I don't mind, what a gentleman you are, you'll have to let me repay you for your kindness Michael…really…"
"Emma?" Jack interrupts, his expression stony and dangerous.
"What is it? Make it quick, I want Michael to take care of me…" I giggle back at him, struggling to remain in character. "It won't take a second." Jack barks back, indicating I join him in the kitchen.
"I won't be long…I promise…" I tell Michael. I try and ignore the thumping pulse that has travelled in to my throat and my wheezing lungs begging for the air I am too frightened to provide. The feeling is a familiar one. It happens near enough every time Jack interrupts me with a client to have a quick word in the kitchen.
"What is it?" I mumble.
Jack is calm. As he always is at first. "No need to be so worried, Ems. I just need to know where you were today, you know how it is."
"Its private, Jack." I mutter so quietly he must of strained to of heard what I had said.
"Private? What do you mean, private?"
"It means I don't want to tell you were I was today, Jack." I reply foolishly, without thinking about the later consequences of my actions. Shit.
"I thought we didn't have secrets between us Ems…" His voice is still fairly relaxed, although there now seems to be a sharp edge weaved among the calm. Please no, not whilst we have a client.
"I'll tell you later, okay?" I study his reddening face for a second and take a deep breath to calm myself. "I promise."
Before he can reply, I scamper out of the kitchen and back in to the front room, where Michael has undone the first couple of buttons of his shirt. "I could of done that for you." I purr, spreading my legs so they enclose his knobbly knee's. "What do you want doing today then, big boy?" Michael gives an embarrassed grin. Bless. Poor guy probably hasn't had a screw in years… "Um, well, it obviously depends on the doe, I've not got loads but enough…I should think so anyway…" I swipe the wallet I see peaking from his trouser pocket and wave it in front of his face. "Mind if I take a look?" Michael shakes his head. I delve inside the wallet, made from the same material as the notebook Kit Walker had given to me earlier that day, and extract five crisp fifty dollar bills. "Should be enough." I inform him, causing the guy to sigh with relief. "Just about enough. It's a sign, I'm sure of it, a sign tonight is going to be magnificent…"
I lead Michael by his wrinkled hand in to the bedroom, or my office , as Jack had always proceeded to call it. "You wanna make out first?"I ask, inwardly pleading he didn't…but he nods his head, and I pretend to look delighted at his consent, even though the thought of having his old man's tongue shoved down my throat makes my skin crawl.
After a while of enduring getting my face eaten, I begin to hoist of my funeral dress, low cut and jet black, leaving a significant amount of cleavage and thigh on show for the benefit of any potential clients. I grab for his crotch, searching for his solid cock, but I can't find it. I am about to pull down his pants in order to get a better look, when Michaels hand suddenly grabs at my wrist. "No…not…not yet." He mumbles.
"Why big boy, you not got it going yet? I can help you with that…"
"No." He pleads.
"Why?" I ask. "You haven't got a pussy, have you?" Michael shakes his head in horror. I force a laugh. "Then what's the problem, hon?"
Michael squirms. "Promise not to laugh."
"I promise, I bet you I've seen worse." I reassure him. Michael gives a feeble nod. I grin, bringing my mouth to his creased lips once more. Slowly but surely, I get to his underpants. I can hear his heartbeat fastening as I hoist down his briefs, and it seems as though its fit to burst out of its chest when I've pulled them completely down, finding myself face to face with a half bitten off dick, stained with greying puss and sour blood. I scream so loud that Jack comes in to the room. When he see's Michaels cock he gives a hearty laugh. "Sorry about this one, man, she's such a drama queen!" He says, giving me a warning glare. "I'm not sucking that!" I state.
"Emma…"
"No!" I scream, tears springing into my sockets. "I won't! Would you? Would anyone…"
"EMMA PLEASE" Jack yells back at me, silencing me. "For fucks sake…I'm so sorry about this dude, don't worry, she will be reprimanded for this…"
"Yes, I should think so." Michael murmurs, readjusting his underpants and hoisting his pants back over his pasty thighs. "I feel completely humiliated…I thought you said she wouldn't mind…"
"You knew?" I say to Jack. "You knew he only had half a cock and you were still gonna make me blow him?" Jack shakes his head slowly, his cheeks red hot, inflamed with anger.
"Did she do anything?" Jack grunts at Michael, who shakes his head.
"That's not true! I let him stick his tongue down my throat and see me without my dress on…that's gotta be worth something…" I protest.
"You overestimate yourself, Emma." Jack mutters under his breath.
"I agree." Michael says.
"Oh shut the fuck up and get out mouldy cock." Jack bellows in Michaels face, causing droplets of spit to settle on his crimsoned features.
Michael leaves. Jack does not.
Instead, I spend the rest of the night enduring punishment. I don't want to go in to great detail, the fact of the matter is, I wasn't allowed to rest till five am that morning, after spending almost seven hours being assaulted by my pimp and supposed boyfriend. When the ordeal was finally over, and I was certain that Jack had sunken in to oblivion at last, I tiptoe from the bed and into the hallway, slipping the notebook Kit Walker gave to me the day before out of my coat pocket. Creeping in to the front room, I switch on our flickering lamp, and begin to read.