It's me again!
*CLICK*
I'm dating Riley Matthews, editor of Dirty Deeds magazine. She's in a pickle with her publisher, Brett Barricklow.
"Okay, Matthews. Where do you plan to go with your next issue?" he asked.
"Oh, you know. Standard follow-ups, finding celebrities who've left the spotlight, answers to last issue's quizzes, etcetera," she answered.
"You've got a good thing going, Miss Matthews," he complimented her efforts.
*CLICK*
She struck a deal with Upgrade, a personal pharmacy to the stars.
"You can't answer as if you're not able to answer? Or you won't answer? A refusal?" Riley used his words against him.
*CLICK*
Maya Hunter broke off her relationship with Lucas Friar.
"Blessing in disguise," Lucas said during a guys' night out.
Not only are her affairs haunting her, but someone is also haunting her with explicit pictures. She went as far as accusing me of snapping the photos, and she should've known better.
"Have you been taking pictures behind my back?" Maya asked over the phone.
"I'd only take pictures of you if you asked me to," I answered.
If only she would listen to me...
*CLICK*
As far as my concerns go, I have some more bridges to burn before I can go about my life. The hardest part is letting go. It's been nine years.
"I am doing this for you. You will thank me later."
Why did she do this? Why did I have to see it? Why do I see this happening to me?
*CLICK*
I could not sleep through the night.
Mom would still be here today if she hadn't gotten into a fight with Dad. Almost ten years later, and I still don't understand the note left for me. "I am doing this for you?" Why did she do it for me? That's the worst thing she could've done, and it bites.
I had returned to my house that Sunday morning. Riley was still asleep on my couch, so I had to sneak by her. When I entered my bedroom, I hit the lights and walked to the closet. The closet harbored many boxes, one of which contained photographic memories of my late mother. I remembered the good times. I still remember stealing her wedding ring, so I could propose to Maya. I remember her supporting me when we learned that I could've had a form of autism.
She always had that penguin trinket adorning her keychain. Mom loved penguins. I also found a family photo of the three of us. Mom, Dad, and Farkle. We looked so happy, but we somehow weren't. I looked at the red ukulele and found folded papers held down by the first and third strings. When I opened them, everything hit me.
"To my dearest son, I did it for you. Someday, you will thank me. Love, Mom."
"Dear Stuart, I've always loved you. However, I cannot continue living like this. The only way out is making you a widow. I am so sorry. I hope you can forgive me someday. Love, Jen."
"Dear Farkle, I love you. Don't forget that. Love, Mom."
These were pages from a diary. Under the ukulele was a brown leather-bound book. It was easy to access, and the pages were filled. Written in different ink colors, my mother recounted many events leading up to my leaving for college. I did turn a few pages to find some missing toward the end. The page before the ripped ones got me.
"Dated August 13, 2020. This is the last from me. Soon, I will hang myself. I've already written my eulogies. I will make sure Stuart and Farkle back every word. I hope Stuart will find love again, but hopefully not with Topanga Matthews. He should've given it up by now. I wish Farkle the very best of luck. He has my ability to remember. He has learned to be humble beneath spoiled parents. If I tear these next pages, those will be my suicide notes. Thank you, diary, for keeping my memories. Goodbye, world."
I distinctly remember that night. It was in August, and my friends and I were all moving to NYU for a semester. When I had to load some things onto the bed of Lucas's pickup truck, I needed to borrow another suitcase from my mom. Knowing where she kept them, I walked straight to her room and expected to just take a bag. I just wanted to tell my mom that I was finally leaving, but it was she who left.
Suddenly, I was whisked away to the outskirts of nowhere. Sunny. Deserted. Dry. Where am I? Riley, why are you wearing a nightie right now? It's freaking daylight out! And that makeup? Too dark. Why do you have Barry the Bear-Bear fully intact? I thought Auggie bit off the head or something. Lucas, what the hell? Oh, my gosh, you look so emaciated. And old. Why are you smoking a cigarette? Those are horrible. I thought those were abolished eons ago! Maya, you're a zombie. You look like you, but paler.
"Farkle, you know what you have to do," ghostly-Riley said.
"What's going on?" I asked, and my voice echoed to the horizon.
"You know what you've gotta do, Farkle," Lucas said.
And then I saw myself in zombie form. I was wearing the same clothes from that night Riley and I had a sexual encounter. I told her she couldn't have a drink without justifying her reasoning. Zombie-Farkle also scared me.
"Who are you?" I asked my doppelganger.
"Who'm I? Who're you?" he questioned me back, speaking in a hard Scottish accent. "It's all your fault, Minkus."
"It's not my fault. I didn't do anything. She was sick!"
"Sick? You're sick. I'm sick. We're all sick. You know what you need to do now, don't you buddy?"
His accent was really bothering me, but the words were haunting me worse. The zombies cornered me. They echoed the mantra. What is it that I need to do?
"You know what you have to do, Farkle."
Somebody stop the madness! Please!
"Farkle?"
STOP!
"Farkle?"
QUIT!
"Farkle?!"
NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!
"FARKLE?!" Riley shouted in my ear and squeezed my body from behind to snap me out of my nightmarish reverie.
Until I regained my breath, I could only continue what had happened.
"I didn't do it," I shook my head, crying. "They killed her," I broke down, turning around into Riley's embrace.
"Who?" she asked, but her question was answered when she saw the Mom box. "No, Farkle. Your mother was mentally and terminally ill, remember? She found out she had cancer, so she had to end it immediately. How could you not remember that?"
The diary had closed on my finger where the torn pages were. I felt an inkling of writing on the current page, so I reopened the book. There it was.
"Dearest Jennifer, I am at a loss for words. On top of your anxiety and depression, lung cancer had to show up. If you had the correct support, you could've beaten cancer. I'm sorry you had to choose the wrong way out. Now, I am alone with my son. Life won't be the same. I do have support from friends, but you're the major support which I need daily. Love you. Miss you. My world is shattered, but it will piece itself together when I see you again. Love, Stuart."
I remember it all now. I remember everything. I've been so blind to it after all these years. After all this time! How am I alive? Why am I alive?
"I had a dream last night. Someone was trying to hang me. Just like my mom did to herself. I still think it's my fault, and they came for me," I said, trying not to cry.
I then turned to Riley, who was right there in my face. I knew she was real. It has been harder for me to distinguish fantasy from reality, but with Riley, I know I'm alive. She's real. I'm real. We are not figments of our own imaginations.
"You had nothing to do with it. Your mother was a little selfish, but that doesn't override the fact that she loved you more than she loved herself," Riley comforted me and hugged me tighter.
Who loves someone more than themselves?
NEWSBREAK
An anonymous source accuses Dirty Deeds publisher Brett Barricklow of sexual assault. Whether this occurred recently or years ago, this source claims to have been paid to keep quiet. Now, the source plans to return the money to Barricklow in hopes of making the Grover publisher confess.
Elsewhere today, former NYU professor Edwin Goolagong is hospitalized after two men attempted to murder him. Among the injuries to Goolagong are broken bones and torn ligaments. The professor is currently in a medically-induced coma. More to come as the stories develop.
(excerpt from Dr. Smackle's Boys)
I am closing my psychology practice for two weeks while I tend to the emergency room patients. If this will bring in more dough, then I'm ready to go.
Paging Dr. Smackle to the third floor. Paging Dr. Smackle to the third floor.
Oh, great. The psychiatric unit. At least I get to deal with patients of my caliber. First up on the list is the former teen idol Charlotte Kincaid. She attempted suicide by fake-baking herself to death after overdosing on painkillers. Not the right way to go, but it is always better to attempt the escape (from suicide).
"If you want to set yourself on fire, first off, don't cover yourself in oil. Your best bet would've been to seek solace in loved ones. Self-harm has been a growing epidemic in the last couple of decades. Stop selling yourself so short to make it appear so."
I am a hard-ass. I don't care what my patients say. I can't sugarcoat things. These people deserve my personal opinion, and sadly, I come across as brash. Hopefully, Miss Kincaid will take my advice to heart.
Paging Dr. Smackle to Room 409; Dr. Smackle, you are needed in Room 409.
The ground floor, special diseases unit. My nurses gave me the charts on Erica Bionx, who came to me for a second opinion on her supposed pregnancy. Her tests came back positive, but she had to know who was fathering her baby. Looking at the two potential candidates... she's out of luck.
"Good news! We looked at your charts, and we can surgically remove the worms without harming the baby! Bad news is, you'll have to go under the knife within 48 hours, so sign away, lady," I said as I handed her some forms.
"Can I stay overnight?" Erica asked me as she gave me her signature.
"Oh, I won't be doing your surgery," I confirmed before I left. Before I shut the door behind me, I let slip, "P.S. – you're in deep shit regarding the paternity test of your child. Figure out how to tell Capra, or I know someone who'll tell him for you," I said as I left the rest of the charts on the counter.
Dr. Smackle, paging Dr. Smackle to A & E. Dr. Smackle to A & E.
I may have forgotten to mention that I'm a doctor of everything... I work too hard. As I headed toward the ICU, the nurses gave me information about an actress who was in a car accident. After examining her, her wounds were the least of my worries and hers.
"Something in that air sack force must have defected somewhere else. Unless Matt broke his arm from saving yours, you got lucky," I addressed Evani Farrow.
"Psst! Dr. Smackle," a nurse peeped outside the curtained doorway.
"Yes?" I replied as I filled out the chart.
"He's waitin' for you," she said.
"Thank you," I said, walking out of Evani's room.
The nurse and I walked side by side to our next patient's room. According to the charts, he was severely beaten. Bruises in both eyes, broken nose, twisted wrists, dislocated fingers, torn ligaments in knees and ankles... why should he not be in traction?
"Does this man have an alias?" I skimmed the charts of an Edwin Goolagong.
"They call him Upgrade. He's the good cop of the good-cop/bad-cop drug dealers. Assault and battery victim," the nurse replied.
"Did they find the suspect or suspects?"
"Nah. Completely unscathed."
"Wow..."
We entered Upgrade's room together. He done fucked up, that's for sure. He can't talk because he's on a respirator. That drug-induced coma is doing him wonders. All his joints and broken limbs have been reset. Everything is in traction. Right above the heart.
"My goodness, what happened to you? Don't tell me... you let out a secret about someone you know, and now, you're paying the price? You're lucky that you're still alive, sir," I took a guess.
"Did you just... you can say that?!" the nurse whispered in exasperation.
"Have you met me?" I counter-questioned.
"Just today, ma'am, but your processes are too concise and straightforward. No doctor has ever done that. Certainly makes my job easier!"
Paging Dr. Smackle to the Maternity Ward. Dr. Smackle, you must report to the Maternity Ward.
"Welp, I'm needed to birth some babies," I checked my watch, then turned to the patient. "Rest well, Mister Goolagong. You'll need it. Dr. Whatsajipser will be checking on you shortly. Have a nice day."
The nurse and I walked out of Goolagong's room. She stayed behind as I made my way to the maternity ward.
"Hey, Doc!" the nurse yelled as I walked away.
I had walked miles in this hospital. Everyone needs me, and it's only the second day. I turned around to see the nurse still standing there with her clipboard.
"Five bucks says Mrs. Johnson's having a boy," she said nervously.
I didn't know how to respond to a bet. I didn't even know hospital workers did this, so I did what I thought was logical: up the ante.
"Ten if it's a girl," I replied, smiling.
"You're on!" she confirmed the bet.
(we now return to Dirty Deeds)
The nightmares have been plaguing me since I had them. I don't even know what the worst part about it is. Is someone trying to kill me? Is someone trying to kill Riley? Or Maya? Smackle, Lucas, Zay, Josh, Dad, everyone else I know? Where else was there to go?
I took the elevator to my dad's office. I didn't want to talk to anybody. Not even the girl who had been pining for me until she told me she wasn't in love anymore. I couldn't talk to her, but she tried to stop me.
"Hey, Farkle, I was wondering if–" Rolanda was ecstatic to see me, all bubbly and smiley in her new brown pantsuit.
"I can't talk right now," I interrupted her in a murmur as I passed her.
"Okay," she sounded dejected, but still cheery. "Don't forget about our date!"
Yet another commitment I made when I wasn't thinking about death. I don't even know what I was thinking then. I don't want to think about it now.
I knocked on the door with my father's back turned in that lucky chair of his. When he raised his hand, beckoning me to enter, I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
"I'll have the numbers faxed to you by Friday. No, thank you. You bet. Mmhmm. Bye," Dad hung up the phone then turned around. "Farkle, you rang again," he said, concerned after that urgent text I sent him.
"I'm ready," I said.
After running through his head all the possible things I could be "ready" for, he found the one thing: Mom. He nodded and pushed a button on a remote to lock the door and close the blinds.
"Yes, it's true that your mother had cancer. She did hang herself, but I'm skeptical because I still don't know why she did it. Do you know what she wrote in her diary?" he asked me, and I was prepared to answer. He beat me to the punch. "She loved all of us, son. She just thought it would be better for us if she weren't in the picture if she were ill. She didn't have the patience. She didn't have time. And the sad part is, I still think it just happened. I don't like people leaving this world in a snap. That's why I vowed to die naturally and not by the hands of someone, even my own."
"I had a strange dream. I was taking the blame for Mom's death. They tried to hang me," I confessed.
"Who tried?"
"My friends, but they were zombies, and I saw myself as a sick man. How sick was Mom? And why am I having nightmares now?"
"I don't know, son. Is someone coming after you? What about your girlfriends? Is someone after them?" he inquired.
Girlfriends. That word, true as it may be, triggered last night's conversation...
"Have you been taking pictures behind my back?" Maya asked over the phone.
...do I have to answer my father's question? Is now a good time to back out? C'mon, Farkle... tell the truth because it'll set you free...
I struggled to find the right thing to say. It was easy when I outed Riley for still being in love with Lucas, but this was harder because neither Riley nor Maya are in my presence. I breathed in to say something, but I stopped myself. I repeated that process five times until my father got tired.
"Out with it, Farkle," he grew impatient.
"Someone is taking provocative pictures of Maya. Maya came after me on the phone last night, accusing me of taking those pictures. Riley is also being stalked with pictures, and I can't figure out where they're coming from. What if I'm next?" I ranted.
"Farkle, relax!" he suddenly got firm. "I can tell you now that this is a safe and secured building. Nobody comes in without an identification from the business or a key card. The property is gated, and nobody jumps the fence. If anybody did, I would know. It's as simple as that. Protect yourself. Don't reject yourself."
Protection. It's all I needed after all. Nobody can kill me if I'm protected. I've got all the protection I need, and it took me that conversation to realize that.
"Thank you, Dad. I'll be in touch. And I love you. Don't forget that," I stood up and shook his hand.
"Love you too, son. See you again," he pulled me in for a hug.
I wish I could feel better. I was more shocked if anything. A dream about my mother turned out to be a dream about fear. I have been afraid of losing those who are close to me. Someone is coming close to taking everything I live for away from me. I've got to stop them, wherever they are.
(excerpt from Maya Hunter, Maya Hunter)
I had spent the last few days at my house. I looked over every photo that had been anonymously sent to me. Something is just not adding up. Riley's been attacked by the pictures, too. Also, Lucas and Josh have received some unwanted photographs. Who is after us? Since nobody would help me out, I decided to help myself.
I researched every single photography business in the metro. I wrote down all the numbers on a notepad. I would think that not all of them keep records of customers who pay to have their photos developed. That helped narrow my search. It also helped wonders that Missy Bradford pulled the plug on my tabloid cover featuring me and two guys in drag. Could she still be after me?
One name did stick out to me, and the research checks out. I decided to call up the place and ask for information.
"Bradford Photography?"
"Hi, I've got a question for you," I opened.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Do you keep a record of customers who rent out a developing booth? Like, someone comes in with a can of film, and they get developed for a fair price?"
"We do keep records, but that's privileged information."
"Do you know if someone came in working for Slutville magazine? Say... about... a month ago?"
"What's your name, young lady?"
"Maya."
"Maya, and your last name?"
"Butt-reeks," I got sarcastic and impatient with the man on the phone because I refuse to reveal my real name. "This is the closest business to Slutville since a woman known as Missy Bradford runs the magazine. She's been after me since she started, and you're related to her!"
"Now, now, hold your horses, ma'am. I pulled up the records on the computer. I have four instances of Slutville employees coming in for development. For a small fee, I can give you their names and numbers."
For a small fee? How small? Like ten, twenty dollars small? Or a few hundred? I'm anxious to ask.
"I'm listening," I laid back on my couch.
He then proceeded to give me the names of these people that match my criteria. I wrote all their info down on my notepad and read them back. None of those guys sounded familiar to me, but I was willing to chew every single one of them out.
"Are you friends or relatives with these people?"
"I can tell you that I do not recognize anybody on this list, sir."
"Stop by tomorrow, and we'll discuss your payment."
"Thank you, sir."
"Have a good one."
"You, too. Bye."
He said bye out of my earshot as I pressed END. I finally have my lead. I just have to tell Riley, Josh, and Lucas. Would I tell Farkle, though? I feel awful for accusing him out of the blue when I knew better. I called him, but I was most afraid that he wouldn't answer. My fear rang true, so I texted Josh a picture of that list.
To Josh Matthews:
What do you know about these guys?
Maya
I turned on the TV to see the news channel about Riley's publisher being accused of sexual assault, and that could go to trial soon if he doesn't come clean. Also, an NYU chemistry professor was attacked at his own home. That's gotta be scary since Riley's little brother probably looked up to him.
My phone buzzed again.
From Uncle Boing:
Meet you at your house.
Josh
This could be either good or bad. I should also convince him not to lay me.
To Uncle Boing:
I'll be here.
Maya
I watched more television until he showed up at my front door. I had forgotten to unlock it when he knocked. Whoops.
"So, you made a list?" he asked as soon as I opened the door to greet him.
"Yeah, come on in," I said, gesturing him to walk inside.
(welcome back to Dirty Deeds)
I had been without my phone for a few days now. I couldn't fathom taking calls from anybody since that nightmare. After talking with my father, I'm feeling better, but it's more about clarity. At the meeting, Riley introduced a new writer to the staff: Maribel Monet, a thirty-something retired porn star who is starting her life anew, fresh out of debt. While this bottle-blonde with green eyes for days most likely "persuaded" the publisher to hire her, her credentials were too good to pass up.
"Everybody, this is Maribel. Yes, I know she used to moonlight as an adult film star, but you guys have to realize that once they're retired, they don't get royalties from the companies unless they are their own. Farkle?" Riley addressed, gesturing to me.
"May the record show that Miss Monet also has a degree in English Literature and has written several award-winning articles for the magazines within the Grover Corporation, including our very own Dirty Deeds," I followed.
The crowd clapped their hands at Maribel's accolades.
I looked around the room as the applause dwindled to a mute. I eyed Riley's pager that was hooked to her belt, and it was beeping red, but silenced. When she saw me looking at her beeper, she walked towards me and hooked my arm with hers, dragging me out with a quick exit speech to the writers.
"I must apologize, but I'm cutting the meeting short," she said. "Jot down every single idea that you have for the next issue. I'll figure out the assignments after I take care of some business regarding the Erica Bionx pregnancy," she said as we walked out the door.
She rushed me to her office where she slammed the door shut behind us. Running to the desk, she picks up the phone and pushes one of the buttons.
"Riley Matthews," she answered. "Did you get the results?" she asked next.
She then put the phone on speaker, so we both could listen.
"Are you ready for this? I've got good news and bad news."
That's Smackle. She's got more dirt now that she's working at the hospital.
"Go ahead, Doc," Riley said, anticipating the results. "Good news," she confirmed first.
"Wade Capra is not the father of Erica Bionx's baby."
Riley felt a smile crawl on her face. I think I felt it, too.
"Is it Johnny's?" I asked, curious to know.
"It doesn't belong to Johnny, either," she chuckled.
Riley and I looked at each other as if we had Erica in our trap. No, it was because we had Erica in our trap. I've been itching to take more pictures of her. Now that her secret's out, I intend to expose it.
"What's the bad news?" Riley asked, hoping this doesn't destroy what we've worked for.
"The NYU professor who moonlights as a pharmacist, Edwin Goolagong, alias Upgrade, is in traction. I don't know how it happened, but after speaking with him, one-sided, mind you, he uttered the word 'Gable.' What is a 'Gable' and where do I find one?"
Riley's heart sank when Gable was mentioned. I saw her body language change in a split second. First, she was happy, now she's afraid. Or is she furious?
She speed-walked past me and left the office abruptly, slamming the door. She's furious.
"Was it something I said?"
"No, Smackle. Apparently, Riley knows of this 'Gable' and is going to chew out her publisher," I answered nonchalantly. "If you have anything else, text me, and I'll relay to Riley, okay? Thank you, buh-bye," I rushed my words then slammed the phone on the receiver.
I worried about Riley. Barricklow is in for it now.
NEWSBREAK
A break in the case of Dr. Goolagong, former chemistry professor at NYU, who was attacked by two masked men at his Upstate home: Goolagong is awake and breathing. When asked to describe the two men who brutally attacked him, Goolagong could only respond with "Gable." Whether this is the surname of several citizens or an alias, it's a start for any private investigators who are interested in the case.
(excerpt from Riley's Rebellion)
Goolagong's only word was "Gable?!" Can this get any worse? I have a gut feeling I know who may have had a hand in this. I marched straight into his office where he was reading that same damn headline and gave that piece of shit a piece of my mind.
"You, son of a BITCH!" I cried.
"No, you listen to me!" he shouted at me to get my attention. "They came to my condo. They were going to cut my dick and balls off. Then they were going to feed them to me," he said, but I didn't care.
"You gave up a source!" I retorted.
"Gable was going to kill me!"
"And you let him off with a clean getaway," I fumed, close to tears. "He's done. They don't know if he's going to live, and you had the audacity to turn him loose."
"Oh, come on, Matthews. You would've done the same thing if they came to your house and cut your dick off, would you?" he tried to make a comeback. Didn't work.
"But I wasn't at my house, was I? If I were at my house, and Gable stopped by, I would've stood up to that piece of shit and taser him where the sun don't shine!" I elaborated, hoping Barry would take the hint to stand up for himself.
"Be serious, Matthews," he shot back.
"You're a riot, Brett Barricklow. You know I would give my left nut and sanity to protect my sources, and you failed at the most basic way to know how. I want to know how the fuck you live with yourself," I gave my publisher my two cents.
"Pardon me?" he followed, having that look on his face that I did not like at all. "You and your staff, your tactic involves blackmailing celebrities. Then it's their careers on the line. Through the shitstorm that you made, how am I still the son of a bitch here? Where are you in this?"
"I sure as hell didn't give up the source," I burned him and walked away.
He wasn't happy. He wasn't thinking things through when Gable came for him. I'm just as infuriated as he was. He slammed his fists on the desk and gave me one more piece of advice that I wish I hadn't taken.
"Remember a few months ago when I nominated you to be the new editor-in-chief, and I gave out questionnaires for the other candidates? One of the questions read, 'If you were to move into the old editor's office after your confirmation, what would be the first thing you would want done?' You said to build a bay window. And we did," he lectured me.
What does my bay window have to do with this?
"So?" I questioned.
"It's going to take way more than a bay window and some friends to make you wonder where in Hell your humanity has gone. I'm looking to restore that antique mirror that you made us remove from your office, so you can take a good look at yourself in the process."
"Okay," I said, taking the advice in vain.
I walked out of the office, feeling like a weird weight was lifted off my shoulders. I confronted Barricklow because he lost my source. He fired back with questions about my staff's writing and interviewing process. On my way to my office, Sarah was on the phone with Jamie Coffey's manager, threatening to publish the interview about his detransition. Darby put her call on hold to sign me that Sarah is finally breaking out of her shell. It wasn't sarcasm, either.
And who is Brett Barricklow to tell me how to run my magazine? He's just a publisher.
(back to Dirty Deeds)
Riley fired off on all cylinders at her publisher. Everything she worked her ass off for, is now lost.
"Are you okay?" I asked Riley after she stormed into her office, and I was waiting for her.
"If Gable came to your house, wanting to know who was outing him, would you let him castrate you in order to keep my secrets?" Riley asked out of nowhere, slamming the door.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "If I had secrets about you, I wouldn't tell anybody until it's too late."
"It was too late," she chimed in unison.
"Unless somebody did ask me, there is a fair price to pay if it's for the magazine," I elaborated.
"But this is my magazine on the line, here. I got the information I wanted, but he blew it. He lost it," she cried.
I wanted to feel for Riley, but the truth is about to come out.
"That's because Gable is always a step ahead of us," I said. "I don't know how he knows where we are, or what we're doing, but he's always one–"
"Why is he one step ahead?" she interrupted me.
She finally asked the number one question. Why? Forget the rest of the words. It was always "why?" Why is Gable retaliating after being outed? Why is Riley afraid for her life? Why?
For a long time, Riley just wanted to be happy. Sometimes the journey to eternal joy involved speed bumps, chasms for days, and hitting rock bottom. The hardest part just hit her now. Truth and happiness: they are not to infringe upon each other. If the truth hinders happiness, then what are reality and fantasy? What is that road block?
"You know, I don't know why. It is possible that Gable could be a 'win at all costs' kind of guy. You're the woman who goes the right way," I answered.
Riley must have gone through every major emotion within the last hour. This is a problem which she cannot solve. It is too painful for her to bear. I don't know if I could deal with her problems if I had them. But it is an adversity we can overcome if we play our cards right.
"There is no right way through this," she murmured.
These demons are overtaking Riley. I can see it in her body language. She wants to avenge Upgrade's attack. The impulses tell her to beat Gable at his own game, the way he plays "fair." Just what is fair, anyway? Riley is furious, and damn my testosterone-laden mind for seeing her so passionate about this scenario.
"When's your next pap outing?" she asked, breaking the lingering silence between us.
"Why do you ask?" I curiously countered. No way was I going to get out of this one unless she wanted me to.
"You've gotta find Gable."
"Riley, I'm not doing this–"
"Stop! Talking," she interrupted me. "Dirty Deeds hired you at my recommendation because you're the best fucking pap in New York. Now that I'm editor, I am ordering you to find Gable and take pictures," she heightened the tone of her voice.
I did not want to hear that, but she was right. The editor has authority over the photographer. This was a crucial assignment, and the world knows I'm up for the challenge.
"But be sneaky," she switched to a concerned tone. "It may smell like death at his house, so snap from afar. We don't want you getting arrested or caught with film in your esophagus," she reminded me of my very second assignment for the Deeds.
I mulled so long over this decision. I couldn't escape it, so I thought of the next best thing.
"Okay, I'll go, but it will cost you," I told her.
"Did you raise your prices again?" she asked nonchalantly.
"I don't want your money, Riley. I want your time," I echoed her tone.
She furrowed her brows, questioning my motive. She's confused.
"My time?" she asked.
"I want to be with you," I elaborated, closing the gap between our bodies.
"You mean you want to be inside me?" she caught on.
Damn. What else can I say? Might as well be honest with her.
"Yeah," I confirmed. "Why did you ask that?"
"Because sometimes you have to bring yourself to say it, so I can bring myself to hear you," her words came out like the feel of silk. Smooth. Gorgeous. Dear God, I'm fucked.
"You know I hate being privy to that kind of communication," I whispered.
Immediately, I grabbed her face and kissed her soft cherry lips. I refused to let go. She held onto my elbows and guided me to the wall behind me, but I think she was just trying to escape my clutches. With my strength, I switched our positions, so I now had the upper hand. Her round shoulders were in my grasp as I pushed her against the wall. At this point, I cared nothing for her libido or the whims inside her head. Seeing her anger added fuel to the fire that was going on in my mind. With her between the wall and myself, I pressed my hips against hers. By the tone of her gasp and the way she yelped my name, I knew I had her under my control.
"Mmmff. Farkle," she tried to break away to speak. "Please, now is not the time!" she quietly screamed, barely above a whisper.
"It's not?" I teased, breathing heavily below her ear.
"For fuck's sake, Farkle, it's not that I don't want to, because I really want to, but it's just a really bad time. I can't! I have to close up the off–"
"Shh," I shushed her. "You either keep quiet, or I'll make you be quiet," I said as I covered her mouth, enforcing the latter choice for her.
And she screamed in my hand. She cried before looking at me, and I shook my head at her. I gave her that stern look. I shushed her again, easing her tension.
I moved her hand to the part of my body that ached the most. When she touched me, I felt the world stop spinning. I wish she felt the same. How did that ring true?
"You feel that?" I whispered in her ear, and then I nibbled on her earlobe.
"Mmhmm," she nodded and muffled into my hand, looking at me with glossy eyes.
"You did this," I snapped, but kept my volume low.
Riley mumbled something into my hand, but I couldn't comprehend her words. I massaged that spot below her earlobe with my tongue, making sure my tongue ring was touching her earlobe. I longed to hear and feel the shudder of my sweet, beautiful brunette... even if it was involuntary.
She tried to push me away. It took every ounce of my patience not to relent and let her win. This was my time. I wanted control. The hand that was touching my package pushed harder, making the pain unbearable, but I toughed it out. Her other hand was wrapped around my wrist, attempting to pry my hand from her mouth.
"Frkl pleez ltmgo!" she cried into my hand.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" I paused, making sure I heard her correctly.
"Ltmgo!" she cried.
"Let you go?" I formulated.
"Ysss!" she confirmed, screaming until I shushed her again.
"No," I answered.
"Plsfrkl," her tears hit my hand.
Feeling somewhat sympathetic, I released her because I hated to see her cry. She walked past me, and I closely followed. I wouldn't let her leave because I wasn't finished with her. I wrapped my arms around her arms and waist tightly from behind. I dragged her into her vault where she kept a loveseat across the room. As I picked her up, she kicked, screamed, and protested to be released. Once I found a spot beside the couch, I pushed her over the arm, bending her over.
I held Riley's arms behind her back with one hand and ripped her black lace panties beneath her skirt with the other. Then I started to tease her. My goodness, she loves this. I can tell. That wet for me? Who would have known? After a few touches, I immediately placed two fingers into her entrance and milked her sweet spot ad infinitum.
Her moans became intermittent. Then her legs shook like an earthquake. To prevent any noise from leaving the office, let alone the vault, she stuffed her face in a brown velvet throw pillow. When the juices flowed, I knew she was done and gone. I, however, am not quite satisfied.
With my body, I pinned Riley to the couch. From the back pocket of my jeans, I pulled out a condom and opened the wrapper. I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, and pushed my underwear down with them to my ankles. I took out the condom from the package, rolled it onto my stiff cock, aimed for Riley's entrance from behind, and just went for it, no holding back. Damn, she's so tight. I let out a pretty guttural moan, and she sighed into the pillow. Gently, now...
"Hands behind your back," I commanded although it sounded more like a request in the form of a question.
She complied, and I pinned both her wrists to her back with one hand. With my other hand, I grabbed her hair, yanking her head up, so she'd be at attention. Then I resumed my merciless thrusts. The look on her face... she had cracked, but she was still beautiful. A single line of a mascara tear track adorned each cheek of her beautiful face. Her dark pink lip gloss was smudged, thanks to me. As her features changed from fear to pleasure, I finally had her.
I continued fucking Riley until I found a very steady pace where I can go smoothly without surprises. I let go of Riley's hands and hair, and she wrapped her arms around the pillow that cradled her head. I pushed my hands under Riley's top to garner access to her bosom, knowing that playing with them a little bit would turn her on. Strangely enough, her top came with built-in bra pads, so she didn't have to wear a bra underneath. She didn't need to! My pace sped up when I rolled each respective nipple between my forefingers and thumbs. The louder she moaned from my balls tapping her clit on every thrust, the harder my pinching of her bronze nubs got.
"You like that? You like that?!" I grunted, pushing Riley to her limit.
"Yes, sir!" she seethed through gritted teeth.
My thrusts got faster and sloppier, and Riley's core tightened up at the perfect time. I, too, felt my core bubbling up. I had no time to debate if I should ejaculate in the rubber or anywhere on her skin.
I pulled out, letting Riley go. She rolled onto her back and propped herself up onto her elbows. I hurdled over the arm of the couch to straddle the brunette's waist. Riley then eyed my cock, yanked the condom off, and pumped me to my orgasm with both hands. She took the head into her mouth as she squeezed me. One look into her dark eyes, and I came undone. My sperm shot out, landing safely in her mouth. She blinked every time the cum hit her uvula. As she felt me soften, she released my cock with a pop. With her mouth open and wondrous eyes, she stuck her tongue out to show me what she hadn't swallowed. And then she swallowed. God, mother, fucking, shit...
As I got off Riley, I redressed myself and secured everything. Riley just lay there, panting, wondering what the fuck she had gotten herself into. I had to leave and prepare for my next few assignments. She knew I couldn't leave her alone without saying my goodbyes.
I kneeled at Riley's body as she remained on her back, shaking and heavily breathing. I wiped the dark tears off her face with my thumbs and ran my fingers through her matted hair. Why am I regretting this when I shouldn't?
"You..." she breathed, "fucked me silly."
"Considered this paid in full and advance. Don't call me unless it's a major emergency. See you in a week," I said, somewhat intimidating her. "I love you," I followed, retracting my previous emotion.
"Love you, too," she said.
Something's wrong, she said. You're still here, she said. You shouldn't be here, she said. You really shouldn't have done that, they said. But I did that.
I left Riley's office. Never once did I feel on top of the world. I told her I was not going to screwing her over, and then I fucking screwed her over. I want to be on my way, but with the assignment that Riley gave me? Now, I'm being betrayed.