Watched clocks and pots have one thing in common: they both instinctively know now to go quantum, where the act of observation makes them seem like they had discovered time travel and were, in fact, moving backwards, just to fuck with you.
If you've ever spent a long time waiting for something to happen, you know exactly what it feels like. I could imagine soldiers on a battlefield during a cease-fire, each side waiting in agonizing silence that stretched on forever, each sound amplified, nerves drawn tight, sure that the inevitable betrayal was going to happen at any moment. Some idiot would eventually shift awkwardly and either set off his rifle accidentally or cause the sunlight to glint off of something, causing the other side to think a sniper was in position and they had to act now. Either way, each would claim that the other side was to blame as the slaughter continued, but at least the silence would have been broken or at least shot into a million pieces.
I think I lasted about ten minutes.
Absolutely nothing happened.
We weren't attacked. Nobody snuck up on us and murdered us on the spot. The elevator didn't ding suddenly as Beatrice managed to bypass the security and make it all the way to the penthouse. None of that happened. It was just me sitting there in a pool of sweat, freaking the fuck out and watching the elevator, waiting for something bad to happen.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I abruptly got to my feet and walked quickly towards the elevator, grabbing my coat from the couch where I had casually tossed it earlier. Both Ronnie and Claude were startled by my sudden movement.
"Dude! Where are you going?"
"I'm going for a Cinnabon!" I yelled as I exited, and yes, that was exactly what I had meant to say this time. Dammit.
I exited the elevator, the loose plan forming in my head, a plan fueled in small part by fear and in large part by the kind of righteous anger that gets men killed. I knew this and I didn't care. I had simply reached the point where I had to do something, anything, and waiting around to be killed was just pathetic.
I figured if Beatrice wanted to kill me, at least Claude and Ronnie wouldn't have to watch.
I threw on my coat and pulled up the hood as I exited the lobby of the building, heading for the building directly across the street. It was the same building where Beatrice and I had fucked in front of that assassin like we didn't care.
Even though I was in the shadow of the building, my skin still tingled from the indirect ambient sunlight. It's a different deal walking in shadow in a downtown area and it's because of the reflective nature of glass. The more glass there is, the greater the chance of catching a stray ray of sunlight, and where we were, there was a lot of glass, especially on both of these condo buildings.
I dodged cars as I crossed the street, head low to avoid any of the narrow strips of sunlight between the buildings, and was once again safe in the shade, skin on my face and hands still tingling, but better than burning.
I entered the building as if I owned the place. The concierge, a tall skinny man in an expensive suit tipped his head toward me.
"Mister Diego," he said, "so good to see you again."
I glanced at the man, wondering how he knew who I was. I hadn't spoken to him before had I? I had been planning on trying to glammer him to see if he would let me upstairs and by the way, what floor was Beatrice on again? Apparently, there was no need. He gestured towards the bank of elevators.
"Take the third elevator. Miss Beatrice is expecting you."
Not spooked out at all, and definitely expecting the biggest trap that would redefine everything that traps could possibly be, I entered the elevator. I spent the next twelve seconds wondering what Beatrice had in store for me, telling myself that of course, this was a bad, bad idea, and by the way, did I mention how much of a bad idea this is?
The lights were flickering badly in the small foyer that led to Beatrice's apartment and three other doors. It was like a bad horror movie where everything had been smashed to shit. There was even the pre-requisite streak of blood on the wall, complete with bloody handprints.
I took in the scene and somehow, don't ask me how I still got out of the elevator.
Beatrice's door was ajar. Of course, it was.
If it had been anybody else, I would have been scared that something had happened to her, and the thought did occur to me, but seeing her earlier had unnerved me enough that instead, I wondered who she had killed. Beatrice was what happened to other people.
I pushed the door open and it creaked slowly, revealing the inside of the apartment. I glared at the door in exasperation. Seriously? It had been silent and smooth before, and now it was creaking just to be as creepy as fuck.
The place was a wreck, light fixtures hanging, framed paintings and photos smashed into pieces, furniture over-turned and ripped. A spear had been thrown clean through the gigantic flat screen tv above the fireplace; sparks still flew intermittently from where the shaft of the spear protruded.
Beatrice stood naked at the window, her back to me.
"Hello Bob," she said.
"You glammered me," I said and then I saw Beatrice properly for the first time as she turned to me, the flickering light from the broken light fixture lighting her face in red, bathing her in fear.
She wore the black eyepatch on her left eye, a custom-made piece of silk and leather so that it fit her perfectly. It was a stark contrast against her fair skin and golden hair; her remaining blue eye was made even more intense since it was the only one left to focus on. She was stark naked, all long limbs and toned muscle, pert and perfect, languid and dangerous. Somehow it made her even more terrifying to me.
Beatrice looked like what she had always been.
A predator.
A killer.
"What's a little glammering between friends?" Beatrice shrugged and slowly walked towards me.
"Take it off," I pleaded, unable to help myself. "Make it stop."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I don't know what's real anymore! I don't know if what I feel for you is real or because it's what you want me to feel."
She almost paused in her approach, closer now, a silhouette with an eye that almost glowed.
"You have feelings for me?" Beatrice asked, genuinely intrigued as if she had never considered the possibility.
"I thought I did. I mean look at you. You're an attractive woman. I'd be insane not to be attracted to you, but you're also wild and passionate and we fit well together and that's kind of... nice. I thought there was something growing between us, but right now I'm just scared shitless of you. Is that what you want?"
There it was out in the open, unable to take back now. I was terrified of her and even now it twisted deep in my gut, icy cold.
Beatrice looked conflicted. She closed the distance between us and I forced myself to look in her eye, even as her nipples brushed against my shirt, rock hard, burning hot. She smiled as she looked me in the eye, liking my vulnerability.
"Okay," she agreed, after what seemed like an eternity. "No more glammering. I release you. You're free."
I waited for the other shoe to drop, for something to happen, to feel different somehow. There was nothing, just me and Beatrice standing on the broken apartment like a pair of star-crossed lovers, one of whom was terrified of the other.
I shrugged and tried to breathe, aware that I could smell her. I could smell her sex, hot and musky. "That's it? That's all there is?"
Beatrice stepped closer to me and caressed my face gently, looking deep into my eyes, pushing her body against mine. I flinched, almost expecting her to rip my throat out, instead, her single eye looked sorrowful at the fear in my own eyes.
"Could you really love me, Bob? Or are you saying that so I don't slit you from groin to throat and spill your guts onto the carpet?"
"You know the most romantic things to say," I squeaked uneasily.
"I'm working on it."
"We can start over," I said and Beatrice smiled encouragingly. She shoved her hand into my pants and I almost squealed as she took my more-than-semi-chub in hand. "Let's give it another try."
"I need to know I can trust you Bobbikins," she breathed. "I need to know that you're mine and only mine." She gripped a little too hard and I almost screamed in pain, but my stupid erection was not talking to my brain and was giving the entirely wrong response.
"Too hard!" I squeaked. "You're squeezing too hard!"
"Aren't you going to ask me about my eyeball Bobbikins?" Beatrice hissed and squeezed again, her grip viselike and no longer sexual. I was afraid that she was going to rip my cock right off if she kept this up. How the fuck could I ask about her eye when she was about to castrate me?
"What about your eye?" I managed to gasp, hoping she would let up.
Beatrice pulled me close and there was a heightened ferocity and what could only be described as insanity in her eye. There was a mix of desperation and need, but viciousness as well.
"Do you know that every morning it grows back? It just keeps growing back! So do you know what I do? You know what I do Bobbikins? Every morning, I take my fucking knife, and I cut that fucker out."
I almost screamed then as she yanked and squeezed, but I was too busy passing out with the very clear thought in my head that Beatrice was one-hundred percent, stark fucking crazy.
####### AUTHOR'S NOTE#####
I really have no idea what to say here... next chapter?