Punish Me with Kisses (35 page)

We always thought the same way, saw things the same, knew the world was divided between those who do the breaking and those whose balls get broke. Two hunter-warriors—that was us—a pair of killers with a passion for fucking finally come together to lick each other and to eat—CUT THE DECK! Time to CUT THE DECK! Bastard! Coward! You think it's so simple. You think you can just screw for six months, have your fling, then cut the deck What the hell is wrong with you? Are you fucking made of stone? What about me? What happens to me? Where do I go now? Twenty-one, a burnt-out case, launched on life, the long ride down? Jesus. I'm crying now, Jesus—I'm crying tears. Me, Ms. Cry-Never, Ms. Drippy-Twat, Ms. Brass-Pussy, Ms. all-screwed-up-inside. Whew! Just wiped my eyes. Got to stop the flow. Don't want to be a pest, you know. Don't want to be boring. (God forbid that anybody be a pest and/or a bore. Right?) Don't want to recriminate. Don't want to play it like I think it's all your fault or something when I know perfectly well it's mine. But that's the problem, see—that's the catch, that's the part that ain't so great. Brought this whole mess down upon myself You were innocent, victim of my game.

Sometimes, after you left me, after we'd played and you had to go, I'd lie there and think to myself-"This is real cool—balling pop!" Thought it was a gas you see. Thought it was just a fun little deviation. Good way, too, of course, to get back at mom —put a little fire to the old disciplinarian, not that she ever knew what was happening. . . though I sometimes thought maybe she did. Anyway, what to do now Daddy-O? Head in the oven? Noose around the neck? Take a dive from one of the city's lovely bridges? Take a couple bottles worth of pills, pen a little note and end it all in sleep?

That would show you, wouldn't it? That would show you what can happen when one party to a deal decides it's time to cut the deck. Give you something to think about wouldn't it? Rack you with guilt—wouldn't it? Make you miserable. Really make you PAY.

Yeah—thought of that. Won't pretend I didn't. Seriously too. Thought it through. But where does that leave Suzie? Leaves Suzie dead and that's no good for me. Big Deal—I teach you a lesson but I'm not around anymore to lick my chops. You always taught me to play to win. This way, taking the count, I can only lose.

 
So—what to do? That's why I'm writing. Want to make you an offer, one I hope you won't refuse. Deal's this: OK, cut the deck. Cut it, move on, find someone new to play. I'll do the same. Everyone needs a new cock to ride, a new pussy to sheathe his sword. But still, every so often, let's get together and ball. We can control it. We can keep it cool. Use each other to buzz-off on, relieve the old tensions, rub away a little excess lust. I know I flung myself at you, know I was naughty, know I was bad So punish me then for Christ's sake, but PLEASE
PLEASE
PLEASE
don't cut the deck for keeps.

 
Can't go on like this. Really can't. Try to catch your eye but always you turn away. Only man in the world whose eye I can't catch. Only guy who looks me in the eye, doesn't see me at all. I model, squirm, smile, grin, make sucking motions with my mouth, whisper "cheese." But can't catch you, can't catch the lens.

Do you love me or do you not? Why do I care? Who are we anyway? Just bodies, animals I guess, hungry for flesh, thirsty for sweat and come. Got to save ourselves. Got to save what we got, what we had. Salvage something. OK? All right? Can't write anymore. Tears pouring out again. Can't go on. Don't want to make myself sound crazy, raunchy-sleazy-cheap. Suzie's in trouble, Dad. Hurting. Help me. Please. Punish me with kisses. Please. PLEASE. OK?

S
he read the letter standing in the kitchenette, her palms down on the counter, the pages spread on the granite between Suzie's toaster and the plastic rack where the dishes dried. So many things became clear as she read it, things from the diary she'd never really understood. Her fantasy of him massaging her, then turning the massage into sex, was wrong. She saw that now and was stunned, stunned too by Suzie's agony and pain. Had she really done it just for kicks? Had it really just started as a lark, then turned into this devouring love, this obsessive love that ruled her life? What would have happened if the intruder hadn't come? Would Suzie have won him back, gotten his agreement to her "deal?" She'd won him now. He kept this shrine to her, came here at night, slept in her bed, the same huge bed that Cynthia had described, upon which she and Suzie and the basketball player from the Midwest had had their orgy, upon which Cynthia had made it with Suzie that first momentous time. No—he hadn't killed her, couldn't have—Jared was wrong. She'd known that from the start. Her father had made a cult of Suzie; she'd finally won him back in death. The suicide that she'd contemplated and then rejected because it was a loser's game—being murdered by that insane intruder had had the same effect.

Penny moved out of the kitchenette, stood in the main room, looked around again. She was more confused, more distraught than ever, deranged by her discoveries, full of terror and pity and a deep longing she could not explain. She looked at the bed. He'd slept there. She stared down at it, aroused, wondering whether there would be some trace of him, some faint odor of him upon the sheets, some trace of that body which Suzie had so fiercely loved.

Slowly, carefully she lay down on the crumpled sheets, then centered herself and sniffed. She stood up suddenly, worried—worried about herself. Something was happening. A force was moving over her, a force she'd felt since she'd begun to follow him, a power that appealed to a part of her she feared. She backed away, retreated to the windows, turned and stared again at the bed. It seemed to beckon to her. She could almost imagine him naked upon it, calling to her, summoning her to come be stroked and kissed.

She turned so she wouldn't have to look at it, moved over to the dressing table, sat down and studied herself in the mirror. She reached for the atomizer, sprayed some
Amazone
on her neck. Then she opened Suzie's lipstick, the worn-down one she'd been afraid to touch before. She brought it to her face and with trembling hand applied it to her lips.

She looked at herself again. Then she reached for Suzie's hairbrush and ran it several times through her hair. She gazed at it—her hairs caught in the bristles, merged with Suzie's now.
She could be like her
. She knew she could. Jamie
Willensen
had seen it in her manner. Cynthia had heard it in her voice.
Would he see it, hear it?
Could she turn him on the way she'd done with them? Yes, she thought, it was possible. If she really tried she could.

She stared at the bed again, feeling the pull of it. She wanted to resist, felt flushed and breathless as she tried. It was pulling her, pulling at that part of her she knew was sick, that Suzie part that had been emerging all these months. It was strong, so strong—she felt dizzy again for a moment, and torn.

There had been some faint trace of him upon the sheets; she thought she'd caught the scent of his soap when she'd lain down there before. She went into the bathroom to check, sniffed at the bar in the recess of the sink. Yes, it was the English soap he liked, the soap with the smoky leathery smell she'd given him on his birthday so many times.
So, this is what he smells like
, she thought—
this is what comes off of him when he's hot and making love.

She couldn't fight it anymore, felt it pulling her, too strong, too strong. She flung herself wildly upon the bed, closed her eyes and writhed there on the sheets. She thought of Suzie and her father, the two of them clinging, fucking, biting, licking each other, copulating like dogs, and then she saw herself with him doing all that, too. She pulled down her jeans and her panties, pulled them down to her knees. It felt good to be bound by them there—it was as if she were being forced, were tied. Then she reached down, touched herself, began to press and stroke and knead. She didn't care now whether she was sick or not. She only wanted to come, there in the very bed where he had slept.

Afterwards she was disgusted with herself, and then, quite suddenly, angry, infuriated with him. How could he have this power over her, to make her follow him, dream of him, imagine him holding her in his arms? First Suzie; now her. Was she doomed, then, to replicate her sister's agony, drown in a sea of perverted sex? She loathed him now for this power he had, wanted him to suffer as he'd made Suzie suffer, as he was making her suffer now, making her lose her mind.
Send him a message
, she thought.
Teach him a lesson. Freak the bastard out
.

She went into the kitchen, searched the drawers, and found what she was looking for, a thick-bladed carving knife. She tested it against her thumb. It was sharp enough. He'd violated
her
apartment, sent his black-bag crew to break in, break her dishes, throw her books on the floor, slash the cushion of her window seat. Now she'd do the same to him—she'd desecrate
his
sacred shrine.

She took the knife, ripped it across the sheets, cutting at them wildly, slashing back and forth. She cut and slashed until they were ribbons, then she plunged the knife into the pillows, gouged out the feathers, flung them about the room. She'd teach him. She'd scare him. She'd make him suffer now. And he'd never suspect. He'd wonder who'd done it, and how they'd gotten in.

She went to the dresser, pulled out his shirts, punctured them again and again. She shredded his underwear, his socks, kicked his electric razor across the room, but somehow, for all her efforts, she felt she hadn't done enough.

No—it wasn't just that she hated him; she hated Suzie too. For all the men she'd had, how easy it had been for her to catch them, for stealing away Jared, for seducing her father—most of all for that. Her anger was fed now by raging jealousy. She attacked Suzie's clothes, her pants suits, her raincoat from Saks, then the blowups on the wall.
Slash! Slash!
It was like her mother throwing the Christmas stocking in the furnace. She'd destroy all traces of that little slut. She'd cut and slash until Suzie was really dead.

When she was finished, panting and exhausted, she let the knife slip to the floor. Trembling from her labors she examined the apartment—in three or four minutes of rage she'd reduced her father's shrine to trash. The mess pleased her, especially the ripped up bed. She felt released from her demons. She let herself out, quietly locked the door, rode the elevator down. No one had seen her coming or going. She wobbled slightly on the street, still nursing a bit of pain.

E
arly Monday evening she was at her post across the street from Chapman. She watched the limousine, saw him come out at six, get in the car, speed away uptown. She came again on Tuesday, and again he drove away. But on Wednesday, he dismissed the car and started to walk uptown.

She followed him, excitement rising, as he stopped at the wine store again, and at the food take-out place. She could feel her pulse quicken as he turned on Sixty-sixth and walked up the block. She stood just around the corner on Fifth Avenue, against the wall of a synagogue where she could watch the apartment house, could see Suzie's windows, and could see him, too, when he came storming out. She waited there trembling.

Suddenly she felt a little leap —the lights had gone on upstairs. She tried hard to imagine his reaction, his shock and then his fear. The sheets and clothes all cut, the dishes and glasses smashed—he'd take that in, know this was no ordinary break-in, feel hostility and danger, would know that someone powerful enough to obtain a key was issuing him a threat. Perhaps he'd be so frightened he'd drop his package. The wine bottle would break when it hit the floor. She watched, throbbing with satisfaction. Then the lights went out.

She stood very still, flat against the synagogue, as still as she'd ever waited in her rocking chair, gripping the arms, not allowing the rockers to move, to squeak. She willed herself to become part of the building, to be unseen when he emerged.

He came out fast, stepped into the street, waved frantically for a cab just emerging from the park. She stepped out,
feeling
a need to see his face, and caught a glimpse of him looking distraught as he jumped into the back seat and the cab roared away. She leaned back panting against the synagogue; she could feel sweat on her forehead though she'd barely moved and the temperature was forty degrees.
She'd done it, terrified him
. He'd never go back to the apartment again. She felt ecstatic—it was so good to make him quake, make him feel afraid.

S
he waited for him on Thursday night; she had to see his face again. She was worried about the Chapman men, too —they'd become frantic; it was getting harder and harder to shake them off. She considered letting them follow her, follow her as she followed her father. "Subject tracking father"—that would shake him up. But she didn't want him to know she was the one who'd desecrated his shrine. Not yet.

When her father came out he dismissed his car, then started to walk. He headed downtown this time, the opposite direction from the apartment, down Park Avenue between buildings made of steel and glass. She followed, but then he crossed Forty-seventh just as the light changed, forcing her to dodge between a pair of cabs then jog half a block to catch up. He turned onto Vanderbilt, passed the Yale Club, turned again, passed Brooks Brothers, then crossed Fifth Avenue, turned south, walked to Forty-second, walked west beside the Public Library, then along small and dangerous Bryant Park.