Chapter Six

“Well, Sugarpop, I believe we both just stepped on another piece of raccoon crap.”

We were in the park again, on our second mission as partners-in-crime, and I had three thoughts running through my mind. First, that Big Bertha, my raccoon arch-nemesis, must have compelled all her friends to shit their innards out to avenge last night’s killings, because no matter where we moved we were practically wading in brown excrement. Second, that the two Ziploc bags containing three pounds of crayfish to be used during tonight’s mission were not closed properly, causing crustacean liquid to seep through the bottom of my knapsack and onto the back of my jeans. And third, that these things were occurring because I was anxious. In approximately seventeen hours, I would be Brendon “Psycho” Spyro’s pawn for however long it took our parents to say hello, down a couple of cocktails, eat some steak and cake, and say goodbye.

“You know,” he mused, attempting to scrape off the bottom of his combat boot on a clean piece of pavement, “you have the most constipated look on your face right now. Just let it all out, little puppet—there’s plenty of crap out here as is. More couldn’t hurt.”

That small endearment, little puppet, made something snap inside me, and like a madwoman, I took a scoop of crayfish out of my bag, not caring to handle it with plastic gloves, and smashed it against Spyro’s chest.

He stood there and took it all, so unresponsive I wanted to scream. After I finished, not at all pleased with my actions, he looked down at his soiled shirt and said matter-of-factly, “You just wasted a pound of raccoon food. How much good came of that, Kit-Cat?”

“Lots,” I lied, shrugging as I planted the rest of the crayfish along the edges of the park pathway we were ambling along. “You told me to let it all out, so I did. I figured that staining your shirt was easier than murdering you and carefully disposing of your body. But now that I think about it, it’s probably not as satisfying.”

“I’m truly flattered you chose to spare my life. How foolish I was to think you hated me,” he stated as he laid his new weapons of choice (a simple gas lighter and a bottle of underarm deodorant) on the bench beside him.

I sneered, finishing the last of the crayfish. As always, it was time to wait for the enemy to come out of its hiding place. After chucking the Ziploc bags in a nearby garbage bin, I settled down on a park bench with my garden shovel beside me and gazed up at him.

A few feet away, Brendon Spyro was slowly and carefully stripping off his wife beater so as not to get the crayfish in his unkempt hair, and I was mesmerized. Sure, his chest was broad, faintly muscular, and generally caused my mind to go slightly numb in the most dangerous of ways, but I didn’t gape because of that. I gaped because, as he rid himself of the shirt and carelessly dropped it at his feet, the ugly burn marks appeared. They sprawled over his chest in cruel, thin designs of red. Some were long, spanning from his clavicle down to his navel, but most were patches of charred skin that looked as if they’d been scalded more than a few times. And then, in the form of a faded, healed scar on his hip, there were the initials, “A.B.”

“My, my, my…” he whispered, hands akimbo. “I didn’t think you were one for blatantly staring at exposed chests.”

I continued to stare. “When the exposed chest has multiple self-inflicted burn marks on it—yeah, I tend to gawk. How the hell do you do that to your skin?” What I meant to ask was why he did that to his skin. I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out how.

“Why, are you interested in joining me next time?” he suggested. “If you haven’t guessed already, fire play is my favorite variety of sado-masochi—”

“Never mind! Forget I asked.”

He smirked and explained patiently, “You take a Q-tip and soak it in rubbing alcohol. You run it along the skin in whatever kind of pattern you want, and then you light it up, see it burn, and put it out when it gets too hot to handle. It’s called streaking.”

“Oh, of course,” I murmured. Seemed simple. Completely unhinged, but simple. “So who’s A.B.?”

His expression darkened. “No one that fucking concerns y—”

I suddenly froze. “Quiet,” I commanded in a low voice. “Do not move. And do not look down.”

His body stiffened. “Why?” he said through gritting teeth.

The crayfish laced into the material of Spyro’s wife beater attracted a young, inexperienced enemy. The raccoon sidled up to his boot, where his shirt lay. I rose from my position and swung the shovel over my shoulder.

“Abe…”

“Shh…” I hissed, inching closer.

“Abe, if you break my foot, I’ll fucking kill you. Holy shit, it’s humping my leg.”

The raccoon was not humping his leg. It was merely feasting atop his boot. This therefore meant that if I took out the raccoon, I’d surely strike Spyro’s foot. After slaughtering the animal, I’d probably have zero willpower to keep from bashing in Spyro’s limb with the hard metal of my shovel.

And then I glanced at Spyro’s gas lighter and bottle of deodorant, lying a few feet away. I lifted the objects, intrigued.

“Well,” I whispered humorously, “I hope you don’t mind getting a little burned.”

Before he could ask what I was talking about, I clicked on the lighter and sprayed the deodorant as close as I could to the raccoon. The mist of the propellant instantly became a long flame, the raccoon’s quiet nibbling turned into squeals of terror, and the bottom of Spyro’s pant leg was reduced to bits of ashy material as it went afire. I reveled at the action and moved closer to the burning animal, ensuring I pointed the flame directly at it. Spyro had kicked the raccoon off him in a fit of surprise and knelt to put out the fire in his pants.

“Aren’t you my little firebug!” he exclaimed after I’d released the spray. “If I’d have known you were such a fire-spit, I would’ve introduced myself to you sooner. Didn’t that feel so incredibly good?”

“What’s that smell?” I asked, ignoring him. “It smells like…”

“Middle school pranks, leaving bags of burning shit on neighbors’ porches in Beverly Hills. Only with raccoon crap instead of dog or human crap.”

I crinkled my nose and waved my hand in front of my face. “We’re done for tonight. I feel filthy—crayfish juice on my ass, feces on my shoes, and...oh god, I’m about to gag.”

Spyro raised an eyebrow. “Stop complaining; have you seen me?” He indicated his disheveled form with a wave of his hands. He was shirtless, with one boot heavily caked in raccoon crap, the other coated in crayfish, and his left pant leg burnt two inches above the ankle. A Kodak moment, in my opinion.

“You win,” I confessed, laughing. “Remember this moment—it’s the only time I’ll admit you’ve beaten me.”

He smiled back at me, and I felt my face flush. Averting my eyes, I continued giggling under my breath as I shoveled the dead raccoon and mess we’d made into a black garbage bag.

“It’s such a shame you won’t be laughing like that tonight.”

My chortling ended abruptly.

Way to ruin the mood, asshole.

Spyro’s persistence in reminding me we had to go over “a few minor details” for dinner was grating on my nerves. After many minutes of back-and-forth bickering, he coaxed me to follow him to his house. He slid open a large window pane on the ground level of the mansion and kicked off his shoes into the grass before entering his room. Doing the same, I followed him inside.

The room was enormous but somewhat homely. Immediately to the left was a desk, cluttered with cardboard boxes he still hadn’t unpacked from the move. His queen-sized bed, to the right, was covered in dark sheets; its headboard faced a large, built-in armoire, which held a TV, stereo and rows of books. A few feet away from the bed was a bulky, brown leather couch, looking particularly out of place because it was not flush against a wall. This was due to the two doors behind the piece of furniture, one leading to a bathroom—probably the size of my bedroom—and the other to a massive walk-in closet.

“Nice room,” I commented as he procured a T-shirt and towel from the closet.

“My parents’ room is two flights up. Other than that, I hate it,” he grumbled, laying the towel over the couch. “It’s not me yet.”

“And what makes a room you?”

He motioned for me to sit and went to his desk to extract two sheets of paper from a drawer. “The smell of gas and burning wood.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“Never expect less, Kit-Cat,” he said with a sigh, joining me on the couch.

“Before I forget,” I stated after a moment of silence, reaching for something in my pocket, “here’s a shopping list for you. I want you to buy everything by next week; we’re moving out of the park and into the neighborhood.”

“Oh, goody. I was wondering how long we’d complete tedious tasks around that dreaded area.” His eyes flitted over the note before he set fire to it and placed it in a nearby ashtray. “Interesting list. I guess we’ll be having fun next week. Not as much fun as our little soiree, of course. I’ve compiled a short manifesto of all the rules you’ll have to follow tonight, and made two copies. One for moi, one for toi.” He handed me the duplicate. “Let’s read it over together, shall we?”

“I’m not in kindergarten, asswipe. I can read it myself.”

“Yes, but it’s so entertaining to read it aloud.” Ignoring my protests, he cleared his throat and began to read. I followed along:

“‘From the moment you step into my place of residence to the unfortunate moment you depart, you’ll do as I demand of you. What I demand can be divided into three sections: how you act, how you speak about me, and how you dress.’”

Well…this was going to be one hell of a night.

“‘First, how you act: you’ll grace my abode with a cheery disposition and you’ll continue to act as such until the atmosphere changes. If we partake in serious discussion, you may not laugh, smile or snicker. If we partake in amusing discussion, you may not scowl, mutter under your breath, shoot me the death stare, or act like your usual pompously shrewish self.’”

I pursed my lips in thought. The request was reasonable enough, I guessed.

“‘You will mimic my mood at all times, but you’ll do so more openly and emphatically. For example, if I sigh when I’m visibly frustrated or disgusted, you’ll snarl like a dog. If I smile, you’ll smile a sexy, bawdy grin. Bite your lip and look at my old man for a few seconds—off the bat, he’ll love you.’”

“What?” I hissed. “No. I refuse to act like a pervert.”

“I would refrain from making any further objections until we’ve read through the whole document—particularly the last bit, which mentions punishments for failure to comply with these rules.”

Punishments? I bowed my head to examine the burn mark on the underside of my arm. Oh, fuck him. Why did I have to entangle myself in the affairs of an unstable, relentless prick?

“‘If I laugh, you’ll laugh. Although the laughter’s volume should not make heads turn, the laugh should be crisply audible to those around. The nature of the laugh is of utmost importance: you will laugh as if someone’s tickling you while you’re—’”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not!” I exclaimed, reading ahead. “What, are you out of your mind? You can forget—”

“‘You will laugh as if someone’s tickling you while you’re experiencing an orgasm.’ Plain and simple, Kit-Cat. You do know what an orgasm is, right? Do you want me to show you?” He raised his index finger, as if indicating the long digit was all he needed to accomplish the task.

I punched him so hard against his chest that his left shoulder slammed against the armrest of the couch, causing the furniture to jerk.

“Fucking hell, Abe. That hurts!”

“That’s the idea, jackass. I’m not doing that. I’m not humiliating myself in front of our parents.”

“It’s not like you don’t humiliate yourself already…”

“What did you say?” I questioned angrily, glaring at him.

“Nothing, Abe. Moving onward: ‘I’ll make sexual innuendos throughout the night. Our parents probably won’t expect them, and like many adults over the age of forty-five, they won’t bother to notice. You’ll detect them, what with you being the sharpest tool in the shed. But tonight, you will ignore. No matter how obviously vulgar they are, you will ignore them like you’re some stupid ditz. You won’t look like you’re about to castrate me. You won’t embarrass me or yourself. You will not chastise me by responding with an equally obscene list of potty words.’”

I attacked him with an onslaught of profanities that could’ve landed me on Jerry Springer.

“Yeah, kind of like that,” he commented coolly. ‘Now, onto how you speak of me: I am your Grecian god and you shall sing my praises. Like a loyal servant, you’ll defend my honor if my behavior in and out of school comes into question. My parents will inquire into my whereabouts, and you’ll convince them we’ve been spending time together. Below, I have written a dozen compliments for you to recite tonight. If you run out of memorized compliments, make more up on the spot, but do not be creative, and do not be a smart ass.’”

Looking down at the list of compliments, I wanted to sob like a baby.

“‘And last but not least…how you dress.’” He rose from the couch and pulled a shopping bag out from under his bed. “Here.”

I peered into the bag. “Why a miniskirt? Why not just a regular skirt? I don’t wear miniskirts. I don’t even own a miniskirt—not anymore. And I never wear red.”

“I know; when I returned you to your room that fateful night, I was rather disappointed by your wardrobe.”

I blinked. “You do realize how much of a stalker you are…right?”

He sighed heavily, annoyed. “I don’t get it. Do you not want me to help you make a good impression tonight? I’m telling you, Abe…” His voice softened. “Show a little leg, show a little breast, and my dad? He’ll love you. My mom will appreciate your chic fashion sense. And your parents will be proud you’ve dolled yourself up.”

“Fine!”

Satisfied, he turned back to the paper. “And to conclude—and this is the most important bit: ‘Failure to carry out any of the above demands will result in both immediate and long-term punishment.’”

“Yeah?” I asked innocently. “What kind of punishment did you have in mind?”

Malice twinkled in his sapphire eyes. “The kind that’ll be so deliciously, wonderfully hot, you’ll be shrieking in pleasure-pain…”

“Your son is the most compassionate, benevolent person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

I clamped my mouth shut, willing myself to be professional and keep it cool. But as the meaning of the words dawned on me, I collapsed onto my bed in a fit of laughter.

Memorizing the compliments wasn’t proving to be difficult; keeping a straight face while reciting them was damn near impossible. And what would happen tonight, reciting these compliments in front of his parents?

“I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.” With tears of mirth running down my face, I felt myself begin to crack. How in the hell was I going to walk away from this dinner both mentally and physically unscathed? Tonight’s get-together was a battle—of spirits, wits, and good (me, obviously) versus evil (Spyro). Depending on how dirty the game would be, innocent bystanders (our parents) were liable to get wedged in the middle of the conflict, or—even worse—cause more problems.

And although the battle hadn’t started, Spyro already seemed to be winning. He undoubtedly knew how he’d handle himself tonight; I, on the other hand, did not. Also, the element of surprise—a tactic frequently used in the Raccoon Wars—was of no use to me now, as I had no means of surprising the psychopath.

I sighed as I mulled over the situation.

“Annabelle, are you dressed? I could use your help!”

Happy to escape my problem, I went down to the kitchen. Mom was washing dishes and looked pretty, with her mahogany hair done up in a tight bun. The simple, white blouse and cerulean-colored skirt she wore complimented her slim form.

“What are you wearing?” she immediately inquired, giving me the once-over.

I was donning the dark miniskirt (which exposed too much leg) and tight, blood-red shirt (which exposed too much breast) that Spyro had bought for me. Cue the mortification and incessant questioning.

“Are you dressed like that for Brendon? Do you like him?”

“What? God! No, Mom.”

“He’s very cute.”

“Stop.”

“And charming…”

And insane and perverted and conniving and—dare I say insane? What was my mother’s point anyway?

“Mom, please. How can I help you?”

“Set the table in the dining room with our nice dishes. The Spyros are coming over after dinner for dessert.”

“They are?”

Mom nodded, too busy scrubbing tableware to notice I was having an aneurysm. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t frickin’ believe it.

After setting the table, I hurried upstairs to read Spyro’s manifesto, which stated:

From the moment you step into my place of residence to the unfortunate moment you depart, you’ll do as I demand of you.

Smiling, I decided to comply with Spyro’s rules as long as I could. The moment we’d step out of his house, though, his ass was mine for the taking. I rubbed my hands together, realizing I finally possessed the element of surprise.

A guttural groan escaped his mouth as he took the first bite of steak. “Moist, wet and slightly sweet—just how I like it. You know, I’ve seen many mass debates take place on the cooking channel, concerning when to pull the beef out of the oven. Some meat comes out too stiff, some too rubber-like…but Mom, your technique is flawless. You know how to please.”

I was sitting inches away from him, and it took all the willpower in the world not to slap his face for the vulgarity that was pouring out of his mouth. Being uncharacteristically obedient, I kept still and focused on our parents’ reactions.

Mom and Dad were sitting next to each other and across from us, enjoying their food, agreeing with Spyro and delighting in his eloquence—a gift Spyro claimed to have gotten from his mother, who I had discovered was a professional storyteller and motivational speaker.

Mrs. Spyro, the picture of elegance and beauty, was happily soaking up her son’s compliments and was nipping at her Cabernet Sauvignon.

Mr. Spyro, who looked like a middle-aged version of his son, was just as perverted and sleazy as him. Instead of noticing the obscenities flying across the table, he was eyeing me in the most alarming way. This was probably due to the fact that, during the long tour we took of the Spyro residence before dinner commenced, I had acted like a cheerful bimbo while Mr. Spyro prattled on about the architecture of the house. And I smiled a “sexy, bawdy grin” at the older man when his son smiled at me.

Other than the innuendos and attracting the attention of a maybe-pedophile, I was doing okay. I had no trouble reciting compliments and Spyro hadn’t sighed or laughed yet.

“So, Irene, dear—now that my son has fulfilled his verbal communication requirements for the evening, let’s hear a little bit about the neighborhood. With all the moving and fussing about, I haven’t come to enjoy it yet,” Mrs. Spyro told Mom.

“Well, it’s just your average, suburban area, to tell you the truth,” Mom responded apologetically. “Unfortunately, it’s not as exciting as Beverly Hills, but we make do. We have some beautiful parks around here, just a few blocks away, and the school system is one of the best.”

“Yes,” Mr. Spyro said, turning his attention to my mother, “that was one of the many reasons why we moved here. We heard the system is impeccable. If only Brendon would perform in school as well as we hope. We’ve given him everything he needs to achieve; now it’s a waiting game. Kids these days, Charlie…” he complained to my father. “You give them so many opportunities and they never do anything with them. They just like to fool around and amuse themselves with stupidity.”

I tensed as a visibly frustrated Spyro sighed beside me. I was not going to snarl. Not after Mr. Spyro’s rant about “kids these days,” who “fool around and amuse themselves with stupidity.” No way was I going to humiliate myself. I sipped my glass of water, effectively ignoring Spyro.

A sharp scream instantly pierced the calm atmosphere; it took me a second to discover that the noise came from me. Something so extremely hot landed on my inner thigh, and out of pain and surprise, I kicked upward into the table, making the dishes rattle, and choked back a second yelp as more hot fluid ran down my leg.

“My god, dear, are you all right?”

I had never been so mortified in my entire life. Everyone—including Spyro—looked at me like I’d gone completely insane, while I was trying to keep the pain in. After the liquid on my leg cooled, I raised my head to the innocent bystanders. “I’m sorry. Something startled me. I…I apologize.” I bowed my face, as if embarrassed, but I was actually looking at what was happening underneath the table. Near my leg, Spyro was holding a small, scented candle, with its center pooling hot wax.

“What startled you?” Spyro smiled at me.

Obeying again, I turned to Mr. Spyro and grinned bawdily, doubly mortified. “Something brushed against my leg. Do you have a cat?”

Mr. Spyro chuckled. “No cat, Annabelle. Brendon, have you been playing footsy with the poor girl?”

For some strange reason, everyone around the table laughed at the comment, especially Spyro. I hesitated, felt a hot drop of pain, and did something I thought I’d never do.

I threw my head back and moaned. Then giggled like a school girl on crack, and then moaned again, as if someone was tickling me while I was experiencing an orgasm.

This only spurred on more laughter from Spyro, while I continued my triply mortifying moan-giggle. Spyro only stopped when Mom cleared her throat, blushing in humiliation.

I sobered immediately and hung my head. There was no way in hell I was doing that again, no matter how hot the wax was.

“So,” Dad started hesitantly, still reeling from my behavior. “Brendon, how do you like school so far? Are you adjusting?”

“Adjusting slowly but surely, Mr. Jones. What makes school so hard is how the work gradually builds up until it reaches a certain peak. And when finals come along, the work metaphorically explodes in our faces—makes the students go nuts. But I think I’m really able to wrap my hands around the material and I’ve been studying more than I ever have in the past. I’ve even begun to thrust some extracurricular activities into motion, like helping your daughter with some sticky situations in Literature class. We’ve been swapping notes and I think we penetrate the subject matter pretty well while we study.”

It couldn’t get more perverted than that. I muttered under my breath and pressed my lips together as I felt the wax slide down my thigh again.

“Is that true, Annabelle?” Spyro’s mother asked.

I nodded, almost laughing in hysteria. “It’s true. He’s very bookish.” I was going nuts. This dinner could not last without me having some fun. “So…” I wondered, turning to Spyro. “What’s been your favorite part of the play thus far?”

“What play are you reading?” Mom asked.

“Yes, I’d like to know what you kids study these days in school.”

Spyro squirmed under the barrage of questions and I smirked. He looked at me pointedly, and I challenged him with the raise of an eyebrow. A corner of his lips rose, and still staring at me, he stated, “‘No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; revenge should have no bounds.’ Claudius, clearly a mastermind manipulator, turns Laertes’s sorrow into vengeance and convinces him to kill Hamlet. There’s something about that scene—how it shows both the weakness and cleverness of mankind—that I really enjoy reading.”

And how did he get away with that one?

“I’m impressed,” his mother commented, amazed.

Spyro smiled sheepishly at her and turned to me. “What’s your favorite part?”

“The moment Hamlet dies,” I confessed slowly and sweetly.

Spyro laughed.

Refusing to moan-giggle, I succumbed to the fleeting pain of hot wax and bit my lip as it dribbled down my leg.

This continued a while longer until it was time to walk over to our house. I scratched off the dry wax on my thigh and studied Spyro’s expression. He didn’t seem surprised to leave his house, and I marveled at all the nasty ways I could seek retribution.

Let the games finally begin.

“Mrs. Spyro, you would’ve been proud of your son this week in Literature class,” I began as we walked across the street. Spyro followed close beside me, listening to what I had to say.

“Why is that?”

“Well…” I paused in contemplation. “You’re a professional storyteller, right? You should have heard the drivel your son told Mrs. Morrison when he cut cla—”

His leg extended in front of me, and I careened into the asphalt of my driveway, scraping knees and palms in the process.

“My god, are you all right?” Spyro stooped beside me while our parents rushed to my aid. “That was quite a stumble you took there.”

“I’m fine!” I glowered at him, grumbling under my breath. “Would’ve been better had you not tripped me!”

“Tripped you?” Spyro gripped my arm with bone-crunching force and helped me stand. “I apologize if I did. Ouch—look at your cuts. Someone needs to bandage those up. I hope it pleases you to know I’m good at giving first aid. Come on, let’s do it in the bathroom before dessert is served.”

I screamed and pulled my hair. “Your emphasis of the words ‘pleases you,’ ‘I’m good at giving,’ and ‘do it’ is completely inappropriate, Spyro! I’d like you to apologize to me and our parents for those pathetic excuses of sexual innuendos—”

“Sexual innuendos? I don’t know what you’re talking about —”

“—and all the other hideous things you’ve said this evening—”

“—and I’ve never heard such a ludicrous accusation in my entire life and—”

We were in each other’s faces, and our parents surrounded us, looking bewildered and completely at a loss of what to do. Our arguing stopped as we became aware of their stares. Simultaneously, we turned our heads towards them.

Mom nudged Mrs. Spyro, and whispered to her, “I think they like each other.”

Mrs. Spyro ardently agreed and followed Mom into our house, probably sharing top-secret wedding plans and selecting names for grandchildren and all that other stuff that makes me want to heave. I couldn’t believe they mistook my undying hatred for secret love. What imbeciles.

Mr. Spyro sent his son a look that basically said, “Make me proud and go for the gold!” while Dad smiled at me and gave Spyro a look that essentially meant, “If you touch my daughter, (insert mumbling threats here).”

“I guess we’ll leave you two alone, to sort out your issues. Come in for dessert soon,” Dad told us, leading Mr. Spyro into our home.

We stared at each other for quite some time. I was furious. Furious for the wax, for the humiliation, for the fact that I failed to humiliate Spyro, for everything.

“Well, Honey Pie,” he said with a heavy sigh, “you sure aren’t keeping up with your part of the deal. I’m getting all infuriated inside and I’m beginning to conjure up all these filthy, kinky ways to discipline you.” His face was so close, I could feel his breath on my cheek.

With a bold smile, I began to enlighten him. “Why Spyro, darling, whatever do you mean? I’m a woman of my word—of course I’m keeping up with my part of the deal. Why don’t you take a peek at the manifesto you wrote—first paragraph, first line. And when you realize how much of a complete idiot you are, don’t beat yourself up too hard about it. We all make mistakes.”

Taken aback by my confidence, he fished for the paper in his pocket, unfolded it, and read. As I waited, I studied the dark, clear sky and inhaled the aroma of a dewy, Californian night. The evening was turning out better already.

“You piss me off,” he seethed venomously into my ear, making my toes tingle.

“You really know all the right things to say to make a girl happy, don’t you?”

“Ha,” he barked in faux amusement. “And to think I was planning on rewarding you for your obedience by actually sparing you tonight.”

“Sparing me? What, are you planning on poisoning us?” I rolled my eyes. “Words, words, words, you bluff. You just can’t tolerate the fact that you messed up the only opportunity you had to manipulate me. Well guess what, pisser?” I whispered, delighting in how composed I sounded. “No matter how you’ll try to break me, I’ll outwit you so efficiently, you’ll be reduced to a useless, pathetic head case who’ll keep repeating ‘Why me, god, why me?’ until they commit your ass and throw away the key.”

I had no idea what the hell came out of my mouth, but the crackling tension between us was reassuring. I raised my chin defiantly to look up into his smoldering eyes.

“Bottom line is…you’ll never control me.”

He smirked deviously at my tirade. “What insolence! I controlled you for nearly two hours and you think you won the battle. Well you haven’t, Sweet Cheeks. And you better believe I’ll control you. I’ll have you under my thumb like you’re Thumbelina. It might take some time, but I’ll get there. Until then, we’ll learn to work together like two civilized people, and every so often you’ll regret that you’re so sassy and realize just how bad it is to challenge me.“

With that, he stormed off into my house, leaving me outside. “What a crock of bullshit,” I whispered. Humming joyfully to myself, I took Spyro’s words with a grain of salt.

After compliments over Tupperware transformed into a light, bantering argument over whose set was nicer, our mothers served coffee, fruit and cake. Spyro, finding no use for me anymore, decided to sit as far away as possible. Pleased that hot wax would not keep me from enjoying dessert, I sat and sliced a piece of chocolate cake.

“Mmm,” I murmured delightfully, savoring each bite. “This is delicious. Mom, did you make this?”

“No. Brendon did—do you believe it? Isn’t it fantastic?”

Everyone grunted in acquiescence.

I stopped mid-chew. It was then that I noticed Spyro hadn’t touched a crumb of the cake, while we were all enjoying it so much. I glared at him across the table. He responded with a toothy, wicked smile. “Warned you,” he worded silently.

In my mouth was something that Brendon Spyro had created with his dirty, filthy, untrustworthy hands. For reasons unknown to man, this creation of his was also causing me to experience multiple orgasms in the mouth. The worst part of it all was there was a good chance Spyro had placed some sort of diarrheatic into the cake, and we’d be spending the night with our asses or faces on, in, and/or attached to the toilet. If it was not contaminated with a diarrheatic, it definitely contained something so disgusting, so horridly revolting, it would’ve made any man, woman or child weep in sheer terror.

Lesson Learned: Never, ever eat food without asking where it’s come from.

As clandestinely as I could, I spat out the bolus of dessert into my napkin and gently pushed the plate away as our parents continued eating with smiles on their face. I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest, feeling violated, as if something bad had crawled down my throat and into my stomach, and would stay there until I puked my entrails out. But maybe I hadn’t eaten enough!

I took another peep at Spyro. He, too, was reclining in his chair but had his hands clasped behind his head, exuding confidence. He winked at me, and I knew that he knew what I was thinking. “Too late,” he mouthed, shaking his head.

My stomach lurched.

“Wonderful dinner!” Spyro exclaimed. “We should do it again sometime.”

Although my head was buried in a garbage pail all night, I didn’t regret what I’d said. Brendon Spyro was a psychopath, a pyromaniac, and a manipulative bastard who loved to humiliate and watch people squirm. I was never, ever going to allow myself to be his toy, his little puppet. On the contrary, one day in the not-so-distant future, a vulnerable Brendon Spyro would find himself under my thumb.

And, like a dutiful citizen who likes to do her share in ridding the world of pesky vermin, I was going to squash him like a bug, watch him bleed, and laugh.

--

Readers—

Thank you for reading! It's a long one, but hopefully you got through it with a smile on your face. Please refer to past disclaimers and warnings (I'm going to keep on repeating this).

Thank you so much to the reviewers who gave me such amazing feedback and/or words of constructive criticism: jammi, Zorin, Cabriole, lone knight of the prairie, pieces of the sun, loves him, WriterGurl123, CrazyBLue, Enigmatic Day, lifeispeachy278, Dyo, Initially loaded, jenjen-0, GryphonFledglingOfSilverWings, Adora Bell, Zilly, fire in my veins, .not, atollo, Frantic Iguana, SecretFeelings, I Quoth Nevermore, Bananalogic, WhenItRains, hi, A Reader Peep, Lady of Confusion, , nomadsland, Misty, lilylupin7, and ShaliniR!

And thanks, Etenebris, for kicking my ass. And thank you, Stocie (Anastasia Williams) for the beta read and everything.