TheRapist

Devon

‘Get the fuck away from me you sick bastard.’ Devon venomously spat thick, dank sperm onto the drenched and withered sheet. It landed in a foul discarded patch, resembling a huge decaying ball of snot.

The man’s heavy belly trembled as he heaved his weight up onto one dry, scaly elbow. Eyes glazed over with a rheumy, iridescent film and too much Modelo beer in his gut, he shoved his hairy fist down towards his weeping crotch and rubbed his globule of a fading penis.

‘What? What happened?’ Frantically, questioningly, he was scratching at himself with one hand, the other tied to the bedpost with a long black leather shoelace.

Devon was up, eager to get away, hurriedly climbing into her black combats, black vintage McQueen tee, very black Dolce boots. She crouched down, swiftly tying her long leather laces, her short black bob shining paradoxically in the grim surroundings.

‘Shut up you fat fucking sloth,’ her voice bitter, calm.

He pulled the sheet over his groin, squinting at her with the look of a confused dog. She stopped for a moment, looking down at him.

‘You’re pathetic, cheap and an easy lay.’ She spat the words at him, spitting on him. He lay there, wishing he weren’t.  She added the final insult, amber eyes ablaze. ‘You taste like a fucking cow shed and I despise anything in my mouth that once drew breath.’ She flicked at her shoulders, as if swatting away something imaginary but vile. Then she was gone.

*

Devon

The sun was setting over Montana Avenue. Wooden houses with aching, broken porches basked in the last rays of the day.  Clamoring for every moment of peace. Tree shadows, like long willowy models, stretched their anorexic limbs across the streets. On the main drag from 17th to 10th, stores were closing for the remainder of the day. Pseudo country-style stores. Stores selling dried, haggard roses. Silk, knitted throws. Painted wooden window boxes, with bits of ivy and broken mirror stuck to them. Scrubbed, scratched pine tables, with a single, sought after, drawer at one end. Stores, trying desperately to appear French or Italian, happy enough to be on a long, clean avenue near a Californian beach.  Just not content. For this was no Europe.

A black Lexus 4 x 4 turned right onto 15th from Montana and eased into a vacant spot beneath the splayed branches of a sun-weary tree. Further west, the worn out sun traveled deeper into the horizon. A splatter of dappled sunlight surrounded the truck. As the door opened, long black-clad legs stepped into the road, followed by the rest of a lean, easy body. A short black wig and a wad of cash lay strewn on the back seat, half-hidden through the darkened windows. Leaning on the hood of the car, Devon lifted her small delicate face to the last rays of sun. Freckles on her nose, hints of gold dust. Up close she looked like a kid. Forty-two years old. Tiny tits. Body like that of a pre-pubescent boy. Great gene pool. Her long, damp hair, as black as Benedict Canyon in the dead of night, lay carelessly across her shoulders. Opening her eyes slightly, looking up into the sky, pupils almost indistinguishable in the bright light, her eyes gleamed like swollen topaz. She moved away from the truck, stepping quickly up the path and slipped into the porch, its pale, worn wooden door, at one with its earthy surroundings. 

Devon Cage’s house. Small, one story, east side of the street. Her home. Alone. Her choice. Inside, Devon slipped a cold CD into the Bang & Olufsen, allowing Vivaldi to spill from the over-sized speakers. Suddenly surrounded by melodic strains of Four Seasons, she bent down in the middle of the living room, pulled off her boots, kicked them to one side and moved across the floor to the bathroom. Locking the door behind her with a silver key, she let the shower loose, a deep green mosaic haven, flecks of gold glinting amongst the forest of tiny emerald tiles with a huge rain shower head and shiny steam jets, half hidden in the curve of the wall. Steam encased the bathroom. Tearing off her clothes, she climbed into the shower and sat down on a desperately dark green marble ledge. Water tearing across her skin, steam enveloping her pores, she scrubbed at her skin with a fresh bar of Molten Brown exfoliating soap, lingering there until her skin began to crinkle and only then did she feel as if she were properly, if temporarily, clean, the burning water having eradicated the st
ench of her previous encounter, thoughts of which were pounding inside her head. She tried desperately to eradicate them from her
mind, but still they came, veno
mously dragging her back to the past…..

Later, as the sun was wrapped snugly inside the night sky, Devon, wearing a white Hanro Tee and white cotton boxers, lay on her Persian rug, writing on a white legal pad,. The telephone rang and she snatched it from its cradle.

‘Yes?’

‘Devon, I’ve been trying you for hours, where were you?’

‘Who is this?’ She asked, even though she knew.

‘It’s me, Manny, who else?’

‘You could be any one of a number of people Manny.’

‘You know my voice by now!’

‘Do I?’

‘I think you do.’

‘Do you?’

‘Come on honey, quit screwing around!’

‘Never,’ Devon let out a deep throaty laugh, ‘and don’t call me honey.’ 

Manny grew more exasperated, ‘what are you doing?’

‘Writing.’

‘I want to see you.’

‘I’m writing.’

‘Not now, not this second, I know you’re in the middle of your book tour. How’s the weekend, maybe Saturday?’

‘No.’

‘Can’t commit to a weekend night yet honey?’

‘Manny?’

‘Yeah hon?’

‘Don’t refer to me as food, I don’t like it,’ her voice had dropped to a whisper.

He hesitated. Hesitated again. ‘OK. Saturday?’

‘Not this Saturday.’ She dropped the telephone back on its cradle, switched off her iphone and Blackberry, threw down her notebook and went into the bedroom.

A faint glow warmed the room from three small cobalt blue slabs of glass with tiny lights embedded in the wall. She had never liked sleeping in complete darkness. Her bed. All white. Solid wooden headboard. A mattress, handmade in London, courtesy of Harrods, embedded with cashmere. Thick white creased cotton sheets. Marshmallow white duvet. A fan trembled, blowing white satin ribbons along its tiny gust. She slipped beneath the heavy counterpane. Closed her eyes. Slept. Sweet, innocent sleep. The only place where she could safely hide from herself.

*

Manny

Manny pulled up outside Devon’s house. His strong, rangy physique climbed out of his SL. Six litre. Black black. He ran his hand slowly along its gleaming body, stopping briefly to tend to a nondescript graze above the front right fender. Manny loved his cars, the SL being only one of a luxury range he awarded himself annually. They meant so much to him, gave him the pride and confidence to go anywhere. He walked towards the door, pressed the bell and listened to the soft chimes from within. He smiled. Confident. After all, he was a self-assured man of the world. He waited. No answer. Again, he pressed the bell, a slight shiver strolled through his body and he pulled his pale blue cotton Ralph Lauren collar up towards his ears. His nose and upper cheekbones were covered with a soft sprinkling of pale brown freckles, like a twelve year old who had been kissed by the sun, softening his features, almost at odds with large ears, one of which was almost at right angles to his head, but somehow almost completely concealed beneath his hair. Well, not really his hair, but cleverly woven-on locks, carefully French-knotted one hair at a time into a very thin membrane-like polyurethane base. It weighed next to nothing, cost him a fortune and was so worth it. He had thought of getting his ears pinned back, or rather, ear. Maybe one day. He hated pain. Meanwhile, every eight weeks he had the hair re-bonded. It looked so natural, he knew he had nothing to worry about. But he never let a woman put her arms around his neck or attempt to run her fingers through his hair, even though he probably could, his borderline obsession getting the better of him. He was careful about that. Manny was a careful man.

He pressed the doorbell again and again, there was no answer. He stepped back onto the earth, between the florid California poppies and peered through the window. Darkness. Walking back to his car, he tore a poppy from the ground with his handmade John Lobb shoe. ‘Shit!’ he hissed in the dark. It was unlike him to be careless. He spat on his finger and wiped the earth off of his beloved shoe, spat on his finger again and glanced back at the small, still house. Disappointed, he got into his car, reversed back into the road and slowly drove away.

Inside the car, Manny punched memory three into his cell. After two rings, an answer machine picked up. ‘Leave a message.’ Beep. ‘Devon, I just went to your place. Why wouldn’t you answer? I want to see you, I can’t wait until the weekend, call me, 555-6297. Bye. 310 area code. Um, it’s Manny.’ He ended the call with an embarrassed sigh. The confidence was crumbling. Luckily, he had a couple of back up plans.

Inside her house, tightly wrapped like a papoose inside the sanctity of her bed, Devon, oblivious to the world, slept on.

Morning seeped through the white wooden shutters, slanting into the bedroom. Opening her eyes, squinting into the rays of the sun, Devon felt between her legs. ‘Shit, another wet dream,’ she sighed. Swiftly swinging her long legs out of the bed she headed for the shower, not attempting for a moment to embrace that side of herself.

*

Book Signing

Century City Mall.
Inside another Westfield resurrection, one of the movie theatre screens was packed to capacity to hold a book signing, filled to the brim with loyal readers and fans. A display adorned the entrance, with Devon’s bestseller staged as if it were a stairway disappearing into a cloud. A small table had been set up in front of the screen, with two books and two cans of Coca-Cola. Regular Coke. No Diet, Non-Caff, Zero or otherwise. People filled the seats. Others took to the floor. A short, shriveled man wearing a large red bow-tie stood beside the table, smiling nervously, every so often scratching and picking at a small crust behind his right ear. He couldn’t wait to get to a mirror to see what it was and as soon as he was able, he would race to the men’s room and use the tiny dentist’s mirror he carried everywhere to see the exact position of the unidentified crust, the thought of which was making him almost tremble with anticipation. Meanwhile he had to content himself with an occasional, surreptitious pick. He spoke in a voice that matched his tight, strained physicality perfectly.

‘It is our great pleasure to present to you, a fabulous new author, one whose work is soaring to the top of the bestseller lists, please welcome Ms. Devon Cage, who will read passages to us from her bestselling novel entitled, ‘Overthrown and Underdone’. He smiled broadly, his thin lips grasping the edges of little white teeth and held the chair out for Devon. The crowd clapped. Devon, looking as lazy and carefree as a melting ice-cream in a buttery silk sheath, sat down, smiling at the crowd.

‘I’m thrilled to be here today,’ her voice was husky, sounding as if she had just awoken from an erotic dream. ‘As you may know, I’ve been traveling across the States, promoting my book, and, it really feels good to be back in Los Angeles, my chosen home town.’ She smiled. Dazzled. Three young men in suits, just out of college, in the gestation period of fledging careers, had stopped by to check on movie times and pick up cycling magazines from the news stand. They stopped dead in their tracks when they heard Devon’s voice and were already in love.

Her voice mesmerizing. Slow. Deliberate.

‘I cried in the rainforest. The rain fell, and I was wet, from my tears and from the sky. And the sky was crying with me, shedding tears for the loss of the gardens of her world...’

Ten minutes later, an assorted, entranced crowd lined up for Devon to sign their own copies of her book. Anything that even vaguely resembled literacy or culture was a sure thing in the town of fallen angels.

‘I loved your reading Ms. Cage.’

‘Keep on writing Devon!’ chimed a small thin man dressed in a beige linen suit with a red rose in his buttonhole.

‘We can’t wait to read it!’ cried fuzzy-haired identical twins in unison. Obviously.