The Bad Seed Read online

“If I’m going to lose everything, then I’ll be damned if I let you sit up and enjoy your riches.”

  “Charles, you don’t have to do this. Let me help you,” I said.

  “Help me? You can’t even help yourself. This bastard treats you like a fucking slave and talks about you like a dog. What possible help could you offer me?”

  I looked at Robert, who avoided my gaze. “You’re right about Robert. I know how he is. He’s an asshole, but he’s not worth your wife and kids losing you. What legacy will you leave your children?”

  My words seemed to stun him. He stared at us, but I could see my words drilling their way into his brain.

  “Stop this before it gets any worse. It doesn’t have to end like this,” I said.

  “This is the only way it’s going to end. I’ve already killed people.” He pointed the gun directly at Robert. Robert stood fearlessly and looked into the eyes of his assassin and did not flinch. Robert grabbed my hand and he squeezed, waiting for the bullet to be expelled from the gun. I squeezed his hand, too. I was truly afraid for him. And for myself.

  I looked into Robert’s face and I could not detect an ounce of fear. He stared at Charles as if they were in the boardroom of RDE and he had just berated Charles for doing a poor job. Robert did not quiver or beg for mercy. He stood like a soldier, resolute and strong.

  I admired him for that.

  As they eyed each other, I noticed the door behind Charles beginning to crack open. Slowly, I saw a head peek into the room. It was Nigel.

  Oh shit.

  Charles continued to stare at Robert.

  “What are you waiting for? You can’t pull the trigger? You’re too weak to do it, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t test me, old man. I’ve already shot up a room full of people. I’m not playing with your ass today.”

  “Robert, stop it,” I found myself saying, my voice colored with panic, almost as if I cared whether or not he lived or died.

  Clandestinely, Nigel tried to ease into the room, but the door made a sound, which caught Charles’s attention. In an instant, he turned his head.

  Robert lunged at him.

  A shot rang out.

  Robert screamed and fell backward.

  I lunged at Charles. He stumbled backward.

  Nigel charged into the room.

  I didn’t know if Nigel was coming to my defense or if he was coming to save Robert; either way, he charged into the room like a hero, risking his life in a hail of gunfire.

  Charles didn’t have time to turn the gun and fire with any accuracy at Nigel. I knocked him off balance and, like a cheetah, Nigel pounced on him and pummeled him with rapid-fire blows. The gun sailed across the room as they struggled.

  Charles never had much of a chance. Nigel beat him to a bloody pulp and made sure that he was unable to move.

  I moved over to Robert. I needed to check on my husband.

  The bullet had struck him in the chest, near his heart. I felt unexpected pain.

  I looked at him and he looked at me. With great effort, he reached up and touched my face with his hand. I leaned down and planted a farewell kiss on his lips.

  He was dead and tears poured from my eyes.

  I stood up and moved over to Nigel. I looked down at Charles and kicked him in the face and then hugged Nigel. With our arms around each other and with Charles’s gun in his hand, Nigel and I moved toward the door. We heard sirens so the police were on the way. When we reached the door, Nigel stepped in front of me so that we could walk through it one at a time.

  I looked back at Charles. He had a small pistol in his hand and was taking aim at us, mainly me, since I was in the back. There was no time to warn Nigel, not without risking injury to myself. It was as if the next few seconds happened in slow motion. I saw flashes of my life playing before my eyes.

  My father.

  My stepmother.

  Running track.

  Jabari.

  New York City.

  Nigel and me making love.

  Marquis’s lips.

  Ashleigh smoking crack.

  Overall, I didn’t like what I saw. My life had been horrible. I had been horrible and in that instance, I wanted to repent, but instead of praying, I made a decision. I grabbed Nigel with both of my hands by the back of his shirt and pulled him behind me, essentially using him as a human shield.

  Three shots rang out and tore through Nigel’s body. His body violently rocked as his flesh was ripped by the metal. He screamed out and hit the floor hard.

  I screamed and ran out of the room, unscathed by any bullet. As I ran, I turned and saw Nigel in the doorway, bleeding. His right arm reached out to me as if to say “help me,” but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. I could not risk my life, even to save his. In the flicker of time that I turned to see him, even more prominent than his outstretched arms, were his eyes. They glowed in a way I had never seen before. It was as if his eyes were illuminated by his soul; they were bright and eerie. In his eyes, I could see shock at my betrayal. I had sacrificed his life to save my own.

  If Nigel had known anything about me, then he would have expected nothing less from me.

  The light in his eyes dimmed. In my heart, I realized that his life had been extinguished.

  As I barreled down the staircase, I was met by armed policemen who stormed the building. They grabbed me and pulled me to safety. I screamed and pointed to the VIP room to indicate where the killer was located.

  As they moved me to safety, I heard a single gunshot and knew that Charles had taken his own life, after creating such chaos.

  CHAPTER 18

  The few days after the carnage of The Purple Party were filled with chaos, questions, and sympathy. The city mourned. Seven people, including Robert, Nigel, and Charles, had died from a madman’s bullet. Many more had been wounded.

  Ironically, it was a madman that Robert had created.

  In part, I wished that I could have thanked Charles for doing my dirty work. His vengeance had set me free and made me a very rich man since Robert’s will had not been changed.

  I hadn’t been really affected by Nigel’s death; not as much as I thought I should have been. I thought about the times we had spent together and I was grateful that he had been there when I needed him the most. I would never forget his sacrifice. I’d miss him, but I’d miss his sex more.

  By design, Robert’s funeral service was small and dignified and attended only by a few. As expected, Ashleigh was a no-show. My plan to turn her into a crackhead had worked better than I had expected. Marquis kept her doped-up and, according to him, she was a “crack fiend”—she simply couldn’t get enough. When he told her that her father had died, it barely registered with her. He said she cried for about fifteen seconds and when the pain became too much for her to bear, she begged for more crack.

  For his service, he’d be handsomely rewarded with some good dick, ass, and some cash. Once things were settled, he and I would take a fabulous European vacation. I could show him the world, like I had dreamed; but only for a short while.

  During the service, I played the role of the distraught widower to perfection. I shook my head at the right moments. I trembled with sorrow when the right words were spoken. I appeared weak and consumed by grief just when the small crowd needed to feel my pain. I let unrestricted tears stream down my face. The funeral may have been Robert’s, but it was all about me.

  As we lowered Robert’s casket into the ground, I looked up beyond the crowd and in the back, standing near a lonely tombstone, was Jabari. His face was like stone and revealed no emotion. I wasn’t entirely surprised to see him. He’d been with me on this journey from the beginning. I surmised he’d be with me all of my days on this earth.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Crack. Crack

  I was surprised, however, when my crocodile tears actually became real. As I watched them lower Robert into the cold earth, I cried.

  I cried for so many reas
ons.

  I cried for Jabari, the way I should have years ago.

  I cried for Nigel, my secret lover whom I sacrificed to save myself.

  I cried for Ashleigh and for Marquis, who had never known love or family.

  I cried for Robert, too. His death was kismet; if not by my hands, then by Charles’s.

  More importantly, I cried for myself; for the hurt inflicted upon me over and over again by an uncaring world. I cried for all of the pain I had caused so many people over the years. I cried for the little boy that needed protecting so many years ago. I cried for the naïve teen who had landed in NYC to learn about hard living and harder loving.

  I cried.

  And, I cried.

  And, I cried.

  I cried, but I didn’t change. I was still a monster. Some monsters are born; others, like me, are made. Monsters never change their skin, only their clothing.

  Once a monster, always a monster.

  CRAZY IN LOVE

  CHAPTER 1

  Brandon Heart felt the familiar throbbing in his pants as his powerful erection grew, threatening to break past the thin blue material of his school uniform. His erection bulged with the unrepentant lust of a typical red-blooded American teenager who was full of heat and blinded by desire. A small, licentious smile formed in the corners of his lustful mouth as he watched, with an obsessive focus, his English teacher—Mr. Cross Jones—scribble an obscure quote from some dead author on the chalkboard. Brandon paid little attention to the words; he was far more interested in admiring the way Mr. Jones’s ass looked—firm and high—in his khaki slacks as he faced the blackboard. Brandon focused his attention on the lower extremities of his own bulging anatomy, fantasizing about the day his erection would be introduced to that ass. It would be highly inappropriate—possibly illegal—but he didn’t care; he had long ago fixated his mind on conquering Mr. Jones, and Brandon, even at such a tender age, had already learned the virtue of never taking “no” for an answer. He wasn’t even sure that Mr. Jones swung that way, but Brandon always felt that his teacher’s pants were just a bit too tight, his clothes a bit too coordinated, his face a bit too perfect to be entirely straight. Still, he wasn’t completely sure that he was into guys, but he had no doubt that he could get Mr. Jones into him. Once he focused his mind to the task at hand, it would only be a matter of time before Mr. Jones succumbed to his charms. After all, Brandon had conquered far straighter men than Cross Jones.

  At an impressive six-feet-two-inches in height, Brandon’s young body was bursting with promise and power, muscles bulging underneath taut, flawless, coco-colored skin that yearned to be touched and caressed. He was like an ebony dream, composed of rich milk chocolate, sweet honey and fantasy and he was fully aware of his exquisite beauty; it was the kind of loveliness that people wanted to possess, as if beauty was something tangible that could be captured and contained. His beauty, along with his unique athletic prowess in football and track, put him at the top of the high school food chain. All at once, Brandon was envied, worshipped, despised, pitied, sexualized, demonized, idolized, objectified, and even loved; such a diverse tapestry of competing emotions kept his life interesting. After money, beauty was the most powerful force in the world—lovers had killed for it; nations had warred over it and over the years, Brandon had harnessed his power. His enchanting puppy dog eyes and kissable lips had been used to sway circumstances in his favor, like flirting with Mrs. Henderson, his chemistry teacher, so much so that she had changed his final grade from a “B” to an “A.” Beauty is sometimes subtle, like the delicate petals of a flower or like the flickering splendor of a distant star in a darkened sky; however, Brandon’s rarified beauty was far from subtle—it was a force—announcing itself with the subtlety of a hurricane. It demanded to be worshipped and admired. He wielded it like a weapon, sometimes a flame-thrower that, on occasion, created such beautiful disasters.

  Even at such a tender young age, he was fully aware of and had complete command over his sexuality. It was evident in the way his body glided down crowded hallways; he was all legs and stride; all angles and curves. His sexuality was seen in the graceful way in which his lips moved when he spoke a thousand lies; it could not be denied in the way his strong hips rocked, with so much possibility, as he raced down the football field or around the track; his presence was felt when he stood fully erect in the hallway, towering over his peers. His sexiness spilled over even in the slightest movement of his body and people noticed and fantasized. He was regal, like an African prince, who could command the forces of nature simply by the thunder of his voice.

  Brandon had long ago recognized a dangerous longing in the eyes of adolescent girls who swooned at the sight of him; they smiled coyly and tried to steady themselves as their knees weakened and their panties moistened; it was a longing so deep and so passionate that it was hard not to see—lust sometimes burned brighter than daylight. And, he saw envy in the eyes of his male peers who wanted to be him or at least be near him, hoping that some of what he had would rub off on them; but, even at such a tender young age, Brandon was astute enough to recognize, even in its smallest measure, what was concealed behind the eyes of his male counterparts; it was buried within their youthful bravado and it was more than petty jealousy and secret admiration; it was almost imperceptible but, nevertheless, it made them flock to him. Brandon recognized it and tacitly encouraged it. It was a desire so illicit that it could only be acknowledged inside the safety of their masturbatory dreams.

  Yes, Brandon knew that some of his male classmates also desired him.

  This twisted gift, the gift of beauty that was bestowed upon him by fate, gave him dominion in this world.

  Brandon looked nervously down at his watch and wondered when his gift would arrive. He had carefully planned for the timing and left explicit delivery instructions, but now he began to worry a bit. He wanted to see the look of surprise on Cross’s face when the gift arrived, but from the looks of things, it may not work out. Class would end in about fifteen minutes, but Brandon was determined to be present when his gift arrived. Brandon shifted hard in his seat and inadvertently sent his textbook crashing to the floor. It landed with a harsh thud that echoed throughout the room, startling the half-comatose students.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Heart?” his teacher asked.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just be quiet,” he said with some irritation. “Pick up your book and read the next passage out loud.”

  Brandon looked around incredulously. “For real?”

  “No, for play.” Mr. Jones sounded annoyed and did not smile as Brandon picked up his book. “I assume you know what page we’re on because I know you were paying close attention.” His sarcasm was heavy. Brandon smiled uneasily and shifted through the pages in his book, hoping something would jump out at him. He had no earthly idea what page they were on; for the last thirty minutes, his mind had drifted off. “Brandon, I’ll see you after class.”

  “But—”

  Before Mr. Jones could respond, there was a light tapping on the classroom door and his attention was directed toward the unexpected visitor. The door slowly crept open and in walked Mrs. Greenberg, the school secretary, carrying the most spectacular bouquet of Calla Lilies that Brandon had ever seen. Brandon delighted at her uncanny timing—his gift arrived just in time.

  “These are for you, Mr. Jones,” she said playfully as the classroom burst into a chorus of cat-calls and whistles.

  He smiled oddly, took the flowers from Mrs. Greenberg and placed them on the left corner of his desk. He opened the card quickly, read it, and slid it into his pocket. A reddish hue colored his face as a smile formed in the corners of his mouth; it was a smile that he fought off and dismissed.

  “Quiet down,” he said to his class in a voice meant to sound authoritative, but ended up without much force. He couldn’t hide the fact that he was excited by the gift. The sudden arrival of flowers for him had clearly thrown him for a loop. This
was the second secret gift he had received in as many weeks.

  “Someone has a secret admirer,” Mrs. Greenberg said with great affection and interest. She lingered there for seconds, hoping Mr. Jones would toss her a morsel so that she could run back to the teachers’ lounge with the latest school gossip on the hottest teacher at school.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Greenberg, for bringing these down to me. Have a great afternoon,” he said as he returned his attention back to his classroom.

  She continued to linger until he shot her a thorny look. She smiled politely and exited through the door. Brandon could tell that she was disappointed that she had left with no more information that she had arrived with. Now, she’d have nothing to gossip about. Brandon knew better than to sign his name to the card; those nosey crows in the school office would probably read the card before they delivered the flowers.

  The sudden sound of the ringing bell signaled the end of class and an end to the awkward moment. Brandon slowly gathered his belongings, barely taking his eyes off the object of his infatuation, as the rest of the class, full of the roar of rowdy seniors, sprang to life at the end of the school day and the beginning of the weekend.

  “I was disappointed with the class participation today. I strongly urge you to read the rest of Moby Dick for Monday’s class,” Mr. Jones called out to the students as they shuffled by, checking text messages and voice mail, paying little attention. “I strongly urge you to read it,” he said, wagging his fingers at the disinterested group. “If you expect to pass my class and graduate in May, then I suggest you pull it together these next couple of months.” Mr. Jones stood at the front of the room, his arms folded and watched as his students vacated his classroom.

  Brandon tarried in the back row, slowly putting away his belongings. Mr. Jones moved over to his desk, took a seat, and started shuffling paper, paying little attention to the flowers. After all of the students vacated the room, Brandon stepped gingerly up to the front of the room, over to Mr. Jones’s desk where he sat, leaving in his wake the strong scent of testosterone and lust.