The Bad Seed Page 17

  He settled into a chair on the deck and tried to relax. Living alone was sometimes rough for him. The quiet of his home attached itself to him in the still of the night; it latched onto his skin like a leech and it embedded itself into the furniture and onto the walls, leaving a smell that sometimes offended his nostrils; the stench of being alone, of being lonely, of being abandoned, of being disconnected—even from one’s own self—stank up the entire house. His profound heartache, though two years buried in the past, still tainted his world. And, because of this, he had grown cautious in his step—despite his youth—afraid that stepping too boldly would lead to pain as it did in his past relationship. He carefully ordered his steps, never venturing too far from the sidewalk and avoiding anything that required emotional risk.

  Gone was the carefree lad who, years ago, had left his home in LaGrange, Georgia, for Columbia University; gone were the wild New York nights, bouncing from one club to another, in a desperate search of whatever the young sought. He searched and partied and searched, finally realizing that the joy he sought was never in finding it, but in the journey itself; a journey fraught with trials, tribulations, and excitement. Those life lessons had fueled his literary fire and turned him into a star at a young age.

  The prodigal child, now in his mid-twenties and a successful writer-turned-teacher, called Marietta home, a city that derived its life from the metropolis of Atlanta.

  So, he worked.

  And taught.

  And prayed.

  And wrote, though these days his listless existence began to manifest itself into a seemingly impenetrable form of writer’s block. Being emotionally disconnected from the world would never produce a great novel, but still he wouldn’t let go of the pain. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to.

  CHAPTER 3

  Early Saturday morning, Brandon lay in wait. His long, big, black car with the black tinted windows was parked down the street from Cross’s townhouse; it had become a part of Brandon’s weekend routine to follow Cross and document his journey. A few weeks ago, he had followed him home one day after school so he would know where he lived.

  Now, Brandon was quickly becoming an expert in all things Cross. Every Saturday morning Cross would leave the house by eight-thirty to make his nine o’clock workout class. After the gym, Cross usually stopped by Whole Foods on Roswell Road to pick up something for lunch. He usually bought some kind of fish and some kind of organic side dish. He’d buy a bouquet of fresh flowers from the flower shop across the street; he had a thing for Calla Lillies.

  In order for his seduction to work, Brandon needed to have as much information about Cross as possible. So, he had spent several Saturday mornings surreptitiously following him, always lingering a few cars behind or hiding on a different aisle of the supermarket. Brandon wanted to know what made Cross the man that he was; he wanted to know the kinds of foods he ate, the places he went, the movies he liked to watch, and the kind of things he did when he was home alone. He often wondered if he sat around reading all day or was he the type to turn up the volume on his stereo and dance around the room naked?

  Brandon had gone back and read each one of Cross’s published novels, in hopes of gaining some secret insight, which was one of the reasons he had fallen behind in school. In his head, he could see Cross hunched over his computer, hammering the keyboard into the wee hours of the night, churning out the next great novel. Brandon longed to be there to bring him comfort when his fingers tired of typing.

  As he sat waiting for Cross to exit his home, he laughed to a repeat of Miss Sophia’s Girl Talk on V-103 emanating from the speakers and he paid attention to the women in the neighborhood who busied themselves with their wifely chores. He watched the real housewives of Atlanta pass by, one by one, as they pounded the pavement during their early morning jogs.

  As he adjusted the volume on his radio, he noticed Cross’s car pulling out of the driveway at 8:28 a.m. Usually, he would follow him, but this morning he had something else on his mind—he wanted access into Cross’s house. He had at least two hours before Cross would return and he hoped that he could find a way into the house before he was spotted by a neighbor. He waited about fifteen minutes before he made his move, giving Cross enough time to get a good distance away. As Brandon stepped out of his vehicle wearing jeans and a nondescript T-shirt, he looked around for any neighbors or prying eyes.

  Brandon walked up on the porch and rang the doorbell as if he was there on official business. He rang it again and waited. He wasn’t sure if Cross had company so he waited to be sure. No detectable sound or movement could be heard from the other side of the door.

  When Brandon was sufficiently satisfied that no one was home, he walked back to his car and drove around the corner to park. To fool the eyes of any nosey neighbor, he wanted to make it look as though he had left. When he parked the car, he got out of the vehicle and walked down the road, trying to figure out how to get to the backside of Cross’s house without being detected. He eased his way down a narrow alleyway, cut through some bushes, and finally hopped a low fence, on the side of Cross’s house. When he landed, he looked around at the neighboring houses to see if he noticed anyone watching him. He had done some crazy things in his days, but breaking and entering was new to him; yet he remained undeterred in his quest.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and then moved to the window on the side of the house. He tried to ease it open, but it didn’t budge. He then moved to the backside of the house and tried to slide open the patio door, but it was locked also. Like a determined burglar, he moved to the other side of the house and noticed a window that wasn’t completely closed. He smiled at his good fortune. Slowly, he opened the window, climbed inside, and lowered the window behind him.

  Brandon stood absolutely still for a few minutes, almost afraid that his breathing would disturb the quiet and alert the world to his presence in his teacher’s home. He steadied himself and gathered his wits as he finally felt courageous enough to look around the room. He had landed in Cross’s office and when he felt comfortable, he moved freely about the space. He looked around at the various book awards and accolades that his husband-to-be had received over the years. Upon doing his due diligence, Brandon discovered that Cross’s four published books had sold a total of more than 2.5 million copies and had been optioned for movies. Not only was Cross attractive, but he was also rich and successful.

  Brandon then started perusing through papers on Cross’s desk and books on his shelf. He wanted to get to know more about this man. He needed to know what made him tick.

  After a few moments in the office, Brandon ventured into the rest of the beautifully decorated house. He walked down the hallway, carefully taking in as many details as possible before moving into the den and looking around. He looked at the abstract art on the walls and the deep brown leather couch. He was tempted to sit on it, but this room offered little insight into the man; Brandon wanted to see the bedroom—the place where he hoped the magic would one day happen.

  Slowly, he walked up the staircase to the second level of the home. He moved down the long hallway with the stealth of a feline, peeping into each room until he reached the master suite. Slowly, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. It suddenly felt like he was home. He fell in love with the deep red painted on the walls. Brandon loved red because it was so strong a color that it conjured a range of emotions from love to rage. He was excited by the fact that Cross was bold enough to paint his bedroom walls such a brave color; it showed he didn’t mind taking chances; Cross Jones the schoolteacher was far too conservative to make such a bold statement in his bedroom. Brandon hoped the blood-colored walls meant that Cross would be a strong and passionate lover.

  He moved over to the chest of drawers and started thumbing through Cross’s unmentionables. He grabbed a pair of blue underwear and pulled them into his face, hoping to get a whiff of Cross’s intoxicating scent. When he realized the underwear smelled of Downy, he quickly put them ba
ck into the drawer.

  He turned his attention elsewhere. He eyed the huge, perfectly made, black king-sized bed that was centered against the wall. Four huge pillars on each corner of the bed gave the room a Roman-esque feel, as if Cross was Caesar. Brandon, almost unable to contain himself, ran over and jumped onto the bed and rolled around on top of the bed. He pulled the covers back, grabbed his pillows and pulled them into his face. He inhaled deeply, taking Cross’s scent fully into his body. It was almost as if his scent was a drug and Brandon couldn’t get enough; it drove him wild. He then sat up in the bed and looked around the room. A huge flat-screen television hung on the wall directly in front of the bed.

  “I wonder what you like to watch,” he said as he picked up the remote control from the nightstand and turned the television on. He noticed a remote control for the DVD player and picked it up. Once he figured out how to operate the device, he hit “play” and before he knew it, his eyes grew wide with excitement as they were bombarded with images of naked flesh on top of flesh—porn! Brandon loved it.

  “Ahh, you’re into the group thing,” he said as he watched the group of naked interracial men on the television with growing interest. He watched as five or six men went at it like there was no tomorrow and Brandon’s eager hand had found itself around his own willing flesh. He spat in his hand for lubrication and started jerking himself into a frenzied state. The excitement the men on screen shared with each other spilled over into Brandon’s own reality. He was excited watching them but more excited by the thought of Cross walking in and catching him in the act of self-gratification. He closed his eyes, even as the men on screen continued, and imagined that Cross was in the bed with him, on top of him, under him, in him, and that they were making love like newlyweds. He reached over and grabbed one of the pillows and put it over his face so that he could smell Cross again. Within seconds of doing that, he reached his peak and his young excitement exploded out of him like a geyser expelling its hot gases. He lay in the strange bed, breathing hard, even while his release oozed down his sides and was soaked up by the sheets.

  When he was able to compose himself, he got up from the bed and walked into the master bath. He opened the cabinet and grabbed a small towel from the shelf—it was as if he knew exactly where to look. He ran some warm water over it and cleaned himself up. He looked for and found a place to dispose of the towel—a hamper in the corner by the walk-in shower. He opened the basket, dropped in his towel. Then he had another thought. He looked in and pulled out a pair of Cross’s underwear—a pair of black bikini briefs. He brought the underwear to his nose and inhaled deeply. Yes! Cross’s masculine sweatfunk scent permeated every inch of the fabric and when Brandon inhaled, his dick stiffened again. Quickly and frantically, he jerked off again and when he reached orgasm, he used the pair of underwear to catch his seed. His teenaged lust had been satisfied yet again. He stuffed the pair of underwear into his front pocket as a keepsake.

  Twenty minutes after his last orgasm, Brandon snuck out of the house the same way he had entered. He was careful to put everything back exactly the way he had found it and made sure that he made the bed. He had successfully entered Cross’s home and had had his way with his belongings. He felt powerful, like he could do anything he wanted to do and get away with it. Now, all he had to do was have Cross. Being in his home, amongst his personal effects and inhaling his most intimate scent solidified Brandon’s desire. Cross’s pheromones lingered in Brandon’s nostrils like no other scent had ever.

  He was even more determined to have Cross.

  Later that night, after a couple hours of messing around at the mall and spending his parents’ money on sneakers, CDs and a pair of $250 jeans that made his ass look like a work of art, Brandon entered the empty home he shared with his mother and his father. Even though he resided there, he felt like an interloper skulking about the fringes, hoping for an invitation to really come inside.

  When he walked into the grand foyer, he called out for his parents and listened as his voice echoed throughout the rooms. His voice bounced off the walls and returned to him without a response to his call. He took a deep breath and inhaled the emptiness that had already become a part of his character.

  Out of habit, he made a quick sweep through the downstairs to see if anyone was around. He knew they wouldn’t be, but just to be sure, he called out for them again and again his call went unanswered. He was alone, as usual. He knew he’d be. It was that perilous time of the year when his parents’ pain spilled over its shallow embankment. It was that time of the year when they fled the city in a blaze like Bonnie and Clyde. Even if they had stayed, Brandon would have felt their absence from him, even in their presence. Over the years, their relationship settled into uneasy and awkward peace, much like enemies staring across the line of demarcation, carefully avoiding that one moment when their cold war would erupt into fury.

  They would always blame him for the death of his older brother four years ago. Their favorite son and his perfect brother had died in a car accident after picking Brandon up from school one evening. The car had flipped three times and his brother, who was not wearing a seat belt, was catapulted from the car and flung across the highway like a rag doll, breaking almost every bone in his body. Brandon barely survived with help from his seat belt, but as his body recovered, his relationship with his mother and father flat-lined. In his heart, he knew that if they were presented with the option of choosing which child would live and which one would die that he’d be rotting in the ground in a cheap casket. His brother had been the perfect child, the kind of child that parents dreamed of; the kind of child that made a father’s eye sparkle with pride; the kind of child that mothers vociferously defended. He was wildly intelligent, super-athletic and hugely popular, with a personality that lit up the room like a spotlight. His parents fawned over him as if he were the Prince of Wales; and Brandon looked up to him, too; in fact, he wanted to be him. In spite of the fact that he hated football, he played because his brother played; regardless of the fact that he didn’t have a natural liking for school, he studied hard so that his grades would be comparable to his brother’s. Despite the fact that he didn’t feel a strong attraction to girls, he dated the prettiest of them so that they could be just as pretty of a couple as his brother and his beautiful girlfriend.

  But none of this mattered.

  His parents saw through the façade. His parents knew what Brandon was. There was a long list of offenses over the years that they could easily reference in order to prove their point beyond any reasonable doubt.

  When he was nine years old, his father caught him “wrestling” with his best friend, William. He banished the child from the house and forbade Brandon from seeing him again. And, when he was alone with his child, Mr. Heart tried to beat the feeling out of Brandon.

  When he was eleven, his parents received a call from his teacher saying that he had been caught in the bathroom kissing a boy. His mother locked him in his room all weekend, without food.

  When he was fourteen, the maid found an old copy of Black Inches magazine underneath his mattress and turned the contraband over to his parents. His father made him take a shower and lay across the bed wet (so that it would sting more) while he beat him with a leather strap, all the while pleading with God to remove the demon from his son.

  Brandon knew the only demon was the one his parents were creating.

  And he didn’t feel sinful, only misunderstood.

  And, he felt no love from or for those that gave him life.

  Later on that same year, on a dark autumn night, his mother had found a note from Brandon’s first “boyfriend” wedged between the wall and his computer stand. The note described, in detail, their first sexual encounter. She sent Patrick to school to retrieve Brandon so that they could deal with his growing sexual deviance. She was determined that his perversions would not sully the family name. That was the night Patrick died.

  When Patrick died, their love for their remaining child
died, too. Brandon tried in earnest to be the son that they needed. He put forth a full measure of devotion to right the wrongs of his life so that he could grow closer to his parents. He excelled at sports, which had a wondrous effect on his body, and received excellent grades, dated and fucked his way through some of the school’s most prized debutantes; their cotillion-bred morals fell by their ankles as easily as their pretty pink panties. He did all of this to win his parents’ approval, but none of it worked, because they knew. They had always known.

  Had his brother lived, he’d be celebrating his twenty-second birthday on Sunday and that was too much for his parents to take, so they fled. They fled from their living son to avoid memories of their dead one and left Brandon to privately deal with his personal pain; forced solitude offered no solace.

  He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, pulled out a Coke, and popped the top. He then moved over to the cabinet, pulled out a glass, and poured the beverage into the container and began to drink quickly. He loved the perfect pain from the burn of a nice, cold Coca-Cola. As he drank, he caught a glimpse of a note on the counter by the phone. He didn’t have to read it to know what it said; there had always been pastel notes written in delicate handwriting left all over the house for him to discover. Still, he moved over to the counter and picked the note written on his mother’s lovely purple and green floral stationery and read it out loud:

  Brandon,

  Your father and I have gone to Los Angeles for business. We hope to be back in a few days, but we will let you know. We left you some money on your bed and paid your credit card bill, so you should be fine. If you need us, please call.