The Bad Seed Read online

  The first thing I learned was that New York City is a cold mistress. She has no love for the loveless and offers little grace for the disgraced. When you meet her, you must be prepared to do battle. I spent years doing odd jobs, working in retail stores, waiting tables, freelance modeling and hustling, just to make ends meet. In my naivety, I imagined that as soon as I stepped off the bus at the Port Authority that I would instantly be discovered as the next big thing in modeling. I was certain that some model scout who was going about his very ordinary day would see me and immediately whisk me away to some fabulously fashionable photo shoot. I saw magazine covers, European runways, and television shows in my future, but evidently fate had other plans for me. Instead of modeling, I churned and burned and fucked my way through New York City as a means of surviving the concrete jungle; I drank and smoked and partied in excess as a way of blotting out the perils of my poisoned life.

  My past deeds haunted my spirit, regardless of my attempts to forget.

  The hardships I faced forced me to work harder at my dreams, but still things did not come together, and as I struggled at fame, the years passed. New York City was full of younger, model-types all competing fiercely to be the next face of Sean John, Tommy Hilfiger, or Gucci, but most ended up as poster children for shattered dreams. I was no different.

  After years of fighting in the trenches to be noticed among the giant skyscrapers and glitter of the city, my fortunes barely improved. Then, on a very ordinary day, something extraordinary happened: Robert Douglas limped into the New York City café where I worked while trying to get my fledgling modeling career off the ground. The second he walked in, my head snapped in his direction. I immediately noticed his sharp, pinstriped Armani suit and his thousand-dollar shoes. I saw all of this across a crowded restaurant because I had skills. I could pick a rich man out of the middle of Times Square while blindfolded.

  When he entered, I jockeyed for position to be his waiter—my no-talent, has-been, wannabe coworkers were not about to stand in the way of my next meal ticket. And, from the look of things, it was sure to be a feast. He wouldn’t be the first old man I fucked for money. Times were hard back then and I was tired of the day-to-day struggles. I was a month and a half behind on my rent and my cell phone was about to be disconnected for lack of payment.

  I sauntered up to Robert’s table after he was seated, my beautiful smile in full effect and my chest protruding through my tight shirt. Robert looked up casually, as if he hadn’t noticed me and turned away. I was confident that once my image etched itself to the lens of his retina and registered in his brain, he would take notice. All men did.

  And, then it happened.

  He looked in my direction again.

  And smiled.

  I had him on the hook. Now, I had to reel him in. He had no idea that he was about to be thoroughly fucked and fucked over. Robert immediately took a fancy to me—as I knew he would.

  Over the next few months, he showered me with gifts and wined and dined me at the best restaurants all over the city. We attended Broadway plays, art openings, and parties of the fabulously wealthy. Robert lived in Washington, D.C. but did lots of business in New York. He flew me down to D.C. several times because he couldn’t bear to be away from my side for too long for fear that someone else would steal my heart. He certainly knew how to romance a man.

  After four months of seducing him, he proposed to me, as I knew he would. During our whirlwind courtship, I pulled out the big guns—no pun intended—and showed him the time of his life. I taught him how to live freely and recklessly. I pulled the old turtle out of his shell so that he could feel the sun on his naked skin. He was so wound up from the many years of being uptight that I thought he was going to pop.

  I did all of this to reconnect him with life and his feelings for the sole purpose of getting him to fall hopelessly in love with me. He wasn’t the first man that I had seduced into loving me, but if I played my cards right, he’d be the last. As gruff as his exterior was, deep down he longed for love, and I believed that he viewed me as his last chance at love. No one wants to die old and alone.

  When I accepted Robert’s proposal, I understood that I’d have to move with him to D.C. I’d have to leave the city I had come to love and loathe. Luckily, he owned a glorious penthouse in Tribeca, so I would have a place to stay when I missed the city. We married on March 9, 2010—the first day that gay marriage was allowed in D.C.—in a lavish ceremony attended by the city’s elite, including the mayor. Our wedding was a sight to behold, but now, a year later, I wanted to behead my lawfully wedded husband.

  CHAPTER 4

  I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, my chest heaving.

  Another nightmare.

  The bad dreams had started coming more frequently, sometimes preventing me from sleeping through the night. I knew exactly what they were about, but I couldn’t stop them.

  I looked over at Robert, who stirred in the bed. I hoped he didn’t wake because I didn’t want to talk about what I had seen in my nightmare. Flashes from the past could haunt across space and time.

  His face.

  His voice.

  The building.

  The words.

  The push.

  The sounds of death.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Crack. Crack.

  I didn’t want to relive the nightmare, nor did I want to tell Robert what else I had dreamed. I didn’t want to tell him about his mangled flesh or his funeral service. I looked at him. I wondered if he sensed his imminent death. Did he know how soon it would come? Did he feel a chill in the air on a beautiful summer night? Did he get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach when I looked at him? When he looked at me, was there a warning in his heart?

  I didn’t want him to suspect anything, so I went on pretending. Every day. I was the greatest pretender of them all. Each day I pretended to be in love with him. Every night I pretended to like his touch. I pretended the smile on my face reflected the joy I felt as his spouse, but behind every smile and every embrace, darkness lurked. Until the moment he expired and even beyond that, I had a part to play. For now, I had to be the doting spouse, but I longed to play the part of bereaved widower. Robert would die soon and a few bad dreams would not prevent me from doing what I had to do to secure my future.

  There was a sliver of conscience that had caused me to delay, but I had to strike first before the truth was revealed. I wasn’t arrogant enough to believe Nigel and I could keep doing what we were doing for much longer without consequence. My grandmother always said, “It would come out in the wash” and that “The truth would always be brought to light.” So, I had to strike soon or all would be lost.

  What would happen if he found out about my affair with Nigel?

  Knowing Robert, his wrath would scorch the earth. Without hesitation, he’d toss me out onto the street with nothing more than a suitcase filled with a few cheap accessories; credit cards would be canceled and he’d take possession of my car because it was in his name; no more fancy manicures or pedicures; no more facials, massages, $200 lunches, or shopping sprees in Chevy Chase. I saw horrific reflections of my future life; visions of homeless shelters, tuna fish sandwiches, and bus passes shook me to my core.

  Robert’s revenge wouldn’t simply stop with my ejection from his house—his vengeance would be much more thorough. He had destroyed his enemies in business, leaving them broken, mere shells of their former selves. He’d do far worse to me because the pain of my deceit would cut him much deeper than a business deal gone awry. I was certain he’d keep tabs on me for the rest of my life and each time I got close to picking myself up, he’d knock me back down for his own amusement—his relentless attacks would endure beyond time and distance because that’s the kind of man I was married to. He believed in the total destruction of his enemies and if he found out I was cheating, that’s exactly what I’d become—his enemy.

  Who knew what he’d do to Nigel.


  Ironically, outside of his millions, ruthlessness was one of the qualities that attracted me to him—if I had ever been attracted to him at all. In spite of his age, he felt…dangerous, like a serpent ready to strike with little provocation. He kept me on edge, like I could never quite catch my breath because I never knew how he would react. And I kind of liked that, along with some of his sadomasochistic sex games. While he wooed me before we were married, he kept his sexual inclinations hidden from me, but as soon as we were married, his perversions spilled from the closet.

  At first, I was shocked that such a distinguished gentleman could be so uninhibited. When we dated, our sex life was cool—the way I wanted to keep it; however, once I became his husband, he turned up the heat and he quickly shot from lukewarm to blazing.

  From his bag of tricks, he pulled out whips and chains and leather straps; he loved handcuffs and beads and things that vibrated. Some of the games turned me on because they played into my domination fantasies. His affection for erotic-asphyxiation provided the most ground-breaking orgasms I had ever had—danger titillated in ways that I had not imagined. I remembered the first time he put his hands around my neck and squeezed tightly while we were fucking; we rarely made love now, only fucked. I was on top of him moving my hips with a steady rhythm, pretending he was someone else, with my hand working my manhood. I liked being on top because it offered me greater control and it was the only time Robert let me take control. I closed my eyes and pretended he was a young lover and my moaning became more guttural, signaling to him that I was close to my peak. He sat up a bit and placed his hands around my neck, gently at first. I assumed he wanted to add in a few deep thrusts and placed his hands around my neck for greater leverage. As I rocked and rolled faster and harder, he began to apply pressure. Instinctively, I placed my hands on his wrists, in case I needed to forcibly remove them. “Shhh,” he said when he sensed I was about to protest. “Trust me, baby,” he said soothingly, trying to assuage my growing fear. Then, I looked into his eyes. His gaze filled me with fear, excitement, and apprehension, yet, I let him continue. He told me it would be okay and to trust him again and for some reason, I did. Slowly, I removed one of my hands from his wrist and resumed stroking myself.

  I submitted to his will again.

  The emotions—danger, fear, excitement—added to the fire growing in my loins and filled me with the strangest sensation. It was as if every cell in my body caught fire at the same time. The adrenaline pumping through my veins powered my increasingly aggressive rhythm. Robert knew I was close to release because my body began to shudder. Then he squeezed harder—so hard I could see the veins throbbing in his wrists. I could barely breathe and I grew lightheaded, but I continued to stroke myself. I wanted to pry his hands from around my neck, but I didn’t. Finally, right before I felt like I was blacking out, I released with an unbelievable force that left me far beyond wobbly and weak. Burst after burst after burst expelled from my body. It was far more intense than I had ever imagined.

  Even after I collapsed onto the bed, my body continued to jerk. Robert simply kissed my lips and finished himself off, clearly pleased at his handiwork. I didn’t know a word to describe a feeling so utterly consuming.

  That was then. This is now. Now, if Robert found out I was cheating, when he placed his hands around my neck and squeezed, he would squeeze with force for an entirely different reason; he’d choke the life out of me.

  So, I had to kill him first and claim the spoils of war.

  When I started planning his death a few weeks ago, that’s when the nightmares returned. A few times I had to get out of bed and go sit by the pool in the middle of the night; I hoped the gentle breezes and rolling waves would comfort me, but I found no such solace. In order to pull this off, I had to reconcile my past deeds with my future actions. I had to weigh the costs and not let my teenaged guilt prevent me from striking decisively.

  As I sat up in the bed thinking, Robert stirred and his eyes slowly opened.

  “Baby, what are you doing?” Robert asked when he opened his eyes and saw me sitting up in the bed.

  “Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Is something wrong?” He sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He looked at me oddly and moved closer. He put his arms around me in an effort to comfort me.

  I cringed.

  “You seem tense. What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing. Just a bad dream.”

  “About what?”

  About the death of a boy I once loved.

  “I can’t remember,” I lied.

  He looked at me again. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Now, go back to sleep. You have an early morning meeting,” I urged.

  “I know that and we have that party tomorrow evening, so I want you to get some rest, too. I want you to look your best.”

  I always look my best.

  “You don’t have to worry about that. You know how I do.” I smiled.

  “I know what you do, too,” he said with a chuckle. I felt his hand slide between my thighs.

  Dear God.

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time we made our appearance at the party, the place was packed with some of D.C.’s elite. Robert didn’t have any real interest in politics unless it served him personally, but there were a few political figures sprinkled across the room, including the mayor. I recognized some of their faces, but since I didn’t care about politics either, I didn’t know most of their names.

  We were in the executive wing of Robert Douglas Enterprises (RDE) on the Georgetown waterfront, a place Robert often used when he wanted to entertain and impress. The elaborate space was decorated with high-priced paintings and sculptures that made it feel like a museum and the room opened up to a rooftop patio that overlooked the Potomac River. From our view, you could see the Kennedy Center and the Wilson Bridge in the distance. The view was spectacular, particularly when the light from the setting sun reflected off calm waters.

  Stationed strategically in the corner near the glass door to the terrace was a local jazz band led by a bluesy female soul-singer who wore a yellow flower in her natural hair. A form-fitting white dress clung tightly to her hourglass figure. She sang like an angel, her delicate and soulful voice hovered just above the meaningless chatter of the guests. I made a mental note to find out her name so I could catch her next performance in the city. Maybe I’d take a new date.

  Robert threw this gala as a fundraiser for some charity I didn’t care to remember; another one of his empty gestures to gain favor and improve his reputation in the city. I didn’t want to be there because I didn’t feel well at all. My sleepless night turned into a restless day, but Robert forced me to come; there was no way he’d let me stay at home. It was one of my many husbandly duties. I was hoping that I’d vomit on his shoes.

  When we walked arm-in-arm into the room, the crowd parted as we made our way down the aisle. There was a collective sigh as people acknowledged our presence and smiled our way. Some people envied us. Some wanted to be us, while others wanted something from us. Either way, they looked on with awe.

  That was another thing I loved about Robert—he commanded attention and respect in every room in which he entered. There was something innate about his presence that drew people’s attention; however, as much as I usually enjoyed all eyes on us, tonight I wanted to be invisible. I didn’t have enough energy to support a fake smile for the next few hours as Robert worked the room. When I looked out among the sea of strange and smiling faces, I didn’t feel the usual rush I felt when people stared.

  “Blues, are you okay?” Robert asked me. He must have sensed my nervousness.

  “Yeah, I’m okay…just not feeling well.”

  He leaned in and whispered ever-so-sweetly. “Don’t embarrass me. You’ve had all day to get it together. Maybe you should go have a ginger ale.” The smile on his face camouflaged the shrillness of his words. I’m sure it looked as if he was whispering something romantic in my
ear, but bitter words cut across my head. I offered a tiny smile and continued to walk with him, smiling.

  Just die.

  I separated from Robert and found my way to the bar, where I instructed the attractive, copper-colored bartender to pour me a glass of ginger ale. I watched him pour and he smiled at me, with a twinkle in his eyes. He watched me watching him and I smiled back at him. He was no older than twenty-three, probably in college at Howard University, earning a little spending money, and his beautifully puffy, red lips made me want to fuck him later. I winked at him and he smiled back, as I walked away.

  After I finished the ginger ale, Robert saw me in a corner near the bar and beckoned me in his direction. In spite of the drink, I still didn’t feel any better and Robert couldn’t care less about my pain. It was always about him. Always.

  Throughout the evening, he dragged me from one boring conversation to another, holding onto me like his most prized possession, while showing me off to his ridiculously egotistical friends. I played the role of the loving spouse, clinging to his arm as he regaled them with delicious stories of his business prowess and his philanthropy. I played along; I certainly didn’t want him having a hissy fit when we got home because he thought I was being rude to his guests. He could be as rude as he wanted—and he usually was—but if I dared open my mouth to throw any kind of shade, he’d never let me forget it.

  I knew how to play the game. I smiled, nodded, hugged, and air-kissed as if these people were my oldest and most beloved friends.

  After some time and some gentle prodding on my part, Robert finally allowed me to excuse myself as he found another group to entertain. I faded into the background and tried my best to remain incognito.

  Two drinks later, I felt a little better. I found a quiet place in the back by the bar to rest and observe the comings and goings of the crowd while avoiding Robert. I watched as Charles Rouge strolled through the room with his beautiful wife in tow. Charles, one of Robert’s executives, had always been nice to me, unlike some of the others. When his wife saw me looking at him, she raised an inquisitive eyebrow and instinctively tightened her grasp around his arm, never once letting her fake smile diminish.