Deadliest Intuition Read online

  “Auntie, are you trying to fix me up with a gay man?”

  May huffed. “I just wanted to know.”

  “Aunt May, that’s not nice to experiment with people like that. What makes you think he doesn’t like women?”

  “I’ve never heard or seen one come to visit.”

  “Well, now, that’s odd,” Gertrude pondered the thought. Maybe he can be my shopping buddy. She shrugged her shoulders. “Looks like I’ll have someone to show me around campus and go to the mall with.”

  “Have fun, sweetie,” Aunt May bid her farewell with a wave of her wrinkled hand, not taking her eyes off the television. She loved her niece but didn’t have time for someone interrupting her shows. Daytime television provided her excitement for the day—that and sitting on the porch, judging passersby.

  As Gertrude hit the hallway, she heard music blasting from Ronald’s unit. “Oh, brother.” She rolled her eyes as if to say, what’s next? “I’ll have to get used to this too,” she moaned, heading back to the kitchen to complete her work.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Ronald busied himself with Joe’s castration. A sedative he’d administered had taken effect almost immediately. His sight inside of that white cloth bag waned as Joe’s eyelids became heavier each passing second, ensuring he wouldn’t escape punishment. A bilateral orchiectomy would surely stunt his desires,

  Ronald assumed. He had dragged Joe’s body through the adjoining room, then into the attic. Two long, dark hallways ran alongside the stuffy space. Where Ronald had traveled took them behind the walls. A fluorescent light radiated off the exposed insulation along the walls, and the angled ceiling awarded the space a pink hue. There, Joe lay atop a row of thick, plastic, naked to the gills, suspended in the air by a steel-framed rolling table. A single tear dropped from the corner of his eye, running down his battered cheek as they closed a final time.

  * * *

  The clock on the nightstand read 1:00 a.m. when Joe’s eyes opened. His body lay still atop the queen-sized bed as his gaze took in the scenery around him. Comic book drawings and posters decorating the walls stole his attention—he and his sons being into that sort of thing. After a few seconds, it dawned on him. Oh my God, I’m home. He lay in his very own guest room back at home. Safe in bed. Was it all just a bad dream? The evil officer thought maybe he’d dreamed it all . . . until he felt the achiness in his body as he attempted to get up. His torture had indeed happened. He’d been kidnapped, tied up, beaten, tortured, atop of being castrated. Joe went to move his arms. They were free from restraints, a fact that caused him to breathe a sigh of relief. But only for a moment before he winced from the pain in his groin as he attempted to move his legs, which, to his surprise, were free from restraints as well.

  What am I going to do?

  He thanked God that his wife and sons were staying at his in-laws for a couple of days. Joe knew he couldn’t call the authorities. The last thing he wanted was for the real police to find out what he’d been doing down there at the juvenile facility, desires fulfilled at the expense of the young boys incarcerated there. At that moment, he decided to accept his punishment. After careful consideration, he concluded that he’d gotten off easy. As far as Joe was concerned, he was alive, and that was all that mattered. The castration he had undergone would eventually be brought to his attention. Only then would Joe feel the full weight of his transgressions.

  Chapter 6

  A Girl’s Gotta Do What a Girl’s Gotta Do

  The sound of high-heel shoes clicking across the crumbling cement picked up speed as the crisp autumn air bit at her exposed ankles. Rochelle pulled at the edge of her tight, red minidress. The curvature of caramel hips caused the wardrobe malfunction. The fitted, white rabbit mink jacket she wore would keep her torso warm until she made it inside. She had pulled into the rinky-dink, two-star motel on Eight Mile Rd. to meet her prospect for the night. Being a secretary for Dr. Martyr wasn’t exactly paying the bills. A fact that fueled the double life Rochelle had, in the past six months, taken up.

  Forty-one. She counted, adding that time to the other times she had sold sex in exchange for money. As Rochelle stepped up onto the walkway, she noticed a note attached to the hollow metal door with the tarnished, brass number eight affixed to the front. That’s where he instructed her to meet him.

  “Gone to get ice. Make yourself comfortable,” she read from the yellow sticky note before snatching it down off the door.

  Rochelle inhaled deeply, then exhaled long, gathering her bearings. Having committed the act over forty times, she still had not gotten used to it. The pint of Crown Royal she’d guzzled down before arriving helped to settle her nerves slightly. She needed it for the mere courage required to commit the act. Rochelle didn’t know the man she was meeting from a hole in the wall. But neither did she know the others. It was a risky side hustle, yet it was easy money.

  A double-edged sword most would say. She twisted the knob, then went inside—the stench of mothballs and mold immediately filling her nostrils.

  “What a cheap ass,” she groaned as she slammed the door behind her.

  Under low lids, Rochelle took in her surroundings. The thin, brown carpet had a large stain in front of the double bed. Peeling, vertical, orange and white wallpaper decorated the motel room. She turned on the small, thirty-two-inch box television atop the dresser, took off her fur, then sat on the edge of the bed. There was a rerun of Jerry Springer on the TV. Just as one of the women got up to swing around the stripper pole to the right of the stage, Rochelle’s gentleman caller walked through the door.

  She leaped up from the lumpy mattress. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to be serviced,” Arthur answered as he secured the dead bolt.

  “I’m not about to sleep with you.” Rochelle swiped up her jacket, covering her exposed arms.

  Arthur frowned. “Correct me if I’m wrong. Are you not a prostitute? I mean . . . a call girl?”

  “Regardless of that, I decide who I want to sleep with. I don’t have a pimp,” Rochelle rebutted as she attempted walking by him to leave.

  He stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. “You’re not just going to leave like that, are you? What if I just want to talk? Can I pay for your time?”

  “An hour, tops. And I want fifty dollars up front,” Rochelle demanded, extending out the palm of her hand.

  Arthur dug into the pocket of his jeans for the money she required, then handed it over.

  “Have a seat. I won’t bite.”

  Rochelle always felt something about Arthur was fishy. She just could never pinpoint his issue. Figuring since he wanted to chat, the mystery was about to be solved.

  I could get used to getting paid to talk. “What would you like to discuss, Arthur?” Rochelle sat back down on the mattress.

  “Why are you doing this if you already work a nine to five?” Arthur sat down next to her.

  “It’s not enough money for me to live on.” Rochelle lowered her head in shame.

  “What if I told you I’d give you sixty more bucks, and we still don’t have to have sex?”

  “And what would that entail?”

  “Just let me look at it,” he answered. His beady eyes thinned as he surmised what her response would be.

  “You can look, but you can’t touch.”

  “Can I touch myself?” he replied.

  “The choice is yours.” Rochelle took off her jacket, exposing the skin of her arms.

  His manhood instantly started to rise. At least, he felt like it had. Arthur stuck his hand into his pants, not wanting to expose his semi-erect penis. He would have to work it over first, and even still, it might not fully extend.

  Rochelle’s skirt slid up her thighs as her legs opened. She pulled her G-string to the side so that Arthur had a full view of her naked lips. “You wanna see crème?”

  “Yeahhhhh,” he moaned, yanking on his member.

  Rochelle stroked her little man in the b
oat with a few fingers on her right hand. Round in circles, she massaged until her head fell back in a liquor-induced state of ecstasy. “Oh yes,” she moaned.

  “Oh yes,” Arthur tugged faster at his shaft. He was nearly there. Every bit he had stroked up was sitting at the tip.

  “Oh, I’m gonna . . . Oh,” she squealed.

  He exploded just before her cries hit their peak.

  By the time her eyes opened and head lifted, the mallet was crashing into the side of her head.

  The blow knocked her off the bed, then down atop a row of thick plastic covering the floor.

  Rochelle was out cold. She had taken the risk over forty times, the forty-first being her final. It was the last time anyone would ever see Rochelle alive, killed not by a stranger but someone she knew.

  Chapter 7

  Hearts Aligning

  Ronald flung the plaid, flannel blanket from over the top of him to get out of bed the next morning at the sound of his doorbell chiming. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand beside the bed, displaying the time, 5:30 a.m. She can’t be serious. He smacked his lips, a bit irritated with his early-morning visitor.

  The stacked Styrofoam plates vibrated in Gertrude’s unsteady hands as she waited nervously at Ronald’s front door. Maybe I should have worn my black shoes. No. They’re heels. I can’t be wearing heels all day around campus. My feet would be killing me by noon. I hope Aunt May’s red flats look nice enough. She caught the side of her bottom lip in her teeth, taking one last glance at her reflection in the window next to the front door. Her fitted blue jean skirt came just above her knock-knees, complimenting the curvature of her hips. She was sure to wear Aunt May’s girdle underneath her tight, red, sleeveless cashmere tunic. Her necklace perched there between her luscious, lifted bosom would surely garner a few glances. Gertrude’s hands began to steady themselves as her confidence boosted at the sight of her reflection. With one hand, she flipped her big, bouncing coils, then tugged at the bottom of her blouse, adjusting it to her liking. That’s when it started. Click, click, click, click, click. Ronald twisted each lock.

  She thought it odd he had so many locks to unlatch, but not enough to mention it. “Good morning, Ronald.” She smiled, her teeth radiating brilliance.

  As mentioned previously, he was a little annoyed. But as her smile fell upon him, he couldn’t help but smirk. Not too much, yet, just enough to let her know he wasn’t about to bite her head off for waking him so early.

  “I figured I’d make us some breakfast to eat before we head out. Think of it as my way of saying thanks for showing me around. I even brought utensils,” she said, lifting the plates just under her bosom.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Ronald remarked before opening the security gate. “I’m not turning down a free meal, though. So, what are we having?”

  By that time, Gertrude had gained a full view of him standing there in nothing but a pair of white boxer briefs. His six-pack looked more like an eight. The ginger trail of hair running down his stomach beneath his bellybutton only made her more curious about what lay beneath.

  Ronald noticed her pause. “Am I not decent enough? Because this is what you get when you wake me up at the butt crack of dawn.”

  “I’m sorry,” she cringed, her chest sinking inward as her shoulders lifted—once again unsure of herself.

  “Do I look that bad?” he asked, instantly relieving the embarrassment she felt.

  Gertrude blushed. “You look like one of those guys in the magazine.”

  “Then why are you still out on the porch letting me hold this door open? Are you expecting some flies to join us?” he joked.

  Gertrude rushed inside. “No flies. I hope you like bacon, eggs, and French toast. Aunt May made some cream of wheat with strawberries on top, but I’d rather not get that full since we’ll be walking around.”

  “That’s plenty. I appreciate it. I haven’t had a good home cooked meal in quite a while.” Ronald closed the door, securing only one of the locks. “Come on. The kitchen is right through here.”

  He led her through the living room to the kitchen, all the while she took in the décor. It was apparent to her he’d inherited the house from an older relative. This place could use a young woman’s touch. “Hey, do you like shopping?”

  “No. Not really.” Ronald’s tone was dry as if to say, why are you asking such a question?

  He’s definitely not gay. Gertrude pumped her hand with a clenched fist in celebration of his reply as she followed, nearly at the edge of his heels.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know where the mall is either.”

  “I’m guessing you’d like me to show you around there as well?”

  “How sweet, Ronald. I thought you’d never ask,” she remarked, beaming with pride as they took their seats at the old, wooden kitchen table.

  “What are you studying to be, again? A politician?” Ronald poked fun at her.

  Gertrude unwrapped their plates, sliding Ronald’s across the table to him. “A chemical engineer,” she answered off the back of a soft giggle.

  “That’s pretty impressive.” He took a gander at his vittles in all their glory. “And this looks delicious.”

  “I’m the best cook in our family. That’s living, anyway.. . .”

  She’s smart, pretty, and she can cook. What are the odds? He bit into a piece of bacon, convincing himself that dating would never work. Especially not with Cecilia’s apparition there in the corner, staring at them. She’d been there with them all along, seething as Ronald continued to ignore her presence. Cecilia hated watching her brother enjoying the company of a stranger.

  All this time, he’d been her doting twin brother, carrying out her every wish. Cecilia feared Ronald becoming fond of another. Where would it leave her? How could he continue to do her bidding if his attention remained focused elsewhere? Although Gertrude had only good intentions, she was a threat to Cecilia’s very existence.

  By the time the clock struck 7:00 a.m., the pair was perusing campus. Ronald showed Gertrude around the department of chemical engineering, the student center, even Williams Mall, where the undergraduate library was located. He figured she’d need to know where her classes were and where she could go to study in silence. She kept her eyes glued on Ronald as he pointed out the different offices in the administration building. It was the first time anyone, particularly a man, had cared enough to assist without her giving up something first. She’d been used on several occasions in the past, which Aunt May had put a stop to with her always keen advice. If it were left up to Gertrude’s mother, may she rest in peace, her daughter would have lived most of her life a slave to a man’s desires . . . barefoot and pregnant—as she’d lived until her death. Her mother had never even traveled outside the state of Illinois. Gertrude didn’t want that for herself.

  “So, what’s on your mind, Gertrude? You’ve been letting me do all the talking. What do you think of the campus?”

  “I like your hair. Who braids it for you?” She fingered one of the braids dangling atop his chest, ignoring his inquiry.

  Ronald swallowed hard. She’d narrowed the distance between them to look him square in the eyes while he gave his answer. Is this an interrogation? He maintained his position, glare thinning as he surmised her intentions. “I braid it myself.”

  “I’ve never met a man that braids his own hair.” Gertrude’s brows lifted as she was indeed pleasantly surprised by his revelation.

  “I didn’t say it was easy, but it has to be done.”

  “You should let me braid it for you. I’m pretty good at it.” She didn’t want to be a slave to a man, but she certainly knew how to snag them. They often wanted to stay, but Gertrude wasn’t having it once she realized the man didn’t give back. She, unlike her mother, would kick them to the curb without haste.

  “So, let me get this straight. You’re studying to be a chemical engineer. You plan to plant a garden in the yard, go shopping at the mall, help
me redecorate, and braid my hair?”

  “Sounds like we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together.” She smiled, releasing her hold on his bushy braid.

  “Hey, Gertrude. I see you’re making friends already,” her student advisor called out as he approached. He felt snubbed by her recent lack of communication. She’d all but blocked his emails.

  “Oh . . . Hello, Chris. How are you?”

  He smacked his lips defiantly. “So, yeah, why haven’t you answered any of my emails?”

  Gertrude looked at the ground as if ashamed to answer. Her gaze went up to Ronald, who quite frankly awaited her reply as well, then back to Chris. “Well, to be honest, you’re a horrible student advisor. Your attention is devoted to those students who appeal to you visually. I can’t allow myself to be subject to that neglect. I’ve found someone to advise me further. Chris, meet Ronald.”

  He disregarded the six-foot-four gentleman standing next to her and towering nearly a foot over the two of them. “Are you calling me vain?”

  Oh, he’s pressed like a panini. Gertrude sensed Chris’s outrage simmering.

  “You should be going. I’m sure you have other students to advise,” Ronald chimed in, matching Chris’s stern expression with one of his own.

  His pink, collared, button-up khaki pants and loafers screamed nonthreatening. On top of that, the length of his high-topped fade failed to make a statement. Even so, it’s tough to get a shorter guy to back down. Chris, on the other hand, had a position to hold. He wasn’t jeopardizing his job as a student advisor by getting into a brawl. Not that he could take Ronald anyway. “You two have a productive day.” Chris nodded, bidding them adieu.

  “For a minute there, I thought he would make a scene,” Gertrude whispered.

  “You weren’t too worried about him making a scene when you were calling him vain,” Ronald chuckled.

  “I guess I’m just prone to being honest.”

  “You should get going to class,” Ronald remarked, dropping his smile along with the cavalier conversation out of nowhere.