22. Montana
22
Montana
T he morning seems to move in slow motion as thoughts continuously pull me back to the night at the party. I tried working on some homework, emailing classmates for a team project, and even wasted some time creating a hand-written music notation of a popular radio song. But with every task I used to try and distract myself, I only found myself falling back into thoughts of him.
After being fucked like a whore, used and disposed of, Shane left me in a mess of my own doing. I’d lost control and allowed him to use me in all the ways I’d made it my mission to never experience again. He’d left me feeling empty. Used. Discarded with no remorse. It was the most self-preserving act of sex I’d ever encountered. He came in there with walls up, ready to strip me of my soul.
I don’t know how Shane got hold of my boyfriend’s phone, but as I’d rounded the stairs and made my way back to the kitchen, I’d found it back on the counter, only to realize that the text message chain between the two of us had disappeared entirely. I’d wandered back into the chaos of the party, feeling a flustered mess of arousal and rage. Just as he wanted. It didn’t help that when I turned the corner of the kitchen, I came face-to-face with a scene I wasn’t expecting.
There was Shane, slumped back on a couch, legs spread, with a beautiful redhead already straddling his lap. His hands were gripping her thick, curvaceous ass, one far thicker than mine, and his tongue was lashing against hers in a ravishing display of sex.
I stood there in disbelief, staring at the way he was kissing her. Their mouths moved in a dance, slow and deliberate, so passionate as she held his sharp jaw in her hand, so tender as his fingers left her curves and circled her slim neck, controlling the kiss with such care. Those same hands then palmed her breasts over her thin shirt, his thumb moving in slow circles over her erect nipples.
Everything I’d never experienced from him, never even dreamed of seeing this decrepit human capable of expressing—soft and purposeful intimacy. I couldn’t explain why it angered me further, watching him do this with some random woman. I’d already imagined him with his ex, Lana, and not that my imagination didn’t stir some sort of jealousy of its own, but witnessing it firsthand hit me like a fist to the stomach. I couldn't understand why it affected me at all. I just knew that it did.
“Why the long face?” Sipping on a beer, Josiah had unknowingly slid in beside me, his gaze following mine over to Shane and his new girl for the evening.
“You think that bothers me?” I remarked.
“I think you bother him,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Josiah is a man of few words, but it’s what he doesn’t say that always screams his truth. He’s protective of Shane, even though he doesn’t need protecting, and Josiah doesn’t trust me at all. He’s loyal to him, though, just as Wheeter is willing to lay down his life for Shane. I’ve never known such devoted relations. Never once in my life had them. It’s as if they are all a mirage to the reality I’ve been living.
“Well, he doesn’t look too bothered right now.”
After our little exchange, I’d given him my best fake smile, letting it slip and settle into a heated glare before pushing around him, purposefully bumping our shoulders together as I did.
When I’d finally rejoined the rugby guys, I tapped a wasted Wesley on the shoulder, asking where he went and why he didn’t come looking for me. His response was that he got distracted talking about their new defensive strategy or some other sports bullshit.
The night didn’t get any better after we left the party. Wes had refused to bring me back to his place across town in a better neighborhood, insisting we stay at mine. I didn’t understand the need to stay here, but he explained that all the guys would be over and it wouldn’t provide us with the alone time he needed. Truthfully, I think he was just trying to establish dominance beneath my new roommate’s roof. But it made me anxious being there with the three of them, wondering where Shane would strike next, waiting on pins and needles for him to unleash fury upon my life.
But he never came home.
Josiah and Wheeter stumbled in later, after Wes had completely passed out on my bed from drinking too much. I was glad that he missed their soft, drunken laughter, followed by glorious moans of pleasure. But I couldn’t escape the feeling of being trapped in this cage. A cage of pain and relentless torture. It was as if I’d been caught, and the only way through the rusted metal was to break my wings off, leaving me tamed and without the only power I possessed—control over how high I'd fly.
I’d done all that I could to provide myself with a set path in life, but that path was plagued by the one person who seemed to grip onto the only shred of myself I vehemently denied. Shane.
I waited up for his return, getting a late-night glass of water simply to be nosy. But he never showed. Probably ended up at the redhead’s house, actually allowing a woman some pleasure instead of selfishly taking it for himself. Death will find you faster than pleasure, pretty girl.
Words of a pure sadist.
Regardless of how the night ended, a new day is here, and I’m thrilled for the opportunity that presents itself. Wesley and I have dinner with his parents planned for tonight, and the need for this moment is bigger than anyone could imagine.
T heir home isn’t what I’d anticipated by the time we finally arrive. I’d expected an open concept with rare flowers lining the entryway, maybe even a statue from the school in a fountain spewing water. But what I see only haunts me further. A large Victorian mansion, the front cascading with cool stones, reaching unreal heights with its steeply-pitched roofs that flaunt an aura of significance and power while showcasing the history of turmoil within.
Wood panels reach well over ten feet, and expensive artwork hangs down seemingly endless hallways. I am in awe of the place, and entirely set back by the darkness that looms.
Like a contradiction, Conductor Hopkins parades down the old wood floors, a bright smile radiating a face that didn’t fit my speculation of the man.
“Montana! Hello, Dear! Welcome! Welcome!”
Wesley ushers me further, almost gifting me to his father, who grips my shoulders in his tender hands, placing slow kisses on either side of my heated face. I swallow what feels like sand as he pulls back, his jubilant expression never straying, even as his wife makes her way down the hall to meet us.
“This is the extraordinary wonder, now is it?” Gwendolyn Hopkins purrs, making her way around her husband.
Her whitish-gray locks wrap tightly into a smooth bun on top of her head, her lips stained with a shade of red that resembles the most oxygenated blood. Her chest is adorned with the most outlandish jewels—diamonds worth more than my entire existence.
“Hello darling,” she speaks softly, holding out a hand for me to shake.
It’s a vast difference in the way her husband greeted me, but I shake it, regardless.
They show me around the house, dipping briefly into a few rooms while chatting about the home’s history as we pass extravagant self-portraits of the deceased. Apparently, the home has been passed down from generation to generation. A slew of Hopkins’ have lived within these walls since 1882.
Wesley follows me, hands casually resting in his slacks, seeming bored as his mother gushes about fabric designs and various upholstery changes. Mrs. Hopkins' entire world appears to be the interior of this home, so I humor her with tight-lipped smiles and random nods as she educates me on the pros and cons of silk versus velvet fabric and how she needed to scold the previous staff for not properly cleaning the antique rugs.
“They needed the correct pH-balanced shampoo. The chemicals they had were all wrong. All wrong,” she continues, shaking her head at the thought.
We ascend the hand-carved decorative wood staircase as she continues regaling me with her stories as if her sole purpose in this family is simply to bring every new individual who steps foot inside this home up to date with their history of wealth.
“This is my personal powder room, but the common powder room which you'll use is at the other end of the hall, here.” She points to a door straight ahead. “If you’re looking to touch up your hair or makeup later, I’ve got the best products shipped directly from Milan by Vincent Rossi himself in there. Feel free to use it at your will.”
“Um, wow. Thank you,” I stutter, making a mental note.
Room after room, she talks, acquainting me with new stories about relatives who once stayed here, who they married, names of their children, and other useless information I will forget as soon as I walk out of here until we finally reach the end of the hall.
“I supposed we should find where Wesley went…” I trail, noting he’s dipped off and left me to fend for myself.
She laughs to herself. “I often get carried away with new guests. Yes, our hors d'oeuvres should be ready.”
Heading back to the staircase, I peer down at the scene beneath us. Conductor Hopkins faces away from us, an older man wearing a white polo and tan slacks whispering in his ear. He says something, and the man in the slacks nods before Conductor Hopkins departs from him and walks beneath the staircase. I catch a quick glimpse of his face before he disappears.
“Who was that?” I ask Mrs. Hopkins as we descend the stairs together. “He looked familiar. Maybe from the Institute?”
“Oh honey, They’re all from the Institute. Every day, there’s someone new in this house, I swear. My husband Charles is a busy man. A popular one at that.”
A few hours later, after enjoying some casual discussion about school and rugby while sipping on a non-alcoholic spritzer adorned with some sort of edible flower, we finally take our seats for dinner.
The conversation flows easily, providing entertainment for me as Charles Hopkins regales us with tales from his time spent in Austria studying under the phenomenal Conductor Fabian Lechner. Staring down at the fine china on the tablecloth before me, I play with a butter knife as the storytelling continues. I’m reminded of Shane, his eager fingers, and his blood smeared across Kathy’s white tablecloth. The dinner. The portrait on the wall. That face…
I quickly grab my phone from my pocket and send a text to Wesley beneath the table.
Montana: Let’s go fuck
Pressing send, I see another new message from Markie.
Markie Mark: How’s dinner with Conductor DumbleDick and his son?
I stifle a laugh at her new nickname for Conductor Hopkins, typing back that I’m working to get a quickie in with his son as we speak.
She starts typing back, but the three little dots pause before disappearing altogether. I look up at Wes, who’s reading the message I sent him. A smile stretches across his face, and he does his best to bite it back. He gazes at me from across the table before licking his lips and abruptly answering something his father asked. He types away beneath the table.
Wesley: Excuse yourself to the bathroom. I’ll meet you in the guest room, top of the stairs, third door to the left.
I do as he says, excusing myself to use the restroom. Wes must’ve guessed his mother would throw me off by suggesting the powder room because she reiterates the instructions to find it, once again letting it be known there’s an abundance of toiletries, perfumes, and custom soaps from India for me to use at my will.
When I go upstairs, I close the door to an entirely different room, when a particular painting hanging on the wall catches my attention. Hearing a gentle rap on the wood seconds later, I peek out the crack to see Wes awaiting, so I let him in and close the door behind him.
“I knew she’d confuse you with her instructions,” he whispers.
“I got lost.” I giggle softly. “Thank God you found me. This house would require a search party.”
He rushes me, picking me up by my waist and setting me down on some ornate side table near the door. His lips find my neck, and he kisses his way up to my ear, quickly unbuttoning his shirt. I strip myself of my pants, laughing when they get caught on my ankle. Wesley's smile warms me as his fingers lace through the edge of my underwear, pulling them down.
Sliding me off the counter, he turns me to face the mirror hanging on the wall above the table.
“Don’t say a word,” he whispers in my ear, unbuckling his pants and gripping the base of his cock behind me.
I close my eyes, biting down on my lip, waiting for him to penetrate me. But nothing happens.
“Did you hear that?”
Opening my eyes, I see Wesley’s reflection in the mirror. Creases line his forehead, and his gaze is set toward the door.
A loud shot rings out, shaking the window nearby, and we both duck down. I grab my pants, bringing them to my chest as I press my back against the cabinets of the console table.
“What the fuck was that?” I whisper, panic infusing my tone.
“Sounded like a shotgun,” he replies, sounding distressed as he buttons his shirt back up. “I’m going to check it out. Just stay in here. I’ll be right back.”
I nod as he leaves, then take a breath to calm myself. This worked better than I had planned. I don’t have to wait for him to go and clean himself up. I’ve got the room to myself now without having to do any work to get it.
I lock the door behind him and begin my search immediately, scouring the room with jittery hands, searching for anything that appears off. I check in the dressers, in the closets, even in the nightstand drawers, but the endless stock of various hand soaps, lotions, face creams, extra robes, and decorative towels leave me believing this was all a waste.
Until my eyes coast across something promising: a raised slab of hardwood beneath the spare bed that sticks up a half inch higher than the others. I dive to my knees, using my nails between the cracks to try and pry it up. It keeps slipping and slipping as I check the door, ensuring Wes isn’t on his way back. There’s a slight pop, and I finally pry it open.
A slim metal box sits snug in the little pocket, clearly placed there and meant to be hidden. Another loud bang rattles the house, causing me to jump up and hit my head on the top of the bed frame. I hear Wes and his father’s voices echoing from the first floor, yelling about something. Sliding my arm back under the bed, I pry the wood up again, fingertips grazing the metal box, working to slide it out. It takes a few tries, but I finally get my fingers around the edge of the tin and remove it from its home.
The box rattles, evidence of something inside, and the numbered key dial sits on 823, Wesley’s birthday. It can’t be a coincidence. I twist the lock, and it opens. The idiot not only hid the evidence in his spare room with the replica painting on the wall but also used his son’s birthday for the lock code, neglecting to roll the dial to secure the lock.
Upon opening, I see exactly what I’d expected. I shuffle through the orange medicine bottles—Clonazepam, Diazepam, Valium, Xanax, Ketamine, Flunitrazepam, and Gamma-Hydroxybutyric Acid.
My stomach plunges to the floor, and a flood of anxiety forces me to close my eyes. It’s all here. Everything one would might use to incapacitate, rape, and mutilate. Any one of these drugs could be used to deceptively drug a person of choice. But even so, I’m not satisfied. It’s not enough. Every prestigious family has a collection of Xanax, sleeping pills, and doctors willing to give a plethora of opioids at their mercy. It doesn’t take a genius to know that. I need more.
I’d hoped to find a collection of morbid artifacts, pictures of my mutilated friend, a clump of hair he couldn’t depart from, anything…but even as the infamous Isle of the Dead hangs on the wall before my eyes, this room is vacant of the incriminating evidence I’d been searching.
Fresh tears sting my eyes at the unfortunate findings, but I bite them back as I hear Wesley’s footsteps approaching. Grabbing a couple of bottles, I shove them between my breasts, beneath my bra, before locking the tin box and replacing it. I quickly adjust my shirt just as Wes knocks lightly at the door.
“Babe?” he knocks again. “It’s all good.”
I unlock the door, brushing my hair off my face, donning the fearful damsel in distress persona I know how to play too well.
“What happened? What was that sound?”
“No need to panic. I guess it was a scheduled death? Not sure what happened, but my father said Ricky, the stable hand, fumbled the gun. Shot straight from the barn into the side of the house.”
“A what?”
“Scheduled death. My father said not to worry,” he says with forced confidence. “One of the horses…he shattered his leg in a riding accident. Had to be put down.”
He’s lying.
“With a gun?”
He shrugs. “An old tradition that’s yet to change.”
I attempt to rein in the appalled look I desperately want to express, so I divert my eyes to the floor. I’m already jittery as hell, holding these pill vials in my bra between my breasts.
Wesley’s firm hands find my cheeks, tipping my head to his.
“I’m so sorry that happened and ruined our little moment.” He kisses my forehead before his hands fall down to grasp mine. “Baby, you’re shaking.”
His expression changes into one of remorse before he brings our hands up between us, kissing my knuckles.
“I’ll be alright, just a little shaken up.” I offer a light smile. “Not used to guns. Never been around them much.”
He purses his lips together, assuming as much. “C’mon, let’s head back down, and I can take you home.” He wraps his arms around me, moving to hug me, but I turn to give him my side.
I nod against his chest, nuzzled beneath one arm. “Okay.”
What has me the most rattled isn’t the discovery of the small glimpse of proof I was seeking. It wasn’t the powerful reverberation of the gun firing off or the fact that I felt the echo of it within my chest as the windows downstairs exploded and rained glass within the house…
What shook me was the roar of the motorcycle tearing down the road immediately after.