Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CARA
I kick the door closed behind me, dumping the box I collected from the post office down onto my bed. I hurry over to engage the lock with the key looped around my neck and shuffle out of my trench coat, slinging it onto my mattress before running in to start the shower.
Glancing at my reflection as steam begins to fill the small space, I assess the damage.
My clothes are soaked with rain and sodden with a muddy sludge around my knees, my t-shirt torn around my shoulder.
I paw at my blonde hair matted with motor oil, rubbing my sleeve over the streaks of grime across my cheeks that refuse to budge.
Had I known my piece of shit car would decide to blow a tyre on my way back from the post office, I would have opted for hitchhiking into town this morning.
My mechanic skills on a scale of one to ten are a pitiful three, and that tyre change on the barely lit back road proves it.
There is a small chance that the tyre will fall off tomorrow, but for now, I’m just grateful to be home.
“Home,” I snort aloud, wondering why it feels so right to refer to this place with such comfort.
Climbing into the shower, the intense hell-heat of the water spray soothes the aches in my limbs, the tightness in my shoulders melting away the longer I stand here bracing myself against the tile. Of all the birthdays I’ve had, this isn’t the worst.
Stepping out on steadier legs no longer fraught with the cold night air, I dry my hands and slide my prosthetic back on before wrapping the towel around my body.
Using a second fluffy towel, I bend over and bundle up my hair, strolling into the bedroom and hurrying over to close the window before clicking on the small gas fire.
I tear open the big brown box on my bed, that thrill of excitement filling my belly as I push back all those less than savoury birthday encounters I had been forced to endure when Doc ruled my life; being beaten black and blue to celebrate another torturous year under his rule wasn’t the treat that sadist thought it was.
Pulling out the envelope beneath the shredded paper filling, I find a note from Suzy scribbled on a Donatello’s diner menu, a place we loved to sneak out to back in Grove Point.
My dearest Cara,
Happy fucking birthday woman!
Package one is because music is the root of all happiness.
I tear open the package marked with the number one and squeal, the mini suitcase record player bound with old teal leather and the stack of LP records tucked away inside is the best gift Suzy could have possibly sent me.
You always got way more use out of it than I ever did. I hope the record choices suit.
Thumbing through the selection of records, I cackle at her choice of Psycho Killer by Talking Heads.
My best friend certainly knows how to send a message.
I excitedly lift it onto my dresser and plug it in, setting up the record to play as my thoughts drift to my very own psycho killer that I haven’t seen nearly enough of today; just knowing he’s there in the same room has become an addiction.
I pick the menu up off the bed and continue reading as I tap my foot along to the beat.
Gift numero dos, because every girl deserves a little buzz therapy on their special day. Foreign languages were never your thing—look for the big 2.
I don’t know how concerned I should be that the pink vibrator I’m holding has twenty speed selections; death by orgasm might just be a thing after how long I’ve gone without sex. I tuck it away in my bedside table with a small smile. My best friend knows me so well.
The third package is for a certain big tatted patient—he said red was your colour, right?
That bitch of a boss can’t stifle your creative expression if it’s hidden under your clothes.
Go get you some crazy and ride some unhinged dick—you deserve to drown in his madness, sweetness, if that’s what you want.
All the love,
Suzy
PS - I hope you’ve kept up with your exercises—being an oral connoisseur is an art form, and you were always Monet level ready.
I hear her laughter surrounding me even though she isn’t here, and it warms my soul.
Dick sucking should never be considered an extracurricular activity, but the idea of pleasuring Ezra with what I know makes me happier for the lessons I endured.
At least now they will come in handy. Finally I’ll know what it’s like to give head out of choice rather than coercion.
‘So we’re sucking dick?’ that little voice in the back of my head chimes excitedly like I’ve been cock blocking her for an eternity.
“His dick, given the chance, hell yes,” I respond decidedly.
I untie the clasp on the black gift bag with the glittery pink 3 charm looped around the handle and pull out a red lace ensemble that leaves very little to the imagination.
Holding it against my body, I sway in time to the music, that throb of desire at the possibility of watching Ezra’s brooding mismatched gaze light up as he sees me in this is enough to have my core clenching.
While I suspect it’s likely nowhere near as good as the real thing, maybe I do have some use for gift number two after all. The frustration building is off the charts.
Moving the box off the bed and onto the floor, I reach for my coat to get my phone from the pocket.
I haven’t heard from Suzy for a couple of days, but these gifts deserve a thanks.
Looping the hanger holding the lingerie over my neck, I pull up my camera and snap a couple of selfies as I hold it flush against my body and make a kissy face that I know she’ll get a kick out of.
The needle on the record jumps, signalling the end of the song, and I swap it out for a familiar favourite—Suzy’s dog-eared copy of Gin Wigmore’s Kill of the Night has a way of speaking to my soul, and the moment that guitar strum kicks in, thoughts of Ezra fill my head.
Pulling my hair free, I finger the unruly waves, dancing over to the mirror and letting the towel around my body fall to the floor as I wiggle into the expensive lace ensemble.Filling my lungs, my gaze tracks my reflection, the underwear clinging to my body like a second skin.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the small package propped up against my pillow. I grab for Suzy’s letter to see if there was a PS written there with instructions for a fourth gift, but I find nothing but a smeared lipstick stain—her signature sign off.
It’s not wrapped with traditional paper but in a ripped-out headline page of the Falcon Falls Enquirer.
I tug at the ribbon, the red velvet smooth against my fingers, pull off the paper and lift the lid.
Inside I find a pair of handmade brown leather gloves, brass buckles to secure them at the wrist. Detailed red stitching decorates the cuffs, the tapered joints designed to fit my prosthetic perfectly.
So much care has gone into them, and instantly, I picture Ezra—his steady hands working that sheet of leather in Felicity’s craft session.
A tear tracks down my cheek as I hold the gloves to my chest, the saltiness of it lingering on my lips as I smile at my reflection.
I slide the gloves on, flexing my fingers, enjoying the sound of the fresh unbroken leather as it fits around my hands.
A part of me suspects that Ezra knows about my disfigurement; how could he not? The other part of me refuses to acknowledge how that is even possible.