Agoraphobia and Ecstasy Ch. 01-10

Henry Watts had just moved to Utica from L.A., leaving behind his four-year-old son to his ex-wife. Henry was due to start his job at Hockman and Sawyer, a local law firm. He was finishing classes in law school and would have taken the bar in September if he hadn't gone missing. Police said there was no evidence of any kind left at the scene, though the blonde he'd left with certainly should have left some sort of evidence, a strand of hair, a fingerprint. My gut told me they'd had sex in his van but there was no way to prove that either, short of finding Henry or the blonde and asking them. I snapped pictures of the outside of the club and the parking lot, noticing only the one camera there.

Rule of thumb, if you're going to run a shady business, no cameras is the best option. But if you want a thriving business with customers that feel safe, you should probably light up your parking lot and have cameras posted at every angle, the footage actually being recorded and kept for at minimum a month.

I shifted into drive and pulled out, turning down Genesee Street to head back to my home on the south side of town. I felt frustrated by the lack of evidence left at the scenes, though I was working an angle for a news report not as a detective, still the police had left nothing. Not even so much as a hint of caution tape to show where the victims' belongings had been found. I sighed, feeling tired. The last twenty-four hours had been stressful, not sleeping well, the altercation with the squirrel, cleaning the shit up--literally, and now this. My day was just not going as I planned, and I had no clue where to look for information on this story.

As I was driving I clicked on the radio. The tail end of the Rembrandts hit I'll be There For You was playing and it triggered an idea, probably a bad idea, but an idea nonetheless, and if I was going to impress Gary and irritate Barbra, I needed some bone-headed ideas from time to time. I was no detective, and though I was an educated man, I felt completely out of my league on this one, but I had watched a ton of police-type crime shows. I may not have known how to truly investigate a crime to get the scoop before other reporters did, but I did know how the TV detectives did it.

I whipped my car into the CVS parking lot and parked, pulling out my cell phone and searching for the phone number of the Déjà Vu club. Dialing the number, I pressed my phone to my ear, listening to the call connect and ring. It rang twelve times before it automatically disconnected. Then I tried again. Finally, on the fifth try, someone picked up briefly, the background noise making it impossible to hear if it was a male or a female before they disconnected, so I called again, and again.

I refused to give up until I talked to someone. When I'd almost given up, the phone clicked on and a gruff voice answered. I could hear in the background the pounding of heavy bass, the same music that had been playing during my split second connect. The man didn't sound happy that I'd called, and I didn't want to waste any of his time so I jumped right into the questions.

"Hi, my name is Kenji Yakamura. I work at the Tribune--"

"Listen, man. I don't have time to answer questions right now. I have a full bar. You'll have to come in for a drink if you want to ask me questions."

The man rudely cut me off, but I was not deterred. I'd worked with rude people my whole life. A whole office full of Karens just like Barbra.

"I just need to ask you a few questions. I can't come into the bar."

"Then call back before two o'clock."

The line went dead, and I gritted my teeth, angry that people could be so disrespectful. I wished I was still on editorials because I would have written a nice piece as a letter to the editor about the customer service of the club. Maybe the man would be fired and learn how to treat potential customers. Of course, he knew I wasn't one. I don't even drink, and there was no way I was going into that bar. Even if they had an awning over their parking lot, I still wouldn't go in there. I couldn't imagine how filthy the place was, people sloshing drinks on each other, dirty bathrooms, sitting at a bar where someone else had just been seated, no Clorox wipes to disinfect the seat or the bar in front of me. No thank you. I'd just have to call back before two the next day.

8

A pantsuit and heels was a bit formal for a club on a Monday night, but I wasn't in the mood to drive home and gussy myself up. I grabbed my wallet, phone, and keys and opened my car door. The music inside the club was loud, though there were only a few other cars in the lot. I saw Siphon's orange Honda crotch rocket and smiled, wondering what it would feel like to sit behind him on that thing, my body wrapped around his as wind whipped my hair and took my breath away, the vibration of the engine, gripping his hips with my thighs. I pushed the arm button on my key fob and forced myself to stop thinking about the handsome blond man who served me drinks. He was a playing-for-keeps kind of guy.

I tousled my hair as I walked and unbuttoned the top three buttons of my black silk blouse until the tiniest hint of pink lace on my bra showed, and let myself into the club, nodding at the bouncer who of course let me pass without cover charge or checking my ID. I stood just inside the nearly empty bar, watching him work. He didn't see me standing there. With his back turned to the door, he washed glasses and dried them, hanging beer steins from the lunch crowd on their hooks above the liquor shelves. His back muscles rippled beneath is shirt as he moved, strong broad shoulders to carry the weight of the world of any woman he might be so lucky to snag.

It wasn't that I wasn't attracted to Siphon--I was. A lot. It was that my experiences in life and the stories of those I counseled for a living had taught me that relationships aren't forever, and that everyone leaves you in one way or another, heartbreak, disappointment, death. Not to mention that men were complete slobs, and I didn't have the emotional energy to clean up day and night after one.

It was fair to say that I cared for Siphon too. We were friends. What kind of person would I be if I didn't care about him? But there was a little more there that I was unwilling to admit to him, or to myself even on most days. When I saw him flirt with another girl, I always got a tinge of jealousy--I know I'm childish. It wasn't like I had any claim to him. I had no intention of being in any relationship with him; I don't do relationships. It just seemed wrong that he would press me for something more while he causally batted his eyes at the pretty red head or the curvy Hispanic girl.

I made my way over to the bar, sliding onto a stool quietly, laying my wallet and phone on the bar. He didn't turn around; he just kept working, the music thumping so loudly I wondered if he even heard me come in. Then he glanced at his watch, reached for the fireball, took a glass off the rack, and filled it, turning to sit it in front of me with a wink. I smiled curiously at him, wondering how he knew it was me, and exactly what I would want before he even knew I was there. It wasn't like there was a mirror back there that he could watch me through. I sipped the whiskey as he reached for the remote and turned the music down substantially, my ears still ringing for several long minutes after.

Siphon dried his hands and tossed the hand towel before rounding the end of the bar, carrying a Budweiser, and choosing a seat next to me. I sat facing the bar; he leaned his back against it, his eyes scanning the room. I'd seen a couple in a booth along the wall, and two regulars sat at the end of the bar chatting, but besides that, it was pretty empty.

"I'm worried about you," he said, his hand reaching down and resting on my thigh. He kept his eyes on the room, but I felt the heat of his gaze anyway, his fingers gently squeezing my leg.

"Why?" I asked, sipping my whiskey. I wanted to remove his hand from my leg, the tingling sensation I felt the other day when his fingers brushed mine returned, now beginning to make my body warm. He had no reason to worry about me, unless he was worried about how much alcohol I was drinking. He of all people knew that. I swiveled the seat until my knees were facing him, just touching the side of his thigh. His hand remained firm on my leg but slid a bit lower to my knee.

"People have been talking, Daph. I have gotten three calls from reporters this week, one just a few minutes ago. Everyone wants to know who the blonde was that was seen leaving the club with that guy who went missing." Siphon looked me in the eyes. I could see his worry written there, and I got a sick feeling in my gut.

"What are you insinuating?" I picked his hand up and moved it from my leg, and he frowned at me, his blue eyes a bit listless this evening.

"Daph, you left here with the guy."

Siphon turned awkwardly to face me, our legs getting mashed together for a very uncomfortable few seconds as he forced his left knee past mine so he could have a knee on either side of mine. I sighed and pursed my lips, frustrated at his overly familiar manner of speaking to me, as if he had some say in my life the way a boyfriend or brother would. He'd never been this way with me, but he had on a couple of occasions chased a man or two off, one time even threatening to hunt the guy down if he didn't leave me alone, to my great disdain. I'd wanted that guy, and Siphon had said he had a "gut feeling." I punched him in the gut, and that feeling was definitely one he wouldn't forget.

"What do you mean I left here with the guy? I don't remember a thing. You know I was on E." And that was the truth. I didn't remember anything. I remembered Siphon hitting on me, and then I parked my ass by the hallway that led to the restrooms so I could scope the scene. I knew I had sex because my condom was gone out of my clutch the next morning and my raging need had suddenly vanished, but beyond that I knew nothing.

The way he studied my face told me he believed every word I said, and he should have. I wasn't lying. Ecstasy mixed with alcohol just made me forget, and I liked it that way. The less I remembered about my escapades the better. I did what I did to take care of a physical need and nothing more. I didn't want to remember their faces or names, and I never took a repeat--that I remembered. Why should I? With eight-billion people on this planet there were more than enough for the picking.

"He came to the bar, asked what you were drinking, and then bought you a drink. I watched him the entire way to your seat to make sure he didn't slip something in it--he didn't. So whatever effect you had was all from whatever you took. Daphne, you need to stop this shit. Anything could happen to you. What if whoever took that guy was there when you were there, and he'd taken you instead? I couldn't live with myself."

His hand slowly stretched up and he cupped my cheek, a gesture that did not escape my attention. If I hadn't been so irritated by his awkward leg hug he forced upon me, I would have melted right there. As it was, I was having a hard time controlling my body's reaction to him being so near to me. His cologne had almost worn off, him having been at work all day and smelling like stale beer.

I found myself being sucked into the vortex of cheesy romance the way the damsel always did in those ridiculous sappy movies. The man says something romantic; the woman swoons. They melt into each other like a fine alfredo over linguini, and the mushy kissing scene happens where they confess their love to each other. I just couldn't pull my damn eyes away from his, and I think he knew it.

I wanted to tell him to stop. I tried. My lip's parted, but I had no wind, as if he'd taken a vacuum to my throat and sucked every last breath from my lungs. He began to lean in. I had no clue why. It wasn't like we'd been talking about anything particularly intimate or romantic. I mean I'd just learned that a man I'd likely had sex with had just been abducted and there was a real possibility that I could have been with him when it happened or even taken myself. The thought frightened me, and just as Siphon's lips brushed across mine I panicked, smacking him hard across the face as I grabbed my wallet and phone and stood up, hastily leaving the bar and heading toward my car.

My heels clicked on the pavement so loud I didn't even hear him following me, and I had no clue what to think when he nabbed my elbow and whipped me around to face him.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he mumbled, but he didn't release my arm.

"What were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry, I just..."

"You just dump that information on me like it was yesterday's news and then try to kiss me as I'm reeling in shock from it?" I didn't really feel like that. To be honest I think I wanted him to kiss me, but again I don't do relationships. If it ended up not working out, which it definitely wouldn't given my needs for lack of a better word, I would have to find a different club to stalk and create an entirely new friendship with their wait staff to ensure my habits were guarded--the way Siphon did.

"Listen," he said, sliding his hand down my arm to my hand, holding it tenderly. "I care about you. I think you know that. I just don't want to see you get hurt. That scared the fuck out of me."

"I am thankful for your concern, but you know I don't do relationships." I squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry for smacking you. I just..."

"I know. You don't do relationships, but I sure as fuck wish you would."

I left it at that, tearing my hand away from his and getting into my car. He stood there as I drove away, the look on his face telling me two things: one, he was not going to give up, and two, he was crushed by my rejection--again. I could feel the way it was chipping away at my resolve, the way he looked at me, the look in his eye, the pleading. I could also tell he was serious, and this playing-for-keeps guy was not after an easy score, nor was he trying to conquer my will power just to leave me hanging. He really wanted me.

I shook off the emotion I was feeling and thought about what Siphon had said. Utica was a pretty small city compared to some places. The police hadn't come straight out to admit that the four disappearances were actually linked, but there had been talk about it. I highly doubted that my apparent encounter with the man who had been abducted was anything more than coincidence. Plus, it sounded like he'd been an easy target. If I had sex with him there was a good chance I shared my molly with him, and if that was the case, and assuming he'd been drinking because he was at the bar, he was drunk and high. That would have made him a very easy target.

I merged into the left lane to turn down my street and someone honked their horn at me. It was the man behind me, both of us stopped at a red light His face was scrunched up into an angry expression and I could tell he was shouting something, so I rolled my window down to hear what he was saying.

"...and use your fucking turn indicator, you dumb bitch! Where the fuck did you learn to drive?"

I snorted a laugh as I started rolling the window up again; the last thing I heard was something about entitled BMW drivers. Call me spoon shaped but there was just something about my inner self that loved pushing people's buttons until they acted like idiots or lost control, not in a sadistic, maniacal type of way where you bully someone until they're pushed to the brink, but in a "this person is ridiculous and they need to be seen for who they really are" type of way. Like baiting a mouse trap and waiting for the rodent to take the bait. I especially loved Karens and their hyper-feminist attitudes, or better yet, vegans. You know the type. They like to police other people as if they are the holy ones who do all things perfect.

You never have to wonder when a vegan attends a barbeque. You'll hear endless lectures about how methane destroys the ozone and how cows are the largest producers of methane gas and if we all go vegan and stop breeding cattle it will stop global warming. But it isn't just what we eat that makes someone a vegan. There are all types of them: women who swear off carbs and shun their peers who eat a slice of pizza, men who refuse to drive a Ford because it isn't a Chevy, religious types who insist abstinence from anything fun is the only way to be holy, the list goes on. Those are the types I love to study and catch in a wicked web of pre-set baited traps, just waiting to be pounced on.

Once I even hired a lady escort to take me to the neighborhood bizarre, a fundraising effort for the community to clean up the streets, repair sidewalks, plant new trees, and otherwise improve community. Jaymee, a.k.a. Karen number 1 who reminded me of someone so much but I couldn't put my finger on who it was, had started a rumor previously that I was a lesbian. At that dinner I forewarned the woman on my arm that the rumors would be flitting about. Like a good sport she played along with me, until Jaymee, hyper-spiritual Jesus-is-the-only-way Karen, called me out on it and insisted I leave the place with my sin.

When I explained that Tricia, the woman with me, was my cousin Jaymee turned twelve shades of red and stormed off in a fit of rage as everyone else around us welcomed the hired help and tisked at Jaymee's behavior. Later that evening in the coat room, I waited until I knew Jaymee was coming and Tricia and I started making out just in time for her to walk in and catch us. Her face lit up like the Fourth of July. I wondered what it would have looked like if she knew what Tricia and I had done later that night at my place--yeah, I ride the stick, but a stroll in the garden is always nice too.

Ever since then, she'd had a burr up her ass about me. The entire neighborhood thinks she's crazy. Every time I drove past her house and she was out, glaring at me with evil eyes, and I smiled and waved, much like I was doing just then as I passed by, turning into my driveway shortly after. All I wanted to do was kick off these uncomfortable heels and draw a bath, maybe have a bottle of wine and let the stress of the day melt away.

Maybe I could put Siphon out of my head. His news hadn't even rattled me as badly as his advances toward me. I knew he hadn't reported me to the police because he had this irrational fantasy that I would hook up with him or maybe something more. The odds of that happening were about as good as the Angels winning the pennant, which would never happen. It didn't, however, stop my fingers from wandering to my crotch after stripping off that uncomfortable suit. Siphon might be off limits as far as reality was concerned, but I could permit myself to have my own fantasy.

So I took out my vibrator and washed it and collapsed onto my bed to handle the problem he'd created between my legs. It wasn't the one-night, no-strings release I typically hunted down, but when I closed my eyes and pictured his pouty lips wrapped around my clit it did things to me mentally that no drug could ever do. I played so hard my arm started to hurt and I thought I broke the damn toy, and when I came it made my legs shake. I didn't remember an orgasm that good in years. Then again, I didn't remember many orgasms anyway, thanks to the Molly, but that was beside the point.

If Siphon was even half that amazing I was missing out, but to try to convince my vagina to have sex with the same person every time for the rest of my life would be impossible. And that was outside of the no-relationships rule. My heart was a deserted island with frequent visitors--nothing more.

9

My phone rang, startling me awake. Thursday morning dawn came far too early for me, and being rudely awakened by a phone call only a few minutes before my alarm was set to go off irritated me to no end. I reached for my phone and noticed it was Gary's number, so I swiped right and answered. Before I even spoke a word he was off to the races with fresh information.