Killer Cop Ch. 2

She was working on her tenth fingernail, going through the tedious process of making the artificial tip into a perfectly real-looking extension of her natural nail, when Barney called.

"Shit, guy," she said, scowling at her still flawed work, "I totally spaced it out. I'm really sorry."

"Understandable, all things considered. Excited, huh?"

She controlled the impulse to blurt out the whole wonderful story. "That's the understatement of the decade. I'm really going to make it, Barney. I'm going to be the best fucking plain-clothes officer out there."

He laughed. "Plain clothes, Lisa?" The emphasis on the first word was unmistakable.

She chortled, too. "Well, not exactly. I wonder if I can claim that nasty gold dress as a uniform expense now?"

"Could be." His levity was replaced by concern. "Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, considering everything that's happened?"

She admired her completed left hand's long, curved nails, in need only of paint. "I'm absolutely positive, hon. I can't think of a better way to exorcise this ugly demon I raised. Can you?"

It wasn't exactly a lie. She was careful not to do that to him. She cared too much. But deception was going to have to be part of her life from now on. It was part of the price she'd have to pay.

It took another hour just to complete her nails, and that was only the start. She learned how to use them, to adapt her movements to compensate for their initial clumsiness, as she plucked her eyebrows into thin, graceful arcs and worked with the bikini wax.

She didn't stop with her legs. The pain of uprooting every last trace of cunt hair brought beads of cold sweat to her brow. But it didn't register in her mind as pain. The process was hypnotic. She almost regretted its completion, curled forward as far as she could to microscopically examine what she'd done to herself.

"I wish I could lick you," she whispered to her dewy lower lips. "You're so beautiful. Look how you pout and beg. Wilson said you taste wonderful."

She very carefully ran a hooked red nail over, around, then between her fleshy folds, collecting her moisture.

"So smooth and soft and delicate. No hair left at all. Just like when you were twelve." She delicately touched the fingertip to her tongue, savored its flavor and rich scent, probed the new sharp edges of her nail.

"Oh, yeah. Nice. Very nice, Lisa. You taste as good as you look, girl."

She stared downward hollowly, then roused herself. It took effort. She felt like she was floating somewhere above it all, looking down from a great distance at the unknown woman emerging from her own body like a butterfly from a cocoon. Like she was beside herself, seeing the woman she'd been less than two weeks ago fading, vanishing forever as the rough, ugly, hard covering broke and fell away, little by little, freeing the beautiful creature trapped inside.

"Come on, honey," she urged herself tenderly. "Back to work."

Next came her hair. Her soul cried out for her to make a permanent change, to shatter the horrors of the past, crown her head with a color as glorious as what was happening inside. But she'd bought washable hair color. The Job again. Needing to watch, she lathered it in before the lavatory mirror, meticulously attending to the boxed instructions. Her gestures were slow and deliberate, almost ritualistic. Her eyes were dull, her round, full mouth relaxed, lips slightly parted.

Then she styled her new hair. Differently. With gel and spray, erasing her natural waves, compelling it to hang as straight as if it were ironed. It drank light, hung in shining ebony sheets on either side of her face. Black as midnight. Black as sin.

She discovered that she was staring blindly at her reflection. She had no idea how long she'd been doing so, without thought, without emotion. For an instant, she was filled with fear. What was happening to her? She was fading, vanishing. The nude young woman in the mirror, hairless below her brows, wasn't really her. Where was she going? She felt numb, mentally and physically, sluggish, uncoordinated. Terror rose, but didn't extend to her expressionless, relaxed face.

The bathroom faded from her sight. She was no longer in her apartment, a thousand miles from where she grew up. It was a fragrant spring night. A quarter moon hung in the sky, suspended from stars by invisible wires. A tall boy and a girl who barely reached his chest were strolling silently through the night. The rest of the kids had dispersed after the game.

She and Tommy walked toward her house, side by side. Her cheerleader's skirt swished around her legs. She was nervous. He was so tall, so strong, so handsome. He liked her! He really did! What did a junior in high school, a basketball star, see in a shy seventh grader like her? He could have anybody he wanted. Sarah Waters, the prettiest girl in school, wore his letter jacket. If she didn't have the flu, this wouldn't be happening. He reached for and found her hand.

The black haired woman before the mirror was helpless to intervene. It was like a movie. She couldn't stop it. She couldn't get up and leave the theater. She couldn't even close her eyes against what came next. She heard a vague, weak inner whimper.

Tommy slowed, stopped. She looked up at him, watched him lower his face toward hers, felt his lips meet hers, watched in horror as she returned the embrace with all her heart.

He broke the contact, led her through Mrs. Pauley's side yard, toward the dry creek and crescent of fine zoyza grass at its bank, and lay her upon the living green carpet. He'd been so sweet, at first. It was like a scene from a romance novel; the handsome older hero stroking the hair, gently kissing the poor young servant girl in the ghostly moonlight. He loved her, he whispered softly. But kissing and exchanging endearments hadn't been what he really wanted to do.

He chuckled when she said no to his groping under her sweater. He wouldn't stop. She fought. He turned mean, meaner than she'd ever known anybody could be. He didn't hit her, though. He just took her little throat in one big hand and squeezed any time she tried to make a sound or resist.

Whore. That's what he called her as he slammed his cock into her virginal cunt, ripping his way through the ineffectively resisting membrane, tearing his way into her soul, murdering love and innocence and trust.

Then he'd left her laying on that soft, grassy carpet, disgusted by her childish tears. He'd run into the night like a thief. She'd staggered home, bleeding just a little, not nearly enough to signify the depth of the wound.

Whore. That's what her father had called her, too. It was all her fault. His words and curses had stung even more than his slaps. They'd ripped her deeper than Tommy's cock had ever reached.

Because her dad was right. She'd gotten exactly what she deserved. Her faint plea for justice had fallen on deaf ears. Even as she'd vowed to herself that it'd never happen again, that no one had the right to use her that way, she suspected, in a cold, black part of her heart, that she was bad, that she wouldn't have cared so much if Tommy had just promised her his class ring or letter jacket. All she'd really wanted was to be paid for her sacrifice.

With a psychic jolt, the vision ended. She was back. In an adult body. In her own bathroom. Still gazing into the mirror. A single tear shone on each cheek, ran in graceful curves, leaving shining paths toward the corners of her trembling mouth. She watched until the expression in the mirror changed. From shocked horror, the face altered until it wore a harsh, pitiless smile.

"Well, cunt, they'll pay you now. This is who you've always been. It's about fucking time you acted it out."

She held her cold, blue-eyed gaze as she lit a cigarette. "You were a whore even then. You loved it, you mattress-backed little slut. You knew what he wanted all along. You tried to blackmail him with the rape bullshit, and he didn't cave in. So you told the lie. You tried to destroy his whole fucking life. You wanted to send him to prison because he wanted somebody else more than you."

Her laughter held no humor. Her eyes roved over her body. Her hands did the same. Neither held anything but self-contempt. Her words were mocking, dripped scorn.

"No more lies, cunt. Not to yourself, anyway. Now you know. You know who you are, what you are, and why."

She watched her lips fit themselves around the cigarette, take bitter smoke. Without thought or hesitation, she did her makeup. Heavier than before, until her entire face wore a mask that hid her old self entirely, buried it beneath blended color.

Slick, shimmering red lips smiled approval. Lashes brittle with layers of mascara waved over lids sagging under the weight of glittering gold and silver eye shadow.

"Yes," she hissed, watching her slow lips move, tasting their sweet color with a lazy tongue. "Now finish it."

In the bedroom, she stepped into the elastic garter belt, rolled silky hose up sleek legs and strapped on towering gilded heels. Then she stretched the dress to cover what little it would. Dumping makeup, condoms, cigarettes - and nothing else - into a clasp purse, she stepped out into the night to practice for her first weekend's duty.

To Be Continued...