Publish: Chapter 2 (Rewrite) (Patreon)

After the agony of creating the prologue and rewriting Chapter 1, it feels really good to come through the other side into the relatively easy revision of chapter 2 (and onwards, I hope).

Revising this stuff, I can really see how much I struggled, way back when, when I started up the second "series" of Constant. What a mess! And though I've put it off for over a year, it feels good to finally get it sorted out. I still don't think it's quite there, and I still envision a final round of editing once it's all done, but I feel it's a definite improvement over what was originally published.

I sort of see Chapter 2 as a turning point in my writing of Constant. I think there's a real shift in the writing, or at least it feels that way reading it now. Maybe it's the way the thing is structured, with the opening/ending push-ups.

In any case, enjoy! Here's the revision Chapter 2. I'll be posting this, scene by scene, to TGSTorytime over the next week, but for you lovely Patreon supporters, here's the whole thing. I reckon it'll got pretty qickly from here on in, as chapter 3 onwards was largely written in the "new"-ish style. Though I can't quite convey just how many changes I would love to make, if I had the time and energy - damn you, day time job!

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Constant in All Other Things 2

Chapter Two

by

Fakeminsk (fakeminsk@google.com)

“Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent.”

Much Ado About Nothing

Synopsis

A week-long bender distracts David from his new reality: he’s now trapped in the body and life of Cindy Bellamy, a twenty-year old girl. Emerging from his stupor, he experiences life in public as a young woman for the first time, and comes to an important decision.

What Has Gone Before

David Saunders thought he was dead: bleeding out after the struggle with an assassin sent to kill him, survival seemed impossible. Then he woke up in a strange apartment, healed and well—and in the body of twenty-year old Cindy Bellamy. His disguise was no longer simple clothing and makeup, but surgical alterations to his body that seem irreversible. Driven nearly mad by the realisation, he chose alcohol as his escape from reality.

One: What Was the Point?

All of fifty kilos and I couldn’t fucking do it.

            First in my triceps then quickly up through both shoulders, the burn settled in my chest, behind the jiggling weight of both tits.  Flattened against the cheap bedroom carpeting, they offered a few free centimetres of cushioning.  The ache quickly intensified.  My arm began to tremble.  The pain in my wrist became acute.  Pushing and straining, I slowly lifted off the ground; my strength evaporated and I collapsed to the floor.

            Not even one goddamn push-up; not one!  I couldn’t even lift high enough to clear these fucking tits from the floor.  I used to pump off an easy hundred every morning before work and now. . . .  

            But what could I expect?  I massaged the soreness and felt how slender and frail my arm was, delicate and without muscle.

            A moment later debilitating pain flared through my skull and the room briefly tilted and wobbled.  I blinked against what I hoped was sweat but was probably tears.  Dammit!  Up close I could see every detail of the carpeting, the dirt and dust lost within the winded fabric and the yellow-green stain still by the mirror.  I saw the polished perfection of my long nails and how they contrasted with the floor.  I curled those dainty fingers into a fist and pounded the floor in frustration and winced in pain.  Rolling onto my back, I squeezed my eyes shut and shook with mute rage.  The room spun once or twice more before slowing to a halt.

            Scooter was right.  Damn the bastard, but he was right. What was the point? What was the fucking point of working out when the very body I was working to make stronger actively worked against my efforts?

            I pressed my fists to my eyes.  In the wake of my anger there remained a sense of utter defeat.  I’d worked out nearly every fucking morning for most of the past twenty years and those assholes had stolen that from me.  It felt like something precious had been ripped out of my life, as if I’d suddenly lost the ability to see the colour green or something. I knew then with awful certainty that even if I escaped this trap that I could never return to a life even remotely similar to the one I had known.  So much of who David was had been wrapped up in his physicality, in his strength--and that was now gone.

            “Fuck!” I yelled to the ceiling, and even my anger sounded shrill and weak.

            The killer headache wasn’t making life any easier.  In the list of lifelong worst hangover, this baby was partying in the top five.  Those glasses of wine had slammed into a stomach presumably empty for the past two months.  Cindy clearly wasn’t the drinker I’d been.  I’d really had a go at it last night, though.  After the wine there was a vague memory of staggering into the kitchen and finding a six-pack of beer in there.  So no surprise I’d gotten hammered, what with the girl looking to weigh maybe half of what I’d been.  Yeah, I hadn’t been all that tall or bulky, but I’d carried a lot of muscle weight.  Well, bless their black hearts but the Clinic carved all that away and left behind nothing but these useless curves.

            “Just--live this life,” he said.  “Give up on the man you used to be.  Be Cindy.”  Yeah, that’s what Scooter told me.  The bastard.  Fucking easy for him to say; he wasn’t the one suddenly carrying a fresh set of tits.

            I’d woken this morning to a blistering headache.  Brilliant sunlight slashed through the blinds and pierced my drunken haze.  Lying face down on the sofa, my crusted eyes blinked reluctantly.  The heat felt sweltering.  My chest hurt.  Without thinking I’d sat up and violently stripped off the sweatshirt, tossing it across the room.  My boobs bobbled free, and you can damn well bet they quickly reminded me of the where, what and who of my new life.  And feeling as I did, all hungover and shit?  Yeah, it was all too much to deal with, too much too quickly: I promptly leaned over the edge of the sofa and puked my guts out.

            Falling back onto the couch I clung desperately to the armrest until the room settled and the urge to heave subsided.  As bad as being dragged kicking and screaming into this new life was, believe me, at that moment the hangover felt worse.  God.  I was desperate for water but the thought of crawling to the kitchen--finding a glass--twisting the taps--filling the glass--raising it to my lips--drinking; the whole process seemed a task of Herculean proportions.  No goddamn way I was leaving that sofa.  No matter how angry my bladder got.  Another hour--screw that, two months--of sleep, yeah, that’s what I needed.  Covering my head with my arms I tried to burry deeper into the cushions, in search of soothing darkness.

Two: Come With Me

The next few weeks were a little hazy.

            Within the medicine cabinet I found, as Scooter promised, a pharmacy of little brown bottles with white childproof tops and a rainbow of pills.  Pink circles, green ovals, brown oblongs: my own fucking stash of narcotic Lucky Charm, each with their own direction for use--this one every morning after food, that one twice a day for the next three months, another to be used freely as needed.  Sifting through the cluster of bottles, it didn’t take me long to find the antidepressants and the diazepam.  I’m sure there was enough there to last several months.  Not after I got through with that shit, though.  We’re not talking a suicide attempt or anything like that--listen; I’m not suicidal.  Dead men can’t get revenge.

            But at the moment I couldn’t deal with the thought of being me.  At the moment, I didn’t even know what that meant anymore.  Whatever aversion I had to mind-numbing drugs faded beneath a steady stream of little yellow pills and larger red ones that kept reality far enough at bay for me to no longer care.  The days shuffled past like a disgruntled teen on her way to school, self-absorbed and full of sullen mutters.

            Even in my dopey stupor a routine of sorts emerged.  I started every day lying spread eagle on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.  The morning sun would dance across the far wall and crawl its way down to the floor like a living being, luminous and vibrant; it had little time for me.  One day it rained and without the light I felt an unimaginable sense of loss that almost had me in tears--if I’d had tears left to waste.

            Eventually I would drift over to the balcony and stare out across the city.  I spent hours there.  From my high place the wind caressed my skin and ruffled my hair.  The day it rained the falling water felt cool and slick against my bare shoulders and naked breasts.  Evenings I might spend sprawled on the sofa, staring at the blank and broken screen, lost in tracing the fine spread of cracks from afar.  Couldn’t quite remember when I broke the damn thing.  Was it the first night, after Scooter spoke to me?  Or another nigh? I must have hurled an empty wine bottle at it some point, bringing a brief, warming flush of pleasure as the screen cracked and the glass shattered.

            By three in the morning I’d be standing behind the patio doors, half-closed against the night-time chill, watching the far-off glitter and shimmer of the city.  Intermittent sounds of life would reach my ears.  I watched the city through the patio door glass.  If I shifted slightly against the dark the city faded into the background and my distant study would refocus on the ghostly image of myself captured in midair.  Soon after I’d stumble back towards my bed and lie there staring at the ceiling until the sun returned and the light appeared, beginning anew its journey down my wall. . . .

            Thanks for everything, K, Scooter, you bastards.  What had they promised?  A “fine simple life”?  There wasn’t anything fucking fine or simple about this goddamn life of mine.  Not that I felt anything that fierce during those last weeks.  I didn’t feel much of anything really, no peaks, no valleys, just a gentle rolling plain of faded whites and muted emotions, and that’s how I wanted it.  The occasional hunger pang or sudden weakness registered as a minor concern, easily ignored, as I floated about the apartment.

            And through it all, I drank.

            The sexiest of girls starts to look pretty rank after a couple of weeks of this kind of life and believe me: I was letting myself go something awful.  It’s not like I could be bothered to pull on a top, not after I tossed it aside that first morning.  Couldn’t be bothered to change out of those sweatpants either.  I’d wander into the toilet for a piss and the occasional shit but considering how little I ate, that didn’t happen often. 

            By my second night as Cindy I’d polished off all the booze in the apartment--puked my guts up a few more times--passed out on the kitchen floor--left the fridge door open and spoiled most of my food--and lived off of unheated cans of soup and dried cereal and whatever crackers and other crap I could find buried in the cupboards.

            At some point, I must’ve left my little apartment. I honestly can’t remember doing it. Like, my first time in public as—Cindy, as a girl; in this strange neighbourhood; in this strange life. And I can’t remember a moment of it.  Who knows what the fuck happened.  All I know is that suddenly, I had booze again.

            Then one night I was sitting in the lounge, thin arms thrown wide across the back of the sofa and staring vacantly at the ceiling, when I heard her voice.

            “You’re looking good,” she said.  Her heels clicked on the floor as she approached.  She took a seat opposite me at the table, and her every motion was graceful and alluring.  I would have happily stared at her for hours, mesmerized by the reflected fire of the candlelight in her eyes, the way her dress fell and slid in shimmering lines across her body.  The fact that we were possible enemies and the potential for violence in her every movement simply made her all the more attractive.  She seemed elegant and almost ethereal and at ease with her beauty, whereas I felt uncomfortable in my dress shirt and tie, an earth-bound clod wearing a too-tight collar.

            Leaning back in my seat, I smiled and shrugged.  “So do you.  I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

            She glanced away momentarily before meeting my eyes.  The gesture seemed surprisingly demure and at odds with what little I knew of this woman.  The thought was enough to bring a wry smile to my lips.  I didn’t know anything about her--not even her name.  But I knew enough.  I knew I loved her.  Ever since we fought, and hid together, and hungrily fell into each others’ arms and fucked in the bushes, biting each others’ flesh to silence our cries as men with guns walked by and the bamboo swayed in the wind overhead and creaked and rustled. . . .  From that first moment in which we met I knew I loved this woman.

            “You intrigued me,” she said.  “How could I not come?”

            “The woman I work for is the enemy of the people you work for,” I said.  “Doesn’t that make us enemies?”

            She shrugged.  “Maybe,” she said, and her earrings shivered and glinted in the dim light, shiny lures dancing beneath the water’s surface.  “But not tonight.  It’s never as simple as one side against another, good guys against bad guys.”

            “What if . . . you know?  They caught us together?”

            “Then I’d have to kill you,” she answered.  Her ruby lips glinted as she smiled.

            The waiter poured our wine.  I was underage; she wasn’t.  We raised our glasses and toasted each other.  The wine was a dark red but her painted fingernails cradling the glass were redder, darker.  She drank deeply and sighed as I hid my dislike at the adult taste of the wine.  “I don’t even know your name,” I said.

            “Persephone,” she said.

            I told her my name.

            She smiled and took my hand.  “Come with me,” she said. 

            I jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath.

            A dream.  Or was it a memory? Sometimes I can’t tell the difference, not when it comes to Persephone. I’d all but forgotten that first meeting. My first ‘date’ with Sephy, the first of many furtive encounters and secret liaisons, of fights and violent sex and desperately precious moments spent clinging fiercely to each other.  Six months later she was dead.  It was my fault.  It was my fault.  I hadn’t been strong enough to protect her.

            Clutching my throbbing head I staggered to my feet.  Midday sun flooded the room.  Christ.  Obviously it’d been too long since I’d popped a pill or something, if reality was insisting on reasserting itself.  As far as I was concerned, reality could go fuck itself.  I needed another drink.  Was I at that point where I could start in on the cough syrup and vanilla extract yet? When did it become okay to piss into an empty bottle and skim off the top?

            Halfway to the medicine cabinet a knocking rang clear and loud from the front door.

            Who knows why I went to the door?  Sleep-deprived, drugged-up, messed in the head and still feeling the phantom touch of old dreams and a dead lover, I stumbled over to the door of the apartment.  I clipped the wall once or twice and knocked down a picture frame and made a bit of a racket.  The knock came again, loud and insistent.

            “Who--?”  My voice was hoarse from disuse, my throat dry.  I swallowed and tried again.  “Who is it?”  My heart pounded a rapid, almost deafening beat, though I didn’t know why.

            “I have a delivery for a Miss Bellamy,” a female voice called back through the door.  “It needs to be signed for.”

            “Just. . . .”  Just what?  Fuck off?  Leave me alone?  I wasn’t in any state to be talking to people.  I was dirty, drugged . . . female.  Yet I didn’t fear being seen.  Unlike the first time I dressed up as Cindy and stepped out of that safe house so very long ago (or so it seemed), at the moment I felt a surprising calm at the thought of being seen as a girl.  It might’ve been the pills.  More likely, it was because I knew Scooter’s butchers had done their job well.  If I couldn’t recognize myself, how could a complete stranger?  Rather than fear, a sudden inexplicable yearning to connect with another human being arose in me.  After days of silence, crawling lights and the far-off sounds of traffic, I felt a powerful need to see another human. Besides, it had to be something important. Nobody uses couriers anymore, not when a drone would do, unless it’s something valuable.

            “Just give me a minute,” I muttered.

            I hurriedly stumbled to my bedroom and pulled on the first thing I found, a t-shirt that felt too tight as it hugged my curves and left my midriff exposed.  Taking a deep breath, I opened the door.

            I’ll give the delivery girl credit: she was a goddamn pro, that’s for sure.  She was quite cute, with her little brown cap and pixyish hairdo with purple and pink streaks.  Her nose wrinkled at the stench that flowed from my apartment, and she couldn’t quite suppress the flash of disdain or disgust that crossed her eyes as she looked down at me, but she neither flinched nor commented on my appearance.  Still, that human presence and appraising look suddenly, forcefully brought me back to myself and I felt acutely and ashamedly aware of myself.

            I looked like shit.

            An awkward silence followed and I imagined what I looked like through this woman’s eyes.  The piss and vomit stained sweatpants, the smeared food encrusted over the jiggling exposed top of those tits--yeah, real sexy.  My hair lay slickly against my scalp and bloodshot eyes stared anxiously from a pale face.  I looked like I goddamn strung-out crack whore or something.  It’s a good thing those pants were baggy and the pills murder to the libido, killing off any suspicious bulge down below, because the last thing I needed was the neighbour gossiping about the transvestite hooker in apartment--I had to check the door--1607.  Looking at myself I felt intense embarrassment, and for once it had nothing to do with this body in which I found myself trapped.  I could barely meet the girl’s impatient gaze.

            How the hell could I have allowed myself to come to this?  This wasn’t life, existing--barely--on painkillers, booze and dreams of dead people. I couldn’t just detach myself from the world around me; I might as well throw myself from the balcony instead.  Life was pain; Persephone taught me that a lifetime ago, and I silently thanked her for the reminder.

            “Miss Cindy Bellamy?”

            “Uh . . . yeah.  Yes.  That’s me.”  Those were the first real words I’d spoken aloud in nearly two weeks, other than some vaguely crazed mumbling to myself.  My first words and they were weak and timorous.  The sound of that voice, the softer tones and higher register--this girl’s voice that rang false in my ears--was now mine.  Cindy’s voice.  And the next words that tumbled reluctantly from my lips took me by surprise: “I’m Cindy Bellamy.”

            I made a vain attempt at brushing back my hair and rubbing some of the filth from my face.  “Sorry about. . . .”

            “If you’ll just sign, please?”  Her voice was brusque and I couldn’t blame her.  I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.

            Taking the delivery I signed ‘Cindy’ instead of ‘David’, which in my detached state I felt quite proud of.  Even signed with a lighter hand and dotted the ‘i’ with a heart and everything.  The woman handed over a large, heavy sealed envelope and quickly left.  I stood there for a moment, blinking and confused, and slowly looked down at the letter.

            Cindy Bellamy, it said, and an address.  My address, my new home; I am Cindy Bellamy.

            With heavy steps I trudged towards the bathroom, dropping the envelope next to the broken picture frame along the way.  I needed a shower.  Sweatpants slid past jutting hips and pooled on the floor as I stepped free of them.  The bathroom was small, crowded and brightly coloured.  I pulled back the plastic shower curtain.  Stepped gingerly onto cool porcelain.  Slid shut the curtain and twisted the knob.

            Cold water slammed into me.  I gasped through the shock as the shower clawed at the stench and filth and tore through the fog I’d been wrapped in these last two weeks.  Staring up into that bitterly chill cascade, for a moment each droplet seemed suspended, catching the diffuse ivory of the curtain and the emerald of the shower tiles in a kaleidoscope of green and white.  Blinking, and then shivering violently, I stood unmoving as the water broke against my body.

            As the fog lifted my thoughts gradually cleared.  Sudden ideas, thoughts, fragments of sentences flashed through my head and with them came a rush of emotions, feelings thrust aside for the last two weeks as I trembled and my teeth chattered and God, shit, what have they done to me, how could she, I’ll fucking kill them!  If Akiko could see me now--or Amanda, she’d fucking love this—or Emma or Sofiya, they’ d laugh their tits off—or Sakura--kick my ass for letting this happen--they were so fucking sexy, these girls from the past; I wonder where they all are now. . . .  I grinned a skull’s grin into the falling water, a feral, savage grin, and thought such violent and whirling thoughts that my body trembled. 

             Survive. Survive until such a time as I can get back to being a guy.  Put Cindy to rest and then kill off each and every one of the sick fucks responsible for this humiliation, for this frail and fragile body. . . .

             I sagged against the wall and released a shuddering breath.  Shit.  Easier said then done, yeah?  My mind shied away from the thought of way lay ahead, from the idea of actually living this life prescribed to me.  A diet of feminizing pills, a menu of lingerie and makeup, a feast of tight clothes and high heels; how long could this last?  I turned over, pressing my forehead against the smooth expanse of tiles.  The water continued to pound and shatter against my back and neck, the icy chill penetrating deeply.  The cold forcefully reconnected me to my body, to the physical presence of those nipples tightening painfully into hard nubs, to the heavy weight hanging from my chest as the water coursed through my cleavage, and the relentless crawl of goosebumps across my skin. . . .

            “Shit,” I muttered.  Water ran in cold rivulets down my cheek and along my jaw, dripped from the tip of my nose.  My fingers curled into a tight, trembling fist at my side.  I wanted to pound that wall.  Shatter those tiles.  I raised my fist.  Clenched and unclenched it.  Those fingers--the same size they’d always been--seemed much daintier now.  Weaker.  What would punching the wall accomplish?  With something akin to a groan I uncurled my hand and firmly pressed my palm flat against the smooth tiling and slowly slid to the floor.  My polished nails, chipped and dulled after two weeks of neglect, glistened wetly, adding a pink hue to the wash of green and ivory.

            My breathing slowed, relaxed.  Anger and pain released: with conscious effort I eased into a renewed control of myself.  Eventually I clambered to my feet.  By this time I was nearly numb from the cold, shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering.  A twist of the dial made the water nearly scalding and filled the air with steam.  The heat bordered on painful, but pain was good, far better than unfeeling numbness.  I reached for the shower gel and started to wash.  The water carried the suds and remaining filth and stench away and I watched them circle the drain and disappear.

            Cindy’s shower was small and a little cramped, but the water was hot and the pressure good, and I relaxed a little.  I’ve always done a lot of thinking in the bathroom, you know?  There’s no better seat than a toilet for some good, serious reading.  And a long, hot shower: the natural birthplace of philosophy if you ask me, and the wellspring of a thousand brilliant ideas that never get written down.  So no surprise that, as the heat spread through limb and body and my skin flushed a brilliant pink, my brain, like a bear emerging from hibernation, shaking off the slow dreams of long sleep, slowly emerged from dormancy into a state of profound calm but startling wakefulness.

            “I’m Cindy Bellamy.”  I repeated those words from earlier, turning into the shower and speaking through the fall of water.  The sibilant start of this name, the flick of the tongue and the glottal twitch of the throat that ended it: unfamiliar but not uncomfortable as it rolled off the tongue.  A rose by any other name, Akiko once taught me, and as Cindy’s perfumed wash permeated the air those words took on new poignancy. Surrounded in the floral aroma that would leave its taint across my flesh, this body announced Cindy to every sense: this soft skin that felt like Cindy, these soft words sounding so female, this gentle scent that was all girl and these curves and hair and gentle features that displayed her to the world.

            I was Cindy Bellamy, and my every sense insisted that she was a prison from which I could not escape on my own.  The question was not whether I should live this life; I had no choice.  The question was whether I could.  Pretending to be Cindy for three weeks at the Clinic was one thing, and even that had almost driven me crazy.  But to actually live her life, to not just act but actually be female for . . . how long, months, a year?  That was a one-way road to hell, a goddamn superhighway paved with perverse intentions that ended in insanity.  Yet what choice did I have?

            My mind tried to methodically work through the possibilities once again: perhaps K was lying and Steele thought me dead; this was all some twisted plot on her part, aided by Scooter and the Clinic.  But why?  These things done to me must have cost a fortune, but to what end?  Even if K was completely insane and obsessed with some bizarre revenge against me, Scooter didn’t seem the kind of guy to indulge her mania, not at the risk to his beloved Clinic.  Unless, of course, he thought turning me into Cindy was a convenient way of disposing of me.  Then why bother keeping me alive?  He’d been right about one thing: they’d saved my life, the bastards.  They could’ve left me to bleed on the hospital floor.  Any debt I owed them had been paid in full by Cindy, but their efforts meant at least one thing: they didn’t want me dead.  Yet.

            He spoke of experimental procedures, corporate secrets and my miracle rebirth.  Was that the price K paid for his help: me, an unwitting test subject for some fucking Frankenstein science project?  But then why let me go?

            Which meant that maybe K wasn’t lying about Steele.  Maybe the sonofabitch was still out there hunting for me.  If that was the case, then living as Cindy for a while longer made a twisted, awful sense.  Shorter, lighter, smaller, curves and softness squeezed into this tight little package: there was no way that psycho’s assassins could recognize me as David Saunders.

            I hefted the weight of one breast in my hand and let it drop back before attacking them with the soap.  Yeah, definitely no way they’d recognize me unless I did something really stupid--like walk out that door and head straight to the cops, demanding help.  As if they’d believe me.  And even if they did, I’d be right back where I started months ago, only with a smaller, weaker body.  I could turn to some of my old friends, call in those old favours from when I worked for Sakura. I ticked each one off on a long, painted fingernail as hot water continued to fall around me. Emma, Sofiya, Dimitrios, Caleb: all favours outstanding. Assuming they were still alive.  Especially Caleb, after that horrific clusterfuck out east. As for the girls, fuck, I couldn’t let them see me like this!

            Anyway, they weren’t the subtle kind of help I needed right now, anyway: these people from my past, they’re not so much good at subtlety as they were at laying down grievous retribution.

            Besides, and most importantly, without the help of the Clinic there was no way I was getting a male body back.  The changes were too extensive.  Even if I cut my hair, trimmed my nails and had these tits chopped off, I’d still have hips that a man shouldn’t, Cindy’s voice and her face, this crazy teenage body sculpted from David’s flesh.

            And so: what to do? 

            I took all the anger and frustration and doubt and rolled it up into a tight little ball and swallowed it down.  Here in the shower I could allow all those distraction to rise to the surface.  I could work them through and then . . . let them wash away. Let those emotions of rage and betrayal fester somewhere dark and deep inside.  Save them for later.  For now….

            With fragile calm, I reached for the shaving cream and began to lather up my legs and armpits.  Stuck in the life, I resolved to be the best goddamn Cindy that I could be--for now.

            Having finally made that decision, everything else suddenly seemed a hell of a lot easier.  People like to think that the biggest changes in life arrive hand-in-hand with monumental events, or are marked by grand displays, loud exposition and brilliant words.

They’re not.  A man gets shot but lives, a woman loses her baby, an explosion wipes out someone’s family and they seize that moment and declare: now I’m different!  But they’re not.  Within a month or two they’re the same miserable bastard they were before, all the more miserable for their inability to change.  Because those radical changes, the fundamental shifts in a person’s life and the way they see the world?  They’re just as likely--far more likely, even--to happen during the most mundane of times, over a pint of beer at the pub, while riding a bus they’ve ridden a thousand times before; during a quiet, reflective moment in the shower.

            And so an hour later, cleaned, scrubbed, moisturised, smooth and soft, smelling nice, lightly made-up and oh so fresh and pretty, in nondescript bra and panties, dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater and comfortable runners, heart pounding in my chest, terrified, ecstatic, carrying a small purse and repeating a comforting mantra beneath my breath--I finally felt ready to face the world outside my apartment without the benefit of drugs or booze.

            I primped and fussed and stared at myself in the mirror hanging over the shelf by the door to Cindy’s apartment.  A pretty young girl stared back, a stranger with familiar eyes.  At that moment I knew--despite the humiliation, the anger and frustration--that I could do this.

            On the way to the door I picked up the envelope I’d signed for.  My fingerprint undid the clasp and its contents tumbled out.  A phone. A driver’s license. A letter from Cindy’s bank—bank and credit cards issued in my name.  I peeled the debit card from the paper and held it awkwardly between my fingers.  I couldn’t suppress a small smile.  A phone and credit card and a bank account: what better, more tangible proof could there be that I was now and truly Cindy Bellamy?

Three: Thingy Up My Ass

Two weeks later, cradling the oversized mug in my hands, the heat slowly penetrating into my hands as the coffee warmed me from within, I stared deep into my dark beverage and found no new revelation there.  Looking up I’d still be Cindy: a small, young girl sitting primly at the edge of an oversized sofa-chair, knees pressed together, eyes demurely downcast and only rarely casting shy glances across the busy Starbucks.  The too-short skirt would still be riding too high up my thigh, and my trim little tummy would still be bared by the too-tight t-shirt I’d tugged on this morning.  Everything about Cindy was ‘too’-something: too small, too cute, too weak.  And too bad, because this was now my life and it felt like these past few weeks had been a constant struggle to avoid going too crazy.

            I didn’t look up; I continued to stare into my coffee; I couldn’t look up.  I felt the hot flush blossom in my chest and slowly creep up my neck before setting my face afire, a deep red glow burning beneath the morning’s fresh makeup.  It’s not like I wanted to examine the floor in all its scuffed and spotted glory or anything, believe me.  It’s just that ever since I’d started the daily regimen of medication, these sudden intense waves of emotion would occasionally wash over me, tidal swells as powerful as any lunar tug, insistent, immersive and impossible to ignore.  A person could drown in these sudden emotions, bouts of paranoia as persuasive as any I’d ever known, humbling fear that could wring a stomach as tightly as a drenched washcloth--and embarrassment, unrelenting, pervasive, turning legs to jelly and leaving me desperate for longer bangs, hair long enough to hide behind, a veil for eyes incapable of meeting any other in fear of bursting into tears.

            The creak of worn leather and a settling of weight.  “You mind if I sit here?”  A man’s voice.  Of course it was a man’s voice.  All week strange men had been sitting next to me, opening doors, striking up unwanted conversations--trying to touch me, hold my hand, stroke my back, pet my arm--the goddamn bastards.  Normally they could be easily deterred with a cold smile or an empty word.  Sometimes I even indulged in a quick chat, making sure to never quite make eye contact, lick my lips, brush back my hair or accidentally touch his arm.  I knew damn well the staggering power of such small gestures.  It’s like signing a goddamn marriage contract for some of these sad fucks; it’s like a declaration that you’re soulmates--or at least willing to spread your legs for a few free drinks and an expensive meal.

            I gave a quick nod, still unable to look up or speak, still caught in the grip of my sourceless embarrassment.  My face burned so hotly, the coffee felt cool as it touched my lips.  This sense of shame, this humiliation was becoming all too familiar.  Every morning I woke up and looked in the mirror and as I shook off the dreary remains of last night’s bad dreams the humiliation of being Cindy settled over me, a familiar, heavy woollen blanket draped across my narrow shoulders, smothering, scratchy--a constant, irritating presence.  There was no escaping this shame.  Countless acts throughout my day reminded me of what I’d become.  Every click of my shaped nails as I carefully cradled a glass in my hand; the frequent glances into a compact to check my makeup; the constant flicking of hair from my eyes; the delicate tickle of dangling earrings against my cheek; as the wind caressed the inside of a bared knee; each bump of a purse against my hip; the click of heels--everything; every fucking thing I did reminded me of my new life and every fucking time I felt ashamed of what I was becoming.

            But I could deal with this.  It could be endured.

            “Hey, are you okay?”

            I wanted to scream at this nosey jackass and tell him to leave me the fuck alone--but I couldn’t.  I couldn’t do that.  A young girl like Cindy doesn’t yell at guys in coffee shops.  She doesn’t shy away from daily flirtations.  She’s comfortable with the come-ons because she’s known the semi-unwanted advances of men both young and old her whole life, just like any other attractive young girl.  Sure, the constant attention might annoy her sometimes, but not as much as the fear of that dreaded day the wandering eyes of the opposite sex begins to drift elsewhere.

            More importantly, of course, there’s another kind of attention no girl wants to attract: that of the psychotic professional assassin, one of which, I felt fairly sure, had been following me this last week.

            The embarrassment gently eased its grip, enough for me to raise my head and brush the hair back from my eyes.  I tried for a wan smile.  He had clear blue eyes.  They were filled with concern, though not so much that they forgot the all-too-familiar wander down my cleavage, with a quick detour across my bared midriff.  He smiled back.  Shit: contact.  Now he’d think I was flirting with him--and probably call me a prick-tease when I shot him down.

            “Rough morning?” he asked.  He folded the day’s newspaper away as he turned his full attention to me.  I took a quick, settling breath.  These emotional surges were so powerful they nearly sent me whimpering to the nearest dark, silent place, somewhere I could hide and forget.  Fortunately they were usually short-lived.  I could ride them out.  Confront them face on.  Let the waves of emotion break against a cool and collected centre and methodically think the problem away.  Anger and fear--these I could deal with.  Only the embarrassment was crippling; it was the worst and had to run its course, sometimes lasting for an hour or longer.  I couldn’t just will it away because it hit too close to home.

            I nodded.  “Yes,” I murmured.  “My boyfriend and I had a fight this morning.”

            “Oh.  I see,” he answered, his eyes already turning glassy.  Only two weeks and I’d already learned why a pretty girl drops her current relationship status into a conversation as early as possible.  The man’s concern evaporated almost instantly and his smile became forced.  “Sorry to hear that.”

            “It’s really annoying, you know?” I continued, leaning forward.  “I mean, Max--that’s my boyfriend, yeah?--he’s like, such a nice guy?  And really considerate, too, and I don’t just mean with flowers and stuff, if you know what I mean.  He’s got the most amazing touch.”  I fluttered my eyes as if in dreamy recollection.  “But then sometimes, he’s just such a jerk, you know?”

            “Uh . . . sure.”  The guy was rapidly developing a deer-in-headlight look.

            “Of course you do, you’re a man, right?  So I mean, what’s it all about?  It’s like, for example, last night we’re having a great time and all, and then suddenly he’s trying to, you know, stick it up my bum, and I’m all like ‘what the hell are you doing down there?’ and he’s like ‘I slipped’ with this stupid smile on his face, and I’m not stupid enough to fall for that one, believe me, and it’s like he tries this almost every night even though I tell him I’m not that kind of girl, and when he tried again this morning we had a fight and I. . . .”  I stopped as if at a sudden thought.  “Oh my, you don’t even know my name, do you?”  I extended my fingers, wrist limp, for a handshake.  “My name’s Cindy!”

            “I’m, ah . . . John,” he said, looking vaguely horrified.

            “So then tell me, John: why is it that guys keep trying to stick their thingy up my ass?”

            Well, John didn’t have much an answer for that, and quickly excused himself.    Hiding a smile, a strange mix of triumph and shame churning in my stomach, I returned to my profound contemplation of the cup in my hand.

            The first week had passed quickly, a blur of terrifying, brief ventures out into the city followed by long hours at ‘home’--and that shitty little apartment was gradually beginning to feel like a home, even if not quite mine--spent exploring every crook and cranny of the place.  It’s not like the place was very big, but it’s amazing how much stuff gets crammed away under sinks and in the back of closets, beneath a bed or behind a bookshelf.  Whether K set the whole thing up herself or had help--she must’ve had help--I couldn’t help but feel a grudging admiration for the attention to detail.

            It wasn’t just the digitally manipulated photos in the albums or on the walls, the ones displaying my new face, the ones that came together to form a fragmented narrative of a life I couldn’t remember.  It was the small details that impressed.  The battered and faded high-school diary I found buried in a drawer, with its weepy poems and names underlined in gel pens or angrily crossed out.  The half-used bar of soap, newly opened bottle of nail polish, the empty tubes of Cindy’s favourite lip gloss and the waiting box of tampons.  Errant coins in the sofa, a scratched disk in the bedside alarm clock, the scuffed stiletto with a broken heel.  All these minor details came together to create another story, a story of Cindy told through favourite and forgotten things.

            I knew that she was a real person, and that she’d died, somehow, and that I’d stepped into her life.  But it was those tiny, real little details that haunted me.  Padding around the apartment some nights I felt that I could almost understand this strange girl I’d become.  Lying back on the sofa, staring out blindly at the glimmering city, I could almost immerse myself in her life.  Sometimes she almost seemed real.

            But she wasn’t. This version of Cindy was as fake as—well, as David had been, I suppose.

            My coffee was empty.  The frosted pink lip-prints that stained the mug’s rim mocked me.  Suppressing a sigh I pulled a small mirror from my purse and set about fixing my lips.  I knew damn well how devastating sexy something as simple as putting on makeup could be, those slender fingers holding a thin lipgloss wand, the way it extended the length of each finger and made them seem more delicate, the subtle and slow slide of shiny colour across slightly parted lips. . . .

            Hiding a grimace of pain I uncrossed my legs.  Sexy thoughts were bad.  A hard-on was bad.  It hurt, especially with your nob tucked between your legs . . . and when you’ve just spent the whole shitty morning sitting on the poor thing.  Every so often there’d be that sharp jab of pain, or a dull throb, or an almost crippling ache, to remind me just how ridiculous my disguise really was.

            I put the mirror and makeup back into my purse.  I’d also spent the last two weeks in an intense study of the feminine arts, long lonely nights spent sitting at a table with an array of strange and foreboding products before me.  I’d hate to think how many hours were wasted staring into a mirror, putting on makeup, wiping it off, leafing through one of Cindy’s many magazines or books on the subject and starting over.  Back at the Clinic I’d done much the same but it had all been different then--annoying but a bit of a laugh, something to keep me busy for a couple of weeks spent in hiding.  A perverse joke, a furtive step into a forbidden world, naughty but short-lived.

            But now?  I wasn’t hiding anymore.  I was living, and somehow this practice had become a part of my long-term survival.  These skills were an essential part of this new life and it was almost scary how easy, almost instinctive, they were becoming.  They were, I was beginning to realize, the few skills that Cindy actually possessed.  After all, I wasn’t David Saunders anymore, with his expensive condo and his own corner office on the ninth floor, with a secretary and a string of nightly conquests and a membership to the best gym in town.

            Now I was Cindy Bellamy, young and pretty, certainly, but also a high-school dropout.  I was unemployed with indeterminate but certainly limited funds in the bank.  I was alone in a big city, with a driver’s license but no car, a home full of pictures but no friends, no family, already growing bored of the daily coffee routine, of the chick-lit books on the shelf and girlie magazines, sickened by the closet full of clothes I hated to wear, and these B-cup tits constantly on display, the exposed half-moon flesh over my close-fitting top jiggling with every movement, now flushing a bright red and the heat crawling up my neck. . . .

            Guess I wasn’t going to escape the coffee shop just yet.  These mood swings were going to drive me insane.

Four: Doomscroll

A heavy wind, laden with the promise of rain, swept through the busy street carrying the dust and detritus of the city.  Overhead, churning clouds bled over drab buildings that clawed the sky, tainting everything grey.  A delivery bike wove between traffic, honking angrily as it left blue-black fumes in its wake.  With a wheezy sigh a bus stopped before the coffee shop, brakes screeching loudly, and disgorged passengers.  They flowed past, breaking on either side, their blank faces casting angry glares and appreciative glances my way as they rushed to work, suits and ties, skirts and heels, briefcases and purses, take-out coffee and cell phones in hand.  They all seemed so very busy and purposeful as I stood there bemused, only just remembering to drop my hands before the insistent wind lifted my skirt and revealed more than just pale thighs.

            Shaking away empty thoughts, I stirred into motion.  Not yet ten in the morning and I was heading home.  I envied these strangers with a purpose, with a morning destination more exciting than Starbucks.  Confronted with all these people, with the vibrant flow of life, the groans and wheezes of the city, I felt--adrift.  The urban current could carry me away if I relaxed into it.  But where would I end up, this pretty piece of fluff, this delicate ornament cut loose from the world?

            I stifled a laugh as I walked.  If only Akiko could hear me now--so long as she couldn’t see me, anything but that--when the hell did I become so melodramatic?  Besides, cute little things like Cindy don’t drift into strange neighbourhoods.  Not if they know what’s good for them.  Good way to get hurt--or worse.  Yeah, sure, I still knew how to defend myself and all, but with these puny arms?  Let’s just say I wouldn’t be looking to pick any more fights these days.

            My steps carried me down the street, past windows looking onto open-concept offices, through greasy clouds wafting out of restaurants finishing off the breakfast rush, the acrid scent of hairdressers and the warm breath of a dry cleaner.  The rapid clip of my kitten heels against the pitted pavement made an almost familiar sound.  Already!  How long before these distractions no longer registered, before these reminders of femininity became habitual and forgotten?  The thought terrified even as it seemed a welcome relief from the constant agitation.

            That first time two weeks ago outside the apartment nearly did me in.  I only survived twenty minutes, just long enough to snag a bottle of cheap wine from the nearest shop.  Even then, it took a flirty smile and a flash of cleavage for the man behind the counter to sell me--an apparently underage girl!--the booze.  Some instant noodles rounded out my purchase, before fear and shame sent me scuttling back to the safety of my unwanted new home.  Much better to spend hours scouring the floors and picking up the crap I’d left all over, cleaning the living room and kitchen and airing out the funk of two weeks of pills and dazed sweating and stale vomit.

            The Clinic had been so sheltered.  Surrounded by crazies, rich weirdos and dopey convalescents, who’d notice one more pseudo-transvestite with issues?  But the city was different.  Intense.  So many eyes, so many voices.  People, all ready to point their finger.  Ready to accuse, ready to expose me.  Or perhaps worse . . . ready to accept me for what I seemed--a girl--and treat me accordingly, to objectify, to leer and ogle. . . .

            Asklepios offered beauticians to perfect my disguise, teachers to help me pass, security and protection; the city provided none of these.

            At a small grocers, I turned a corner and left the main strip behind.  The roar of traffic dropped away quickly.  There was still the occasional pedestrian headed in the opposite direction but quieter now, faces more relaxed, an occasional smile sneaking through.  A few minutes up the street there was a hidden park where I liked to sit and read.  It was an oasis set surprisingly close to the urban bustle, but if I sat on the right bench the rustling trees hid the overarching towers of concrete and glittering glass.

            The wood bench felt cool and rough on my ass through a thin skirt, sending a brief shudder up my spine.  Sitting there, I had to admit that these legs of mine were sexy as hell.  If I was stuck with the damn things, why the hell shouldn’t I show them off?  But these goddamn skirts were fucking inconvenient.  I had to cross my legs high up the thigh or risk every passing pervert glimpsing my panties, but believe you me, sitting like this was murder on my balls.  Like I had any choice, you know?  It was just another painful ignominy forced on me by Scooter and Agent K.

            Humiliating, yeah, and painful too, but this is the thing: as annoying as living this life was, there was a part of me that was . . . enjoying it.  Fuck that.  Enjoying is too strong.  Intrigued?  Not by Cindy, no, and not by the bullshit necessity of pretending to be a goddamn chick, or of these feminine mysteries slowly being revealed; no, not by any of that.  It was the challenge.  Starting over.  Exploring the city.  The study, the practice, the constant risk of discovery . . . and yeah, the subtle thrill of not being discovered, of fooling everyone and feeling all these dumbass pricks following me with their eyes and knowing I’d tricked them, that I was just so goddamn good at what I do that they were swelling in their pants thinking about a guy in a skirt who could’ve once kicked their ass.

            God, I’m a twisted little fuck, aren’t I?  Because more than anything else it was the danger--the thrill of it, the eager thrum of nerves--that somehow made this almost worthwhile.  Not counting that first week on the run with Agent K, I hadn’t felt this awake since . . . God, since I used to help Sakura out.  Those years of being David Saunders nearly knocked me into a coma and now I felt powerfully alive.  Yeah, that thrill reached me all warped and wrong, made grotesque like the reflection of a carnival mirror . . . but fuck it, at least I wasn’t bored.  This twisted, soft body through which every sensation and emotion touched me made damn sure of that.  Looking back I could see how numb I’d become, playing the part of the ordinary corporate dick.

            A little sunshine peeked through the clouds overhead, warming me slightly.  Gleaming lancets of light splashed off the artificial pond.  I tried reading my book--a shitty romance so saccharine it should’ve carried a warning for diabetics--but couldn’t focus on the words.  The park made for a nice place to read but I rarely concentrated well.  It’s not just that the books and magazines available from home were painfully boring--no, not just that at all.  Rather, there were so many other distractions.  The park itself, the hint of flowers and grass and sand that tickled the nose beneath my own girl scents.  Joggers in the distance, blonde ponytails bobbing in counterpoint to each step, shirt darkening with sweat between their tits, such sexy young girls--and the sharp pain in my crotch; birds chirping as they danced the sky; the woof of a dog chasing a ball.  The crunch of passing footsteps and, glancing up, a stranger.

            A young man walked by, well-dressed, listening to music on his way to work, with clear blue eyes that pulled away from my cleavage as we made contact.  He smiled and I instinctively smiled back and he walked on with a lighter step.  Jackass.  Yeah, the thought that I’d brightened that punk’s morning brought me very little satisfaction.  A little boost, the smile of a pretty girl: maybe he’d have the confidence to hit on a secretary today, bend that bitch over his desk and fuck her over their lunch break, her feet scrabbling for purchase in too-tall heels as he slammed into her from behind, skirt up around the waist and hair falling across her face. . . .

            God, I hadn’t fucked a secretary in ages.  I shifted awkwardly in my seat, uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, surreptitiously adjusting my boys best I could as they strained against their lacy confinement.  So, yeah: plenty of distractions in the park, but nothing compared to the reality of simply being me.  Sometimes, for entire minutes at a time, maybe even a half-hour, I could lose myself in an unexpectedly interesting paragraph or in following a pedestrian walk by in the distance, but eventually, always, the tightening of a nipple under a cool breeze, a bead of sweat down my cleavage--the splash of polished colour against paper as I thumbed the page, or my own female scent, brought me back to Cindy.

            My eyes peeked over the top of the page.  A few pebbly dirt paths wound between the trees, dotted with benches on either side.  I scanned the faces of the other lonely bastards sentenced to reading newspapers and feeding pigeons on a weekday morning.  Already many of them were familiar; these new routines of mine obviously overlapped theirs.  There’d been a few grudging, tentative exchanges of ‘hello’ but little more.  This kind of place and this time of day, people could be fiercely protective of their own space and thoughts.  Besides, they were all a hell of a lot older than me and seemed unsure what to do with this pretty girl in their company.

            That early joy of exploring brought me here early last week, and I’d been coming back ever since.  I had a new life to create for myself but in many ways found myself falling back on old routines.  I still woke up as quickly and early as I’ve always done.  The morning workout was replaced by things better suited to Cindy: I swapped sit-ups for cleansing and moisturising and push-ups for hair-care and styling, and you can damn well believe I felt the shame of giving up my manly habits for these things better suited for the pretty young thing I’d become.  There was so much of it: longer showers, the shaving, plucking, cleansing and moisturising, and then makeup, of course.  God, the makeup took ages; how do girls put up with this shit every morning?  Different cleansers, moisturizer, concealer, foundation, mascara, eyeshadow, pencil, lipstick, another pencil, gloss, blush . . . fucking hell!  The whole process couldn’t finish without the tiny click of a dozen little bottle, tubes and vials being opened and shut. 

            And then I had to get dressed.  I set myself a strict time limit on picking out clothes, or I’d lose an easy hour agonizing--procrastinating--over what to wear.  Believe me, my mornings brought no pleasure.

            Hardest part of the day in some ways, this getting dressed bullshit.  Two weeks of intense research, yeah, but trying to think like a sexy twenty-year old still didn’t come easy.  And then I had to overcome that queasy stomach flop as I reached for the day’s panties; and then threading my arms into a bra, long fingernails still fumbling with tiny catches behind my back, and then figuring out how to strap my cock and balls back without crushing the poor bastards, choosing between bare legs or stockings, flats or heels, hating either possibility and myself for being in this position--and then finally that moment of revelation before the mirror as I lost myself in morbid contemplation of the cute sexy thing before me.  And every day, that sense of fascination--of sick awe--seemed less intense and faded faster, replaced by a subtle joy at the sight of my own beauty. . . .

            Then out the door; and all being said, once I’d swapped muscle for prettiness, it probably only took a half-hour longer to get ready in the morning than it used to as a guy.

            Not, of course, that I had anywhere to get to in a hurry.  A slow walk downtown, trying a different route every morning.  An indulgent hour spent over coffee; one sugar and a touch of cream when I used to prefer it black.  I’d read the newspaper if someone left one behind, or watch the feed on the screen, catching up on all the usual news: more violence in the Middle East, some new superbug, a second young girl found slaughtered in the city park, a fucking cat caught up a tree. Zang’s mission was underway; they’d refueled at the Moon and were Mars-bound. Leaders spoke of another round of lockdowns to circuit-break the inevitable pandemic.

            Steele, on screen, smiling and assuring consumers that NeoPharm was ready, whatever that bitch Mother Nature threw their way..

            I grimaced and turned away from the new. I wasn’t a big fan of news, you know?  It’s like, my life’s been more interesting than most of what’s written in there, and you know what?  Once you’ve seen a certain side of the world and been through some tough shit--really harrowing shit, you know?--you can’t help but find the day-to-day stuff pretty shallow.  Add to that the absurdity of my current life and, yeah, the papers didn’t hold that much appeal.  What did I care if another goddamn ice cap melted when I was wearing a mini-skirt and mascara, in hiding from a stock-holders’ darling’s assassins?

            I figured that Cindy probably wouldn’t be all that keen on the papers either… well, other than the fashion section and all that shit, of course, and maybe entertainment.  I’d never noticed how much of a newspaper--especially the weekend ones, with all their colourful inserts and extra sections--were totally geared to women.  We’re talking page after glossy page of advertisements for makeup, fashion advice, sexy women to emulate and shoes most girls could neither afford nor walk in.  But while Cindy might find that shit fascinating--and by necessity I had to learn to like it to, just to learn what was up-to-date for a twenty year old chick--mostly I was looking for some kind of coverage of Steele’s trial.

            Nothing.

            Otherwise I’d fall back on whatever book I’d shoved into my purse (goddamn fucking Steele, I had a purse!), or doomscroll on my phone, or flick through article on my tablet. Often, I’d sit back and people-watch through the window.  Mostly I people-watched, and pondered, and weathered the occasional bout of stormy emotion.  Then a little more walking, some exploring, and I’d spend another hour in the park.  Some days I followed that by hanging out at the mall, window shopping and feel the buzz of the crowd, eavesdropping on conversations; other days I wandered lonely backstreets and quiet parks, or hid in my apartment.  A few nerve-wracking nights I ate out in quiet restaurants.  And as much as I really, really wanted to hit a bar or, better yet, a really good pub . . . yeah, I wasn’t up for that.  Not yet.  Not even close.  Assuming I could even get them to serve me.  Shit.

            Amazing, though, how easy it is to go through an entire day without speaking to anybody, without really talking, if you know what I mean, conversation beyond “do you want fries with that, miss?”  Even a pretty young girl like Cindy can end up alone, surrounded by the multitudinous crowds of the city.

            What a goddamn waste of time.  My mind was dancing around deeper issues I didn’t want to confront.  Better off to just head home and do fuck all there.  Ten o’clock, yeah?  I wondered it was still too early to hit the booze.

            A sudden shiver.  Something was wrong.  A slow look over the edge of my book.  That paranoid tingle at the base of the spine: I was being watched.  Not in the usual way, the way that girls like Cindy are constantly being watched.  One of the faces scattered across the park did not belong there.  Unfamiliar, or more likely glimpsed earlier but somewhere else, too often caught at the edge of the background. 

            I was being followed.

            The immediate rush of fear would’ve dropped me to the grass--if I’d not already been sitting.  I felt my legs go weak and quivery--but only for an instant.  As quickly as the fear came I pushed it aside.  I’d been expecting this.

            For the past week there’d been that itch between my shoulder blades, that hint of someone unknown on the periphery.  He or she was good, but fuck it, so was I.  Sakura had taught me a thing or two about being followed--and about following.  Besides, K had warned me that Steele was still out there.  Not that I could trust anything that bitch told me, of course.  This could just be a fluke, a perfectly ordinary stalker with a thing for young girls in the park.  It could even be someone K or Scooter had sent.  Two weeks of puzzling it over and I still hadn’t figured out their game.

            Goddamn the bastard, though, it really could be another of Jeremiah fucking Steele’s agents.  He’d already forced me into this girl’s life but the asshole wasn’t satisfied; he was still hunting for the one that got away.  That jerkwad must be getting pretty damn desperate if he was having twenty-year old chicks followed--but that didn’t mean I was in any less danger.  Crippled by clothes I’d barely held my own against Agent Fosters.  Crippled by my very body, what chance would I have?

            On the other hand . . . shit, but this was the first opportunity I’d been given to figure out what the hell was going on.  I’d be damned if I’d let it slip away.  This hidden bastard following me around might have some of the answers I was looking for.  Time to go get them.

            I read for another ten minutes, barely seeing the words on the page.  Put the book away in my purse.  Pulled out a small mirror and spent another five minutes fixing my face, poking my hair into position, freshening up my makeup and fixing that natural glow and feminine shine.  I stood, brushing down my short skirt, and stretched my arms wide, breasts straining against their confines.  A long, leisurely look across the park, basking in the intermittent sun and cool wind, and I set off, walking back into the city.

            Hands thrust into a long beige coat, wearing sunglasses, loitering on a bench half concealed behind a tree with a newspaper in hand: I briefly caught the guy reflected in my compact before leaving my seat.  Couldn’t pick out many details but I’d recognize him easily now.  When the path turned and I casually looked back towards the bench he was gone.  Following from a cautious distance, I’m sure.  Good.

            My skin fairly tingled, my heart pounded, senses stretching out--feeling fully aware and alive.  God, I loved this, even as fear pulsed just beneath my eager anticipation.  I left the park and took the long route through the outskirts of the city centre.  Narrow homes and cramped apartment buildings competed with convenience shops and small markets for space, and I walked a twisting--but not suspiciously so--path around corners and past small shops.  Window shopping allowed the rare glimpse of my pursuer, ghostly snapshots caught reflected in glass before he stepped back behind a corner.

            The clothes on the other side of the window were sexy but classy, a flirty party dress with a wide belt and fluttery skirt in bronze and golden colours, next to a shimmery, form-fitting gown in deep crimson hues.  I had a momentary thought: how would I look in that?--and my legs turned weak again.

            What the fuck was I doing?  I suddenly felt acutely conscious of my appearance.  The short patterned skirt that fluttered with every step and barely reached mid-thigh, this tight t-shirt over a thin halter top that bared my belly-button and hugged these tits: for the first time since beginning this charade I felt vulnerable--truly vulnerably--and hyperaware of my clothes, this ridiculous makeup and accessories that screamed for attention instead of turning it away; what if this went wrong?  If this guy suddenly suspected something and caught up with me--with me so short, and tiny and weak, dressed like some teen princess . . . what the hell would I do?  Something stifling blossomed in my chest and a hot flush spread across the exposed curve of my tits and crawled its way up my neck and my face blazed a fiery red as I struggled to breathe, to catch my breath, leaning heavily against the glass, nails clicking against the smooth surface, shining pink in the bright sunlight. . . .

            No--no, fuck this!  This panic, it was the hormones, the drugs Scooter fed me, evanescent bubbles in my bloodstream that led to hysteria.  In  the comforts of a coffee house or my own home, fine, fine, I’d play the stupid little girl and give in to these emotion; but not here.  Not here!  I was stronger than this, stronger than this fucker following me, than the drugs and chemicals and plots levelled against me.  I took a long, shuddering breath.  Focused on the lessons of another life, remembered the man I’d once been and would be again.  Rage was stronger than shame; and the thrill of the game overcame the fear.  They weren’t going to beat me that easily.

            As I stepped onto one of the busier streets, merging with the light flow of pedestrians, in a twisted kind of way I even began to enjoy myself.  Strolling along, still glancing into shops, I easily overcame the urge to tug down the hem of my skirt or to hunch forward in a vain attempt to hide my tits.  Instead, I walked proudly--nearly strutted, swaying with each clicking step, smiling brightly and even winking at one wide-eyed guy walking in the opposite way--fuck, I even tossed my hair at one rude whistle that followed my passing.

            Because, goddamn if I suddenly didn’t realize what all this bullshit really was.  This was a game.  Yeah, a game with the highest of stake--my life!--but still nothing more than a stupid, perverse sport, a match between me and the rest of the goddamn world.  This jackass following me, was he good enough to keep up?  Did I have the skills to turn the tables on the bastard?  And Cindy--the crux of the whole damn thing--yeah, she was nothing more than an elaborate role-play.  Could I trick everyone into believing that a tough-guy asshole like me could pass as a sweet ‘lil girl, all sugar and spice and lingerie so nice?

            You bet your ass I can.  Because when I get in on a game--when I’m serious--I play to win.  Always.  I’d wiggle my ass and mince about and keep my lips nice and moist, just to make this bastard following me cream his pants with desire; and then give him the slip and take him from behind and slit his fucking throat before he knew what hit him.

            Turning another corner, I passed a dirty narrow alley next to an even dirtier-looking bar.  I’d absently noticed it as a place to avoid on a walk earlier this week.  The windows were blackened, and the ratty posters pasted to the wall half-hidden under scrawled graffiti.  The place seemed seedy and dingy and based on an advertisement stuck to the window I was fairly sure it was a strip bar.  But the door was ajar and I’d led my follower on enough of a chase.

            I gave him a moment to see me hovering out front of the bar.  A sudden fresh burst of fear caused me to hesitate--and then I stepped through the door.

Five: Candi

Strip clubs aren’t exactly my kind of place, but they’ll always have a soft spot in my heart.  About two years ago I’d gone to the one near work for some corporate schmoozing and by the end of the night I’d picked up one of the strippers.  She was this big-titted slut called Candi.  That wasn’t a stage name or anything (and what kind of twisted parents name their kid ‘Candi’?) and I’ll be honest: I didn’t exactly date her for the conversation.  I say that, and in some ways it ain’t fair.  She was gritty in a way I really liked.  She was genuine and real and she knew a thing or two about what life was really like and how crap it could be, compared to the shallow whininess, the phoniness and bullshit of some of the bitches in my workplace.

            Candi wasn’t one of those clever university chicks stripping for tuition.  She wasn’t doing it because it was empowering, or to make some feminist point, or because she was some freaky exhibitionist.  She was a high-school dropout with a drug habit and a head full of issues.  She had a killer body and an okay face, and she figured out early what she was best at.  Step-daddy beat her once too often and so when she was sixteen she ran away to the big city.  She scrounged enough cash together to get some quality work done on her boobs, and as long as the looks lasted, she probably took as much satisfaction from her job as David Saunders had from his.

            She’d known exactly what she wanted that night and damn if she hadn’t been one of the nastiest, sexiest fucks I’ve ever had.  I dropped a lot of cash on that date, and it was some of the best I’ve ever spent.  Squeezed into a clingy dress, she cut quite the inappropriate figure at that fancy restaurant I took her to, and damn how I loved the scandalous stares she drew.  She slipped under the table before the waiter even had time to take our drinks order.  The way she deep-throated me as I struggled to order the Bordeaux, my fingers digging furrows into the tabletop as her head bobbing up and down my shaft, her moans and slurps going nearly unheard beneath the gently falling strains of the restaurant piano player--God, that kind of shit you never forget.

            But that was a lifetime ago.  Stepping into a strip club these days, management would be throwing me up on stage before they offered me a seat and a beer.  Those memories of Candi flared across my mind as I slipped through the door.  I shoved them aside.

            Squalid and dark, the entrance stank of stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer.  Momentary silence enveloped me, a stark contrast to the constant din of the city.  Stopping for a moment to catch my breath, eyes blinking and adjusting to the dim light, I felt my heart pounding in my chest.  My pursuer wouldn’t follow me into the club, not if he wanted to remain anonymous.  He’d have to wait outside for me to emerge.

            (If, on the other hand, he was looking to catch me--I’d just given him the perfect opportunity away from the crowds of the street.  Pretty girl steps into nasty bar and never comes out; would anybody notice?  I’d just be another page two column in tomorrow’s newspaper, girl number three found dead in the park.)

            I padded across the entrance and as I approached a swinging door opposite, a faint thrumming of music reached my ears.  Treble and midrange joined the beat as I pushed through into a large, dimly lit room with a bar at one end and a low stage at the other.  The stage was empty but complete with mandatory pole and mirrored backing.  A scattering of tables filled the hall.  The chairs along jerk-off row were lifted off the floor and turned upside down on the edge of the stage.  A large, industrial-size wet-vac sat unattended in the middle of the room.  Coloured lights drifted idly across the stage, flashing to the beat of the music turned low.  The lights scattered against a mirrored ball and danced lazily around the room.

            Passing through the room, I tried to keep as silent as was possible in kitten heels.  Women’s clothes aren’t exactly designed for practicality, let alone for subterfuge, you know?  Even with the music, the click of those hard-soled shoes and narrow heels sounded absurdly loud in my ears.  I’m pretty damn good at being quiet when I want to, but everything about Cindy was designed to draw attention, not turn it away.  Keeping low, I wove between tables and made my way for a door near the stage.  The “Staff Only” hopefully meant it might lead to a back room, and then onto a rear exit from the bar.

            “I don’t give a fuck how fucking big his fucking glands are!  We’re already short a girl for tonight, we’re not opening short a bouncer too!”

            A short, podgy man came storming into the room from a door near the bar.  He was well-dressed and wouldn’t have looked out of place with that morning crowd streaming past the coffee shop, but his face flushed red with rage left him dangerous- and sleazy-looking.  “You tell Alex to get his fucking ass down here, you hear me?” he continued, nostrils flaring with anger.  His face glistened with sweat as he stomped past.  “I won’t have my girls endangered because that pussy’s got a bad cold.”  He jabbed at his phone as he stalked across the room and shoved it into his pocket.  “Now where the fuck’s the cleaner gone to,” he muttered, headed for the swinging door.

            He shouldn’t have seen me.  It was bad luck--nothing more.  A sudden shift of the lights above cascaded off of one of my earrings and sent out a brief flare.  The man glanced absently my way as he walked.  I held my breath.  He stopped walking and did a quick double-take.

            “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, spotting my crouched form.  “What the fuck are you doing in my bar?”  He reversed directions towards me.

            Shit.  I pretended to fiddle with my shoe before standing straight.  I flashed a nervous smile.  “Um, hi?”  I quickly scanned the area for something I could clobber this bastard with if things turned nasty.

            He came close enough to see me clearly.  I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.  His eyes scanned me up and down slowly and his scowl quickly melted into a smile.  His face lost its red flush, and with the anger gone he seemed almost friendly, a beardless Santa Claus in a Hugo Boss suit.  Saying that, despite the surprisingly disarming smile there was a hardness to his eyes that he couldn’t hide.  It made him intimidating--especially standing this close, with his heft and height that left me feeling so small.

            “You must be the girl the agency was sending over,” he said.

            Jesus Christ!  Five minutes in a strip club and some sleazeball manager was offering me a job.  “Um, yes?” I squeaked out, thrusting those D-cups out a little more proudly.  His frankly appraising gaze made me want to squirm like you wouldn’t believe.  A slow burn started in my stomach, although I had to admit that in some ways the man’s look seemed less sexual than most of the creeps ogling me on the street.  This guy was appraising the merchandise, not looking to score.

            “My name’s Frank,” he said, thrusting out his hand.

            “Hi, I’m. . . .”  With a sinking feeling in my belly, I gave the first answer that came to mind.  “I’m Candi!” I said, swallowing a deep sigh.  His hand, slightly clammy, ignored my limply extended fingers and seized me by the wrist.

            “Sorry about earlier,” he said.  His grip slid past my arm and found my waist with far too easy familiarity.  Giving me a light tap on the ass that made me jump, he effortlessly led me towards the stage.  I nearly planted my elbow in the bastard’s temple, but narrowly suppressed the urge.

            “No problem,” I answered through gritted teeth.

            “Just having some staffing issues.  Nothing for you to worry about.  After all, my loss is your gain, right?”

            “Yup!” I answered, and forced a giggle.  “It’s like, I’m new to town and when the call came I was, like, just so happy, because I’m desperate for work and. . . .”

            “Of course you are, babe,” Frank said.  “You have any working clothes with you?”

            I blinked at him in confusion.

            He sighed.  “For the audition?”

            What, the bastard expected me to jump on stage?  Yeah, in your fucking dreams, Frank.  I shook my head, earrings dancing against my cheek.

            “Um, I just moved here and. . . .”  My hand fluttered to my lips.  “Oh no!  The agency, they didn’t tell me and . . . oh, I’m so stupid!  I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I’ll just rush home and. . . .”  Okay, yeah, I was laying it on a bit thick but at the moment I just wanted to get the hell out of there.  There was a professional assassin waiting for me outside, but believe me, I’d rather go mano-a-mano with one of Steele’s hired killers than get up on that stage and prance around like this guy’s wet dream.

            “Easy, Candi, easy,” Frank said, giving my ass a ‘comforting’ squeeze that nearly resulted with my knee in his crotch.  He led me towards the Staff Only door.  “You can borrow some shit from the changing room, okay?”

            We passed through the door into a dark hallway.  The slow burn in my stomach redoubled at the sudden realization that I was alone with this strange man in the back of a disreputable club.  No one knew I was here, other than the bastard following me outside.  My fear was irrational; this guy didn’t get to run his club by assaulting every girl that walked through his door.  At least not on the first day of work, anyway.  Besides, I knew I could take him despite my lack of strength.  It wouldn’t be pretty, but especially with surprise on my side I’d kick this jerk’s ass.  Reason did nothing to dispel the anxiety.

            With a final pat on the ass he pushed me through a door.  “You get yourself prettied up, Candi, and I’ll see you on stage in five.”  Again that charming smile, but he spoke with unnerving authority, the kind the suggested something bad might happen if I kept him waiting.

            I smiled over my shoulder at him.  “Okay!” I answered, trying to look grateful and hoping the dark hid my disgust at this man’s touch.  “And Frank?  Thanks for the chance.”

            “No problem, babe.  You hurry up now.”  He pulled out his phone.  “I’ll set up some tunes and wait by the stage.”

            The door shut with a solid click.  I gave Frank a minute to clear out of the hallway and scanned the room.  Last time I’d been back stage in a strip club had been with Candi.  I’d fucked her up against the bare concrete wall behind a rack of cheap fake furs and silver lame stoles.  Five minutes flat, rough and intense and rude, and she’d fucking loved it, nearly gnawing a chunk out of my shoulder as she stifled her moans.  Then she’d quickly changed and slipped back into the bar to work the tables, and you bet your ass I’d loved the idea of her belly being still warm and sweaty from my efforts as she rubbed her ass up against those sad pervs in the bar.  She’d left me to find my own way out, of course, and I’d had to quickly sneak away before the bouncers caught me and embarrassed themselves trying to kick my ass.

            I stepped up to the mirror over the makeup counter.  The startled-looking girl in the mirror’s green eyes were wide with surprise at the situation she found herself in.  Arching my back slightly, I watched as she thrust her chest out and the disarmingly shy smile that contrasted her pose.  But looking closer, anger smouldered beneath those soft features, and her eyes were far harder than Frank could ever imagine.

            The fucking things is this, though: as my eyes danced across the room, taking in the row of ridiculous shoes, those towering spikes and inches of platform, and the scattered collection of sparkly vials and shimmering clothes, I couldn’t help but briefly imagine myself out on that goddamn stage, shaking my ass and twirling around that pole.

            With tits like mine, God, and this fit little body and those years of working out, the grace and dance-like motions that accompanied all my training--goddamn, but I’d make one hell of a stripper.  Better than Candi had been, even--other than one important bit, of course, and the stirring of my cock beneath my skirt (and the tucked-away pain that came with it) snapped me from my reverie.

            Fucking hell.  It seemed just yesterday I’d been swiftly climbing the corporate ladder, with my own office and secretary, wearing tailored suits, screwing sexy girls I’d picked up in painfully fashionable and over-priced bars . . . how the hell did I end up here, backstage in some grotty little strip bar, half-imagining myself twirling around a pole for the entertainment of a bunch of sweaty, sad men?  I gave my head a shake.  Goddamn hormones, stupid pills playing with my head; focus.

            I poked my head out the door.  Empty.  Silent.  Stepping lightly into the hallway, I walked quickly away from the main room.  The door closed behind me with a faint click.  I passed a storage closet, staff toilet, turned a corner and . . . perfect: a back exit.

            Pushing the bar, I gently opened the door an inch.  Blinking in the sudden light, I peeked into a short recess off the main back alley.  It reeked of piss and refuse.   Flies crawled across the taut skin of garbage bags bulging from a large bin pressed up against the brick wall.  The wind breathed down the narrow passage, stirring up dirt--died down--returned stronger than before accompanied by the whistling of cables and drying lines overhead.

            I flicked the lock open so that I could come back this way if I had to.  The door closed shut behind me.  I quickly crossed over to the back alley.  The brick felt rough beneath my palm as I hugged the wall and looked around the corner.

            The alley led about thirty metres back to the main street that the bar opened on to.  He stood there waiting patiently at the corner.  My pursuer.  About six feet tall and slender, with shaggy blond hair and good clothes, a strong chin and angular nose.  A large dumpster and scattered cardboard boxes and strewn garbage lay between the two of us.  An open vent breathed out greasy warm air and the wind’s presence sounded a low howl as it swept down the alley.

            Easy.  I crouched down and picked up a discarded beer bottle.  I slid the bottle into my purse and gave it a solid whack against the ground.  It broke with a muffled crack.  My delicate fingers curled lightly around the neck of the bottle and pulled it out and held it up before my eyes.  The bottom half lay in shattered fragments in the bottom of my purse, and the jagged edges glistened wetly with leftover beer.  A few silent steps to the dumpster, a slow creep along its edge--and then the final rush; even if he heard me it’d be too late.  I imagined thrusting the broken bottle into his neck, the warm gush of blood and gurgled surprise, and smiled.  David: 2, Steele: 0, you fucking bastard.

            I slipped out of my hard-soled shoes and delicately rested my full weight down on my bare feet.  Carefully, mindful of broken glass, I slid into the alley, shuffling forward, weight resting on the edges of my feet, the bottle held loosely in my grip, using the dumpster and boxes for cover.  I moved swiftly forward, staying close to the wall, the wind flowing over me and carrying away every sound, my girlish scent, tossing my hair up in a blonde halo around my face and cool against feverishly hot flesh.  I reached the back of the large metal container.  My nose wrinkled at the stench as I crept closer.

            A momentary oasis of unnaturally intense silence as I crouched behind the dumpster.  I could hear every sound he made, the slight scuff against the ground as he shifted his weight, his exhalation of breath and the rustling of his long coat.  There couldn’t have been more than ten feet of space between us.  My hand tightened its grip on the bottle.  A final exhilarating moment; tightly coiled, I slithered to the edge of my concealment and tensed for the attack.

            “Hey.  It’s Jeff.”

            The man’s voice caused me to pull back.

            “Yeah, reporting in.”  He paused for a moment.  “Tell me about it.  Shitty day.  Think it’s gonna rain.  Feels like a big storm coming in.”

            He kept his voice quiet as he spoke, and his eyes kept a careful watch on the entrance.  A few times he glance up the alley but gave no sign of spotting me.

            “You ready?  Yeah,” my follower said.  “Subject: Cindy Bellamy.  Female, age 20.  Subject left her apartment at 8:11 am and. . . .”  For the next several minutes he gave, at a rapid, clipped pace, a complete litany of my day’s progress.  I was a little put off realizing he’d been following me for longer than I’d known; those damn hormone flashes were playing havoc with my senses.  I should’ve picked up on him the moment I left my apartment.

            “10:48: subject steps into Satori and . . . .”  He stopped for a moment.  “Yeah, Satori.  It’s a titty bar.  Strange name, I know.  You should see this place, absolute dive. Asian-fetish strip club. Bit out of character for this girl if you ask me, but she’d have the bod for it if she got herself a boob job.”

            What the fuck was wrong my boobs?  Damn straight I’ve got the body for it, you fucking jackass.  And as soon as he got off the phone he’d find this body was good for more than just stripping and dancing.

            “That’s it.  She stepped in 15 minutes ago and I’m waiting for her to come out again.  Maybe she’s applying for a job or something, how the hell should I know?  It’s not like she’s got any other job that I’ve seen.  She’s got to make cash somehow.”  He nodded a few time.  “Yeah.  My recommendation?  This is a fucking waste of time.  Why the hell does Steele want this girl followed anyway?”

            I flushed hot, then shivered as a chill danced down my spine.  There was the confirmation I needed: Steele was still behind all this bullshit.  Guilt flashed through me at having doubted Agent K--but only momentarily.  The constant weight of tits nestled in lacy cups, the heft of long hair and tackiness of makeup didn’t leave much room for anything but anger at the thought of that bitch and her betrayal.

            “No, I’m not questioning the boss’s orders.  You think I’ve got a death wish?  But what the hell do you want me to say?  This chick’s life is boring.  She wanders around the city and drinks coffee and spends most of her day in her apartment getting drunk.”  He paused.  “Yeah, she’s been buying loads of booze.  Nah, I don’t think she’s got any friends.”

            And you know, hearing this bastard judge my life like that--so flippantly, so dismissively--fuck, it actually hurt, you know?  Stupid thing to be feeling, crouched as I was, coiled and ready to spring forward; but the stark truth of what he’d said hit me so hard I almost had to blink away tears.

            The fucker listened for a bit, grunting a confirmation at the occasional unheard question.  Finally he shrugged.  “Well, no,” he said, his voice grudging.  “But the info we’ve got on her says she’s just come out of another round of therapy and surgery, right?  She’s a fucking basketcase.  Of course she’s going to be acting a bit . . . yeah.  Yes.”  He sighed.  “No, she hasn’t exactly been acting in a way consistent with her profile.  But even if her behaviour doesn’t match her profile, her recent--

            “She’s been aloof.  You can quote me: ‘moments of extreme sociability that seem forced, followed by long stretches of alienation and introspection.’  No.  No.  Yes, from the profile I expected a ditzy blonde or something, a real flirt, but . . . hey, don’t get me wrong, she’s hot and dresses sexy but . . . hell yes!  I’d do her, but there’s something about this girl that’s a bit off . . . something in her body language, the way she holds herself when she’s not moving.  Like I said--she just left a clinic, right?”

            My muscles were beginning to ache.  I wanted to stretch out but didn’t dare move.  This guy--Jeff--even in his conversation his senses clearly remained alert, mindful of the entrance to the club and any movement in the alley.  A few times he had to cup his phone to be heard as the wind whistled through, filling my ears and carrying away his voice, and I had to fall back on long-disused lip-reading skills or risk missing out on what he was saying.  Still, I was counting on that wind to conceal my presence when I moved.

            “Alright, fine.  It’s Steele’s money.  She’s acting odd.  I’ll continue the surveillance.”  With that he clicked his phone shut and slid it back in his pocket.

            And that was my moment: his brief distraction as he ended the conversation.  A short window in which I could rush forward and that’d be that, throat ripped wide open, dead before he hit the ground, his hand still in his goddamn pocket, blood spreading in a slow, dark pool around his unmoving body as his vision dimmed, his last sight my cruel smile. . . .

            Only I didn’t.  Instead I backed away, quietly, back into the bar, and left the broken bottle standing behind the dumpster in the alley.

Six: Fuckin’ A

Later that night, after a long shower and several stiff shots of whisky, I sat on my sofa and stared out at the rain that pounded against the patio door, shattering the glimmering city lights into a defuse glow.  The storm had finally broken.  Dressed in a fluffy robe with my smooth legs curled up beneath me, I slowly clenched and unclenched my hand and found that I couldn’t dispel the phantom presence of the invisible weight of a broken beer bottle.

            That asshole--what was his name, Jeff?--would never know how close he came to dying today.

            Instead I’d made my way back through the bar.  Given Frank some bullshit excuse, a tearful apology about how I couldn’t get up on that stage, how I thought I could but I couldn’t, I wasn’t that kind of girl. . . .  Really melodramatic, you know?  And he’d been surprisingly understanding, which was a good thing because I’d still been in a fighting mood, tense and ready to kick the guy in the nuts if he gave me any hassle.  Instead he gave me his card, told me to call if I ever changed my mind.  Yeah, don’t hold your breath, Frank.

            I should’ve killed him.  Jeff.  My shadow.  I would’ve enjoyed it.  Another chance to strike back at Steele, at this goddamn maniac who’d destroyed my life.  My hand clenched tight again and I felt my anger bubble up within as a physical presence, a stifling weight that left me flushed and hot.  Somehow I’d find the bastard.  Make him pay.  Steele was the one that I wanted to make bleed--not some anonymous stalker-for-hire.

            Killing Jeff would’ve given me away.  Better to maintain the illusion.  Fool him, fool them all.  They had a profile.  How, from where?  Probably from the Clinic--K had said something about Steele’s men hacking into their network.  So they knew what Cindy was like, psychological evaluations and all that shit.  And as long as I acted differently than what they expected, as long as I wasn’t the twenty year-old chick they expected. . . .

            They’d be watching.

            I’d play their fucking game.  I’d be the girliest fucking girl they’d ever seen.  I’d dress pretty and live this shitty life they’d forced on me and no one would ever suspect that behind this painted smile and innocent wide eyes, someone--something--else entirely lurked.  Eventually my followers would wander off.  I’d be free.  They all seemed to have these goddamn profiles, character sketches of who I was.  David Saunders.  Cindy Bellamy.

            They didn’t have a fucking clue of who I really was.

            I’d be watching.  And waiting.  And when their attention wandered elsewhere I’d be the one following.  This was their game but I was damn well going to make it mine.

            With sudden resolve I surged to my feet and stalked to the middle of the room.  I dropped to me knees and stretched out across the floor.  I rested both hands, palms flat against the floor, on either side of my chest.  A deep breathe, another . . . and I pushed.

            First in my triceps, then both shoulders, and finally my chest: the burn, and then the ache.  My arms trembled.  I pushed and strained and slowly lifted off the floor. . . .

            I held it for five seconds--five eternal, agonizing, magnificent seconds--arms fully extended, wobbling and weak, eyes watering with the effort; and then my strength suddenly evaporated and I dropped back to the floor.

            A full hundred pounds--and fuckin’ A!  I could do at least one!

            And tomorrow, I’d do two. . . .

Continues in Chapter 03