Shades Of Obsession Read online

  Shades of Obsession

  JR King

  Copyright © 2014 by JR King. All rights reserved. No part of this Ebook may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact [email protected]

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Alexander Turner: The Trumped-Up Little Prick

  Alexander Turner: The Man At Work

  Elena Anderson: The Rape

  Alexander Turner: The PR Guy

  Alexander Turner: The Japan Anomaly

  Alexander Turner: The Final Designation

  Elena Anderson: The Girl In Action

  Elena Anderson: The Return To Boston

  Alexander Turner: The CEO At Work

  Alexander Turner: The Twin Sister Experiment

  Alexander Turner: The Big Brother Element

  Alexander Turner: The Lonely Saturday

  Alexander Turner: The Good Dominant

  Alexander Turner: The Final Goodbye

  Alexander Turner: The Guys’ Night Out

  Alexander Turner: The Man On The Sixtieth Floor

  Alexander Turner: The Man Meets Girl

  Elena Anderson: The Public Transport Conundrum

  Elena Anderson: The Girl Meets Dominant

  Alexander Turner: The Man Seduces Girl

  Alexander Turner: The First Supper

  Alexander Turner: The Contingent Truth

  Elena Anderson: The Memento Theft

  Elena Anderson: The Jonathan Archer Excitation

  Alexander Turner: The Road To Hell

  Alexander Turner: The Road To Recovery

  Alexander Turner: The Prodigal Father

  Elena Anderson: The Moving Onward Solution

  Elena Anderson: The Reality Check

  Elena Anderson: The Perfume Addiction

  Elena Anderson: The Boy Meets Girl Consensus

  Alexander Turner: The Diary And The Poker Game

  Alexander Turner: The New Kid On The Block

  Alexander Turner: The New Girlfriend

  Elena Anderson: The Only Choice

  Elena Anderson: The First Date

  Elena Anderson: The New Boyfriend

  Alexander Turner: The Other Man

  Alexander Turner: The Sadist In Me

  Alexander Turner: The Beginning Of The End

  Alexander Turner: The Menton Variable

  Elena Anderson: The Unfortunate Comeback

  Alexander Turner: The Copley Square And BPL

  Elena Anderson: The Symphony Hall

  Elena Anderson: The Infidelity

  Elena Anderson: The Last Request

  Elena Anderson: The Not Secret Rendezvous

  Alexander Turner: The Opera House

  Alexander Turner: The Masquerade Ball—His

  Alexander Turner: The Dominatrix

  Elena Anderson: The Harassment Games

  Elena Anderson: The Unnamed Ristorante

  Elena Anderson: The Inevitable Breakup

  Elena Anderson: The Rebound Guy

  Elena Anderson: The First Punishment

  Elena Anderson: The Best Gift

  Elena Anderson: The Perfect Christmas

  Alexander Turner: The End

  Alexander Turner: The New Year’s Eve Celebration

  Elena Anderson: The Loneliest Night Of The Year

  Elena Anderson: The Kidnapping

  Elena Anderson: The Office Games

  Alexander Turner: The Fall From Grace

  Elena Anderson: The Drama-Free Decision

  Alexander Turner: The Good Sadist

  Elena Anderson: The Next Morning

  Alexander Turner: The Second Stabbing

  Alexander Turner: The Monogamy Alternative

  Elena Anderson: The Playroom Potential

  Elena Anderson: The Safeword Reflection

  Alexander Turner: The Bloody Solution

  Elena Anderson: The Awful Sunday

  Elena Anderson: The Second Week

  Author’s Note

  SOO is a work of fiction and any resemblance between its characters and real people is purely coincidental and for literary effect. The same can be said for references to public figures, businesses, buildings, and brand names. Incidents are products of my imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Commercial products and prevalent services are also used fictitiously and are not intended to disparage any company’s products or services.

  It might sound like I’m making excuses about literary licenses, but this is simply my way of saying I know which companies occupy the floors of the John Hancock Tower. I guess for my part, coming up with another sixty-story building smack dab in the heart of Boston seems too far-fetched. The story is such that it flows better if the setting is real-world relatable, believable. So, forgive me this literary leap. I’ve tried my best to comply, but there are probably a few things that aren’t completely accurate with the timeline in these pages. That’s okay, though. It’s not intended to be an in-depth, painstakingly accurate tome. It’s meant to be an enjoyable distraction while cradling a glass of your favorite drink.

  SOO is the first in a series; it has a proper ending. It’s bold and unapologetically extravagant, deliberately and blissfully over-the-top, featuring both a male and a female protagonist. They engage the reader, are impenitent, and live life to the fullest.

  In essence, it’s a romantic thriller that breaks the mold. It contains adult content, trampling obvious social convention, so if you’re sexually repressed/oppressed, are short-ranged or have any sexual hang-ups and thereby are unable to read such material, please do not purchase.

  Although literary in nature, there is—semi-excessive—use of description and detail regarding eating disorder, kidnapping, rape, and substance use. To prevent the drama its shock value will bring forth, I’ll quote Philip Pullman. “It was a shocking thing to say and I knew it was a shocking thing to say. But no one has the right to live without being shocked. No one has the right to spend their life without being offended. Nobody has to read this book. Nobody has to pick it up. Nobody has to open it.”

  There’s more to his speech, but I won’t burden you any further. If you are able, welcome aboard for the ride, and please use your good judgment when reading this material. It’s a work of fiction and should be treated as such. I hope you enjoy reading this first installment as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  “I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

  A stage where every man must play a part,

  And mine a sad one.

  Shakespeare—The Merchant of Venice

  Alexander Turner

  The Trumped-Up Little Prick

  I was thinking: today is as good a day as any to die. That’s what Peter Bergman was about to find out. Unpardonably, he lay at my feet on the cobbled floor, his eyes open, the skin around them and down his cheek discolored. The heart that’d kept him alive for a modest eighteen years was still beating. Even as a quarterback, he was short compared to me and I started smiling. Probably he had a small dick, too. I disliked short men; they cause havoc because their tiny-sized brains always feel compelled to overcompensate for genetic shortcomings. History spoke for itself, no? Short men were bred-in-the-bone ELFs. Evil Little Fellas. Now hold it right there. What I disliked more than short men were boys who are the catcher-in-the-rye type of idiot. Young, Converse sneakered boys loaded with freckles, a retard’s laugh, and destructive angst. This one right here happened to have acne galore, you would concur.

  Hold on for another sec. As River Song would say: spoilers! As a straightshooter, I’ll be breaking the literary equivalent of the proscenium—AKA the fourth wall, so
if that’s not your thing, skip the book. If you’re a stuck-up prude, this won’t be your cup of tea, so beat it. If you came here seeking a thrill, know that I won’t allow myself to disappoint you. But more so, consider that perhaps you’re not the right sort of person to read this type of book. Maybe you’re craving a romantic tale about a jobless, deadbeat hero, and penurious settings laced with the sordidness of rancid sweat, the stench of stale urine, germ-infested rooms, two-dollar wells, foul-smelling foods, and a shit-ton of boring sexual practices. I’d say crawl back to your wretched communist exile. Maybe the quixotic portrayal of a vigilante bottom feeder who has romantic notions about clean-up duties grows you hard, gentlemen; or moistens you, ladies—off you go, then.

  If you’ve heard of Boston Legal and Gossip Girl and know how to enjoy an offensively overpriced Napa Valley cabby—Harlan Estate or Screaming Eagle for example—chances are you can easily digest fiction peppered with glossy images of super-rich lifestyles, sculpted bodies, worldly locales, and gastronomic cuisine. Threesomes and submissives are so last year, aren’t they? No spooky backpacking, only globetrotting, I tell it like it is and attempt to share my experience with you. I won’t give you sugared lies nor will I prettify or dumb down situations for your sake. On second thought, don’t get me started on particulars. All I can say is that there’s enough thrill and old-fashioned drama—not to be confused with a drama-infested puke-fest, and bawdy Irish toasts. You want to see me get my shit together and grow up? By all means, grab a bottle and fucking stay with me. And, no matter how I might try to convince you at times on this journey, I understand I’m not perfect. All I can say in my defense is that I try to leave people a little better than how I found them. Even though I don’t always succeed, my best friends made me a better person, so the least I can do is try to return the favor. Last of all, if you like reading a romance about men who become better men because of the love of a good woman, this story might work for you.

  Imagine that, I just used romance and love in the same sentence.

  Back to pimple-ridden Peter. “What did you do to her, dickwad? Why’s she in the hospital?”

  He gave me the ferocious look, eyes bulging, teeth bared. “She’s crazy—had a nervous breakdown. Shit. Elena is crazy!”

  “Off on a tangent here, explain to me why you’ve been spreading strange rumors. Sullying her reputation by saying she offered you her virginity for 5k feels good?”

  “She’s a piece of trash, took the money, I swear! Got no bang for my buck, that bitch is frigid like an Eskimo. Thinks her shit doesn’t stink.”

  It took willpower like never seen before not to snap his neck. Trying to make him understand was a lost cause, there wasn’t enough intelligence in this world to burst his bubble. “She’s a child, goddamn it!” The outcome was inevitable; it wasn’t give and take, it wasn’t a transaction between two people—it was murder. These dark elements? They were part of my genetic makeup.

  To be perfectly open and blunt, I’d never committed murder. I didn’t aspire to become a killer, and I didn’t want to realize any of my violent fantasies. But mess with the girl I loved—while she was a teenager—and well, Peter was lucky I hadn’t beaten him to death with a Calphalon pan after mutilating him beyond recognition.

  “This dickhead’s denial is pretty damn eloquent. I think he enjoyed ruining the life of an innocent, underage girl,” sneered Robert. “What percentage of men fantasizes about raping a woman six ways from Sunday, boy?”

  Clueless, Peter’s mouth opened and closed.

  “Men who rape, or just fantasize about it? There’s a big difference,” I observed, musing about my dark fantasies. I fantasized about all sorts of awful stuff. I assumed everyone did, just most people didn’t have the urge to realize any of it. Surprisingly, a slim percentage worked up appropriate and sick courage, which is to say that the human mind is far more creative, darker, and sicker than reality. But who cares about reverting an upside down reality? We all want beauty, money, and sexual prowess so we can buy the best kind of love.

  “Furthermore,” I picked up, “I doubt this misbegotten QB is smart enough to memorize facts.”

  Robert pressed on, “Men who just fantasize about it. Any idea?” He was a beefy man with a bald head, which was a personal choice rather than him being follically challenged. According to Freud, the quintessential mama’s boy should be gay, but Robert was straight. His black eyes were small and deeply inset like chocolate chips in a tollhouse cookie, sharp intelligence marking them. To my knowledge, he was the best fixer in town, a fast and loose exception of every rule. Best like a champion, you know? Just the way fired-up Red Sox virtuosos had a feeling for the sweet spot of the bat, he had a feeling for surveillance and redirection. So, landing in the belly of the beast was of no concern to me.

  “10%?” Peter replied, his voice cracking.

  “Helluva job, fucking A. QB is on a roll.” Robert winked at me and when his foot crushed Peter’s leg, I thought I heard the fibula snap. “Your turn, hotshot.”

  I was silent as I thought. “I guess more than anyone’s willing to admit?”

  “Wild guess?”

  The veins at my temples throbbed. “Not to piss on myself, but we are talking about men, right? Because women de facto fantasize as much about it, the only difference is that they don’t fantasize about the violence.”

  “I’m talking about men and rape, not women and ravishment.”

  I shrugged. “50%?”

  “Close enough, it’s 57%, give or take a percent.”

  I grinned, contented. “No shit.”

  Rapes irked me as much as dead-enders who failed to seek forgiveness and were unwilling to accept penance. Not that any such man deserves forgiveness; one can only hope. Couldn’t see the difference between this and fundamentalists—Christians, Muslims, Jews—either. I had a simple motto when it came to sex: pussy not freely given isn’t worth taking.

  The instant a ball of something vile and acidic starting forming in my chest, inching its way up my throat, I sped things up. “Did you apologize, Peter? Did you try to make amends? Absolution is important, and so is taking responsibility.”

  “Only the weak apologize. That bitch had it coming, teasing me with her un-fucked pussy and young ass. Dude, how old are you? Have you any idea what it feels like to be inside a teenage girl? Try tight ass?” He even, I shit you not, had the temerity to smile the smuggest, evilest smile I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Reprehensible. I don’t, scumbag.”

  “Why’d you pick me up? Wanna do her together?” He grinned with sickening confidence.

  With that, and because my father’s blood ran in my veins, my hand began moving. As I maneuvered it downward, the shiny tip of the blade I held caught sparks of the spotlights.

  Peter shrieked. “Shit. Oh shit! I won’t go near her again. I swear!” Fresh tears and wails erupted as I went closer and closer, unbridled rage burning in my eyes. I knew what would happen if I succumbed to the evil inside me.

  Seconds later, I would most likely stand motionless, one hand firmly on the blade. I would watch the blood flow out of the little prick. Marveling at its glorious color. Watch it fill his lungs and if he coughed he would blow red bubbles that foamed over his chin. Several minutes would pass as another man bit the dust, his blood disappearing into the craggy chasms of the cobblestones. Once the flow slowed to a mere trickle, he’d be dead, officially.

  The blade was half warm from resting in my coat. What came to mind was gutting, the immediate thought coupled with flinging, tossing the blade away. I didn’t cut him, and yet I was totally lost in the moment. Consciousness seemed distant as I stood up. There wasn’t a lull, everything was strangely lucid, but also bodiless.

  Then I registered the bare brick walls, tall arched windows, exposed ductwork, and factory-floor open space. We were far from the bowels of the city, no sane person would knowingly venture in this part of no man’s land.

  I felt a hard lump forming into the pit
of my stomach. I realized that killing the lil’ fucker would leave something dark in me, something that would never dissolve. I just didn’t want to know how taking another person’s life would feel.

  While Peter wet himself and passed out, I was brainstorming. Being a corporate whore, I was good at that. I moved the double cuff of my shirt away to check the face of my Patek Philippe wristwatch. Indeed, it was the face of a diamond-encrusted watch that cost more than your annual salary—and yes, I always conscientiously quote brand names.

  Why? Pick your favorite.

  Because the potency of marketing is all that matters these days: from accidental sex-tapes to selfies to faking it for the sake of charity, we’re all name-calling whores. Because we’re slaves to insidious mass consumerism. Because America’s a master of promoting materialism. Because a man of my ilk is the ultimate consumer: a byproduct of Western society’s brilliance. Because I’m a simple dot in a throwaway society, ranking on the highest echelon of statistics.

  And because I know the frigging drama is going to come, let me say this now. Sure, somewhere in the early 1990’s, a well-known author wrote American Psycho. It portrays a man void of all empathy, obsessed with the striking consumption of branded products, and the author uses the constant mentioning of brand names as a way to illustrate the protagonist’s obsessive bent. To precisely depict how he deals with the sordid dregs of psychopathic tendencies or some shit like that. To show us that it’s not the wannabes who refer to everything by brand name, it’s the 1% who do that since they don’t feel guilty.

  I didn’t suffer the same affliction. To put it politely, I wasn’t a total psychopath; disinhibition and utter heartlessness weren’t behavioral attributes I possessed naturally, but depending on the who and when, I was capable of heartless cruelty. I wasn’t a shut-in retard, I was compassionate and gentle—really, I was—but I had a cruel streak if people were dicks, and since most of them failed to prove me wrong, well, you do the math.

  But, I digress. I know what I was capable of, and by no means did I hide how terrifying and relentless I could be. The inner workings of my mangled mind were a therapist’s ultimate phrenology wet dream—not that I’d grant any therapist such a pleasure, however remarkable. Now why would I present myself as someone you could relate to, you ask?