Page 19 of Tate: Gemini King
The state senator’s daughter, an eighteen year old prom queen who looks like she belongs in a knitting circle, not a sex circle, was apparently the ring leader. I hate the thought of someone that young having sex. I know it’s technically legal, but it’s gross now that I’m this close to thirty. The poor girl is half naked in an angel costume with a blanket around her back while she coughs on the lawn. This shit is grim.
Holy fuck, some people are going to be in big trouble.
The cops are already on the scene by the time I get two more people out and the chief demands I take a break from smoke inhalation and get a headcount of the reckless teenagers we have out on the lawn. The state senator’s daughter stands in tears before Zedekiah and Kane Strangeway, who are both the last people a new adult would want to confess her dirty secrets to. I feel bad for the poor kids, even if they’re clearly freaks.
I can’t imagine having to hear that gross shit about a teenager. Maybe that’s more of a job for Fletcher Sweeney. I heard there was quite the age difference between him and his wife. Fletcher, unfortunately, is occupied with the more important task of commanding all the officers around and likely preparing for all hell to break loose when the senator gets back from… wherever he is.
By the time we get the fire put out, there has to be more than two feet of snow on the ground. The basement and half the first floor are fucked, but nobody died. A few kids are in bad condition, but not critical. I can’t feel my fingers or anything on my face. I briefly wonder what Natasha might be up to, but I get distracted again by Fletcher Sweeney demanding I walk over and explain exactly what compromising materials I saw when I first walked into the blazing mansion.
Everyone knows this shit is gonna be a big scandal and they want to get ahead of it. I can’t say I blame them, but I wasn’t worried about a scandal when I was out there saving lives.
When I honestly respond that I was focused on moving bodies, not evidence, he mutters something rude about firefighters being “more dimwitted” than the police force. I get it, he’s stressed out about how he’s going to explain a teen sex cult to the most powerful man in our small town after the mayor…
Just when I think it couldn’t get worse, a lifted Ford F-150 with our local newspaper’s logo printed on the side skids through the snow and stops in front of the charred mansion. The teenagers impulsively huddle together behind the cops for protection. Bright LED lights sweep across the snowy embankment before the truck comes to a dead stop.
I hate the goddamn press. Three reporters jump out of the truck, suited up in ridiculous winter costumes like they’re going skiing and not possibly stumbling upon someone’s personal tragedy. Luckily, no one seems to have died from the activities in the basement, but a lot of kids might not make it through the night once their parents find out they were involved…
The cops attempt to form a barricade around the teenagers, but one of them inexplicably breaks free, completely naked romping through the snow and says, “It’s a free country! It’s a free country!”
Well. That answers the unspoken question about whether drugs were involved or not…
Why do I feel like we’re going to be here all damn night? Natasha is going to kill me when I finally set her free.
* * *
nine
Natasha
I am never and I mean never buying a magic spell from some social media bitch posing as a witch ever again. Sorry for using the b-word, but I am pissed off, tied up and ready to file a class action lawsuit. Of course, I can’t sue over a goddamn spell…
But I can stay mad.
That trifling ass hoe was faker than her barely-secured AliExpress wig and I swear I am going to commit a real life motherfucking crime once I get free from this captivity. I scream again, even if no one has heard me for hours and I am losing my voice. I hate this shit.
This is some bullshit. Tate should be dead right now. Instead, I’m drunk, half naked and he left me tied to the bed overnight with my ass in the fucking air. My body hurts. I feel ten years older than my age and my voice is hoarse from screaming and crying and trying to activate Siri and Alexa. These bitch ass fake females left me to rot. If I had an ounce of moisture left in my body, I would be crying by now.
I’m not the only one fucked up because of Tate’s irresponsible ass running away in the middle of the night to save townsfolk from a stupid ass fire. What about Terrorist? He called that dog our baby and what does he do? He abandons both of us. He is fucked up in the head and I am tired of it.
Tate probably got off work hours ago and he’s getting drunk at some bar looking at some whore named Carla’s bad boob job. I know, I know. That’s way too specific. But it’s possible. I have all the time in the world to conjure up the worst case scenarios. Tate might have married the whore and now, he’s never coming back. It serves me right for calling her a whore.
“HELP!” I call out helplessly. My voice comes out like the last squeak of a mouse caught in a trap. I’ll die in this bed. The curse backfired and I’m going to be the one dead.
Terrorist only barked intermittently throughout the night, but now that it’s morning time and his tiny chihuahua body has burnt through all his previously consumed calories, he is acting the fuck up. I thought he might get tired of barking, but he doesn’t. He wants his fucking food and he wants it now.
I have never heard an animal make that much noise in my entire goddamn life. The barking ends up sounding like human screaming and I wonder if his lungs are going to give out.
The more I call out to Terrorist, the more he just keeps barking like crazy. He wants me to save him and feed him, but there’s nothing I can do. Tate is the worst roommate ever. Now that I’m sober, I have a clear understanding that this is the worst thing the stupid bastard has ever done to me and it’s unforgivable. I’m going to starve to death with Terrorist. I don’t know which of us starves first. I hope it’s me.
I can’t tell if my luck improves or gets worse when I hear the doorbell ring. It can’t be Tate or he would just walk in through the front door, so it must be someone else. After this many hours tied to the bed, I can’t give a shit about some stranger seeing me in a compromising position.
“HELP!” I yell with all the required shamelessness. “HELP!”
I don’t hear a voice, but I hear a promising sound as the person on the other side of the door jostles the handle.
“PLEASE HELP ME!” I scream, considering for a split second that I ought to give the person walking through my apartment some type of warning that I’m tied up to the bed and looking a hot mess. They still haven’t announced themselves, but I hear unnervingly heavy footsteps that make me think the person who just walked in to save me is probably a man.
Maybe it’s our landlord or something. Who else would have a key? Maybe Tate left the door unlocked… Oh my God… I just invited a rapist or criminal into our apartment and I’m tied to the bed!