Resentment: A Psychological Thriller - 6. Episode 6

Thomas

I opened my eyes, rolled over, and found the bed empty. Gone. Just to prove to myself it wasn't a dream, I pressed my hand to the mattress. The spot still felt warm from his dream. No, I reassured myself, not a dream. He hadn't left a note saying goodbye. Why would he? He was probably at home with his beautiful wife, or building his empire.

Despite my attempt to shut out these thoughts, I found myself pressing the pillow where he'd laid his head, and breathed in deeply. There it was: the spiciness of his sweat. It sent the memories of what had happened last night rocketing back into my brain with perfect clarity. I could still feel his hands on me, the prickle of his stubble against my skin and the taste of his cum on my tongue; the raw guttural sound of him moaning in ecstasy; his fingers twinning and twisting their way through my hair. A pleasant ache licked at my body.

I pressed the back of my knuckles to my lips. It was strange to feel this way so soon, so unexpectedly. To think of all places, on this little dot of an island, I would experience such an encounter. I hadn't even been looking for it. And I told myself that it could never happen again.

I did my best to stay busy over the next few days. I had come here to jump start my creative brain, and I would not leave this island until I'd done so. So I read, fingering my way cautiously through the books offered downstairs to discover there was quite a bit that appealed to me, and took long walks along the beach. I got a sunburn. I went to the pub, drank my rum and cokes, and wrote.

It may seem backhanded not to tell you what I was writing about, but that is not my reason for telling you about this moment in my life. The important thing to understand is that I was simply writing. Putting words on paper. After months of staring at a blank page, this felt like a revelation. Though I would not have said it at the time, I was well aware of not what but who the cause of this revelation was. To say his name would have been to admit defeat, to admit this sudden burst of inspiration was not partially my doing.

On the afternoon marking my first week on the island, I called my agent, Ruth Benson. I made an ordeal of it, walking down to The Netted Eel and using the payphone; for my efforts I was rewarded with the usual scowls and corner-eyed glances.

“I am happy to hear it,” she said, still trying to convince me she was royalty; I always have to bite my tongue and remind her she wouldn’t have as many jewels in her crown if it weren’t for me. “Now that the buzz of your little ordeal is starting to die down, it might be good to write something that will wash the bad taste out of everyone’s mouth.”

My breath quickened. “Is it bad?”

“Not publicly. We’ve managed to keep quite a bit out of it in the media. If you were Tom Cruise your face would be smeared all over the TV screen, fortunately you’re not. But they still talk about it in writing circles. So what is this new project? A new Hitchcockian thriller?”

I licked my lips. This whole thing with the trial had ruffled my feathers and now I was struggling to put words together. “Uh…actually…it’s more of a romance.”

“You’ve written romance before,” Ruth replied, bating me.

I pulled at the back of my collar. Agamemon’s faced hovered before mine, his eyes dark and burning with desire. Fuck, you’re amazing, he said. “This is different. It’s the focus, not just a subplot.”

“Tell me more,” Ruth growled, sounding hungry.

“It’s kind of risque,” I hedged.

“I love risque.”

So I told her.

Back at the inn, I was halfway up the stairs when the phone in my room started to ring. I sighed. I wasn't in the mood for another hour long conversation with my mother. Since she'd found out that I left town, she's been calling me every day, so I'd made a point of not answering it. Now I'd made up my mind to tell her this had to stop. I was an adult, and could take a trip without having to tell her what I was doing every second of the day.

I picked up the phone. "Mom," I said, "I really appreciate that you keep checking on me, but I need this to stop. I'm here to work."

"Thomas," Agamemnon's gruff, manly, definitely-not-my-mother's voice said. "Is this a bad time?"

"Fuck. Ugh, no. Sorry," I stammered. "I thought you were someone else."

"Your mother, perhaps?" he asked with an amused chuckle.

"What do you want?" I asked a little more sharply than I intended.

"I thought you would have headed back to the mainland by now, but I'm glad to see you're still here. The thought of not giving you a proper goodbye and wouldn't have sat well with me. Unfortunately, I have been caught up with work, in hope that you can forgive my rudeness."

I leaned against the dresser, my mouth hanging open. I didn't know what to say. The regret in Agamemnon's voice sounded so genuine it caught me off guard. If wasn't until he said, "Are you still there?", that I found my voice again. "That's quite all right, I didn't take it personally. I figured you…" Didn't want anything to do with me. "...were just busy as you said. And no, I have not left yet."

"Roxanne and I were wondering if you would join us for dinner again this evening. Unless you already have dinner plans, that is."

"I was just writing."

"Working on a new book?"

I smiled, silently praying the note of interest I heard in his voice wasn't just a figment of my imagination. "I might have something. It's too soon to tell at the moment."

"Great. Roxanne will be happy. I will have Marsali, our housekeeper, come and pick you up from the inn at six o' clock."

Having hung up, I sunk back into the bed. Roxanne will be happy to see you; not I will be happy to see you.

"Shut the fuck up," I said a loud to the empty room.

My ride to the lighthouse turned out to be a young woman named Marsali. She was working with Apaulos to save up money. "I want to go to the city," she told me with a look of reverence on her face. "I just got my acceptance letter from Roc City University. Now I just have to save up the cash. I don't know what I would do without Mr. Apaulos!"

Marsali was like a wistful stock character straight from a small-town sitcom: the small town girl living in a lonely world. I liked her.

When we arrived at the lighthouse, Marsali and I found Agamemnon and Roxanne sitting in the living room with cocktails in hand. Hunger gnawed at my belly, awoken by the smell of roasting meat coming from the direction of the kitchen. “Thomas!” Roxanne greeted, apparently glad to see me. With drink in hand, she got up and crossed the room to give me a tight hug. The smell of her perfume, something floral, stung my nostrils unpleasantly. "I'm so glad you could make it!"

"She glanced up at the spot over my eyebrow. "That wound looks so much better. I imagine it won't be much longer before the stitches are ready to come out."

Agamemnon came up beside his wife to shake my hand. The calloused feel if his skin triggered memories of what had transpired a week ago. The intense scrutiny if his brown eyes, the hints of mischief that peeked out like rays of sunlight from dark clouds; and then completely unhooded when I'd taken his cock all the way to the back of my throat, emptying his balls as if his cum was an elixir; the chill of the ocean water as it pulled us down into unwavering darkness. That night I'd thought I'd glimpsed a sliver of the truth he locked away from everyone including his wife.

Now his stony countenance showed nothing, save for polite interest; it was as if a cave had fallen in, obscuring the truth "Was the drive okay? " he asked me.

A pain of hurt and confusion echoed inside me, but I refuse to let it reach the surface. So I smiled instead, and said, "It was just fine." You are not in Rock City anymore, I reminded myself. Things are very different at Adermoor Cove. It didn't make the sense of betrayal I felt easier to stomach. I refocused that smile on Marsali, who stood at the edge of the scene, spectator in the audience; it seemed to me she was the only face in the room not capable of displaying deception. "You put me in very good hands."

Has a reward for my compliment I was brought a cocktail. Roxanne appeared to be in fine spirits today. Her eyes flashed with excitement and I could tell from the flesh of her cheeks, she'd had a drink or two before my arrival.

"I have good news," she announced. "My agent sent me the script for a new film. It's a drama."

"Are you going to take it? " I asked, but it was Agamemnon's face that I watched. He was too busy stirring his drink with a straw, the ice clinking and against the glass, to show interest to his wife's news. I filed this detail away, wondering why he'd married her in the first place. I'd heard of marriages running dry, but the cold chill between them was impossible to ignore. The fact that she didn't show the slightest sign of being hurt by his disinterest only made the fact more plain. They were unhappy and had been unhappy for a long time. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.

"I don't know. I read the script and like it, but haven't fully made up my mind yet. "

I took a sip of my cocktail. " What's stopping you? "

"Making a film with a budget has big as this one is an arduous task, " she explained. " There's a lot of traveling and I won't be home much. " Roxanne tipped her glass back, draining the rest of her cocktail down in a single gulp. "Marsalli, dear would you mind fetching me another

Agamemnon scowled at her, his dark eyes slanted. "Don't you think you've had enough tonight?"

"I'll have as much as I damn well want! " she snapped back.

This is like watching a scene straight from one of my books, I thought to myself. The moment where the tension reaches its peak, and then someone dies. And all I could do was sit there, helpless, with a front row seat to an ugly and loveless marriage. It hit me then that their vows of matrimony and devotion were nothing more than a farce. Then Roxanne seem to remember I was still in the room and the hostility drained from her face. "Perhaps you could take a look at the script and give me your opinion. I have a few days before I have to give my agent an answer."

I told her I would be more than happy to.

It was close to midnight by the time Marcalli drove me back to the Clam's Pearl Inn. I climbed up to my hotel room on legs made of jelly, my belly full of wine and rich food. Roxanne and I had talked a good deal about her movie. It was during this talk that I remembered she was more than just an actress and a wife, but a person with insecurities and a need for reassurance just like everyone else. People who don't know any better sometimes forget that artists, whether they be actors or authors, can be just as fucked up.

Has I kicked off my shoes and curled up in the bed, Agamemnon's cold face became fixed in my mind. He said barely ten words to me that night, en closing himself behind a wall made of ice and rejection; not just of his wife but me as well.

I wish I could say I had the presence of mind and the self esteem to say that his rejection didn't bother me, but that would be a lie.

It hurt like hell.

Jude

The two kings at last made it to the castle. It would be an arduous undertaking: the plumbing would have to be updated, the wallpaper stripped and replaced, and that is just the beginning. Luckily we aren't lacking in money or time.

The wallpaper in what would be my office came away easily; time had left its dusty fingerprints against the ocean blue with white sailboats. I stopped, running my fingers over the patch of the decorative paper. After searching high and low all over the Cove and the internet, I'd managed to find a copy of the print. Why I wanted the same exact thing for this room I couldn't say. It just seemed…right.

All the debris went into a white trash bag by the door. Prince played on the stereo, singing about making out once, love 'em and leave 'em fast. Everything was in disarray. To an outsider it might seem Duane and I were committing sacrilege, tearing, discarding, ripping up old strips of flooring that sagged and creaked precariously underfoot. As with most things in life, you have to destroy things before you can fix it and make it better.

Duane stepped into the room. His white tank top was smeared with stripes of blue paint. He smelled of English leather and aftershave. “Peekaboo,” he said. His dark eyes flashed with mischief and desire.

“I see you,” I finished. Our bodies came together in the middle of the room. He grabbed me then, strong hands cupping my ass through the fabric of my shorts. His lips pressed against mine, strong and insistent. I wiggled away with a giggle. “Let me at least take a shower first…I stink.” I waved my hand in front of my face to illustrate the point.

“I don’t care,” he purred, voice thick and husky. This time when he grabbed me, I pressed myself to him, unable to resist any longer. I slid my hands down the waistband of his shorts. His erection pulsed against my fingers, hot to the touch and full of blood. I grazed his bottom lip with my teeth, gently pulling at the flesh. My effort was rewarded with a groan of exaltation, a wordless plea to keep doing what I was doing.

When it was all said and done we laid on the floor, our naked bodies sweaty and warm. His seed dripped out of me, onto the floor. Our territory had been marked. I ran my fingers through the thick forest of chest hair that trailed from below his collarbone all the way down to his belly; I’ve always loved how hairy he is.

“I don't know about you, but I am starving,” he huffed.

“We can heat up the chicken in the oven. We still have the leftover corn salad to go with it.” I unentangled myself from his body, kicking aside the discarded clothes. As I turned I smiled at him over my shoulder, wiggling my ass just to fuck with him. So far things in the kingdom were good and the two kings were very happy.

Some time later, I opened my eyes to darkness, suddenly aware that we were no longer alone. I could see Duane’s outline traced in shadow. Moonlight seeped through the windows, lighting the corners of the room in ghostly silver.

I looked towards the bedroom door and froze.

A man stood in the doorway, looking right at us. Right at me. My blood turned to ice.

The room around him was blurred, which meant my glasses were on the table where I'd left them. But he wasn't blurry. He was solid when he shouldn't have been. He appeared to be around my age, early to mid thirties. His hair was the same golden brown as mine. Only it was shaggier, hanging half way down to his shoulders. His mouth was slightly wider, but other than that he could have been my twin. Or my doppelganger.

He spoke to me, his voice soft and urgent.

"Help me," he pleaded. "Help me open the door. "

Then he turned and left the room.

It was then that invisible strings pulled my limbs into motion. I turned about so that my feet touched the icy floorboards. I look back at Duane, more frightened than I can ever remember being in my life. I tried to scream his name but could not make my mouth move. He continued to snore unaware of the perilous situation with which I found myself in. It's the man! I told myself. He's doing this to me.

The invisible strings tugged me forward into the dark hallway where the man had it towards the stairs. If it wasn't the man, then it was something with the will of its own. Yet when I looked up at the ceiling, searching every nook and cranny with my eyes, no proof of invasion revealed itself.

But I knew what it was: it was the force that had brought me here, to this island, to this very lighthouse; it was the force that had brought Duane and I together; the force that had brought me back from the dead; the very Force that I could feel lurking at the borders of my life, unseen but ever present.

Fuck you, I told it for all the good it did me.

I followed the intruder down the stairs. Has I reached the landing. The stranger stepped into the darkness through the open door. By this time I've realized there was no sense in trying to resist. This is only a dream, I reassured myself for the final time, and when it ends you will wake up.

Was it just a dream?

The night air was a shock against my bare legs; the only things I wore were a tee-shirt and Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs. I was practically naked.

The sound of the ocean crashing against the earth, an ever constant companion at the lighthouse, was my only comfort in this situation. I focused on it as my body followed the stranger towards the lighthouse. The wind pressed against my body, making my skin break out in goosebumps and my balls shrivel up like raisins. The inside of the tower would at least shelter me from the wind.

It wasn't until we began our dreamy, winding ascent up the stairs that I realized where the stranger was taking me. He's taking me to the door.

And sure enough I could hear the angels singing, their voices raised in rapture. "Ahhh…"

Maybe if we work together we can both open the door.

At long last, after what seemed like hours of climbing, we reached the top of the tower where the door stood waiting for us. The stranger turned to look at me. With the light seeping through the cracks in the door, I could see him more clearly. There was great sadness and pain in his eyes. Eyes that were the same color as mine. And anger. He was pissed.

"Help me," he pleaded again; his voice trembled. He pointed at the door with his index finger. "Open it."

Both a demand and a plea.

I looked at the door. The light was warm where it touched my skin.

"Ahhhh," the angels sang. Waiting, beckoning, promising.

I looked back at the man. Now he watched the door, with the saddest most lost look I've seen anyone wear. I wanted to help him. It was with this wish to help that my body became my own. I took a trembling step towards the stranger. "I've tried to open the door many times," I told him. "It won't."

He simply looked at me, expectant.

"Fuck me," I said out of frustration. "Fine, I'll open it, but then once I do I want you to leave Duane and I the fuck alone."

Without waiting for an affirmative from the stranger, I grabbed the door and tugged with all my strength-

And opened my eyes.

My head throbbed, as if something was trying to force its way out of my skull.

I raised my head, staring dully at the computer screen. At some point I opened a word document on Google Docs.

My back popped like a firecracker when I sat up. "What the hell?" I muttered to myself, scrolling upwards. Several pages had been typed in Times New Roman, 12 font. According to the time stamp I'd opened the document at 3:23 A.M. the last edit I'd made was at 7:49 A.M.

I shot up from my chair so fast it toppled over onto the floor. The clock now read 7:51 A.M. I've been typing for four hours and I can't remember any of it.

The last thing I did remember the door was the stranger who'd snuck inside our home. Or had that been a dream?

I scrolled back up to the top of the document and read the first lines written: Before the story of the five dead sailors reached the front page of The Roc City Gazette, the existence of Adermoor Cove was irrelevant to me; you heard it mentioned in conversation from time to time, but nothing truly interesting was ever said about it. Had Arthur not phoned to tell me about it, calling it a tragedy of “Greek proportions", I might have never stepped foot on the island…

Before I could read further, my cell phone began to ring. It was sitting on the desk next to the mouse. Lisa was calling me through Messenger.

I don’t have time for your shit right now, Lisa, I thought. I hit the red button, cutting off the call.

My phone dinged three seconds later. She’d messaged me.

I need your help was all her message said.