Beautiful Revenge Read online

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  - CHAPTER 1

  - CHAPTER 2

  - CHAPTER 3

  - CHAPTER 4

  - CHAPTER 5

  - CHAPTER 6

  - CHAPTER 7

  - CHAPTER 8

  - CHAPTER 9

  - CHAPTER 10

  - CHAPTER 11

  - CHAPTER 12

  - CHAPTER 13

  - CHAPTER 14

  - CHAPTER 15

  - CHAPTER 16

  - CHAPTER 17

  - CHAPTER 18

  - CHAPTER 19

  - CHAPTER 20

  - CHAPTER 21

  - CHAPTER 22

  - CHAPTER 23

  Beautiful Revenge

  JOHN FORRESTER

  AMBER MUSE

  Copyright © 2014 by John Forrester

  All right reserved. Published by Amber Muse.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.

  CHAPTER 1

  I OFTEN THINK that boys see life as one gigantic game given to them by their mother at birth—a kind of rattling toy to bang around and abuse. My brother Phillip epitomizes such boys. He plays with girls and lies to them and tells them he loves them on the phone while another girl is waiting. He’s like that. I’ve watched him grow up and twist friendships and faculty and family as if they were sitting and spinning on a swing. The drugs and the alcohol and the liberal-minded philosophies certainly don’t help. They’ve generally magnified the situation much in the favor of the typical, spoiled, rich, over-sexed prep school boy.

  I glance around Father’s dimly lit, cave-like study, and see Phillip lying sprawled across a stiff leather sofa, his hair messed up from Giselle’s probing fingers, and his once neat, white polo shirt wrinkled from wrestling with Zachary, Phillip’s best friend and co-conspirator. My brother gazes at the wood-paneled ceiling as if imaginary butterflies flittered about the room. I know he’s high; I can tell by the teetering of his head and the way he shifts his gaze around the room where Father often retreats when Mother is in one of her drunken rages.

  I scan across darkly stained bookshelves lined with leather volumes, down over to the billiards table on the far side of the room, closer to where Zachary is holding Giselle, his sleek arms wrapped around her tiny figure like an octopus. My eyes inspect his hands for tentacles, wishing I were under him instead of the little slut.

  Zachary’s eyes catch my longing gaze, and he raises an inviting eye at me, as if wondering what I’m thinking. His long arms reach out to hold me, his breath smelling of mint and sherry, and he mumbles, “Your hair is covered in starlight,” with his Southern drawl that always keeps him as an outsider at our Andover prep school.

  Phillip loves Zachary and the boy spends so much time here at Harris House, our historic estate outside of town, that he practically lives here. I wish he’d move in to the room next to mine. I’d like that. My brother always has a kind heart for lost causes: clueless, beautiful boys—dreamers who nonetheless know how to please a woman. And I’ve heard Zachary inspiring operatic lust behind locked doors. I joined in the song quietly though I didn’t quite know the words.

  Zachary is truly a dreamer: a hedonist who unfortunately knows just how wealthy his family is—and that knowledge only emboldens him. Phillip prods him on to even greater acts of wantonness. I wonder if Zachary would go that far without his manipulation. He seems quite typical, at least for an eighteen-year old boy.

  My brother is a drunken voyeur tonight. His mane of long, wavy black hair swivels about the room, gazing at Zachary locked in an embrace with Giselle, their bodies dancing and humming together. The sound of a vintage Pink Floyd LP plays on Father’s cherished and forbidden sound system. Giselle preens and positions herself strategically over Zachary’s thighs, and giggles as his face oozes a don’t-you-want-me-now expression.

  A shimmering line of sweat dashes down her bare back, disappearing behind her red evening dress. I wonder how it would feel to grind him like that, is it like riding a horse in a cantor? Her nostrils flare, breath aroused and tight, and her legs quiver a moment, then tremble as Zachary raises her up—his slender, elegant hands gripping her lithe hips until she makes a lame attempt at wriggling free and they both tumble drunkenly onto the silk rug.

  I wish the little tart never came here tonight, then maybe Zachary would’ve asked me to dance. I gape at them lying there; I’m unable to move. His beautiful lips glisten from Giselle’s ravenous tongue. I’m fascinated by all the movements and gestures of love that I’ve never known, but have always wanted to experience. I suppose I’m a voyeur like my brother, but tonight I crave more than just visual stimulation.

  Giselle’s eyeliner is smeared, purple shadows under her impossibly cute doll eyes, making her look like a cheap prostitute after a hard night’s work. I stiffen as Giselle catches my gaze. She scoffs and crawls off Zachary, her dress hiked up to reveal legs slender and perfect, and her face scowls atop a beatific ballerina neck. I want to strangle her until her face turns purple, the color of her slutty eyeliner.

  “Are you seriously staring at us?” Giselle’s voice sounds wonderfully like a barmaid with a broken nose, dragging down her otherwise perfect self. Thank God for that genetic mistake.

  I cough slightly, blush, and recover quickly. “It’s like watching Animal Planet.” And Giselle is the antelope getting ravaged by the lion.

  Phillip rolls over on the couch, seemingly back in the real world, and peers over at the two of them on the floor. I notice Zachary’s arousal under his black trousers as he tries to pull Giselle back on top of his lap. I want to know what it feels like pressed hard against me. She slaps his hand and then shivers as the other covertly caresses her breast.

  Her smudged lips separate to allow a throaty moan to escape, and her eyes close involuntarily as Zachary surgically maneuvers across mysteriously sensitive parts of her body. I realize that my mouth is hanging open and am surprised when Giselle’s nasally voice interrupts the spell. How dare she speak.

  “You’re making me wet.” She makes a vain attempt at pulling down her dress when Phillip—suddenly awake—stares at her, a fascinated, dreamy expression on his sleepy face.

  “She’s like an angel…a fallen angel of ivory swimming in a pool of fire. So red…so bright.” Phillip’s voice is barely audible—slurred, as if he were a sleepwalker describing an ethereal dream. He leans against the sofa and closes his eyes, mouthing the words to the song.

  “Just trust me,” Zachary whispers in Giselle’s ear, and allows his nails to travel up her neck. His hands are so beautiful.

  “Take this, you’ll feel lovely.” He presses something small and white into her unresisting mouth. “It’s so warm in here. Isn’t it, Clarise?”

  For the first time since we came inside and locked the doors to Father’s moody study, Zachary looks at me with his kind, tender, illuminated eyes—eyes that look surprised at my expression. He pauses for a moment, curious and perhaps apologetic, but he turns back to Giselle and leaves me feeling cold and stupid.

  I’m always riding the waves with my brother and Zachary guiding the way. My sense of propriety is often pushed aside. It’s more fun that way. Phillip does have a wonderful imagination, but it usually leads us astray. There are no limits to my brother’s vision of the world: no barriers, no taboos—only beauty and pleasure. And of course, that gets us into trouble. As if my drunken wretch of a mother even cares, as if she even notices beyond the haze of martinis clouding her dim-witted view of high society.

  “I just can’t stand her staring at me like that.” Giselle glares at me, and I rais
e my glass of gin in a cheer.

  Zachary wags his head from side-to-side, a smile playing on his lips. “She just needs time. It’ll come soon.” He pets Giselle’s head as if she were a pretty puppy and her tension wilts a bit, and she is placid for a time, until a quiet mood possesses the room.

  The Dark Side of the Moon entrances me, creating a haunting chill that spikes down my spine. I know why my father loves this music, and smile to myself at the bitter memories the album recalls in my mother’s mind. Her old rival and Father’s once muse. How I wish I could have known the girl who was once so special to Father.

  “What is it going to do to me?” Giselle’s forehead crinkles fretfully as she searches Zachary’s hungry, amused face for answers.

  My brother opens his eyes and catches Zachary’s knowing gaze and they share a thoughtful moment, soundless words passing the ether between them. Then, as if trying to answer a question, Zachary turns his head, eyes resting first on my face, then down to my figure until I feel the heat of his eyes molesting my body.

  “You’ve grown up, Clarise.” I like the wicked tone in Zachary’s voice, hoping he has finally assembled the image of me flowered into a woman. I find myself blushing in pleasure.

  “I’ve heard the boys call you belle jeune fille as you saunter down Scheumann’s halls.” I fluster as Zachary’s eyes illuminate, his smile clearly lustful. “In a year all the girls will hate you even more than they already do. Keep her close, Phillip, from those wily brats packing around her in class.”

  But Phillip is too lazy to move his head. “Oh, I highly doubt she cares much for boys in her class. They’re as immature and clueless as one would expect. I’ve seen how she looks at you, Zach, and how could she not? You’re fucking hot.”

  Zachary is indeed beautiful, worthy of demigod labeling, but my sensible mind tells me to keep away. However, come to think of it, could Phillip be talking about the times I sat on the bleachers watching his lacrosse practice on hot, Indian-summer days? When all the boys, Zachary included, made fine glistening portraits—their silky, wet skin and rippling muscles shimmering in the hazy sunlight. I did feel something then, a vague stirring that roused me to stand up and move.

  “You’re remembering something, aren’t you?” Zachary grins, ignoring Giselle’s lolling head. “That day I caught you staring at me during practice and you practically ran away.”

  I turn my head from Zachary’s curious, imaginative gape, and wonder why he is taunting me like this. What is he playing at? When I glance back at him he’s already forgotten me, pulling in the now placid and willing Giselle over his crotch. How typical.

  “What if I were a vampire?” Zachary bares canine teeth and raises clawed hands high over his head.

  “You’d suck out all my blood,” whispers Giselle, her mouth perusing the side of Zachary’s neck. I’d stab him in the heart with a wooden stake. I scoff, and Zachary catches the look of disgust on my face.

  He turns his gaze back to Giselle’s now languid form. “You’re sweating like a stripper.”

  Zachary leans in close to Giselle’s ear and suggests that she’s too warm, and deftly tugs her insubstantial dress up over her arms. I gasp, breathless for a moment, shocked at the speed and find myself fascinated by the erotic contour her flushed body makes leaning towards Zachary. Tiny, pink nipples rub against his cotton shirt as I cringe against the sofa, wishing I could curl up and hide, but something wicked anchors my hips to the floor. What the hell is he doing? Is he going to get naked? Are they going to have sex right here on the floor?

  “She’s like a mythical nymphet of an enchanted wood.” Zachary’s eyes radiate deviousness.

  I want to run away. This has all gone too far—Zachary always pushing the limits—but my heart is thudding in my chest. My hands feel flushed, and my tongue’s gone thick and wet with saliva. I know I shouldn’t be here, but nothing can take me away.

  Giselle’s head lashes back as Zachary’s tongue flicks at her nipple, hands cupping her full, erect breasts. Her long golden hair sails up and around in an elegant arc, and she releases a pig-like grunting moan. I feel repulsed listening to her voice; I want to gag her for ruining the beauty of the moment, for shattering the memory of Zachary’s melodic, drugged voice. I again imagine wrapping my hands around her delicate neck, and wonder what hideous sound she’d make then.

  But I still continue to watch, an illicit curiosity raging through me as I wonder what will happen next. Zachary truly is like an insatiable lion, mounted over his lovely, fragile prey, with his soft hair tussling about as he ravishes her willowy, stark form. Instead of blood painting the creature a vivid red, only brilliant prickles of light illuminate the places on her ruddy skin where Zachary’s lips and tongue have explored.

  I notice her legs twitching involuntarily as his hands glide down between her legs—his index finger moves as if he is delicately rubbing an itch. Giselle squeezes her thighs together so hard they choke Zachary’s tender hand. But instead of fighting it, he relaxes and allows Giselle to whimper in choked sobs—the sound beautiful this time—like a little girl crying for a lost puppy.

  Zachary reclines back, his wet fingers digging into Father’s extravagant purchase: a fabled Persian rug once rescued from the revolution but now stained with Giselle’s fluids. Can’t he at least wash his hands or something? I’m irritated at him for his antics and at myself for not leaving sooner. Now I have to tell Ms. Halfax to hire the rug cleaners again.

  Face beaming in wonderment, Zachary gazes at Giselle writhing in fits on the floor. Her small, naked form is curled up. One arm is clutched around her chest while the other hand is pressed down between her legs. Her eyes are pinched shut while spasms twist her face in strange, unknown expressions.

  “Isn’t it crazy, Clarise?” Zachary’s clear voice startles me from my obsessed reverie.

  I flit my eyes angrily at him for a moment, then the gravity of Giselle’s form tugs my attention back to her now subdued movements, as if she realizes she is the subject of the room’s gaze and chilly air. Instead of crying—I would cry if I were her—an odd smile passes over her face: a look of wryness that might exist on the face of the pathologically insane.

  She impossibly launches herself up and glides elegantly into a pirouette en dedans, her eyes brilliant blue pinpoints gazing out at an invisible audience, her back arched and erect, and her slender arms curved and expressive, until she finally raises her hands into the air—her body a majestic sprite radiating youth and vitality to the audience.

  Zachary claps weakly, and seizes her small wrist and guides her over to the sofa. Her body lapses unresistingly into the curvature of his embrace, like a kitten held protectively from a wolf.

  “Such a lovely dance…so expressive and beautiful.” His voice is reassuring, almost whispering, as if to a child.

  Phillip wakes suddenly and releases a tired, lazy sigh as his eyes study the door, more focused now, his expression alert, as if whatever drug he’s taken has worn off. His soft voice speaks only to me.

  “The end is as bitter as bad wine, and even after the early sweet moment, the grave light of day threatens the dream.” His wistful eyes glisten, then flash brightness and cheer as he pats my cheeks and raises me up while anxiously looking down at Zachary and Giselle hugging like a sailor and his lover embracing for the last time.

  As if on cue, the chimes sound dourly at the front door downstairs, and my head snaps up to attention, eyes flared, and I flip on the light and dive down to the rug, quickly grabbing Giselle’s dress.

  “Get dressed now!” I hiss, yanking Giselle from Zachary’s tepid clutch. She resists sleepily, wincing at the light. “Help me, Phillip! Put on her dress before Father sees us like this. Zach! Unlock the damned door, will you? He’ll kill us.”

  Phillip blinks a few times as if trying to rouse himself to action, but when he stands his legs fail to balance his body and he topples, chuckling, back on the sofa. I seize Giselle’s arm, pulling her away from Zachary, and glide
her insignificant dress over her naked form. I crank open the lock and open the door, meaning to peek down the hallway. Instead I find myself face-to-face with Father’s tired, suspicious eyes.

  “What in God’s name are you doing in my study?” Father pushes the door open, his white tuxedo tie dangling around his neck, and he glances disapprovingly at me. Then he enters the study and pauses to survey the room.

  Zachary and Phillip seem to have sobered up quickly. My brother swallows, looks at me as if for help, then lowers his eyes to the rug. Under the cold air that has entered the room, Giselle clutches her now prickling arms and fidgets. I decide to take a more aggressive approach and clear my throat.

  “Welcome home, Father. How was the Tosca performance?” I keep my face bright and interested, gazing into Father’s softening eyes.

  Father opens his mouth, then tenses his jaw as if he’s trying to restrain himself. After a long exhalation he finally speaks. “Nothing like the Met, my dear, and the tenor was atrocious. Mother did enjoy the set design. You would have loved it.”

  He motions Phillip over and gives him a gruff hug, jabs him playfully in the ribs, and ruffles up his hair. “I suppose that’s enough for tonight. We’ll talk about all this in the morning. Go on now to bed.” Father’s amused eyes linger on Giselle’s disheveled form. “Would you like Creighton to give you a ride home? Or you’re welcome to stay. Clarise can help make up a room for you.”

  Giselle pinches her legs together, embarrassed, her eyes locked on her knees. “I should go.”

  Phillip leads Zachary and Giselle out of Father’s study and stumbling, make their way down the hallway. Father frowns, ambles over to his audio system, and removes the Pink Floyd LP from the record player. He inspects the surface for scratches and appeased, places the LP lovingly back inside the cover and turns off the power. With only the sound of his fingers tapping on the cabinet, I worry about a scolding and feel sweat trickle down my back.