There Is No Devil: Chapter 14

Mara’s mother’s giving interviews.

If Gemma Zhang can find her, so can I.

It’s been too long since I put my online stalking skills to use. I spend an afternoon in my office at the studio, hunting down Tori Eldritch and Randall Pratt.

This is something I’ve been intending to do for some time now. I want to know exactly where those two are living and what they’re up to.

Randall is surprisingly difficult to locate.

I assume somebody other than myself is interested in breaking his kneecaps, because his supposed address was only a rented office space, with no car registered under his name.

I still manage to find a phone number that I’m pretty sure is a working cell.

He answers the second time I call.

“What?”

Rough as a bag of rocks rolling around in the back of a truck—just like Mara said.

The voice I plan to use is clear and friendly, with a slight Midwest twang. The kind of voice designed to disarm Randall without quite mimicking him.

“Hey there Mr. Pratt. My name’s Kyle Warner. I write for the Chronicle, and I’m doing a story on an artist named Mara Eldritch. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

A long pause.

“Not interested,” Randall grunts, rustling the phone like he’s about to hang up.

“Well, hang on!” I say. “Could ya at least confirm a quote I got from her mother Tori Eldritch?”

Another pause, even longer.

I hear his heavy breath on the other end of the line.

“You talked to Tori?”

“That’s right.”

“In person, or over the phone?”

“I flew up to speak with her.”

“Flew where?”

Now it’s my turn to let a brief silence fall between us. Keeping my tone cheerful, I say, “Well, we can discuss that in person. I need another source for this article. Pay’s five hundred bucks, and it won’t take but a little of your time.”

Breath. Breath. Heavy breath. Hot and wet in my ear.

“Alright,” Randall grunts. “I’m in La Crescenta. You can meet me at a pub called The Black Dog.”

A smile spreads over my face where Randall can’t possibly see it.

“Perfect.”

Mara and I drive out to Burbank together. She’s going to be interviewed for the DBS morning show.

“I don’t know if I want to be on TV,” she tells me, raising her hand to her mouth, then quickly putting it back down on her lap, twisting her fingers together in anguish.

She got a manicure and doesn’t want to fuck it up.

“You’re going to be great,” I tell her. “I’ll be right there with you, watching the whole time.”

“What do you think they’ll ask me?”

“Nothing challenging—it’s a morning show, for fuck’s sake. If they weren’t talking to you, they’d probably be interviewing the lady who baked the world’s biggest donut.”

“They should interview her,” Mara laughs. “What an accomplishment.”

“You know we have to be at the studio at 4:15 a.m. for hair and makeup.”

“Are you serious!?” she cries. Mara’s not an early riser.

“That’s why they call it a morning show—‘cause it’s at the goddamned crack of dawn.”

“I’m so nervous. I’m not gonna sleep a wink.”

“Do you want an Ambien? I brought two with me.”

She considers, tapping one nicely polished nail against her lower teeth. “What if I can’t wake up in time?”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll set an alarm.”

“Alright,” she agrees, sighing in relief. “Otherwise I’ll be exhausted.”

We settle in at the Chateau Marmont, where I’ve booked us a suite overlooking Sunset Boulevard. I thought Mara would like its architecture and the Old Hollywood history.

“Howard Hughes lived here,” I tell her. “Desi Arnaz would come stay whenever he was fighting with Lucille Ball. Bette Davis almost burned it down—twice. And Sharon Tate moved out of the hotel six months before she was killed. John Belushi and Helmut Newton both died here.”

I looked all this up beforehand, knowing it would interest her. Mara likes anything historical, tragic, or glamorous.

“The hotel’s in lots of movies, too,” I continue. “La La Land … A Star Is Born …”

“Really?” Mara gasps. “La La Land’s one of my favorites.”

“I know,” I laugh. “You play that one song from it all the time.”

“That’s right,” Mara says, pleased that I remembered.

Our room isn’t as luxurious as some of the places I’ve stayed, but Mara is never picky. She runs around the room, admiring the old-fashioned furniture and striped wallpaper.

She’s keyed up about the interview, equal parts giddy and terrified.

“I always think I want attention until I actually get it … I hope I don’t say something weird that gets turned into a meme. Like when Brett Kavanaugh told everybody he was a virgin in school, and for ‘many years after.’ ”

Mara shudders, imagining her face splashed all over templates.

“All publicity is good publicity.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“It is when you’re this hot,” I say, seizing her and throwing her down on the bed, which creaks and groans beneath her.

“Wait,” she says. “Give me the Ambien first.”

“You sure? Those things are strong.”

“Yeah. I like that floating feeling in sex. Like I’m half in my body and half out. Like you could do anything to me …”

My heart rate spikes as a gallon of adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream. I have to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep control of myself.

“You kinky little fuck.”

I hand her the small pink pills and a bottle of water stamped with the hotel’s logo. Mara tosses down the pills, chugging half the water as well.

“Perfect.” She grins.

She’s full of rowdy energy, amped up with nerves and excitement. She pushes me back on the bed, saying, “Sit there.”

I lean back against the pillows, waiting to see what this wild little thing has in mind.

Mara is the only person on this planet from whom I occasionally take orders, purely out of curiosity. No matter how much time I spend with her, I still can’t predict exactly what she’ll do next. That’s why she’s endlessly fascinating to me. She doesn’t fall into routine. She doesn’t pick the obvious choice. And she sure as fuck doesn’t behave herself.

Mara takes my Bluetooth speaker out of her suitcase, the one that usually resides in the bathroom. She sets it up on the dresser, streaming music from her phone.

The beat flows into the room, mysterious and sultry, with a hint of playfulness. As soon as she hears it, she closes her eyes and starts swaying, shoulders first, then hips. She knows how to move. In fact, she has to move. She can’t hear music without it taking over her body.

I liked music well enough, but I never understood its full power until I met Mara. She unerringly selects songs with an irresistible beat and an overpowering mood. She finds the songs that tickle your brain, that fire up the neurons until you can almost see the notes sparking in the air around you.

Mara throws open the heavy drapes covering the windows, letting in the last of the late afternoon sunshine, revealing the view of the Hollywood Hills.

She stands directly in front of the window, framed by the glass, her body a shadowed silhouette, gold around the edges. She’s still dancing, running her hands through her hair and down her curves.

Slowly, she unzips the front of her hoodie. She shimmies out of it, languorously sliding the sleeves down her arms, then flinging it away from her so it sails across the room and lands on top of the lampshade. Underneath, she wears only a thin undershirt, through which I can clearly see the outline of her nipples, the shape of the silver rings, and the indent of her navel.

Next, her jeans: she unzips the front, her fingers light and teasing, taking her time. Turning away from me, she slides the jeans down over the round globes of her ass, bisected by her thong.

I want to unzip my own pants because my cock is raging against the fly, but I wait, eyes fixed on Mara, cheeks throbbing from how hard I’m biting them. She’s stoking my fire. The impulse to jump up from this bed and seize her is torturous. It takes everything I have to stay still.

She hops up on the windowsill, lifting up her legs and resting her bare feet on the opposite side of the frame so she can slide off the jeans. She tosses her pants aside, getting up on her knees now, then on her feet, standing in the frame with her back to me.

Resting her hands on the upper frame, she makes slow circles with her hips, swaying that peachy little ass, teasing me, tempting me …

Silhouetted against the setting sun, her figure glows like a caryatid, like she’s holding up the whole building.

I could never sculpt anything so perfect.

She pulls off her undershirt and tosses it behind her. It lands on my lap. I pick up the crumpled cotton, still warm from her body and I press it to my face, inhaling her intoxicating scent.

The idea that someone else might be standing below that window, that they might look up and see the view that I haven’t even yet seen myself, makes me wild with jealousy.

I like that feeling. I’m always in competition for Mara, for her attention and for her body.

I like competing.

I like winning even more.

Mara doesn’t give a fuck that we’re seven stories up, with only a thin pane of glass between her and a hundred-foot drop. She’s still dancing, her body as lithe and sinuous as a snake, rolling and swaying, hypnotizing me.

Now she turns and hops down, taking slow, sensual steps toward me, her hands covering her breasts. She caresses those breasts, squeezes them, then reveals their perfection to me, like opening the doors into heaven.

I’m salivating.

My cock throbs with every beat of my heart.

The chorus of the song begins to play:

Mara gives me a naughty little glance, letting me know that she selected this song on purpose.

I was already well aware that she modeled her painting of the devil after me. After Shaw too—when she painted it, she wasn’t entirely sure which of us had abducted her off the street.

She thinks I’m tempting her along the path of evil.

I disagree.

I want to help her find her true self, as she’s helping me find mine.

I don’t know if I’m becoming a better man. All I know for certain is that I’m finding new abilities inside myself. Powers I couldn’t tap until Mara showed me the way.

Turning her body to the side, Mara pretends to slide her thong down her hip, then pulls it back up again.

I let out a groan.

Grinning wickedly, she turns the other way and repeats her tease on the other side.

“Get over here before I rip you to pieces,” I growl.

Mara lets out a peal of delighted laughter and pulls down her underwear, kicking it away.

The shape of her soft little pussy makes me die to rub my fingers over it, to taste it with my tongue. I want to push my face into it like I did with her shirt. I want to eat her alive.

Starting at the foot of the bed, she crawls up to me on hands and knees, her eyes locked on mine, her body moving with sinuous grace.

She reaches my belt buckle and stops, her slim fingers deftly working to release me from my clothes.

She unfastens the belt and my trousers, pulling them down, underwear too. My cock is raging, so congested with blood that the veins bulge and the pale flesh flushes with angry color.

When Mara closes her mouth around it, I groan like an animal, like a starving beast.

“Not that way,” I snarl. “Turn around and feed me that pussy.”

Mara flips around so her mouth is still encircling my cock, but her ass is up in my face. The shell-like shape of her pussy and the tight little bud above are so fucking erotic that for a moment I can only stare, hands clenching the meat of her firm, round ass.

She’s wet everywhere, glistening with it.

Dancing for me turned her on as badly as it did me.

I dive in, licking and sucking and thrusting my tongue inside every place I can reach. I’m ravenous, my mouth watering, fucking dying for her. Craving the taste of her, lapping it up with my tongue.

Meanwhile, her hot wet mouth slides up and down my cock.

The deeper I push my tongue inside her, the deeper she takes my cock. When I lap her clit with my tongue, she sucks on the head, keeping pace with me, making me feel what I’m making her feel, together at the same time.

I can feel her mouth getting warmer and wetter, her lips swollen, her throat relaxing around my cock. The Ambien is kicking in.

I lick all the way up her slit, and then I press my tongue against the tight bud of her ass.

Mara shrieks and tries to squirm away, but I have her locked in place, hands gripping her hips.

I know this embarrasses her, that she doesn’t want to let me do it. That’s exactly what makes it so fucking hot. I’m gripping her, pulling her into me, forcing her to take it.

I lick her ass in steady strokes until she relaxes, and then I push my tongue inside her again.

The area grows warm and swollen, flushed with blood.

Soaked from her pussy, her ass tastes just as good.

The more I lick her, the more she relaxes, and the deeper I can push my tongue inside her. She can’t help the sounds that come out of her: whimpers at first, and then helpless sighs of pleasure, followed by gasps and groans.

There are a thousand nerve endings here, just like the clit. Licking her ass brings the erogenous tissue alive. It awakens an entirely new source of pleasure.

Because it’s new and untested, she’s helpless before it. She’s trapped in place, by pleasure as much as by my hands locked around her.

I eat her ass like a ten-course meal.

This is an act I never considered doing before. It would have disgusted me.

But nothing about Mara disgusts me. The dirtier our sex, the more it arouses me.

With Mara, I see it, I want it, I crave it.

I give in to my impulses. I lose myself in the frenzy.

I’m a wild animal, utterly unhinged.

This is the closest I get to the feeling of killing, only a thousand times better, because I’m not alone in it. Mara is right here with me, equally as wild, equally as feral. She’s choking on my cock, trying to swallow it whole, while I fuck her pussy and ass with my tongue, one after the other, back and forth.

She gives in to me completely, and that’s the greatest rush of all, that moment of submission, when I know she’s lost in pleasure, she can’t think or fight anymore. She can only moan and beg for more.

I go back to her clit, her hips clamped between my hands, using all my strength to force her to ride on my tongue.

She starts to cum, moaning around my cock, and then screaming as the orgasm rips through her, the hardest I’ve seen her have from oral alone. Her whole body shakes, and her teeth scrape my cock, so sharp that I’m worried she might bite it off.

Then she goes limp, rolling over on the bed, hands flopping overhead, nipples pointing up to the ceiling.

“Holy shiiiiiiit,” she groans.

“I told you not to tease me.”

I scoop her up in my arms, rearranging her on the pillows so her head is at the top of the bed, her feet down.

Her limbs are warm and heavy, her pupils dilated until I can hardly see the thin ring of silver around the black.

“You feeling that yet?” I ask her.

“Yeah, I’m feeling it,” she says, her voice soft and dreamy. “Eat my pussy, Daddy … send me into outer space …”

She’s never called me that before. I don’t know if it’s because she’s high, or if it’s something she’s wanted to say for a while.

I go down between her thighs, gently licking her pussy with my tongue. Slow and languorous, with soft, melting pleasure.

Looking up at her, I say, “Why am I your daddy?”

She sighs, her head turning slowly from side to side like the bed is a boat rocking her across the water.

“Because …” she says softly. “Because you take care of me. You protect me. You do everything for me …”

“Yes, I do.”

“You always know what to do … you always know what’s best.”

I suck gently on her clit, smiling to myself.

“Keep that in mind,” I say.

Mara doesn’t respond. She’s already drifting away.

In the dark hotel room, I make my preparations for the night ahead.

The Ambien was for me, not for her. I need to know she’s safely locked away in this room so I can focus on the task at hand.

I close the drapes and hang the Do Not Disturb sign over the doorknob, taking the only key with me when I leave.

Exiting through the lobby, I hail a cab to the airport.

The cabbie drops me off at the sky bridge. Instead of walking over to the check-in desks, I turn the other way, heading toward long-term parking. This is the best place to steal a car. Unless I’m very unlucky, no one will notice that their 2018 Camry is taking a little adventure tonight.

It only takes me a minute to break into the car, and three more to bring the engine to life.

I pay the attendant with cash on the way out of the lot. He doesn’t even look up, mumbling, “Have a good night,” as I drive through.

I could have taken my Tesla, but California has too many toll roads with cameras.

I drive to La Crescenta, to the edge of town bordering the mountains.

The Black Dog pub is situated in the shabbiest neighborhood I’ve driven through on my journey, with tiny salt-box houses situated on bald patches of grass between chain-link fences. I’m sure these little shacks still sell in the high six-figures, because this is California, where a one-bed one-bath can easily run a million dollars. This winter notwithstanding, it’s still the most temperate climate on the globe. People will endure any level of traffic or taxation to live here.

I wait in the parking lot for Randall to arrive. I’m an hour early, wanting to be there first so I can see which car he drives, and so I can ensure that he’s alone.

Randall must have had the same idea. He pulls in a half-hour early himself, driving a beat-up Ford truck with paint so worn it looks like mange.

Mara told me that her mother and Randall eventually divorced, partly because their fights had turned so violent the neighbors called the cops every weekend, with Randall spending the night in jail at least twice. He was running out of money, which meant Tori Eldritch was no longer interested.

Looks like he’s yet to make his fortune again. I found him through tax returns for the construction company for which he currently works. The address on record was the empty office space. I still don’t know where Randall lives.

Now that he’s here, I make my way inside and pick up a beer at the bar. Selecting a booth in the darkest and most distant corner of the pub, I text Randall:

Then I wait, hoping he’s not going to back out.

Ten minutes later, Randall shuffles into the pub. He’s well past sixty, but you can tell he was once a man with shoulders to rival Shaw. Now those shoulders droop and a hard, round belly causes his jeans to sag. His scarred hands testify to years of labor. The broken blood vessels on his bulbous nose and the yellow tinge to his eyes tell another story.

Randall walks to the bar to get his own beer. I watch his interaction with the bartender, checking to see if they know each other, if they’re friends. The interaction is brief and impersonal. The bartender keeps his focus on the football game playing on the TV hung over the opposite corner of the bar. I doubt he’ll look our way.

Just in case, I’m wearing a baseball cap, glasses, and the sort of plaid button-up that Randall should perceive as a slightly more stylish version of his own buffalo shirt.

I ordered a Budweiser, the same bottle Randall sets down on the table.

He sinks heavily into the booth, knocking the tabletop askew with his belly.

“They make these things so fuckin’ tight,” he grouses.

“Nothing’s made for tall men,” I agree.

It’s Randall’s bulk, not his height, causing the problem. But commiseration is the first step to friendship.

“Didn’t even know if I was gonna come tonight,” Randall grumbles. “Haven’t seen that bitch in years.”

“Mara?”

“Tori.”

I knew Tori Eldritch would be the hook. Once a woman has her claws in a man, he never quite gets free of it. Randall divorced her and moved across the state, but if Tori showed up on his doorstep in a tight dress, he’d make the same mistakes all over again.

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Nine years ago.”

“Mara would have been sixteen?”

“Fifteen.”

“She was your stepdaughter?”

Randall makes a dismissive, snorting sound. “I guess.”

She lived in his house for almost a decade, but he’s behaving as if he hardly knows her.

“What made you split up?”

“She’s a fuckin’ nutcase. And the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

“I’ve had a hard time tracking down sources. I’ve gotta interview three family members, and it doesn’t seem like Mara has many.”

“We’re not family. We never were.”

“Alright.” I shrug. “They’re paying five hundred bucks though. So if you know anything, it doesn’t take much to get paid.”

Randall shifts in his seat, considering.

“And you’ll give me Tori’s address?” he says.

“Sure. When we’re done talking.”

Randall grunts his assent. “Whaddaya wanna know?”

“What was Mara like when you knew her?”

“Fuckin’ annoying. I never wanted another kid in the house. My boys were bad enough. Ungrateful too—she’s eating my food, wearing the clothes I put on her back, and she has the fuckin’ gall to skulk around the house glaring at me. Plus her and her mom were at it all the time like cats, fucking’ squallin’ and causin’ a racket.”

“Did you see any early evidence of her talent?”

Randall scoffs. “Drawin’ pictures is supposed to be a job now? Don’t make me laugh. Fuckin’ lazy, just like her mother.”

I don’t expect any actual insight from this man. There’s only one piece of information that interests me, and I’ll play through this charade until I get it. The rest is all just fuel on the fire. Though I can’t let him see any hint of the fury stoking inside me with every word that comes out of his disgusting nicotine-stained mouth.

“You said her relationship with her mother was bad?”

“Fuckin’ hated each other. Tori wished she never had her. Said it all the time. I told her she should pack her off to some relative, but there wasn’t anybody to take her. Besides, Tori had some weird thing about her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She talked shit on her nonstop. But she was obsessed with reading her journals, her text messages. She’d wear Mara’s clothes and her perfume. Especially around me.”

My jaw ticks.

“She thought that would attract you?”

“Fuck if I know. She was jealous as hell. Always screaming at me if she thought I looked at Mara.”

This is the delicate part, where I have to put out the lure without scaring off the fish.

I give a low chuckle, the kind that tells a man that locker room talk is on the table.

“Well … Tori wasn’t getting any younger.”

Randall snorts. “That’s for damn sure.”

“And Mara’s pretty enough …”

Randall takes a long pull of his beer, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and belching softly. Then he leans forward, fixing me with his bloodshot stare.

“That woman would have let me do anything to her daughter. She offered her up when she realized I was really gonna leave her. Flat out told me I could have her.”

I keep the friendly smirk fixed on my face, pitching my voice low and amused.

“Why didn’t you take her up on it? Or maybe you did …”

“Wasn’t worth it by then. That cunt was gonna get me tossed in jail. And the daughter’s all fucked up. A fuckin’ spaz. There’s something wrong with her. She’s some kinda retar—”

He breaks off, eyes flicking to my upper lip, which is curling into a snarl I can’t control. I have to turn it into a laugh that comes out harsh and braying.

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah.” Randall takes another swallow of beer, face closing up, sitting back in his chair again.

I tipped him off. Couldn’t keep hold of myself. I’m fucking sloppy.

Where’s the old Cole when you need him?

I take a long, steady breath. Deliberately slowing my heart rate. Shelving all thoughts of Mara sleeping peacefully back at the hotel. Crushing my fury, and the sickening sense of disgust that threatens to overwhelm me every time I look at Randall’s smug face.

I clear my mind of everything but the goal.

When I do, the old Cole is right there waiting for me.

Hello, old friend.

The room sharpens. The babble around me separates into distinct conversations. I smell the hops in Randall’s beer, and note a pine sap stain on his left sleeve—evidence that he’s been out in the woods sometime recently.

I can practically hear his heart beating.

I lean forward again, taking off my cap and running a hand through my hair.

“You might be right,” I say in a conspiratorial tone. “I know one fucked-up thing about her. My boss won’t let me print it, which is a fuckin’ shame.”

Randall can’t resist this. He leans forward on his knees, too, piggy eyes glittering.

Everybody loves a secret.

“What is it?”

I look around as if making sure nobody can hear us. I already made damn sure this booth in the corner was out of sight, but it gives the proper effect.

“Guess Mara needed some cash a while back. She filmed a porn.”

“She did?”

Randall’s trying to play it cool, but I hear his breath catch. I see the way his thick hand clenches around his beer bottle.

“Yeah. Some nasty, dirty shit. She bought it back from the studio, doesn’t want anybody getting their hands on it, but you know the internet never forgets.”

“You found it?”

I grin, molars grinding in the back. “You’re damn right I did.”

Now I sit back, triumphant, sipping my own drink. Waiting for what I know is certain to follow.

Another long silence from Randall. Then the low, urgent mutter, “You think you could send that to me?”

“I’ve got it on a flash drive back at the hotel.” I take another drink of my beer, letting him squirm. Watching the flush rise up his neck. Then I put out the real lure: the one he can’t possibly resist. “Some crazy shit in some kinda schoolgirl outfit …”

He needs it now. He has to have it.

“You can send me a copy, can’t you?”

“It sounds like we’re negotiating.” I give him a smile with just enough sleaziness to seem genuine. “You got something for me? What about Mara’s dad—you know where he lives?”

“I don’t even know his name,” Randall grunts. “Tori never said shit about him.”

Damn it.

“Well, I need pictures for the article. Any old photographs, yearbooks, letters …”

“I didn’t keep any a that shit,” Randal scoffs.

“Too bad.” I pretend to give up on the idea.

Randall can’t let go of the prize. He’s licking his lips, clenching that beer like a grenade. Then he thinks of something.

“I got a picture of her mom fuckin’ some Nazi.”

I grin. “That sounds like a trade. Bring it to my hotel room.”

“Nah.” Randall shakes his head. “I can’t drive that far. I got a cabin fifteen minutes from here. You can follow me up.”

“Even better.”