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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.
Sympathy for Delilah Series
Part 1 - FRAT BOY
by Dominatrix
I've definitely had better days, I thought, staring at my disheveled image in the mirror. My hair hung limp around my face, makeup smudged, dark circles under my eyes. I glanced at the little clock sitting on the bathroom shelf. Eleven pm. I sighed and squeezed some toothpaste onto my toothbrush. *Maybe this'll take the taste of humble pie out of my mouth. Again.* But the day wasn't *all* bad. No, there were definitely bright spots. Blinding, as a matter of fact.
It had started out as usual. Stress and more stress. Raines on a tear about some malfunctioning security cameras, my father nowhere to be found. Brootsie had a little migraine first thing and wanted to go home. "Too goddamn bad," I told him, feeling like a bitch and pissed at him for making me feel that way. God, he's a nerd. But he's *my* nerd, and a darn good one. It was about 9 o'clock in the morning, and I was nursing my fourth cup of java when I heard his spastic little knock on my office door.
"*What?*" I yelled. I knew exactly what - I always know what just by the way people knock around here.
"Hey, I've got something," he said excitedly when he'd entered the room.
"Something besides a headache, I hope."
"Oh, that... that's gone already, thank you Miss Parker..."
"Are you going to tell me something I'm going to care about?"
"Uh, yeah... Well..." Flustered again, he fumbled in his pockets for a disc, then finding it, he reached over and popped it into my computer.
Jarod had sent us a message late the previous afternoon. One of his cryptic little teasers which almost always ended up leading us somewhere too late or nowhere fast. But they were all we'd had to go on lately. After three years on the loose, he was slowly slipping away from us, his ties to The Centre weakening, his messages and calls becoming fewer and farther between. Web could only find him now if he wanted us to, it seemed. Like the Cheshire cat, he seemed to be vanishing completely before our eyes... pretty soon there'd be nothing left but a shit-eating grin.
"It's all Greek to me" the message had read... in Greek. I'd stayed at the office until midnight and done everything short of praying to Zeus to figure it out.
"Watch this carefully," Broots said, smiling. It was a video clip from an early morning Boston news program. A feature on a student who'd died in an illegal fraternity hazing at a New Hampshire college. There were the sobbing parents, the classmates and fraternity brothers feigning surprise and sadness, blah, blah, blah.
"Andrews died alone in this room three weeks ago... " the reporter droned, and the camera panned across a typical college student's room. "But although he's gone, his tragedy won't soon be forgotten." The door to the room swung closed, and pinned to the outside of it appeared dried flowers, notes, and a piece of cardboard with words that looked like they'd been cut out of the side of a 12-pack container - "I LOVE YOU, MAN!"
"Touching," I said, and glared at him to force him to the point.
"Watch again," he urged, restarting the clip at the part where the camera panned across the student's room. There were clothes scattered on the little bed, piled on the floor. A beat-up desk with books and papers on it. Cans stacked in a pyramid in the corner.Hustler centerfolds on the walls. An empty pizza box. Typical. I crooked an eyebrow at Broots and gave him a withering stare.
"Look at the *stuff*," Broots repeated, obviously getting impatient with me. He slowed the clip to a crawl, and things suddenly began to jump out. The leather jacket on the bed. Junk food wrappers on the floor. Pez dispensers on the desk. And those weren't beer cans stacked against the wall... they were Yoo-Hoo cans. Dozens of them. Most telling, there was the ubiquitous red notebook sticking out from under the jacket.
"He's developed a drinking problem, I see," I muttered, leaning closer to the screen.
"Here's the best part," Broots said, practically tittering. He zoomed in on the pictures on the walls. I could see that most of them weren't of women after all. But one was, indeed, a centerfold straight from Penthouse or some such highbrow literary journal. He zoomed in again, and I felt my ears grow hot. If not for the gargantuan fake tits, she could have been me. I snatched at the mouse to get rid of the image. "Broots!" I spat, pushing back in my chair, but he was gone...his little tech-weenie ass hightailing it out my door. Smart.
We had a sweeper team together within the hour, and I rounded up tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee for a trip to College Town, USA. Rat Boy had become Frat Boy.
***
Keene State College. Autumn in a quintessential New England town. Big white church, village square with gazebo and shade trees, park benches and pigeons. Pleasantville. We drove up Main Street in our rented Accord, watching the students walk by; the place was crawling with Ivy League wanna be's, rich kids in grungy clothes, deadheads and no-neck jocks. I'd have to ditch the pumps and suit, I decided, or we'd stick out worse than a bunch of Hell's Angels here. So we went to our hotel and I dug into my just-in-case bag, coming up with jeans, a white cotton shirt and loafers. I put my hair up in a ponytail, donned a pair of sunglasses, then joined Sydney and Broots, who were similarly dressed down. We looked like a couple of freshmen giving dad a tour on parents' weekend.
Nonetheless, I had a good feeling about this trip. We'd solved Jarod's latest little mystery in no time, and judging from the local newspaper reports, *his* work here was not yet finished. But that Boston news clip, the footage of his room... had he planned that, or was that an accident? I guessed we'd find out.
I parked the car down the street from the frathouse - Phi Mu Delta - and watched as the Sweeper team rolled into a bike shop parking lot nearby. I'd instructed them to discreetly surround the house and cover all means of access or egress. They knew the drill, but I hardly knew why I bothered with them anymore. They couldn't catch a cold standing outside in their underwear. Sighing, I stepped out of the vehicle, tucked my Smith & Wesson in my belt under my leather jacket, and felt the jacket pocket for my cuffs. "Keep your eyes open," I instructed the boys, and set off down the street.
It really was a lovely day. Friday, just about noon, the temperature about 60 degrees - one of those crisp, fall days that makes you want to savor every minute outdoors. I enjoyed about two minutes of it between the car and the side door of the Victorian house. I pushed the door open - the jamb appeared to be broken - and walked in. A kid sat at a beat-up table in the grungy kitchen, spooning Frosted Flakes into his mouth.
"A little late for breakfast," I observed.
He grunted, still eyeballing the text on the box through his long, stringy bangs. *That a little advanced for you?* I thought.
"Is Jarod home?" I said in my best sorority voice. I couldn't imagine he was, at that time of day, but I wanted to at least case the place.
"Yup," he replied, milk leaking out of his mouth. He gestured at the ceiling with his spoon, still not looking at me.
I walked out of the kitchen cautiously and down the hall to the living room. This was too easy. I suddenly had visions of being hog-tied by ten horny football players while Jarod laughed and waved goodbye. I gritted my teeth, forcing the thought out of my mind. *Not this time, bucko.*
I waded through the living room - what a mess - pizza boxes, beer cans, the reek of old socks, stale beer and overflowing ashtrays. *This is gross even for Jarod.* I rounded the corner and nearly ran into the Incredible Hulk coming out of a bathroom. I jumped, reaching for my gun, but it was just another big, dumb kid. He grinned at me and I forced myself to relax.
"Hey, company," he said. "Sorry about the mess - we had a little party lastnight."
"And I wasn't invited..."
"That was definitely an oversight on somebody's part," he said, giving me a quick up and down. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Jarod," I said quietly, then wondered if that was a mistake. I tossed my head and tried to look vacuous.
"He left something in class yesterday." He looked at me hard for a moment, then his face lit up with apparent recognition, and his jaw dropped a little. I had an instant of panic, which turned to nausea when I remembered the centerfold on the wall.
He leered at me. "Well you're in luck," he said. "He's a hard man to catch, but he just went upstairs a couple minutes ago."
I brushed past the kid, rounded the corner and peered up the stairs. The second floor landing was dark, no doors open, no windows, no movement. I drew my 9mm and started up the steps slowly, but quickly gave up on stealth. The old house creaked like a ship in a storm. So I stomped up the remaining stairs as hard as I could, trying to sound like I weighed 200 pounds. When I reached the landing, I recognized the door - the flowers and notes tacked all over it. It was open an inch or so.
*Here we go,* I thought. My heart began to pound, the blood rush in my ears making me dizzy for a moment. *Get a grip Parker.* I only hesitated for a moment, then shoved the door open wide with my left hand, holding the gun at chest height with my right. No one home.
Just like in the news clip, there were the clothes, the Yoo-Hoo cans. The damnable hussy spreading her wares on the wall. There was his red notebook, his stupid Pez containers. But I didn't have time to explore just yet. Where could he be? Then I heard the shower. The bathroom was right nextdoor. This was too good to be true.
*Be careful, Parker. If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.*
I stepped back into the dark hallway and approached the bathroom door. Putting my hand on the doorknob, I turned it ever so slowly, millimeter by millimeter, feeling the knob slip slightly against the sweat on my palm. I willed my breathing to slow.
Too easy.
The door opened a crack and steam rolled out, dampening my face as I peeked in cautiously.I could see the sink with his toiletry bag sitting on it. The mirror was fogged up. Then he began to sing - something inane and awful like "Octopuses Garden." He didn't seem to have a clue. For a moment I almost felt sorry for him, but just for a moment. I opened the door wide enough to see his back behind the plexiglass shower door, then slipped inside quickly and closed the door behind me, hoping he hadn't felt a draft. He just kept singing, and I took the liberty of watching him for a moment or two.
He was washing his hair, singing and humming, happy as a damn clam. I could see his muscular form through the glass door, but the image was distorted, as if I were watching him underwater or in a dream. He moved, rippling, reaching for the soap, lathering himself up. I was invading his privacy, watching his most intimate moments, a peeping tom, a voyeur. It was the most fun I'd had in a long time, and I wasn't in a hurry for it to end. I squinted through the steam as he turned toward me, raising one arm, then the other to soap his pits. I could see dark patches in his armpits, between his legs...
*Holy shit, Parker, just do your job.*
I shook my head minutely to clear out the smarmy thoughts I was having, causing my weight to shift ever so slightly and the floorboard under my left foot to let out a hideous groan. I froze, and so did Jarod. For a long moment, the only sound was the running water.
"Who's there?" he said softly.
I blinked, then slowly, oh so slowly, began to raise my gun.
"Who's there?" he repeated, and I could see his left arm reaching for something, a shampoo bottle.
I had him now. "Step out of the shower, Jarod," I ordered in my most commanding voice, pointing the gun at him.
He stood stock still, the water cascading onto his back. I could almost hear the gears in his little head turning, calculating the odds of getting out of this one.
Then it happened. It happened in about three seconds, but I can see it in my mind like one of those slow motion replays.
The shower door slammed open with a report like a gunshot and Jarod stepped out, dripping wet, consuming the floor space between us in one big stride. "Don't you ever *knock*?!" he was saying loudly. I gritted my teeth, holding my weapon up, and was about to scream at him to hit the floor when I totally blew it.
I looked down.
What red-blooded woman wouldn't have?
I let my eyes drop for a split second, which was exactly what he was counting on, and in that split second he brought that shampoo bottle up and let me have it - about 15 ounces of Pert Plus directly in the face. He blew the top off the bottle and squirted me so hard that I was inhaling shampoo. Green, burning goo in my eyes, nose, mouth. I gagged and sputtered, staggered back, and he grabbed my wrist and slammed my hand into the sink, knocking my Smith & Wesson to the slimy tile floor. I heard it clatter away as he jerked me close, then, and whispered in my ear,
"So close, but no *banana.*"
I latched onto his bare forearm, but he slid from my soapy grip like a snake, leaving me groping blindly, cursing and wiping desperately at my eyes. By the time I could see, he'd opened the bathroom window and slithered out.
***
"Miss Parker," Stevens was pleading, trying to keep a straight face, "The guy dropped on me from the second story buck naked and dripping wet. He snagged my gun and ran. I couldn't hold him - I had nothing to grab onto!"
"Oh, I'm sure you could have found *something*," I snapped, standing in Jarod's room and wiping my face and hair on a dirty towel. I felt slimy, disgusting. My ulcer burned. I wanted to kill someone.
The rest of the sweepers were still scouring the area, looking for the man that every co-ed on campus had just seen streak past, but no one could now find. I stepped back out into the hallway, where Abbott and Costello were whispering conspiratorially in the dim light. Broots was actually giggling, and Sydney's whole body was shaking with supressed laughter. I coughed loudly, and they both spun around, Broots' jaw dropping at the sight of me.
"What am I, Medusa?" I hissed. "It's a little shampoo. Get over it and go find Frat Boy. Go!"
They scurried back downstairs, and I set about ransacking Jarod's room, looking for the DSA case I knew he'd left behind. I made as big a mess as I could, completely trashing the place for the hell of it, and it wasn't long before I located the silver haliburton up in the drop ceiling - the place every college kid hides his stash.
*Bingo.*
***
I finished brushing my teeth, then climbed into the shower, turning the head to pulse. God, it felt good. I could hardly wash my hair, though, my right hand swollen and stiff where Jarod had whacked it against the porcelain sink.
*Bastard.* I willed him out of my mind, determined to relax and let the water carry my stress away. Like I said, the day hadn't been all bad. I had the DSAs, didn't I? And because it was Friday night, I told myself, I would just keep them over the weekend. Hell if I was going back to The Centre with them tonight. No one even knew I had them, actually. I told Sydney and Broots that the search had been a failure. I don't think Sydney quite believed me - I probably looked a little too smug - but he knew better than to push it. Truth is, I wanted to watch the recordings for myself, by myself. I wanted to see just what it was that made Jarod so valuable to The Centre - and why he'd do anything not to go back. Sure, I knew a little bit about Jarod's simulations; he had been telling me bits and pieces about them since we were kids. And I knew that sometimes they were unpleasant. There were occasions, years ago, when I'd found Jarod pale, exhausted and sad after a particularly difficult one. A couple times he was practically catatonic. But I thought then that he was probably just being overly sensitive. I also knew that the simulations were often sold to the highest bidders, who sometimes happened to be terrorists, crooked politicians, ruthless dictators, mafioso types and other untouchables. That left a bad taste in my mouth, too - but business is business, I told myself. The Tower's line is, the stuff Jarod carries in his head - and in the DSA case - is terribly dangerous to a lot of people, including him. The whole world would be safer with Jarod back where he belongs.
I know I would be.
I slipped into my silk robe, toweled my hair, then poured myself a glass of Scotch. I considered making a bowl of popcorn, but somehow that seemed... I don't know... disrespectful. Call me sensitive. I dimmed the lights, got comfortable on the sofa and propped the case open on the coffee table. There were other things in it besides the discs and player - a picture of a woman, a Pez container, some cryptic, yellowed notes. I lifted these things out and fingered them carefully - things that obviously meant a lot to Jarod.
A chill ran up my spine. Here I was at home alone, late at night, in my nightie, tampering with Jarod's most prized possessions - and he probably knew it. I quickly fetched my 9mm from the closet, checked the locks on the doors and windows and set my cell phone next to my glass of Scotch... just incase.
I selected a disc at random, started the player and sat back to watch.
The night whispered by, hour by hour, and I sat mesmerized by the little screen in front of me. Tales of sadness, fear, abuse and loneliness spun one after another from the little discs - images frightening and difficult to watch at times. Indirectly, Jarod's life reflected my own, and the recordings began to bring back some powerful memories for me - ones I'd tried for years to forget.
***
A teenaged Jarod sat at a table in the sim lab, head down, while Sydney pulled up a chair across from him and eased into it.
"Jarod, do you understand why you can't see Miss Parker anymore?" he said gently.
Jarod didn't reply, just scowled down at his hands.
"Jarod, I'm speaking to you."
"I have nothing to say," the boy said coldly.
Sydney sighed, bent his head, rubbed his temples with the fingers of his right hand. "I understand," he began carefully, "that you have strong feelings for Miss Parker. There is nothing wrong with that, in and of itself. But those feelings have been distracting you lately, and your work has suffered. And now this... Jarod, we can't allow you to behave in this way."
"In what way, Sydney?" Jarod asked angrily. He lifted his head, revealing a dark bruise on his left cheekbone. "Like a normal human being? Like a man?"
"Jarod, your body is surging with hormones right now. You have strong impulses to act on your feelings, on your body's urges. Those urges, just like hunger and tiredness, can be controlled. You must develop self-control, or your work will continue to suffer and you will be unhappy. You must suppress those urges, and control your feelings."
"I can only go so long without food and sleep, Sydney. What makes you think sex is any different?" Jarod argued, his voice rising. "And why can't you say it, Sydney - SEX! Why haven't you told me about it? Did you really think those books would be enough? How can I understand people - real life - without understanding sexual intercourse? Don't you ever have sexual intercourse, Sydney?"
"This isn't about me, Jarod."
"No, it's about me and Miss Parker!" Jarod shouted, jumping out of his chair. "And I don't want to be here anymore if I can't see her! I don't want to be someplace where I'm not allowed to experience sex, love - life! Next year I'll be 18 and Miss Parker says you can't keep me here anymore! I'm leaving!"
***
I closed my eyes and remembered...
I was 16, and it was the Saturday morning after my first date. Jarod and I were lounging shoulder to shoulder on the floor of an SL-2 janitor's closet - our private little childhood lair - on a mattress of blankets, staring at the ceiling. A dying flashlight lit the room with a dull glow. He was eating some licorice I'd brought him, and I was feeling pensive.
"I got kissed lastnight, Jarod," I finally said.
"Really?" he said eagerly, raising himself on an elbow to look down at me. "What do you mean? What was it like?"
"I had a date. He drove me home and he kissed me goodnight, you know? It was ok. A little messy. He wasn't very good," I said authoritatively. As if I'd had any comparison.
"How was it messy?"
"Well, he got a lot of spit on my face," I complained.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. "You kissed me once, but there wasn't any spit involved."
"This was a long kiss on the mouth. We kissed for a long time, and used our tongues."
"Your tongues?" he asked incredulously.
"Sure. It's called Frenching."
"Did the French invent it?"
"I dunno, but it's messy."
"So...how did you like it?" he asked slowly.
I smiled to myself. "I liked it pretty well." Then an idea came to me. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. I needed practice at this kissing business - here was my chance. Why couldn't Jarod be my personal guinea pig? Wasn't that his job?
"Would you like to try?" I said slyly.
He looked taken aback for a moment, then a big, idiotic smile spread across his face. "Sure I would," he said excitedly.
Lying down was suddenly a little too scary, so I sat up and pulled him up to sit across from me. "OK," I commanded, "Close your eyes." Holding my breath, heart pounding, I slowly leaned forward and planted my mouth against his.
We were both stiff and awkward at first, but practice makes perfect and practice we did. I made excuses to come to The Centre nearly every day after that; I actually invented a job shadowing assignment for one of my classes, and told Daddy I would be shadowing Peggy from security. I felt certain he wouldn't check up on me.
I would sneak down the stairwell shoeless, timing my dash down the SL-2 corridor just as the security camera turned away. I knew Jarod's ears pricked up as my stocking feet pounded softly toward the closet door and I pictured him as a cat crouched, a snake coiled in that dark room. The door was always ajar, and when I opened it he would spring, his strong arms pulling me quickly into the dark, down to a soft, warm, skin-scented place where the world instantly shrank to just us two.
At first it was just kissing, which Jarod quickly excelled at. He was so good, in fact, that I could see no more reason to continue dating Ronnie, who kissed like a fish and never had enough money to do anything really fun. Jarod was not sorry to hear that, I could tell, but he said he was anyway - just to please me.
God, he was good at pleasing me. He paid such close attention to my every suggestion and sigh, adapted so quickly to my every bodily response and reflex, that I began to have a hard time telling where my body ended and his began. Our sexual education, of course, soon progressed rapidly from kissing to fondling to frantically heavy petting - but always through our clothes (I was a good Catholic girl, after all).
I never knew I could want anything or anyone so much - with every fiber of my being. After two hours or so of groping and grinding, I would finally tear myself away from Jarod's desperate embrace, tuck my clothes in, comb my hair and stagger back to my father's office, flushed and moist and burning.
Daddy never commented on my swollen, bruised lips, missing earrings or love bites. I got careless, and now I wonder if it wasn't somewhat deliberate - did I push the envelope as far as I could, just to see how little Daddy really noticed me?
That fateful afternoon, I crept down the stairwell and peeked out to the SL2 corridor. To my surprise, the closet door stood open and a janitor was just coming out, carrying a mophead. I stood there numb and wondering what to do, when I felt a touch at my shoulder. I whirled around.
"Jarod!" I whispered, relieved. "What are we going to do?"
"I have an idea," he said, grinning. "Let's go to my room."
I didn't ask any questions - I just followed him. I didn't care about anything but feeling him against me in the dark, and I would have followed him anywhere to do it.
We descended flight after flight of stairs as fast as we could, then we stopped at the door to SL 15. "OK, he said, panting. I'll walk down the hall to my room and draw the camera. If you stay about fifteen feet back, it won't be able to see you. I'll go just beyond my door - it's number twenty-four - and you step in and slide immediately to the front left corner. Stay there and don't move until I tell you to."
I did just as he said, and soon I was squeezed into the corner of his sterile room, holding my breath while I watched him walk in nonchalantly, flip on the light and go into the bathroom. He came back out shortly, whistling, walked back to the doorway and killed the lights again. I heard the bedsprings squeak, and some small, strange noises overhead. I realized he was standing on something on the bed, tampering with the infrared camera overhead. The bed squeaked again and his lips were against my ear.
"The camera's jammed," he breathed, "but the sound is still on. Don't make any noise." We both slid into his tiny bed together and held each other in the dark, under the blanket, feeling our hearts pounding in unison. We didn't have to say how risky this was - we both knew it. He pressed his mouth to mine and kissed me, a hot, open-mouthed kiss designed to make me forget my fear. It worked, and soon my hands were gripping his muscular ass through his thin, cotton Centre-issue trousers; I could feel the heat of his palms even through my bra and sweater. I'd never been more excited.
Screw Daddy, I thought. Screw mortal sins.
"Let's get naked," I breathed in his ear.
He hesitated a moment, but just a moment - then we were both wriggling and thrashing and kicking our clothes to the bottom of the bed. I buried my face in his neck, trying not to giggle as he rolled me over, pressing me into the mattress. His weight on top of me flattened my small breasts against his bare chest, and his hard penis pushing against my thigh felt thrillingly large. *This is it - I'm going to go all the way,* I remember thinking. I had been telling myself all along that I wouldn't. That this was all just a big experiment, and that making out with Jarod was just a test for real life. Just a harmless way to get a little practice in before my wedding night - or at least prom night. I was only using Jarod, I told myself, but he didn't mind. Where else would the poor boy get any?
That was what I had told myself, but in that naked instant, the fog of self-deception and teenage angst lifted and I felt suddenly, refreshingly clear-headed. I was blissfully happy, so happy in Jarod's arms that I could hardly stand it. Was this joy? Love? I felt like I could die, then and there.
"Jarod," I breathed.
He held still, pressed his ear to my lips.
"Do you love me?"
He didn't get a chance to answer.
There were loud footsteps in the hall, right outside the door. I felt Jarod tense, heard a hand on the door knob. Jarod shoved me hard, down under the covers, and I gladly flattened myself 3there, terrified as the door opened and the lights came on.
Two people entered the room.
Jarod shifted slowly beside me, and I heard him mumble "What is it, Sydney?" as if he'd
been sleeping.
"Get up, Jarod," Sydney said roughly. I didn't like the sound of that. There was none of the usual gentleness in his voice.
"What's the matter?" Jarod asked.
"I said get up, Jarod. Get up now."
"But Sydney, I'm..."
"Up, boy!" Jarod was suddenly dragged from the bed, nearly taking the blankets with him, and I went cold at the sound of that voice - my father's."
"Are you alone, Jarod?" Daddy asked loudly. His voice was strained, ugly, and I realized he knew.
Jarod hesitated, and I felt hot tears begin pooling in my wide, blinking eyes.
"Answer me!"
He knew it was no use to lie, but still, I wished he would have.
"No," he answered, his voice breaking. "No, sir."
I screamed as the blankets flew back, exposing me, and I sat bolt upright to snatch the sheet back over my naked body. Daddy's eyes met mine, just for a second, and I couldn't believe the look I saw there.
"Mr. Parker, please, it was my..." Jarod started to say, but my father spun and dealt him a vicious backhand to the face, sending him reeling into the wall.
"Daddy!" I cried, but he had Jarod in the corner, pinning him to the wall, his hands around Jarod's throat.
"Parker, please," Sydney was saying, trying to defuse the situation, but Daddy wouldn't be placated. I scrambled furiously for my clothes, putting them on inside out and backwards, tears of humiliation, anger and fear streaming down my face.
"If you *ever,*" my father yelled at Jarod, his face purple, "touch, speak to, or so much as look at my daughter ever again I will personally see to it that you're castrated. Do you understand?!"
Jarod gasped for air, his face full of fear. "Yes," he croaked, "yes."
"Are you certain?!" my father cried, shaking him.
Jarod grew silent, still, and slowly his face changed. His nostrils flared, and his eyes filled with a rage to match Daddy's.
"Yes."
A week later, I was shipped off to boarding school.
***
The morning dawned cold and dreary, ushering in an all-day rain. Wind gusted out of the northeast, splattering the drops against the windowpanes as I continued to sit, glued to that little screen. I got up only to put on more coffee, find something to nibble on and pee. After the all night marathon of horror I was numb inside and out, completely drained of thought and emotion, strung out on caffeine and adrenalin - but I couldn't stop watching. I had to know the truth. It must have been sometime around 4 pm Saturday when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, and fell into a deep sleep, sprawled on the couch.
I was back at the Centre, walking the halls, looking desperately for Jarod. I had left him here so long ago, left him without a word of farewell, without a backward glance. I knew he was still here somewhere, if I could only find him. I *had* to find him - what had become of him? I ran to the empty sim lab, I ran to his room... then I remembered the closet...
I awoke with a start to my ringing cell phone. My heart pounded in my chest, and I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get rid of the residual angst from my dream. Better.
"What?" I rasped, fumbling the phone to my ear.
"Did you enjoy the show?"
That voice - I'd know it anywhere. Deep and rich and velvety, like chocolate silk pie.
"If by show, you mean your public display in Keene..."
He chuckled. "Now Miss Parker, I *know* you enjoyed *that* show. No, I mean the Jarod and Sydney Show. My life story on disc. Did you enjoy it?"
"That's not the kind of thing I watch for enjoyment. Besides, I took the DSAs back to The Centre lastnight," I lied.
"So what *were* you watching all night, Miss Parker? Surely not the I Love Lucy' marathon."
"How do you know I was up all night?" I demanded, getting up from the couch to peek out of the miniblinds.
"You sound tired."
"I am tired, Jarod. Tired of chasing your ass all over kingdom come."
His tone changed. "I want my discs back, Miss Parker. They belong to me."
I sighed loudly. "They don't belong to you, Jarod. They're the property of The Centre, and I couldn't give them back to you now even if I wanted to."
"You're lying," he said angrily. "I know you and you haven't taken them in yet. You wanted to see them yourself."
"Listen," he continued, "if you give them back to me, I'll give you something in return. I have a piece of information I know you'd be interested in."
"What kind of information?" I said, my curiosity piqued.
"Information on your mother."
I pondered that for a moment, decided he was bluffing. "No can do, Jarod." It was his turn to pause. "I'll just have to get them myself, then," he said finally, and hung up.
****
I sat staring at the phone for several minutes, listening to the dial tone buzz, then got up and stumbled toward the bathroom. I suddenly, desperately just wanted a shower. Some nice warm water to clear my head.
But as I stood under the pounding spray, all I could hear was the smooth, velvety cadence of Jarod's voice. Now threatening, now soothing, now all irony and innuendo. *So close, but no banana,* I heard him purr tauntingly, and a little smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Oh God, he had been naked and dripping and so... so beautifully hard and muscled and virile.
I let the image flow over me like the water until I was thoroughly drenched, inside and out. Until I began a little Pretend of my own. Until I was gasping and mouthing his name, and sliding down the shower wall, trembling with the force of my release.
Sympathy for Delilah Series
Part 1 - FRAT BOY
by Dominatrix
I've definitely had better days, I thought, staring at my disheveled image in the mirror. My hair hung limp around my face, makeup smudged, dark circles under my eyes. I glanced at the little clock sitting on the bathroom shelf. Eleven pm. I sighed and squeezed some toothpaste onto my toothbrush. *Maybe this'll take the taste of humble pie out of my mouth. Again.* But the day wasn't *all* bad. No, there were definitely bright spots. Blinding, as a matter of fact.
It had started out as usual. Stress and more stress. Raines on a tear about some malfunctioning security cameras, my father nowhere to be found. Brootsie had a little migraine first thing and wanted to go home. "Too goddamn bad," I told him, feeling like a bitch and pissed at him for making me feel that way. God, he's a nerd. But he's *my* nerd, and a darn good one. It was about 9 o'clock in the morning, and I was nursing my fourth cup of java when I heard his spastic little knock on my office door.
"*What?*" I yelled. I knew exactly what - I always know what just by the way people knock around here.
"Hey, I've got something," he said excitedly when he'd entered the room.
"Something besides a headache, I hope."
"Oh, that... that's gone already, thank you Miss Parker..."
"Are you going to tell me something I'm going to care about?"
"Uh, yeah... Well..." Flustered again, he fumbled in his pockets for a disc, then finding it, he reached over and popped it into my computer.
Jarod had sent us a message late the previous afternoon. One of his cryptic little teasers which almost always ended up leading us somewhere too late or nowhere fast. But they were all we'd had to go on lately. After three years on the loose, he was slowly slipping away from us, his ties to The Centre weakening, his messages and calls becoming fewer and farther between. Web could only find him now if he wanted us to, it seemed. Like the Cheshire cat, he seemed to be vanishing completely before our eyes... pretty soon there'd be nothing left but a shit-eating grin.
"It's all Greek to me" the message had read... in Greek. I'd stayed at the office until midnight and done everything short of praying to Zeus to figure it out.
"Watch this carefully," Broots said, smiling. It was a video clip from an early morning Boston news program. A feature on a student who'd died in an illegal fraternity hazing at a New Hampshire college. There were the sobbing parents, the classmates and fraternity brothers feigning surprise and sadness, blah, blah, blah.
"Andrews died alone in this room three weeks ago... " the reporter droned, and the camera panned across a typical college student's room. "But although he's gone, his tragedy won't soon be forgotten." The door to the room swung closed, and pinned to the outside of it appeared dried flowers, notes, and a piece of cardboard with words that looked like they'd been cut out of the side of a 12-pack container - "I LOVE YOU, MAN!"
"Touching," I said, and glared at him to force him to the point.
"Watch again," he urged, restarting the clip at the part where the camera panned across the student's room. There were clothes scattered on the little bed, piled on the floor. A beat-up desk with books and papers on it. Cans stacked in a pyramid in the corner.Hustler centerfolds on the walls. An empty pizza box. Typical. I crooked an eyebrow at Broots and gave him a withering stare.
"Look at the *stuff*," Broots repeated, obviously getting impatient with me. He slowed the clip to a crawl, and things suddenly began to jump out. The leather jacket on the bed. Junk food wrappers on the floor. Pez dispensers on the desk. And those weren't beer cans stacked against the wall... they were Yoo-Hoo cans. Dozens of them. Most telling, there was the ubiquitous red notebook sticking out from under the jacket.
"He's developed a drinking problem, I see," I muttered, leaning closer to the screen.
"Here's the best part," Broots said, practically tittering. He zoomed in on the pictures on the walls. I could see that most of them weren't of women after all. But one was, indeed, a centerfold straight from Penthouse or some such highbrow literary journal. He zoomed in again, and I felt my ears grow hot. If not for the gargantuan fake tits, she could have been me. I snatched at the mouse to get rid of the image. "Broots!" I spat, pushing back in my chair, but he was gone...his little tech-weenie ass hightailing it out my door. Smart.
We had a sweeper team together within the hour, and I rounded up tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee for a trip to College Town, USA. Rat Boy had become Frat Boy.
***
Keene State College. Autumn in a quintessential New England town. Big white church, village square with gazebo and shade trees, park benches and pigeons. Pleasantville. We drove up Main Street in our rented Accord, watching the students walk by; the place was crawling with Ivy League wanna be's, rich kids in grungy clothes, deadheads and no-neck jocks. I'd have to ditch the pumps and suit, I decided, or we'd stick out worse than a bunch of Hell's Angels here. So we went to our hotel and I dug into my just-in-case bag, coming up with jeans, a white cotton shirt and loafers. I put my hair up in a ponytail, donned a pair of sunglasses, then joined Sydney and Broots, who were similarly dressed down. We looked like a couple of freshmen giving dad a tour on parents' weekend.
Nonetheless, I had a good feeling about this trip. We'd solved Jarod's latest little mystery in no time, and judging from the local newspaper reports, *his* work here was not yet finished. But that Boston news clip, the footage of his room... had he planned that, or was that an accident? I guessed we'd find out.
I parked the car down the street from the frathouse - Phi Mu Delta - and watched as the Sweeper team rolled into a bike shop parking lot nearby. I'd instructed them to discreetly surround the house and cover all means of access or egress. They knew the drill, but I hardly knew why I bothered with them anymore. They couldn't catch a cold standing outside in their underwear. Sighing, I stepped out of the vehicle, tucked my Smith & Wesson in my belt under my leather jacket, and felt the jacket pocket for my cuffs. "Keep your eyes open," I instructed the boys, and set off down the street.
It really was a lovely day. Friday, just about noon, the temperature about 60 degrees - one of those crisp, fall days that makes you want to savor every minute outdoors. I enjoyed about two minutes of it between the car and the side door of the Victorian house. I pushed the door open - the jamb appeared to be broken - and walked in. A kid sat at a beat-up table in the grungy kitchen, spooning Frosted Flakes into his mouth.
"A little late for breakfast," I observed.
He grunted, still eyeballing the text on the box through his long, stringy bangs. *That a little advanced for you?* I thought.
"Is Jarod home?" I said in my best sorority voice. I couldn't imagine he was, at that time of day, but I wanted to at least case the place.
"Yup," he replied, milk leaking out of his mouth. He gestured at the ceiling with his spoon, still not looking at me.
I walked out of the kitchen cautiously and down the hall to the living room. This was too easy. I suddenly had visions of being hog-tied by ten horny football players while Jarod laughed and waved goodbye. I gritted my teeth, forcing the thought out of my mind. *Not this time, bucko.*
I waded through the living room - what a mess - pizza boxes, beer cans, the reek of old socks, stale beer and overflowing ashtrays. *This is gross even for Jarod.* I rounded the corner and nearly ran into the Incredible Hulk coming out of a bathroom. I jumped, reaching for my gun, but it was just another big, dumb kid. He grinned at me and I forced myself to relax.
"Hey, company," he said. "Sorry about the mess - we had a little party lastnight."
"And I wasn't invited..."
"That was definitely an oversight on somebody's part," he said, giving me a quick up and down. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Jarod," I said quietly, then wondered if that was a mistake. I tossed my head and tried to look vacuous.
"He left something in class yesterday." He looked at me hard for a moment, then his face lit up with apparent recognition, and his jaw dropped a little. I had an instant of panic, which turned to nausea when I remembered the centerfold on the wall.
He leered at me. "Well you're in luck," he said. "He's a hard man to catch, but he just went upstairs a couple minutes ago."
I brushed past the kid, rounded the corner and peered up the stairs. The second floor landing was dark, no doors open, no windows, no movement. I drew my 9mm and started up the steps slowly, but quickly gave up on stealth. The old house creaked like a ship in a storm. So I stomped up the remaining stairs as hard as I could, trying to sound like I weighed 200 pounds. When I reached the landing, I recognized the door - the flowers and notes tacked all over it. It was open an inch or so.
*Here we go,* I thought. My heart began to pound, the blood rush in my ears making me dizzy for a moment. *Get a grip Parker.* I only hesitated for a moment, then shoved the door open wide with my left hand, holding the gun at chest height with my right. No one home.
Just like in the news clip, there were the clothes, the Yoo-Hoo cans. The damnable hussy spreading her wares on the wall. There was his red notebook, his stupid Pez containers. But I didn't have time to explore just yet. Where could he be? Then I heard the shower. The bathroom was right nextdoor. This was too good to be true.
*Be careful, Parker. If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.*
I stepped back into the dark hallway and approached the bathroom door. Putting my hand on the doorknob, I turned it ever so slowly, millimeter by millimeter, feeling the knob slip slightly against the sweat on my palm. I willed my breathing to slow.
Too easy.
The door opened a crack and steam rolled out, dampening my face as I peeked in cautiously.I could see the sink with his toiletry bag sitting on it. The mirror was fogged up. Then he began to sing - something inane and awful like "Octopuses Garden." He didn't seem to have a clue. For a moment I almost felt sorry for him, but just for a moment. I opened the door wide enough to see his back behind the plexiglass shower door, then slipped inside quickly and closed the door behind me, hoping he hadn't felt a draft. He just kept singing, and I took the liberty of watching him for a moment or two.
He was washing his hair, singing and humming, happy as a damn clam. I could see his muscular form through the glass door, but the image was distorted, as if I were watching him underwater or in a dream. He moved, rippling, reaching for the soap, lathering himself up. I was invading his privacy, watching his most intimate moments, a peeping tom, a voyeur. It was the most fun I'd had in a long time, and I wasn't in a hurry for it to end. I squinted through the steam as he turned toward me, raising one arm, then the other to soap his pits. I could see dark patches in his armpits, between his legs...
*Holy shit, Parker, just do your job.*
I shook my head minutely to clear out the smarmy thoughts I was having, causing my weight to shift ever so slightly and the floorboard under my left foot to let out a hideous groan. I froze, and so did Jarod. For a long moment, the only sound was the running water.
"Who's there?" he said softly.
I blinked, then slowly, oh so slowly, began to raise my gun.
"Who's there?" he repeated, and I could see his left arm reaching for something, a shampoo bottle.
I had him now. "Step out of the shower, Jarod," I ordered in my most commanding voice, pointing the gun at him.
He stood stock still, the water cascading onto his back. I could almost hear the gears in his little head turning, calculating the odds of getting out of this one.
Then it happened. It happened in about three seconds, but I can see it in my mind like one of those slow motion replays.
The shower door slammed open with a report like a gunshot and Jarod stepped out, dripping wet, consuming the floor space between us in one big stride. "Don't you ever *knock*?!" he was saying loudly. I gritted my teeth, holding my weapon up, and was about to scream at him to hit the floor when I totally blew it.
I looked down.
What red-blooded woman wouldn't have?
I let my eyes drop for a split second, which was exactly what he was counting on, and in that split second he brought that shampoo bottle up and let me have it - about 15 ounces of Pert Plus directly in the face. He blew the top off the bottle and squirted me so hard that I was inhaling shampoo. Green, burning goo in my eyes, nose, mouth. I gagged and sputtered, staggered back, and he grabbed my wrist and slammed my hand into the sink, knocking my Smith & Wesson to the slimy tile floor. I heard it clatter away as he jerked me close, then, and whispered in my ear,
"So close, but no *banana.*"
I latched onto his bare forearm, but he slid from my soapy grip like a snake, leaving me groping blindly, cursing and wiping desperately at my eyes. By the time I could see, he'd opened the bathroom window and slithered out.
***
"Miss Parker," Stevens was pleading, trying to keep a straight face, "The guy dropped on me from the second story buck naked and dripping wet. He snagged my gun and ran. I couldn't hold him - I had nothing to grab onto!"
"Oh, I'm sure you could have found *something*," I snapped, standing in Jarod's room and wiping my face and hair on a dirty towel. I felt slimy, disgusting. My ulcer burned. I wanted to kill someone.
The rest of the sweepers were still scouring the area, looking for the man that every co-ed on campus had just seen streak past, but no one could now find. I stepped back out into the hallway, where Abbott and Costello were whispering conspiratorially in the dim light. Broots was actually giggling, and Sydney's whole body was shaking with supressed laughter. I coughed loudly, and they both spun around, Broots' jaw dropping at the sight of me.
"What am I, Medusa?" I hissed. "It's a little shampoo. Get over it and go find Frat Boy. Go!"
They scurried back downstairs, and I set about ransacking Jarod's room, looking for the DSA case I knew he'd left behind. I made as big a mess as I could, completely trashing the place for the hell of it, and it wasn't long before I located the silver haliburton up in the drop ceiling - the place every college kid hides his stash.
*Bingo.*
***
I finished brushing my teeth, then climbed into the shower, turning the head to pulse. God, it felt good. I could hardly wash my hair, though, my right hand swollen and stiff where Jarod had whacked it against the porcelain sink.
*Bastard.* I willed him out of my mind, determined to relax and let the water carry my stress away. Like I said, the day hadn't been all bad. I had the DSAs, didn't I? And because it was Friday night, I told myself, I would just keep them over the weekend. Hell if I was going back to The Centre with them tonight. No one even knew I had them, actually. I told Sydney and Broots that the search had been a failure. I don't think Sydney quite believed me - I probably looked a little too smug - but he knew better than to push it. Truth is, I wanted to watch the recordings for myself, by myself. I wanted to see just what it was that made Jarod so valuable to The Centre - and why he'd do anything not to go back. Sure, I knew a little bit about Jarod's simulations; he had been telling me bits and pieces about them since we were kids. And I knew that sometimes they were unpleasant. There were occasions, years ago, when I'd found Jarod pale, exhausted and sad after a particularly difficult one. A couple times he was practically catatonic. But I thought then that he was probably just being overly sensitive. I also knew that the simulations were often sold to the highest bidders, who sometimes happened to be terrorists, crooked politicians, ruthless dictators, mafioso types and other untouchables. That left a bad taste in my mouth, too - but business is business, I told myself. The Tower's line is, the stuff Jarod carries in his head - and in the DSA case - is terribly dangerous to a lot of people, including him. The whole world would be safer with Jarod back where he belongs.
I know I would be.
I slipped into my silk robe, toweled my hair, then poured myself a glass of Scotch. I considered making a bowl of popcorn, but somehow that seemed... I don't know... disrespectful. Call me sensitive. I dimmed the lights, got comfortable on the sofa and propped the case open on the coffee table. There were other things in it besides the discs and player - a picture of a woman, a Pez container, some cryptic, yellowed notes. I lifted these things out and fingered them carefully - things that obviously meant a lot to Jarod.
A chill ran up my spine. Here I was at home alone, late at night, in my nightie, tampering with Jarod's most prized possessions - and he probably knew it. I quickly fetched my 9mm from the closet, checked the locks on the doors and windows and set my cell phone next to my glass of Scotch... just incase.
I selected a disc at random, started the player and sat back to watch.
The night whispered by, hour by hour, and I sat mesmerized by the little screen in front of me. Tales of sadness, fear, abuse and loneliness spun one after another from the little discs - images frightening and difficult to watch at times. Indirectly, Jarod's life reflected my own, and the recordings began to bring back some powerful memories for me - ones I'd tried for years to forget.
***
A teenaged Jarod sat at a table in the sim lab, head down, while Sydney pulled up a chair across from him and eased into it.
"Jarod, do you understand why you can't see Miss Parker anymore?" he said gently.
Jarod didn't reply, just scowled down at his hands.
"Jarod, I'm speaking to you."
"I have nothing to say," the boy said coldly.
Sydney sighed, bent his head, rubbed his temples with the fingers of his right hand. "I understand," he began carefully, "that you have strong feelings for Miss Parker. There is nothing wrong with that, in and of itself. But those feelings have been distracting you lately, and your work has suffered. And now this... Jarod, we can't allow you to behave in this way."
"In what way, Sydney?" Jarod asked angrily. He lifted his head, revealing a dark bruise on his left cheekbone. "Like a normal human being? Like a man?"
"Jarod, your body is surging with hormones right now. You have strong impulses to act on your feelings, on your body's urges. Those urges, just like hunger and tiredness, can be controlled. You must develop self-control, or your work will continue to suffer and you will be unhappy. You must suppress those urges, and control your feelings."
"I can only go so long without food and sleep, Sydney. What makes you think sex is any different?" Jarod argued, his voice rising. "And why can't you say it, Sydney - SEX! Why haven't you told me about it? Did you really think those books would be enough? How can I understand people - real life - without understanding sexual intercourse? Don't you ever have sexual intercourse, Sydney?"
"This isn't about me, Jarod."
"No, it's about me and Miss Parker!" Jarod shouted, jumping out of his chair. "And I don't want to be here anymore if I can't see her! I don't want to be someplace where I'm not allowed to experience sex, love - life! Next year I'll be 18 and Miss Parker says you can't keep me here anymore! I'm leaving!"
***
I closed my eyes and remembered...
I was 16, and it was the Saturday morning after my first date. Jarod and I were lounging shoulder to shoulder on the floor of an SL-2 janitor's closet - our private little childhood lair - on a mattress of blankets, staring at the ceiling. A dying flashlight lit the room with a dull glow. He was eating some licorice I'd brought him, and I was feeling pensive.
"I got kissed lastnight, Jarod," I finally said.
"Really?" he said eagerly, raising himself on an elbow to look down at me. "What do you mean? What was it like?"
"I had a date. He drove me home and he kissed me goodnight, you know? It was ok. A little messy. He wasn't very good," I said authoritatively. As if I'd had any comparison.
"How was it messy?"
"Well, he got a lot of spit on my face," I complained.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. "You kissed me once, but there wasn't any spit involved."
"This was a long kiss on the mouth. We kissed for a long time, and used our tongues."
"Your tongues?" he asked incredulously.
"Sure. It's called Frenching."
"Did the French invent it?"
"I dunno, but it's messy."
"So...how did you like it?" he asked slowly.
I smiled to myself. "I liked it pretty well." Then an idea came to me. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. I needed practice at this kissing business - here was my chance. Why couldn't Jarod be my personal guinea pig? Wasn't that his job?
"Would you like to try?" I said slyly.
He looked taken aback for a moment, then a big, idiotic smile spread across his face. "Sure I would," he said excitedly.
Lying down was suddenly a little too scary, so I sat up and pulled him up to sit across from me. "OK," I commanded, "Close your eyes." Holding my breath, heart pounding, I slowly leaned forward and planted my mouth against his.
We were both stiff and awkward at first, but practice makes perfect and practice we did. I made excuses to come to The Centre nearly every day after that; I actually invented a job shadowing assignment for one of my classes, and told Daddy I would be shadowing Peggy from security. I felt certain he wouldn't check up on me.
I would sneak down the stairwell shoeless, timing my dash down the SL-2 corridor just as the security camera turned away. I knew Jarod's ears pricked up as my stocking feet pounded softly toward the closet door and I pictured him as a cat crouched, a snake coiled in that dark room. The door was always ajar, and when I opened it he would spring, his strong arms pulling me quickly into the dark, down to a soft, warm, skin-scented place where the world instantly shrank to just us two.
At first it was just kissing, which Jarod quickly excelled at. He was so good, in fact, that I could see no more reason to continue dating Ronnie, who kissed like a fish and never had enough money to do anything really fun. Jarod was not sorry to hear that, I could tell, but he said he was anyway - just to please me.
God, he was good at pleasing me. He paid such close attention to my every suggestion and sigh, adapted so quickly to my every bodily response and reflex, that I began to have a hard time telling where my body ended and his began. Our sexual education, of course, soon progressed rapidly from kissing to fondling to frantically heavy petting - but always through our clothes (I was a good Catholic girl, after all).
I never knew I could want anything or anyone so much - with every fiber of my being. After two hours or so of groping and grinding, I would finally tear myself away from Jarod's desperate embrace, tuck my clothes in, comb my hair and stagger back to my father's office, flushed and moist and burning.
Daddy never commented on my swollen, bruised lips, missing earrings or love bites. I got careless, and now I wonder if it wasn't somewhat deliberate - did I push the envelope as far as I could, just to see how little Daddy really noticed me?
That fateful afternoon, I crept down the stairwell and peeked out to the SL2 corridor. To my surprise, the closet door stood open and a janitor was just coming out, carrying a mophead. I stood there numb and wondering what to do, when I felt a touch at my shoulder. I whirled around.
"Jarod!" I whispered, relieved. "What are we going to do?"
"I have an idea," he said, grinning. "Let's go to my room."
I didn't ask any questions - I just followed him. I didn't care about anything but feeling him against me in the dark, and I would have followed him anywhere to do it.
We descended flight after flight of stairs as fast as we could, then we stopped at the door to SL 15. "OK, he said, panting. I'll walk down the hall to my room and draw the camera. If you stay about fifteen feet back, it won't be able to see you. I'll go just beyond my door - it's number twenty-four - and you step in and slide immediately to the front left corner. Stay there and don't move until I tell you to."
I did just as he said, and soon I was squeezed into the corner of his sterile room, holding my breath while I watched him walk in nonchalantly, flip on the light and go into the bathroom. He came back out shortly, whistling, walked back to the doorway and killed the lights again. I heard the bedsprings squeak, and some small, strange noises overhead. I realized he was standing on something on the bed, tampering with the infrared camera overhead. The bed squeaked again and his lips were against my ear.
"The camera's jammed," he breathed, "but the sound is still on. Don't make any noise." We both slid into his tiny bed together and held each other in the dark, under the blanket, feeling our hearts pounding in unison. We didn't have to say how risky this was - we both knew it. He pressed his mouth to mine and kissed me, a hot, open-mouthed kiss designed to make me forget my fear. It worked, and soon my hands were gripping his muscular ass through his thin, cotton Centre-issue trousers; I could feel the heat of his palms even through my bra and sweater. I'd never been more excited.
Screw Daddy, I thought. Screw mortal sins.
"Let's get naked," I breathed in his ear.
He hesitated a moment, but just a moment - then we were both wriggling and thrashing and kicking our clothes to the bottom of the bed. I buried my face in his neck, trying not to giggle as he rolled me over, pressing me into the mattress. His weight on top of me flattened my small breasts against his bare chest, and his hard penis pushing against my thigh felt thrillingly large. *This is it - I'm going to go all the way,* I remember thinking. I had been telling myself all along that I wouldn't. That this was all just a big experiment, and that making out with Jarod was just a test for real life. Just a harmless way to get a little practice in before my wedding night - or at least prom night. I was only using Jarod, I told myself, but he didn't mind. Where else would the poor boy get any?
That was what I had told myself, but in that naked instant, the fog of self-deception and teenage angst lifted and I felt suddenly, refreshingly clear-headed. I was blissfully happy, so happy in Jarod's arms that I could hardly stand it. Was this joy? Love? I felt like I could die, then and there.
"Jarod," I breathed.
He held still, pressed his ear to my lips.
"Do you love me?"
He didn't get a chance to answer.
There were loud footsteps in the hall, right outside the door. I felt Jarod tense, heard a hand on the door knob. Jarod shoved me hard, down under the covers, and I gladly flattened myself 3there, terrified as the door opened and the lights came on.
Two people entered the room.
Jarod shifted slowly beside me, and I heard him mumble "What is it, Sydney?" as if he'd
been sleeping.
"Get up, Jarod," Sydney said roughly. I didn't like the sound of that. There was none of the usual gentleness in his voice.
"What's the matter?" Jarod asked.
"I said get up, Jarod. Get up now."
"But Sydney, I'm..."
"Up, boy!" Jarod was suddenly dragged from the bed, nearly taking the blankets with him, and I went cold at the sound of that voice - my father's."
"Are you alone, Jarod?" Daddy asked loudly. His voice was strained, ugly, and I realized he knew.
Jarod hesitated, and I felt hot tears begin pooling in my wide, blinking eyes.
"Answer me!"
He knew it was no use to lie, but still, I wished he would have.
"No," he answered, his voice breaking. "No, sir."
I screamed as the blankets flew back, exposing me, and I sat bolt upright to snatch the sheet back over my naked body. Daddy's eyes met mine, just for a second, and I couldn't believe the look I saw there.
"Mr. Parker, please, it was my..." Jarod started to say, but my father spun and dealt him a vicious backhand to the face, sending him reeling into the wall.
"Daddy!" I cried, but he had Jarod in the corner, pinning him to the wall, his hands around Jarod's throat.
"Parker, please," Sydney was saying, trying to defuse the situation, but Daddy wouldn't be placated. I scrambled furiously for my clothes, putting them on inside out and backwards, tears of humiliation, anger and fear streaming down my face.
"If you *ever,*" my father yelled at Jarod, his face purple, "touch, speak to, or so much as look at my daughter ever again I will personally see to it that you're castrated. Do you understand?!"
Jarod gasped for air, his face full of fear. "Yes," he croaked, "yes."
"Are you certain?!" my father cried, shaking him.
Jarod grew silent, still, and slowly his face changed. His nostrils flared, and his eyes filled with a rage to match Daddy's.
"Yes."
A week later, I was shipped off to boarding school.
***
The morning dawned cold and dreary, ushering in an all-day rain. Wind gusted out of the northeast, splattering the drops against the windowpanes as I continued to sit, glued to that little screen. I got up only to put on more coffee, find something to nibble on and pee. After the all night marathon of horror I was numb inside and out, completely drained of thought and emotion, strung out on caffeine and adrenalin - but I couldn't stop watching. I had to know the truth. It must have been sometime around 4 pm Saturday when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, and fell into a deep sleep, sprawled on the couch.
I was back at the Centre, walking the halls, looking desperately for Jarod. I had left him here so long ago, left him without a word of farewell, without a backward glance. I knew he was still here somewhere, if I could only find him. I *had* to find him - what had become of him? I ran to the empty sim lab, I ran to his room... then I remembered the closet...
I awoke with a start to my ringing cell phone. My heart pounded in my chest, and I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get rid of the residual angst from my dream. Better.
"What?" I rasped, fumbling the phone to my ear.
"Did you enjoy the show?"
That voice - I'd know it anywhere. Deep and rich and velvety, like chocolate silk pie.
"If by show, you mean your public display in Keene..."
He chuckled. "Now Miss Parker, I *know* you enjoyed *that* show. No, I mean the Jarod and Sydney Show. My life story on disc. Did you enjoy it?"
"That's not the kind of thing I watch for enjoyment. Besides, I took the DSAs back to The Centre lastnight," I lied.
"So what *were* you watching all night, Miss Parker? Surely not the I Love Lucy' marathon."
"How do you know I was up all night?" I demanded, getting up from the couch to peek out of the miniblinds.
"You sound tired."
"I am tired, Jarod. Tired of chasing your ass all over kingdom come."
His tone changed. "I want my discs back, Miss Parker. They belong to me."
I sighed loudly. "They don't belong to you, Jarod. They're the property of The Centre, and I couldn't give them back to you now even if I wanted to."
"You're lying," he said angrily. "I know you and you haven't taken them in yet. You wanted to see them yourself."
"Listen," he continued, "if you give them back to me, I'll give you something in return. I have a piece of information I know you'd be interested in."
"What kind of information?" I said, my curiosity piqued.
"Information on your mother."
I pondered that for a moment, decided he was bluffing. "No can do, Jarod." It was his turn to pause. "I'll just have to get them myself, then," he said finally, and hung up.
****
I sat staring at the phone for several minutes, listening to the dial tone buzz, then got up and stumbled toward the bathroom. I suddenly, desperately just wanted a shower. Some nice warm water to clear my head.
But as I stood under the pounding spray, all I could hear was the smooth, velvety cadence of Jarod's voice. Now threatening, now soothing, now all irony and innuendo. *So close, but no banana,* I heard him purr tauntingly, and a little smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Oh God, he had been naked and dripping and so... so beautifully hard and muscled and virile.
I let the image flow over me like the water until I was thoroughly drenched, inside and out. Until I began a little Pretend of my own. Until I was gasping and mouthing his name, and sliding down the shower wall, trembling with the force of my release.
