TAG (3 page)

His hand slips down the back of my jeans and palms my ass as he lifts me up, forcing my legs to straddle around his thin, bony waist. My shirt is pulled up over my head, and his tongue connects
with my skin,
tracing a line over my collarbone. His movements are animalistic and untamed, and his slobbering is making this hard to work
through.

I lower my lips to his ear. “You want me?” I honestly scare
myself with how well I can pull this off.

“You’re a bad girl, Ms. Sullen.”

You have no fucking idea.

“Have you ever raped anyone in here?” I ask while running my
tongue over his earlobe. He hesitates, and I graze my lips down to
his jawbone. “I get off on that kind of shit. Did you know that?”

“In that case, yes.” Got it. “She asked for it, though.”

“Krissy, wasn’t that her name?” I nibble on the skin below his ear, letting my teeth linger on his lobe so my words vibrate within
him. “So, if I stop you from going any further—” I pant a little, for effect. “Are you going to pretend I’m Krissy?”

“You-you knew her?” he stutters.

“I guess you could say that. But don’t let it distract you from this.”

He pulls away and looks at me for a brief second, studying the
look on my face. I’m a good actress, though. All he sees is a seductive grin
and my wanting eyes. “I’m not distracted, and I don’t need to
pretend,” he says, breaking up the moment of silence. “After these little teasing games of yours, you will be mine, one way or another. You can call it rape, but I’ll call it retribution for you coming in here like this and looking like that.” He looks me up and down shamelessly and bites down on his bottom lip.

I uncoil my body from his as I hop down, pushing him away so I
can take a few steps back. In a honeyed voice, I say, “Before you rape me, I need a second.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and click upload.

“What the fuck did you do?” he asks. “Get over here you
fucking
bitch.” He grabs my arm and pushes me over to his desk. He
pounces
on top of me from behind and claws at my bra, so I let out a few
cries—
pretend cries. But he doesn’t know they aren’t real. He flips me
around
and tries to shove his hand down my pants, which gives me the perfect opportunity to attack. I lift my leg and wrap it around the
back of his knee. Then he lifts me up to his chest, and I wrap my arms around his head, putting him in a choke hold.

“It’s your move,” I let out a small laugh. “But I warn you. You make the wrong one, and I’ll kill you.”

He releases his hands, so I release mine, but then he shoves me
to the ground. I rebound quicker than I fell, though, and while I
want nothing more than to attack him again, I’d much rather get the hell out of here. I slide my shirt back on and fix the few stray hairs curled
up on the top of my head. Then I pull my lipstick out of my back
pocket and glide it slowly over each lip. I’ve pushed him to the point of no return, which is precisely where I intended for him to go.

“What the fuck is your problem, psycho?” He moves in behind me, and I back kick, shoving the stiletto of my boot right into his perpetrator.

“Fuck you. That’s what,” I respond, turning around to stare down at his crouched body and flushed face. “Oh, and you don’t
have to worry about hiding that rape from your wife, the dean, or police anymore.” I slide my phone back out of my pocket and play up my
smug grin while checking the screen. “YouTube works so freaking fast nowadays. I’m pretty sure this is record timing, actually. Don’t you think?” I ask, playfully. I show him the display on my phone
screen.
“Damn. I’m good. This is totally going viral.” I laugh a little more,
knowing I’m pushing him far over the edge.

His jaw drops open as he adjusts himself and backs up until his knees buckle at the desk chair. “What the . . . “ He stumbles over his words as a white pallor clouds his strawberry licked cheeks. “Why would you . . . ?“

“Krissy Tate? The girl you raped—you know, your straight A student?” Confusion washes over his already flushed face. I’ve been
waiting for this moment for so long. “I lied about that not being a distraction. You see . . .“ I lift my hand to check out my nails, dragging this out to build up the suspense. “I’m her sister. Carolina
Tate.” I shove my hand out to him. “Nice to meet you, asshole.”

“Oh shit,” he says with a sickening sneer. “You two do look alike.”

“You think because you’re a psychology professor you can work a girl’s mind over?” I quirk my brow. “Did you ever wonder what would happen when one of them worked
your
mind over?”

I straighten my sweater and lift my bag up from the ground, ending this encounter once and for all. “By the way,” my voice rises in tone as I turn around and tap my finger into the air for effect,
bending my thumb down as if pulling an invisible trigger. “If I were you I’d go ahead and off yourself. I mean . . . your wife is gone.” I count the
reasons on my fingers. “Your career is gone.” I press my fingertip into my chin and grin for the final shot. “Oh, and you’re looking at some serious jail time—you know, the place where
you’ll
be raped by massive dudes every day? Fun times ahead, I’m sure.” As I saunter
toward the
classroom door, leaving him dumbstruck with his hand cupped
around
his mouth, I make sure to leave him with a proper message.
“Consider this little visit . . . payback for what you did to my sister.”

***

I pull my Elios pizza out of the microwave and drop myself onto the couch for what’s going to be my nightly entertainment. But right as I’m about to shove a greasy slice of pepperoni into my mouth, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. Dammit. I snatch my phone up, staring at the caller ID for a second—a random number, as always. But no one else knows my number except Sasha. So I know it’s Dad.

“Hi Dad. Don’t worry, I’m leaving soon,” I say, sounding as
unfazed as I normally do.

“I received some information today, Carolina.”
Hello to you too
. He sounds worn and tired, making me wonder where he is now.
“Did you approach that professor at Krissy’s old university?”

“Depends,” I say playfully.

“What did you do?” Dad whispers, as if someone were tracing our call—not that whispering would keep the listener from hearing this.

“Just had a little talk with him.” I can’t hide the pride in my voice.

“Dammit, Carolina. I was told about the YouTube video. He’s dead now, and who knows if that will be traced back to you?” He
forces a
long heavy sigh into the phone, making his annoyance with me
clear.
“Leave. Tonight. You hear? There’s a flight heading to Boston at
twenty-
one-hundred hours. Flight number AA220. Your ticket will be
waiting for you. I want a text in two hours confirming you have your ticket.” I flick the TV on, hoping one of the local stations is reporting on the death of Professor Lance.

“Okay,” I say as the call ends.
Love you too, Dad.
Ass.

I shove the slice of pizza into my mouth and turn up the volume. Sweet. I love when people take my advice.

Breaking News:
Dead at thirty-five. Psychology professor and a recently reported rapist,
Zach Lance was found in his classroom dead. The
cause is unclear at this time, but rumors of a drug overdose appear to be the cause, leading us to believe this is an alleged act of suicide.

Job complete.

I press Sasha’s number in my phone, and she answers after one ring. “Cali-girl, did you see?”

“Good riddance, huh?” I say, listening to her breathe a sigh of relief.

“Maybe it all finally caught up to him,” she says. “I still can’t
believe
Krissy didn’t tell anyone.” She was like that—she always kept her head down, but the weak link usually seems to be the target. And she was twice—unfortunately in the wrong places at the wrong
times. “Cali, did you have something to do with this?”

“It was suicide. Nothing more,” I reassure her. Or at least I try to
reassure her. But if anyone in this world knows me and what I’m
capable
of, it’s her. “I gotta run, Sash. Talk to you soon.” I hear her kisses
being blown into the receiver as I click end.

CALI

I READJUST
the heavily weighted carry-on over my shoulder as I scan my gaze down the departure screen, confirming the flight
number Dad gave me. Looks like it’s on time—there’s a plus.

With sluggish strides, I pick up my ticket then make my way
through security, needlessly earning myself numerous once-overs.

“Ma’am could you please remove your sunglasses?” the woman with the wand asks me. I let out an exaggerated sigh and slide them
off my nose. The light burns my eyes, and I squint in reaction to the
pain. “You do know you are inside, and it’s dark out, right?”

I narrow my eyes at her and cock my head to the side. “Have
you considered it may not be to hide my eyes from the sun?”

“We’ll need you to step aside. You need to be searched.”

I do as they ask, spread my legs apart and lift my arms out to the side. “Search away,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can squeeze into two words.

I’m patted down by two different TSA agents and asked to walk
through the full body X-ray booth. “Nothing,” the second woman shouts over to the first woman who has returned to the metal
detector.

Who would have thought? This isn’t my first rodeo, peeps.
“Duh,” I blurt out. I snatch my bags and shoes off of the belt and brush by the guards. “Hope you enjoyed copping a feel,” I say, blowing them each a seductive kiss.

I shove my feet into my boots and continue walking while
checking my ticket again to see what gate I’m supposed to go to.

As I arrive at Gate 88, I scan the small area, noting it’s going to be a very full flight filled with people who all look as if they’re going
to a
funeral. What is it with Bostonians and wearing all black in the
winter?

At least I’ll fit in there.

I plop down in a corner seat in the waiting area as I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out and respond to the
question mark I’ve been waiting for from Dad. I respond with:

I have my ticket. Leaving soon.

-Cali

Or so I thought.

I’ve been seated among the dozens of other passengers for the past two hours, watching the gate times change a number of times before I see the plane actually arrive. Just as I’m powering my phone
down, preparing to board, an awful stench burns my nose from a few inches away. A middle-aged man with greasy black hair and a thick lip-covering mustache who smells exactly like the inside of a port-a-potty has found a reason to sit directly beside me in a row of empty seats. When my eyes unfortunately meet his, he takes the opportunity to speak to me. “Heading to Boston?” he asks. I raise my
eyebrows and
force a tightlipped smile. I simply follow that with a nod and give him a
no shit
look. “I heard winter’s coming early this year,” he
continues.

“Cool,” I mumble with a sigh. I pull a magazine out of my bag
and open it in front of my face, hoping to block my vision of the
man’s blackened-stained grin. But it’s only seconds before I’m taken back when his finger sweeps down the bare skin of my collarbone.

“What does that mean?” he asks, pointing to my tattoo.

With a smooth motion, I lay my magazine down onto my lap and place my hand over his, giving him the false notion that I’m a
gentle
person. I take the opportunity to offer him a slight smile before I twist his forefinger backwards as far as it will go before the
expectant snap. “I’m sorry,” I say sweetly. “Did I tell you it was okay to touch me?” I pull down a little harder, and he smiles in response to the pain. But as I hold my hand there, I see the smile begin to fade.

“It’s a free country, chicky,” he sputters as his tongue knocks around between his bare gums.

“Why would you think it's okay to touch me?” I ask again, keeping my voice calm, yet stern. He licks his lips and looks me up
and down, responding with only a look. “Do you go around touching girls half your age because you feel it's okay?”

He clears his throat and looks around to see who’s watching or
listening, but I don’t move my eyes from his. “Why not?” he says, shrugging his bony shoulders. “Besides, you’re
definitely
asking for
it.”

He thinks I’m asking for it? I’m wearing a fucking scoop neck, black long sleeve shirt, jeans, and combat boots. “The only reason it's okay, is because no one has ever probably told you no. But it occurs to me that after I snap your finger off your hand, you won’t be able to touch people inappropriately anymore, will you?”

He hoots with laughter, dragging in attention he probably shouldn’t want. “You think you could break
my
finger, little chicklette?”