Obsession: An Erotic Heaven and Hell Chronicle (2 page)

“What are you doing here?” Nicole said, “We’re done, you will never have me again. You have to leave me alone. I don’t want you anymore, I want nothing to do with you, get out of here!”

Indeed, this man knew I was fucking his wife.

But he did not know that I had a gun under the bed, a .45 that I had named Erica, after me, of course.

While he was distracted by Nicole, I pulled Erica out and shot him in the chest. He fell back, dropping his gun to the ground. I got up, and put my knee over his chest. He screamed in pain and yelled, “Fuck you, mother fucker! You’re gonna die!”

I held my gun over him and said nothing as Nicole called the police.

The cops showed up with an ambulance and hauled him away. Unfortunately, he would live, for now.

Detective John Flair, the lead cop on the case, interviewed us. We told him what had happened as best we could. Before he left, he asked us how we knew each other.

“We don’t, really,” I said, looking at her, “I don’t know her at all.” Nicole’s eyes gave me all of the regret I’d ever need. She knew she had screwed up.

“So you’re married,” I said after the cops had left, “I didn’t sign up for this, Nicole.”

“I’m so sorry, Eric. We are divorced. He’s obsessed with me. I am terrified of him. I am so sorry.”

I was still reeling from the fact that as they dragged him away, he screamed, “I am going to kill you both! Either she is with me, or no one.”

I couldn’t help myself. I was in love with her.

I pulled her to my arms and said, “Nicole, I will protect you. I will love you and protect you. I know you are the one for me. I will always protect you. I will never let anything happen to you. You must believe in me and trust me.”

She grabbed my head, softly and gently, and kissed me, “I love you. I don’t know what we’re doing, but I know that I love you. I know that I love you and I know that I need you. Kiss me as if it was the last time, Eric.”

Her husband, his name, was Benjamin Boucher. Obsessed. He had beaten her, he’d raped her. But he would never have her again, not if I had anything to say about it. I knew I could protect her, I believed I could protect her. I so believed it. And thought I knew it.

I threw my clothes on as fast as I could. I was going to go out and find her, I didn’t care where she was, I was going to find her.

I fell back. Flair explained, “We had to let him go. He made bail after he got out of the hospital; son of a bitch was wearing a vest. We couldn’t hold him. His lawyers, they…she was driving on the 90, he ran her off the road. If it is any consolation, he died too. They both died in the wreck. I don’t think that was part of his plan. I’m so sorry, Eric. I’m so sorry.”

My life was over.

It would never be the same again.

Five Years Later…

I never forgot about Nicole. I never ever stopped thinking about her. I never got over her. I don’t know why. I don’t know why. She was just a one-night stand that I fucked a couple of times, right? And her crazy husband killed her.

Why do I still care about her, why do I still think about her? What is the point?

Maybe I just need to accept that I’ll never get over her.

Maybe I just need to accept that I’ll never stop loving her, and wondering, and dreaming, what could have been.

Five years later, my book career had taken off. Every book I wrote was about her in some way. I wrote under a pen name; no one knew who I really was. They thought my name was John Taylor, but it was not.

I went out on dates, nothing ever happened, or made me feel anything. I fucked a lot of random girls. The sex was never like it was with Nicole. Never.

It would never be the same.

My friends set me up on a date with a really nice girl, a perfect girl. She was French, adorable, sweet, beautiful, sexy, kind.

But she was not Nicole. I took her to dinner. We had nice idle chitchat, and at the end of the night, she wanted a kiss. But I just shook her hand and went home.

Then I called her, went over to her place and we fucked. She fucked well and I came hard, and so did she. But I left in the morning before she ever knew. Nothing would ever change. Nothing would ever change. I was floundering. I was drinking too much, sleeping around, anything I could to drown the pain of losing Nicole.

The pain of not being able to protect her. Of not being able to be her angel. Of not being able to save her. I somehow had enough brains to keep writing. Pay the bills. Keep the roof over my head. I was throwing my life away nonetheless.

Strip clubs were the next move. No fear of a relationship there.

There was a new place called, “Satan’s Alley” deep in the French Quarter. I had to go, I was going to fuck a stripper. I had to get rid of this pain.

Would I be able to get one to come home with me that night? I didn’t know. But I would try.

I sat down and got a lap dance. The music was tribal, foreign. It was dark, I couldn’t recognize the music, and it wasn’t the usual hair band crap. It was sensual. The dance the girls were doing, I noticed as I sat down, it reminded me of…Nicole. I wasn’t sure why. The way their hips moved, the way their bodies became one with the space around them. It seemed different, and reminded me of her.

The stripper giving me the lap dance reminded me so much of Nicole that she even looked like her. But she wasn’t her. The big fake tits were a giveaway; Nicole’s breasts were lovely and real. Very real. Voluptuous.

Before I knew it, she was off of my junk and two bouncers grabbed both of my arms, dragged me to the front and threw me out on my ass.

It didn’t hurt that badly.

“Don’t ever come back here,” one of the apes said.

“And fuck your mother too,” I said getting up, dusting myself off, and headed down the street. I didn’t feel too good. I turned around to take one final look back and saw something that I did not expect. Something that gave me a bit of pause.

I was wrong. And a small part of me knew it, and that small part was getting bigger by the moment. Something was not right here. Something about Flair being here, and the way the dancers moved in there, I could not wrap my head around it.

Something was not right.

I sat in a café across the street sobering up. I waited, sipping my coffee. Until 4AM. Until I saw Detective Flair exit the strip club. I would follow him. I discreetly got into my car as he got into his.

If I got caught, the game was over. I would not get caught, would I? I had to follow him. And find out where he was going.

What is he up to?

He got into his car and drove towards the freeway entrance. Where was he going? I think he saw me. He pulled away, and I lost him.

I thought to myself,
I’m not exactly a professional PI here, and what evidence do I have that Flair had something to do with…what exactly?

Eric, you have got to stop thinking about this girl. You have got to let it go. Everywhere you look, you see her. Everywhere you go, you think about her. It’s all in your head, buddy, all in your head. Let it go! Let it go.

But being the compulsive idiot that I was, I went home and googled John Flair. Did some digging. Looked him up.

And what a shock, a picture of his fraternity at Tulane, online. Arm and arm with him, in the picture…was Benjamin fucking Boucher.

I found out where he lived. Not that hard to find out where a cop lives. They all pretend that they are invincible. They all pretend that they are above the law. Certainly in New Orleans this is sort of true, more so than other cities. But they are not. With a little digging, and following him home from his precinct, that is, I had nothing to lose. Everything to gain. Nothing to lose.

Around midnight, on a Saturday night, he left his place and went to a nightclub. I followed him. Back to the French Quarter, on Canal Street. Club Averniss. I lost him in the crowd, it was packed with sweaty and hot New Orleans jazzed-infused Europop Dance music dancers and lovers. People were there to fuck. It seemed so familiar. I lost him, I couldn’t find him. And I lost myself. I got claustrophobic.

Where am I? Some shitty nightclub. God I hate these places. Why am I here, what I am doing? I gotta let this go.

“Nicole, come back to me!” I ran towards her and she ran away. She pushed through people, I pushed back. I would find her. I would never lose her again.

Am I going insane?

I don’t know what I’m going to do.

I rested my head against the wall, the wall that happened to be a mirror. I closed my eyes. And then opened them. It was so hot in the club that steam had overtaken the glass wall.

What is happening to me? Please God, save me. I wish I never met her. I am going insane. I am going crazy. I am going insane.

I ran into my bedroom, and locked that door too. I had to get out of there.

I can’t leave. I’m stuck. I can’t get her out of my heart and I can’t get her out of my head. I can’t ever let her leave my soul.

I was sweating bullets. I heard the front door open.

“Who are you, what do you want?” I reached under my bed, pulled out my .45 and cocked it. I aimed it at the door. I heard footsteps. Approaching. I was ready, whoever it was; they were going to be very sorry.