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“Wait a minute, guys. I haven’t got us both in frame.”
That was the problem with having short arms – not very good for snatching iPhone shots of yourself. Spike extended his as far as he could to try and get him and Tiffany in.
“I know that’s just gonna be the tops of our heads.” He stretched it a little further and angled the lens down towards their faces. “How’s that? Cosy?” He pressed his face against Tiffany’s and spoke to the people he’d share the clip with. “Shame Tiffany’s not going to remember.”
Tiffany DiMarco was unconscious. Her bruised eyelids were inflated and purple, her lips were split and caked blood stuck her blonde hair to her scalp. Spike moved his shoulder and allowed her to slump to the park bench. He winced theatrically for his audience as her skull thudded against the slats.
“That’s gotta hurt. See you both at the pond tonight, usual time.”
Spike sent the clip to Jeb and Benny and stowed the tacky nightstick in his sports bag. His blood was still hurtling through him, and he could smell Tiffany’s perfume around his face. He tied his hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a leather hoop. He at least looked respectable again. Time to head for home.
The ultimate example of recording something you shouldn’t – that was Spike, Jeb and Benny’s constant goal. To shoot something that would implicate them if the clip ever escaped their triangle; that could potentially land them in jail. It was about implicit trust, and it was better than a blood oath.
The three of them had hung out since first year in high school. Jackass had been their springboard but that had quickly become lame. They’d tired of injuring themselves on camera and had gravitated to hurting other people. They’d captured it on their iPhones and had circulated their increasingly daring attacks – first, bitch-slapping friends and enemies, then complete strangers. That’s when it had become interesting.
Spike squeezed through the hole in the hedge and found himself back on the edge of the golf course. Nobody would be using this route as a shortcut after they found Tiffany. Time to scope some new territory.
The first time Spike had sent his friends the clip of him randomly bludgeoning a female tourist in Lone Pine State Park, he’d known it was the ultimate test. Stephanie Meadows had been in a coma for three weeks after the attack. Spike had pretended he hadn’t cared and hadn’t betrayed his relief when she’d woken from it.
He’d known the other two wouldn’t talk. They were fiercely loyal, but more importantly, they were scared of him. He hadn’t hooked up with them for those three nerve-wracking weeks. Hadn’t been able to eat. But when Stephanie had opened her eyes in hospital, he’d met them at the pond and had acted like he didn’t give a fuck which way it had gone.
He’d told Jeb and Benny it was their turn then. He’d realised the sooner they’d replicated his actions the more unlikely they were to betray him. Their clips had reached his phone soon after, two muggings in the same location. The police had thought it was the same attacker. Spike had realised it gave them an alibi.
It had become a game. When one had recorded, the other two had made sure they were somewhere public. If an assault were ever pinned on one of them, it would be impossible to implicate the others. They’d used the same weapon – a nightstick that belonged to Spike’s father. He’d stored it in the bottom of the closet when he’d been prematurely retired from the Kalispell PD. Spike knew his Dad was a crooked cop, and even though his pension had been withdrawn, they still lived in the same relative luxury they always had. His father had some influential friends.
His mother had split a long time ago, but he’d already chosen Dad and his philosophy:
“Nobody gives you anything. Take it when you have the opportunity.”
And Spike had. He’d taken the nightstick and had pimped it by hammering six nine-inch nails into it. But it had only been when he’d taken the innocence of Lauren Cassidy that he’d realised how right his father had been.
He’d seen her around the neighbourhood, vaguely remembered her being a few years below him in high school. She wasn’t pretty but she had that “pussy dipped in detergent” expression that, in his mind, entitled her to be taken down a peg or three.
He wasn’t sure if he’d actually raped her. The TV news said she’d been sexually assaulted, but the attack had been quick because the rec area had been freezing cold. Beforehand, he’d felt aroused by what he’d been about to do, but when he’d whacked her with the nail club and she’d dropped insensible to the frosty grass, he’d immediately lost his erection.
Even after he’d positioned the phone camera in the prong of the tree and had begun his movie performance for his two buddies, he’d felt alone. Lauren had had tight jeans that he could only roll down to her knees. She’d also had thermal panties on. He hadn’t had time to unlace her hiking boots so he’d squeezed his body through the tight gap between her legs.
His exposure to the cold air hadn’t helped his enjoyment and his thrusting had been exaggerated for the lens. He’d come into his rubber but wasn’t sure if he’d penetrated her or been caught under the elasticated hem of her sweatshirt.
Spike had been angry with himself afterwards and had barely resisted the temptation to delete the clip. When he’d watched it back, however, it had looked awesome. He’d chopped off the beginning and end and had sent the money shot to his buddies. He’d certainly set the bar high for them.
