Chapter One

I was never late… until now…

Tonight, I am going to kill Nicholas Atkins!

I drove to the diner. I really didn’t want Margaret and the rest of the people there to witness what I was going to do. They loved Nicholas and it would break their hearts. But I would rather he was at the diner than in the other side of town. I’d never get out of there alive if I hurt a hair on Nicholas’ body. Those kids would kill for him.

When I reached the diner, I finally found him having coffee and a good laugh with Margaret and Grandpa Chef.

When Margaret saw me coming, she smiled widely. “Ken, dear. How lovely to see you!”

I forced a smile to my face. When Nicholas saw me, his face lit up.

“Hi!” His smile was warm and genuine.

I found three pairs of smiling eyes looking at me. I lost the heart to greet Nicholas with a power punch.

“C-can we step outside? I need to talk to you,” I said. My voice was grave, laced with warning. I was sure Nicholas didn’t miss it.

“Okay,” he said. I turned around toward the door, not waiting for him to argue or ask further questions.

Once we were outside, I took a couple of deep breaths.

“Hey, everything all right?” His voice was gentle and full of concern. I fought the urge to calm down and soften up to him.

He cannot fool me this time!

I spun around and without warning, I launched a punch to his face. He was taken by surprise, the force of my punch causing him to take a step back.

He stared at me with a confused expression on his face. “What was that for?”

“You son of a bitch!” I shouted and punched him again. He was ready for me this time. He caught my wrists with his hands and struggled to hold me back, to keep me steady.

“Calm down! What did I do?”

“What did you fucking do? You don’t know?! You fucking raped me, you asshole!” I struggled to free my hands. “Let go of me! Let go so I can fucking kill you!”

“What?”

My revelation caught him by surprise that he loosened his grip on my hands.

Taking advantage of his momentary lapse of concentration, I managed to attack him again. He took one more blow to his jaw and this time, he almost fell to the ground had he not managed to gain his footing.

He had a bewildered look on his face. In fairness to the motherfucker, he looked genuinely shocked and confused.

“You took advantage of me when I blacked out that night and you took me home!” I shouted. “You raped me!  And now, I’m fucking pregnant!”

I launched another series of attacks on him. He managed to dock and thwart all my punches and then he got a hold of my wrists again.

“Jesus Christ, calm down!” he said. “Let’s talk about this, without you trying to murder me.”

I managed to free my right hand from his grip. I punched him with it, but I only managed to hit his shoulder. I aimed for him again.

“Mackenzie Belle Clarke!” His voice was louder, clearer and firmer this time. “Stop!”

His grip on my left wrist felt like iron, trapping me, keeping me close without any chance of escape. He took a deep breath as he stared at me.

“I didn’t,” he said in a gentler tone this time. He shook his head slightly. “I would never do that to you.”

“Liar,” I said under my breath.

To my surprise, he actually smiled. “Oh, kitten, I can be many things you accuse me of. But liar and rapist are most definitely not two of them.”

“I woke up without my pants on!” I argued.

“You woke up with your panties still on, didn’t you?” he argued back. “How could you accuse me of raping you?”

“I’m…” I took a deep breath. “I’m late. And I am never late. Not even once. That night was the only night I couldn’t remember everything. And I woke up in your bed, without my clothes on.”

“Without your pants,” he corrected me. “But everything else was still intact.”

I pushed him with as much force as I could manage. He loosened his grip on me and then finally, he let me go.

“Did you take a test?” he asked.

“I told you I was never late!” I snapped at him. “There’s a good chance that I am pregnant. And there’s a good chance that you’re still lying!”

He threw his hands in the air in frustration. “Trust me, sweetheart! If I was going to make love to you, you would be awake every second of it. And I will make sure it’s a night you will never forget!”

Shit! Was I wrong to accuse him? Did I really just jump the gun and overreact?

Is Nicholas Atkins really the gentleman he appears to be?

***

A few weeks earlier…

Purplish pink.

Pink fading to purple. I decided this will be my color for the month.

You can call me radical, weird, eccentric, or crazy. I am creative and unconventional. But then, I don’t give a fuck what others think of me.

I’m not one to follow the rules or any of those social norms that everyone is expected to conform to. I respect individuality and show it in the way I dressed, the way I acted, and especially the way I styled and colored my hair. To each his own as they call it.

I parked my Maserati Gran Turismo in front of a white steel gate. I can still feel the engine revving, coming to life in my hands, desperate for yet another uninhibited release as badly as I can feel my heart pumping so hard to come out of my chest.

This is the same feeling I get every time I drive this baby to the speed of one twenty. The type of rush that makes me feel that I am actually alive. This is a small city and driving off the radars with the possibility of getting caught always gives me a certain sense of excitement. Call me a nutcase, I don’t care. I’m Ken Clarke. I can get away with anything.

I was pleased to know that I was at least ten minutes early. I leaned against my car and played with my phone. I never rang the bell. She knew I was never late but I never put pressure on her since she always took more than an hour to get ready. Luckily, patience was one of my virtues.

After fifteen minutes, the gate opened. I looked up and found myself face to face with the sweetest-looking face I’ve ever  laid eyes on. Dark blonde hair, chocolate eyes and small pouty lips in a red rogue shade.

“Wow!” We both said at the same time.

She giggled.  “You really outdid yourself this time, Kenny.” 

I really hated that nickname, but hearing it on her lips every day for almost six years, it kind of grew on me.

“I could always say the same thing about you, Jennifer Gracie.” I love calling her by her full name. She rolled her eyes and I couldn’t help but smile.  She hated it.

She stared at my hair and shook her head.  “How can you afford to color your hair almost every week and not damage it? I am so envious!”

I just shrugged.  She was right. I do change my hairstyle almost every week and I guessed I was blessed with really tough hair.

Today, my brushed-up hair was tinted with dark purple and black, while my undercut gave a hint of my real hair color, dark blonde.

When we arrived at school, I walked Jen to her first class.  I could feel many pairs of eyes staring at us.

We did make a cute pair. Jennifer in her heels, long pink skirt, white sleeveless top and long curly hair perfectly tied into a ponytail. Me, walking alongside her, in my white pants, white turtleneck shirt and black leather jacket. Our styles a contrast, as much as our personalities.

Regardless, we always turn heads whenever we walk the corridors. It annoyed me at first. But then again, if Jen didn’t mind, why should I?

I heard a guy whistle from the side. I turned to him, raised a brow and shot him a grave look. I saw him gulp and turn away.

What a fucking coward. That’s right. You know what’s good for you, you moron!

With a photographic memory, I didn’t need to bring my books at all.

“Thank you, Kenny,” she said as she took her books from my arms. “You are an angel.”

She leaned forward and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you after my last class.”

I walked to my own class, with both my hands inside my jeans’ pockets. Without Jen’s books, my arms suddenly felt empty. Without her walking by my side, I suddenly felt alone.

Everybody around me seemed to disappear. I was not in the business of knowing people too well. I occasionally socialize with others, but aside from Jen, I didn’t really care about anyone.

I only half-listened to Mr. Sanderson talk about manic and depressive episodes. I didn’t need to listen intently to know what he was talking about. This was a subject I knew quite well since I have spent many hours researching and reading about it. It was one of the reasons I took up psychology, even though my father insisted I take up business management so I would be worthy enough to inherit his empire, or even though my math aptitude scores suggested I should be a physicist.

I would probably excel in any course or subject, but I chose psychology for personal reasons. Acquiring any skill may be easy for me, but taking care of someone who would need me the most was a lifetime commitment I chose and needed to prepare for. And when I commit myself to something, failure is never an option.

Mr. Sanderson was looking at me, clearly waiting for me to answer. I closed my eyes for a moment to recall just what exactly he had asked.

Mild… episodes of hypomania… depression… does not meet diagnostic requirements.

I cleared my throat. “Cyclothymia, sir.”

He raised a brow and stared at me for a moment. I was so sure he was going to say something to me. Then he turned to the class and explained the symptoms of cyclothymia in detail. I guess he thought I wasn’t paying attention to him at all. Well, like I said, I researched this subject long before he became a professor. This wasn’t just a subject I needed to pass.

This was my mission.

***

“Kenny, where are you?”

I could hear the tears in Jen’s voice when she called me on a Saturday night.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” I asked.

Once in a while, I would get calls like this from Jen. During the last time, she completely broke down because her father walked out on her mother and didn’t return home until a week later.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“I don’t know. Suddenly, I feel…” she sighed “…blue.”

I tried to laugh to make her feel more relaxed. “I’m at Rhythemes. Why don’t you come here and watch me play?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Take a cab. I’ll drive you home.”

“Are you going to be sober enough to drive later?”

“Are you forgetting who you are talking to?I asked smugly. “I’m Ken Clarke. I never get drunk.”

She finally laughed. “Save a table for me.”

I have a big smile on my face when I hung up the phone.

“Hey, Joe!” I called one of the waiters. “Save that table at the front for my guest, okay?”

For the past two months, I have been substituting for my cousin, Brett, as a drummer for his band. Brett had an accident and had to undergo physical therapy. Since he played to support his college education, and his father refused any form of help from my dad, I thought standing in for his gigs would be the best way to help.

I remembered that day I first met Brett. While all our other relatives welcomed me in a way that I knew was so phony and scripted, Brett looked at me and said, “Whazzup, dude? Welcome to the Addams family!”

I knew then that we were going to be very good friends.

Brett was the one who got me into playing drums. My father was against it and didn’t pay for my drum lessons like Brett’s parents did for him when we were young and they were still financially well-off. His tutor allowed me to sit in his classes. Good thing I have the ability to learn while watching.

Brett’s family business crashed when we were in freshman year and since then, he had been taking gigs to help his parents pay for his college tuition.

My father was against me playing drums at Rhythemes but I insisted since I was doing it for Brett. Initially, I thought about using a stage name to prevent any association with the famous Robert Clarke. But the stage name I fancied was Factor Offner, and Brett was against it.

He said, “You rock the name Ken Clarke just fine. Factor Offner, on the other hand, is a social suicide, not just for you, but for the whole band!”

Jen arrived at the bar just as we were starting our first set. I gave her a salute and then I started playing.

Bailey, the band’s front man, asked me, “You know, me and the boys have always wondered…” he trailed off, looking at me with an awkward look on his face. “Are you… gay?”