The Case of the Rebel Girl

By R.C. Bot

Gunther Petraeus is working in a trade not for the faint of heart, he's a mercenary with a particular talent to find things and people. When he returns from an overseas deployment, he's asked to find Susan, the secret daughter of an important client and, as a favor to a friend, to take in a civilian as an assistant, Angela Fletcher.

 

Angela is a former intelligence analyst, good at finding information on people in the digital world. Despite some alarming details in Angela's file - she's half Gunther's age, she's between jobs and living at her mother's, no boyfriend and sentimentally damaged, with authority issues - a favor is a favor… Gunther cannot say no.

 

It doesn't take long for Gunther and Angela to find out that Susan is a rebel, decided to settle some scores with the world. She does stuff - parties, alcohol, maybe drugs, she's playing men. Nothing is as easy as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.C. Bot
• Release date: Apr 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223792581

Book preview

Chapter 1

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE moments when an undo/delete option would have been useful. Life is not like that. She had to pass through, to face the moment and crawl back on track. First, she had to come to her senses, but this was not a problem. Her senses were coming back to her as her body was awakening from under the alcohol, and whatever she had taken last night or in the last few days... she couldn’t remember. Not now. She knew the drill, everything would come back to her later, and she would remember the weekend in bits. She was sore all over. The hangover was brutal, her head was pounding mercilessly, her mouth was dry, her body dehydrated, and a generalized thirst was scorching her giblets.

It was morning, but she wasn’t sure which day. The sun was entering the room through a wall-size porch window. She started slowly to remember the party. Oh, she hated herself when she lost it and carried on enjoying it too much, when she became the victim of her own game, falling for the men, enjoying their company, the money, the power, the bullshit that was going on. Men always got what they wanted from her. It was just like her to please, to do more than what was required, to forget why she was there. She hated that she loved the drugs, the alcohol, the excesses, the sex. The sex, yeah, when she could remember. This time she did. Her ass was stinging. She opened her eyes and saw the back of his head. Finally, she got what she wanted: him. She was in his house. Now, if she could just hold on to the moment, but he was not even funny—just a desperate old man looking to get laid. Now she remembered. She closed her eyes trying to dream something beautiful, to escape for a few moments, but all the sordid details came back to haunt her.

He must have been too stuffed with drugs and alcohol to reach the climax, to ejaculate. He penetrated her in all possible places, mechanically, mercilessly, and as far as she remembered, without any success. She had to make the most of the moment after having endured so much.

Then she heard voices. They were not a dream, or were they? It sounded like the voices were from the other room, like hens clucking, all at the same time. The old man jumped from the bed panicked. He was naked. Yeah, nothing glorious. He was tall and wiry, but just an old hairy man. He made a sign to her to keep silent, put on his pants and walked with assurance to the door.

What’s this? he asked, and the clucking stopped.

A female voice was answering in broken English, chanting some excuse.

The clucking restarted, but less vehemently and then faded away.

The old man came back, his face illuminated by satisfaction. Damned Chinese! He finished getting dressed.

It must have been the clothes, the cufflinks—a prancing deer engraved in gold on a black background—that gave him that confidence. Giving orders and taking what he wanted from the others seemed natural to him. For sure, she wasn’t the first wrecked girl to have woken up disoriented in his bed. She was naked under the sheets, staring at the old man as he was dressing. He seemed to have a routine, a method in everything he was doing. He saw her gawking at him and said, What?! They are here to buy the damn house. Sunday, at 9 in the morning. The whole goddamned family came from China to see the damn house. That stupid bitch....

Do you have water here? she heard herself asking.

The old man pointed to the door. In the fridge, water, orange juice, beer, whatever fits you...

She tried for a moment to figure out how to cover herself, but it was too much. Her brain could not process. Anyway, after what happened last night, decency was not an issue anymore. The old man didn’t seem to bother. It really didn’t matter. The most important thing now was to get some liquid in her body, something cold and comforting. Did he mention beer? Yes, he did. She sprang from the bed, picked up her lace panties from the floor, trying to do it with some grace, and rushed to the door like a gazelle.

You should eat something, said the old man, disturbingly fatherly.

She definitely needed a beer and then a cigarette to get back on track.

The house was huge, with thick walls and big windows, but it was deserted. The rooms were empty of furniture, spotless, smelling of industrial cleaners. This was not an affluent suburb; it was far above. As she could see through the windows, the house was on a meadow that stretched to the horizon, pointed by huge, old chestnut trees flanking a path in the grass. The kitchen was fully equipped and the fridge was stuffed with food and drinks. She grabbed a cold steamed green bottle and tried to unscrew the stopper, but it didn’t work. She looked frantically into the drawers, took a fork and expertly opened the bottle. The stopper landed somewhere on the floor with a metallic zing.

She emptied the bottle in one gulp. She had tears in her eyes; her head was cooling down, the pounding was less painful, and the light was bearable. This was the wrong house. Clearly, she had to meet him again. Next step, a cigarette. After a small talk with the old man to keep the communication line open, she would go. He seemed decent enough to call her a cab and pay for it. Maybe another beer and something to eat. She had a hole in her stomach and the fridge was full. She opened the fridge again. It was like a pharmacy. Nothing was in its original package, and everything was stored in plastic containers, with a date marked. She tried to think, to process, to figure out why. It didn’t matter, she was just hungry. She picked a plastic with salami, one with sliced cheese, mustard, mayonnaise and pickles. What could go better with another beer?

The old man appeared fully dressed. He was elegant, genuinely confident with a self-assurance that had been built by years of money and success.

You hungry? she asked him with her mouth full.

He looked at her with the kind of condescendence she hated the most, the one that tells you the game is over and you should get lost.

There should be some plates in the cupboards, said the old man, looking outraged.

She ignored him, not ready for a conversation yet. The morning had been hectic so far, her priorities were a mess, she had a beer and she was eating before going to the loo. That was starting to be a problem. She took another slice of cheese and grabbed a beer from the fridge as she asked, The loo?

The old man pointed back to the bedroom. Oh yes, she remembered.

Put something on, will you? We cannot stay here all day.

We cannot stay here all day... she mocked him as she tiptoed through the house. The floors were cold and sticky.

She saw her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She was skinny to the brink of unhealthy skinny, certainly malnourished. Too much partying, too much alcohol, too much smoking, too much coffee, too much of everything that was sapping her from the inside with not enough of anything that could have gotten her out of this rabbit hole. So what? Nobody, not even herself, cared. Her head was spinning, her thoughts spiraling down into complete nothingness...

Why was she angry? Did she have a motive? Sitting on the loo, just in her lace panties with a beer in her hand, thinking it over, she realized she could not give her existence a serious thought. It wasn’t the time, it wasn’t the place. The beer was almost gone, and she wasn’t sure if it had passed through her directly into the loo or if it was still inside her, macerating the food she has just eaten.

She flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and tapped her hair with her fingertips. She thought for a moment about a shower, but it was too much. She really needed a cigarette. She dressed in a hurry, almost in a panic, and went out to see the old man. He was in the kitchen drinking coffee, a bowl of cornflakes in front of him. He was very absorbed by what he was doing, as if to get the most of every bit. Obviously, he had to finish the coffee before attacking the cornflakes. This seemed to be the plan.

She showed him the cigarette pack and signed that she’d go out on the porch. The old man didn’t have any reaction.

It was a gorgeous day—sunny and hot, like summer. It was summer! Middle of July. She really needed to get herself together. No more parties, no more shit, and she had to see her mother. Yes, next weekend, no parties, call Lily, and have lunch. On Friday, she’d pack some stuff and get on the bus to see her mom. All you need to get yourself together is a cigarette on an old man’s porch on a sunny day... As she was thinking it, she knew this was not gonna happen. She hadn’t spoken with Lily or her mother in months. The weekend was too far off. If it was to happen, it should be done now, right away.

Then she saw the feet in the orange sneakers. The person was sitting on a chair behind a porch column, wearing a jogging suit with a hoody. She couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman, tall or short. The feet moved, propping the soles on the floor, preparing to stand up. 

She threw her cigarette and ran back into the house.

There is somebody on the porch! she said out of breath.

The old man looked at her intrigued, upset he had to leave his cornflakes bowl. He walked around the kitchen counter and stopped as if seeing a ghost. She turned... she didn’t see clearly who was under the hoody, she just felt the blow in her chest, then the dust and the perfume, suave, floral, welcoming on her face. She spread her arms looking for something to cling on, to stop the fall. For a moment, she touched the old man’s shirt sleeve, grabbing ahold of the cufflink... then air... just air. Her head crashed on the floor with the back of her skull. She didn’t have the time to take another breath. Her body stopped functioning; she felt the small object in her hand and became aware her body was shutting down gradually, as the carbon monoxide was carried back into her blood and to her lungs. Just a last thought... If Lily was here... then nothing...

Chapter 2

GUNTHER HADN’T HAD a good sleep in a while. After traveling for three days in all kinds of rickety transportation, Air France’s first-class bed was a bliss. He told the steward not to bother him with meals if he was sleeping and to wake him before landing.  

He slept all the way from Nice to New York, until he felt a hand touching his shoulder. He grabbed it by reflex, opening his eyes ready for anything. A beautiful woman was smiling at him, a professional smile, but polished enough by experience to look genuinely pleasant. On the badge, her name was Eglantine. Gunther stopped to get the full meaning of the name till Eglantine tried gently to free her hand from his grasp.

I’m terribly sorry, said Gunther releasing it.

We are landing in one hour. Would you like to have breakfast? It’s nine in the morning in New York, said Eglantine.

A coffee and an orange juice will do perfectly.

Very well, sir.

Eglantine, Gunther mumbled to himself. It wasn’t a common name, but surely it had a resonance of some sort in his memory. She was beautiful, tall and slender, and her face had a noble grace, brightened by big black eyes. He had to stop right there. To pick up a stewardess was such a cliché, a lamentable lack of imagination. Of course, it had more glamour than to pick up a waitress in a country-side dinner and have her in a cheap motel room by the highway, but it was still pathetic. He found his way to the toilettes to freshen up.

When he came back, the bed had been transformed into a comfortable seat. Coffee and orange juice were waiting for him. A male steward greeted him. No trace of Eglantine; maybe he had scared her off, but he really needed an adventure to boost his self-confidence. After months spent in the African wilderness, it seemed he had forgotten how to interact with normal people.

He looked philosophically around him, to the first-class travelers, so absorbed in themselves, full of greed, desperation, infatuation or simply ignorant of their tragic dimension. Three days ago, he had breakfast in a