To Ruin a Rogue:

by Heather C. Myers

  What the hell happened?

  Matt jogs over to me, his brown eyes pooling with concern, his jaw clenched together causing it to pop out. I try and get a better view of whatever it is the small group is surrounding but they're blocking my way and I can't see anything. He's trying to keep his own emotions off of his face—I can tell—but it's not working. He's gone pale, just like his sister. Like the color of ash. And every movement in his body is forced, rigid, like he's a tin man who desperately needs an oiling.

  “What is it?" I ask as he places his right hand flat on the small of my back and begins to steer me back to the group. "What's happened?"

  He can't speak just yet, so I wait, trying to be patient for him. He eases me between a couple of the gawkers until I finally see what's going on, until I understand why he's reacting this way, along with the rest of the brothel.

  It's a body. One of the girls.

  "Don't touch it," I say in a loud voice before I can stop myself.

  A few people turn to look at me like I'm crazy, but Sarah actually steps towards me, her look inquisitive rather than confused. "Why?" she asks, and I can hear the rawness in her tone, how her throat has gone dry upon stumbling on a dead body in her brothel. She's scared; this woman who is so strong and so proud is lost and has no idea what to do. She's afraid—not because she's worried she may suffer the same fate.

  No.

  She's scared because she's worried this may happen to someone else. She's worried because she has no idea how to protect her girls—the women she's responsible for keeping safe under her roof—now that this atrocity has happened. "What do you know?"

  Looking at me, knowing about me, she looks at me with hopeful brown eyes. Like I'm some kind of savior. Like I could figure this whole thing out because I'm from the future and I know what I'm doing.

  I swallow and turn my eyes to the body. "Not much," I tell her. "I'm—I was—a journalist. But I wrote crime articles. A lot of it was boring stuff, but every now and then…" I swallow. I'm babbling but I can't help it. The body… "I also watch television. A lot of CSI. Some Law and Order. Dexter was also good. Dexter told crime through the prospective of the bad guy. But was Dexter really a bad guy, when he was killing bad people?"

  "Isla." Matt's gentle voice is right by my ear. I pause and let myself feel him. He's perfect, standing next to me. My anchor, holding me together.

  I look back at Sarah and swallow. "Don't let anyone touch the body," I tell her. "Don't move it. We have to look for clues, and moving or touching the body could contaminate any evidence of who the murderer is."

  "Sarah," one of the girls—Fieffer, I think is her name—says, both disgusted and aghast. "We can't leave Briyella here! To desecrate her memory like that is unacceptable! We don't want people to remember her like this, we want people to remember her for the young, vivacious woman she was."

  Sarah looks to me—I can't believe it, but she does—for answers. Trying to be as subtle as I can, I give a slight shake of my head telling her no. We need to examine the body.

  Sarah fixes her eyes back on Fieffer. "I would rather honor her by figuring out who her killer is than worrying about what she looks like in death," Sarah says. "You heard Isla. Do not touch the body lest you want to get turned out. I will not hesitate to do it should you impede us in any way, even if your points are valid."

  Fieffer fixes me with a glare that rings true to the old saying if looks could kill. I never thought I'd ever be intimidated by a prostitute, especially one as seemingly flimsy as Fieffer is, but I can feel her anger rolling off of her body in waves and crashing into me like they did to a shore. I tense my legs so I won't lose my balance when it comes to her.

  However, regardless of her feelings, she listens to me.

  "All right, everyone," Sarah says, stepping in front of the small group that has gathered. She looks shaken and unsure, which is odd for her because under normal circumstances, Sarah always knows what to do. Even when she doesn't.

  Now, she looks lost.

  "You've paid your respects. I'm going to ask you to leave the lobby for the rest of the evening. We will shut down for tonight and, if anyone asks why, we will say a few of the girls have gotten sick and we do not wish to infect anyone. Do you understand? Not a word of what you've seen shall be breathed to an outsider."

  "We will lose a night's wages!" a voice from the crowd exclaims. I can't make out who it is.

  Sarah presses her lips together. I can see a sympathetic flash in her brown eyes but judging by the tension coiling in her body, she's already made her mind up. "I completely understand your worry," she says. "Unfortunately, we have no choice but to keep our doors closed. I assure you it will only be for this evening."

  Fieffer scoffs. The girls, Matt, and even Sarah all appear surprised by her clear disapproval of Sarah's decision. No one has outwardly defied Sarah, I'm guessing.

  "You're only making this decision based on this girl's proclamation that she has any idea what she's doing," Fieffer says, and even though I try, I haven't quite figured out just how to keep myself from turning red under the heavy scrutiny. "Why do you trust her so much? She's staying here free of charge, with a roof over her head, food in her belly. She does not have to offer herself to the men that frequent here."

  Matt opens his mouth and I know he's going to say something to defend me. The thing is, he doesn't have to. Let them think what they want about me. It makes no difference to me. I grab his hand and squeeze, hoping I can convey my thoughts through a single touch.

  "I trust her because she saved my life," Sarah says through gritted teeth. Matt doesn't have to interject at all because Sarah has my back. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. It feels good knowing she supports me, even if she doesn't like me all that much. "She's the reason you still have this roof over your head, this job. I trust her for those reasons, but none more than the fact that my brother does. So, I'm asking you for your trust, the same trust you've already given me." Her eyes find mine again and she nods once.

  I nod back. “Okay, everyone, I need you all to please step back,” I announce. “I need to examine the body and anyone who touches it in any way can contaminate the evidence.”

  The girls look at me with confused looks on their faces. It probably has to do with the fact that they’ve never heard the words I say strung together in this way. I hadn’t either, until I got addicted to Law & Order: SVU reruns. I sound more expert than I feel and as I step toward Briyella, I wonder if anyone else can recognize what a fraud I am.

  “Does anyone have a handkerchief, a napkin, anything I can borrow?” I ask. I doubt they’d have rubber gloves here.

  One of the girls, Stephanie I think her name is, steps forward and hands me hers. It’s more masculine than I realize, a simple white color—though it’s somewhat dirty—with the initials WB embroidered in the corner. I shake my head to myself at the odd initials but think nothing of it. I’m sure johns leave trinkets as gifts all the time. All that matters is I can now touch the body without ruining anything.

  Briyella is—was—one of the prettier girls. She had light brown hair, straight, she liked to wear down regardless of the style or occasion. She liked to wear blues and greens as well, pastel colors that softened the angles that permeated her face. She carried herself as though she were strong and determined and confident. She had freckles on her cheeks and a strong jawline. She’s—was, I keep reminding myself—a tomboy. Playful. One of the more popular girls.

  Except, as I get closer to her, I realize that I can already see how she died. I don’t have the technology or the expertise to collect DNA to narrow it down to one suspect. I don’t have a federal database filled with fingerprints and DNA of previous offenders I can compare DNA to. I have nothing except my eyes and my Law & Order experience.

  I don’t know what I can do, especially if Sarah doesn’t want to call the cops.

  But I can see how Briyella died. It’s staring straight at me in purple and blue, on her slender, p
ale throat.

  I turn to Sarah. “She’s been strangled to death,” I say.

  Chapter 12

  Matt wants to drink. I don’t blame him. I don’t know what it feels like to know someone who’s been murdered before.

  I’m not sure how to be there for Matt, but I know I want to. So I offer to join him. This, for whatever reason, seems to brighten him up, if only a bit.

  To be honest, I’m nervous about drinking. I’ve had drinks before. I’ve been buzzed before. But the few times I’ve let loose, I’ve been with people who I trust in safe surroundings. Here is a completely different story. I don’t know these people. The last time I was left alone in a tavern, I was nearly…

  I press my lips together and refuse to think about it. I don’t want to think about what could have happened if. It’s in the past and I want it to stay that way.

  But that just proves my point—I’m in this new place and the only person I really trust here is Matt. And, surprising even to me, I trust Sarah. Don’t ask me why. There’s a good chance I trust her by association because she’s Matt’s sister, but I trust her as well. Even if she doesn’t like me all that much.

  I go through the little wardrobe I have, deciding to change. I’ve finally distinguished between breeches and pantaloons, which I think is a victory unto itself, and cast the thought into the notes section of my mind so I don’t easily forget it. I run a brush through my hair and tilt my head as I look at myself in the vanity mirror.

  I used to date this guy who wouldn’t compliment me at all. Even when I went out of my way and looked good. He wouldn’t say anything and it drove me crazy. Then, I dated a guy who’d compliment me and then critique me. For whatever reason, guys weren’t crazy about my hair. The ends die easily and the waves make it look messy. I get it. But it sucks being criticized for something you can’t change. I shouldn’t have to put it up or straighten it just to appease the guy I was sleeping with.

  But now, I don’t know if it looks good anymore. I doubt myself, and when I’m not sure, I toss it up in a messy bun to be on the safe side. I don’t want to doubt myself, and normally, I wouldn’t care what Matt thinks.

  But I do.

  Tonight is going to be significant. I can’t say how I know or why I know. I just do. And I want to look decent. For me and for him.

  I see eighteenth century makeup on my desk but I have no idea how to apply it. I take a breath and decide to experiment, because there is no way I’m asking Sarah for help. She’d want to know why, and I don’t really want to get too deep into girl talk with her about her brother.

  I do my best with the makeup and find it doesn't look half bad. Especially considering I don't usually wear makeup in my day-to-day life.

  What used to be my day-to-day life, I mean.

  I sit back and look at myself as a whole. I look pretty. Really pretty. I feel my lips curve up as I look at my body in the simple pink dress. The corset pushes my breasts up, but with a little help from the girls here—I can't seem to call them prostitutes even though they are, even though they won't get offended—I've managed to push them up in a more controlled fashion so it's not as in your face. It's subtle cleavage, which I like. The corset narrows my waist just slightly and the skirt flares out around my hips, emphasizing them in a flattering way. Which is a nice change, since my hips—like my cleavage—tend to go everywhere.

  I leave my room—it feels weird not to lock it even though Sarah assures me no one will steal anything—and start to head down the two flights of stairs. My stomach is jittery with butterflies and hummingbirds and bowling balls, all crashing into each other and throwing me off balance. Luckily, I can grab on to the handrail in order to steady me.

  I don't know why I'm nervous. Honestly. I know Matt. I like him. I consider him a friend. Yet I feel like I’m going to my first high school dance and the cute senior is waiting in my living room to pick me up. It doesn't make any sense because—hello!—I've never felt this way before and I don't know what it means and—

  No. I can't bullshit myself. I know exactly what I'm feeling. I like Matt. And this feels like a date. And I'm nervous because I want him to like me, but I can't force him to if he doesn't. No matter how pretty I look or feel won't make him like me. I can only hope that my wonderful personality will charm him into falling for me.

  Which brings up another point. Let's say Matt does like me. Some crazy twist of fate struck lightning, and I'm hit and he's hit and we have feelings for each other, there's still the problem of me not belonging here. Of me going back home. I still haven't decided if I actually want to stay here, and besides Matt, there's really nothing pulling me to stay. And I know it sounds heartless and completely contradictory, but I don't want Matt to be my only reason to stay. And I don't think he'd want that, either. I want to stay because I want to stay, not because I feel tied to a guy. I've seen even the most solid relationships unravel. I can't depend on love being enough. It'll help for sure, but that doesn't mean it should be everything. I'm still a person without Matt and what I want matters just as much. And I'm not sure I'm at the point of wanting to stay if I never see Matt again. And if I have even the tiniest sliver of doubt, I know it's not right to lead Matt on. I wouldn't, even if Sarah hadn't threatened me. It wouldn't be right.

  And that's why I'm nervous, I suppose. Because I want him to like me, but I don't because I don't know what I want at the same time.

  I head down the stairs and try to control the butterflies flying into each other in my stomach. My chin is tilted up, my shoulders are rolled back. I try to come off as graceful and sure but inside, I'm screaming. Inside, I'm clenching my muscles together because I'm so afraid I'll trip over myself and make myself look like a complete idiot or possibly injure myself in the process of walking downstairs. Luckily, I make it just fine without incident, and before I know it, I'm sitting at the empty bar, waiting for Matt to make his appearance.

  There's a small part of me that's worried he may not show up. Which is silly, because Matt has never given me a reason not to trust him at his word. It's just, I used to date this guy whose name was also Matt, ironically enough, and it was casual but I liked him and I think he liked me too, even though he really wasn't that type to care about the people he messed around with. Not that he was a dick, but before me, his longest "relationship" (and I put that in quotes because it was more of a let’s-hang-out-and-have sex relationship rather than a healthy, well-rounded relationship) was a few months. We hung out nine months and counting before we parted ways. Anyway, I cared about the guy, but it was constant that he would text me to cancel our plans hours before we were supposed to get together. I couldn't plan anything, which I hated because first and foremost, I'm a planner who likes to look forward to things. He took that away from me. I got so used to it, I now expect it to happen again with different people, and it frustrates me because twenty-first century Matt wasn't anyone special. And yet, he's conditioned me to expect the worst in others—and devalue myself while I'm at it—because that's how he treated me.

  Even though this Matt, this good Matt, is different. In so many positive ways.

  "And what is a lovely lady such as yourself doing here all by your lonesome?"

  I smile even though my heart has jumped in my throat. Matt has taken me by surprise but when I turn in my chair to face him, it's in my throat for a different reason entirely.

  The man is beautiful. He's not wearing anything special, but I like how his hair falls into his face and I like the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. I like the curve of his lips and I love, I love his cheekbones. He's the epitome of perfect. I feel like I'm in a Taylor Swift song, to be honest, because the man is flawless and I'm in love.

  Holy shit.

  Maybe I'll think about that later, but it's important to note that I came up with this theory stone-cold sober.

  Instead of sitting next to me, Matt walks around to the bar and grabs a generous-sized bottle of liquor. "Sarah says we have complete access all night," he says
, reaching below to bring up two glasses. "I say we take full advantage of that offer."

  I swallow because I'm nervous, but I don't know why. I know I'm a fun drunk. I'm not dramatic and emotional; I'm not loud and obnoxious. I giggle a lot and I'm quiet. Observant, actually.

  "I've never had the liquor here," I tell him honestly. I don't know why I tell him. It's not like he needs to know at all. It's not like he doesn’t already know, what with the fact that I'm from the future and I've been with him the entire time that I've been here.

  His lips curve up at what I say—maybe it's my tone of voice because I sound so young and naive—but his eyes are focused on pouring the warm brown liquid that almost resembles whisky, but the scent is different. At least, from what I smell over here at the bar smells different from the strong scent of whisky.

  He slides the glass at me and I catch it with my fingers. Matt then begins to pour himself a drink and when he finishes, he raises his glass in salute.

  "What is this?" I ask, taking the glass—it's a bit bigger than a shot glass but too small to fit a full eight ounces of alcohol.

  "Rum," he tells me, his dark eyes sparkling. "It's not for the faint of heart, nor is it for the weak-willed. It burns, though, so my recommendation is to down it quick. It will leave a trail of fire along your throat."

  "Sounds awesome," I mutter to myself and stare at the liquid. This is a bad idea. I know how much stronger alcohol is in the past than it ever was back home. I don't want to overdose on alcohol. "You won't let me drink too much, right?"

  My voice sounds quiet, maybe even meek. I'm actually embarrassed by it. I don't want him to think I'm a poor sport or a party pooper, but I'm not used to being here. I don't have many people I trust to be drunk with, to let down my guard and be vulnerable with. Matt is the only person who I do feel that way about and vocalizing my worry at least reassures me that I'm not being a total idiot about this. I am standing up for myself no matter how meek I may sound.