Enemies & Lovers

by Christine Zolendz

  Not surprisingly, the first step I take my feet slip out from underneath me and I’m flat on my back in the cold snow in an instant. The box goes flying. Ice cuts through my clothes and bites at my skin. My coat! I left it inside the cabin. I scramble to my feet and face the front door. A plume of foggy breath appears in front of my face and I can’t make myself walk through it to go back inside. There’s one thing that Vaughn and I both can agree on, I don’t belong inside there, and neither did my mother. Forget the coat. I’ll be fine as soon as I get in the car and get as far away from this place and Vaughn as possible.

  I decide to leave the box where it landed. What am I really going to do with my mother’s clothes and broken knick-knacks? They’re trash. Everything she touched is trash and I don’t want any of it. I tumble down off the front porch and catch myself before falling again. I cover my eyes from the wind and look back at the cabin’s foggy window. That selfish prick of a Montgomery better not be watching me.

  Trudging through the snow, I set my sights on the closest lump of snow and pray it’s my car.

  A trickle of ice trails down the back of my collar and crawls down my spine. There’re a few inches of the white shit on the ground, enough to make it hard to walk, and the air is so crisp and cold it stings my nose whenever I inhale. This is insane. I can’t believe I let myself get into this situation.

  When I finally reach the first car-shaped hill of snow I start wiping at the mound with my sleeve. My arm instantly burns from the cold. I almost start crying from pure joy when my car window appears. I brush off the rest of the door and yank like a lunatic at the handle. My hands are too numb to push the button and pull at the same time. I have to slow down my movements and use both hands.

  It takes three tries, a ton of curses, then the door opens.

  It’s not warmer inside, but the cover of the car cuts the bite of the wind on my wet skin. I bring my hands to mouth and try to warm them with my breath. I don’t wait for the feeling to come back to them. I dig in my front pocket of my jeans until I can pull out my car key. My eyes blur with tears. I fumble with trembling fingers and fight to fit the key into the ignition. When I finally push the key in and I turn it, the engine stutters once, twice, then dies.

  “No. No, no, no,” I cry out. “Please, God. Please.”

  I try again.

  And again.

  The fourth time it catches and the engine revs to life. Oh, thank God!

  I let the car warm for a few moments, then give up on waiting and flip the heat on. It blasts out cold, whistling air, then slowly but surely it warms. My windshield wipers only clean a small area, but I don’t care. I need down this mountain and into warm clothes as soon as possible.

  I yank the gear shift into drive and my tires spin and spin. The car doesn’t move at all. I press harder on the gas and the back of the car slides a bit, but the car still won’t go forward. Then all the lights on my dashboard flash on and a beeping chirps out. What the hell it that? The small check engine light flashes bright red, then stays on. They all stay on. Well, only until the engine cuts off and all the lights fade out and I’m sitting inside an icebox, unable to move.

  I shudder out a shallow breath. Okay, not a problem. I’ll just call for someone to come and get me. They have to have a ton of tow trucks around here, just waiting for idiots like me to show up. Idiotic New Englanders that are never ready for this kind of a storm. I push off the seat to get to my cell in my back pocket. How the hell will I be able to pay for a tow truck, though? The last time I looked at my checking account there was only $153 left in it. Maybe I’ll use my emergency credit card and pay it back over a few months. What kind of interest am I going to have to pay on that crap? It’s going to be a two-hundred-dollar tow that will cost me four hundred in the long run.

  What the—? My back pocket is empty! I scramble around, wet clothes scraping against my skin, burning and chaffing. The phone’s not in my other pocket either.

  Shit. It’s still in the house with Vaughn Montgomery.

  Chapter 7

  Vaughn

  Of course my father kept a well-stocked bar in his mistress’s home. Why wouldn’t the bastard? Remy Martin Black Pearl Louis XIII Cognac. Elit Vodka. Brugal Papa Andres Rum. My old man and his whore have expensive taste. Had. They had expensive taste.

  I stare at one of their pictures that hangs behind the bar. I wonder how long it went on—and how my mother or Chloe hadn’t noticed. He always was a few steps ahead of us, doing everything in his power to keep his dark little secrets.

  A hard, self-indulgent man was what my father was, and the Radcliffes were nothing more than gold-digging con artists.

  I hate my teenage self for falling for their bullshit. I wasted so much energy and emotion on that girl, hell, I thought I was going to die of heartache when that all went down.

  Fiery bitterness churns in my stomach.

  I guess I always sort of understood what my dad saw in Libby Radcliffe—any man who wasn’t blind would. She had a captivating sexuality that seemed to hit a man hard, bring him to his knees. That’s how my father explained it to me at least. She was beautiful back then. Her daughter, though, her daughter was, is, well, let’s just say her mother could never hold a candle to her. I’ve never met another woman who could.

  I pour myself a seventy-two-year-old single-malt Scotch Whiskey and try to wash away the image of Claire Radcliffe from my mind.

  But Lord, those lips.

  Flawless ivory skin and striking eyes that made the color of tropical water look dull. She always had this way about her, this look. Like she was the sun. One of those girls who even when you tried not to look straight at her you saw her everywhere. She shined. Her warmth touched everything. The girl I once missed with a never-ending ache that I didn’t think would ever stop, she haunted me. For a while it pushed out all reason and sense in my life, until I just numbed to it—to the realization that me and Claire, we were never going to be allowed to see one another again. We were the Montagues and Capulets. Because of what her mother did, we would never be together.

  I gulp back another drink. Damn, this whiskey goes down smooth.

  Smooth like Claire’s bare skin.

  How long has it been since I’ve seen her? Nine years now? Maybe ten. I think back on that night, not so long ago, yet another lifetime away. I can still see Claire in that short white sundress she wore, sitting across the fire from me. The way the hem of her skirt rode up her thighs making me sweat—making all my friends sweat—so much so it drove me crazy with jealousy. Every one of my friends wanted her, but back then she only had eyes for me. And I was a teenage boy, possessed by her. Irrevocably infatuated with her. I would ask her questions just for an excuse to stare at the way her mouth moved. I’d call her up before falling asleep hoping to dream about her. It was like having a head injury.

  None of that matters now. Any feelings I had toward Claire are dead and gone. Right now, the only emotion I can muster is utter disgust for my father and his mistress. I wonder if those other envelopes his lawyers held this morning were a sort of monetary inheritance for them, an inheritance he stole from his own family to give to his secret one.

  And why was this cabin left to me? The shittiest situation he ever personally put me in was having an affair with Claire’s mother. It created a war zone in our home. My parents fought for years over it. Why would he leave me something that would let me know he was still a heartless asshole? Why would he want me to know he was still enthralled and obsessed with the same woman for over a decade? What did Claire and Libby get from my father? Did he shower them with the love and attention he so harshly withheld from my family? By the looks of this luxury cabin, he definitely gave them money, but he had plenty of that to go around. Until now.

  Another drink and my shoulders feel looser. Fuck the Radcliffes. This cabin will go right to my mother and Chloe. I just need to erase every inch of that woman and her daughter before I let them inside.

  A low vibration sound
cuts through my thoughts. Something buzzing against wood, like a phone on silent.

  That’s exactly what it is, someone’s cell phone, forgotten on the dining room table. It buzzes again. Curious, I walk over and pick it up. It’s an older model iPhone with cracked webbing that stretches across the entire screen. Claire must have left it here. It lights up in my hand and a preview of a text message from Mom flashes up at me: Your lack of response makes me wonder if you like the idea of your cunt on everybody’s phone and email.

  I thought she said her mother was dead. My pulse speeds up.

  Why the hell would her mother text that? It’s sick.

  I’m not the kind of man who invades people’s privacy, but I need to know what the hell is going on. Curiosity and disgust have a tug-of-war with my insides. I must have read it out of context or maybe my eyes are playing twisted tricks on me.

  I hit the message preview and the phone automatically opens. The damn thing is so old there’s no password needed.

  Mom: Are you at their cabin yet?

  Mom: I gave you explicit instructions to stay in contact with me.

  Mom: Have you found the offshore accounts?

  So, Claire is after my father’s money. Did him and his whore set up offshore accounts to hide his money from my mother and sister?

  Mom: Do you think this is a game, Claire?

  Mom: I said a week, for not answering me you lose a day.

  Mom: Believe me, Claire, you don’t want me to share all these pictures.

  Mom: Get what I need.

  I scroll over an image that makes my blood freeze.

  What the hell is going on?

  It’s a picture of Claire. If Claire was a centerfold. Or maybe it’s a still-shot of some porn she was in, some sort of sex tape she made with someone. It’s explicit.

  Confused, I continue scrolling. Dozens more of the same types of images slip under my thumb.

  I drop my chin to my chest; I can’t stop myself from staring at them. It makes me nauseous. And yet…

  The phone feels heavier in my hand.

  Suddenly I’m struggling against my arousal. My heart races and hammers against its cage in my chest. My face heats and tingles with utter self-loathing, shame, and absolute disgust. It’s unnerving.

  Unsettling, dark thoughts fester and multiply in my head. It takes me a few moments to get my dick and brain in the same place. I’m no longer a fifteen-year-old kid bewitched by a beautiful girl, I’m a grown man with a laundry list of lovers after Claire. Her family’s transgressions caused so much anger and pain in mine. It doesn’t matter how erotic the pictures are, or how intense the memories of being with Claire are, she’s off limits. She’s no good, just like her mother.

  I need to focus on the facts, not how good she looks naked. I could text any woman I know right now and ask them to send me pictures and they would without shame. I don’t need to gawk at Claire’s.

  Focus.

  Why would her mother be sending Claire her own nude pictures?

  Claire: Please don’t do anything. I’m not here alone. I need time.

  Mom: JUST FIND IT OR THESE PICTURES GET LEAKED!

  Blackmail? Libby Radcliffe is blackmailing her own daughter? The next few moments I’m questioning everything I thought about Claire Radcliffe. Why would Libby Radcliffe do that to her own daughter? Unless Claire was telling the truth and Libby was dead, and these texts were from someone else entirely.

  Fuck me, it’s always something sordid and crazy with these Radcliffe women.

  I try to clear my thoughts and look at the facts. First, it seems like someone thinks my father had hidden offshore accounts. Second, someone is forcing Claire to find them. Third, Libby Radcliffe may have committed suicide. Fourth, Libby Radcliffe may still be breathing and Claire is a liar.

  I’m giving myself whiplash.

  My head spins trying to figure out what to do; what to think. Maybe there’s more information I can get off the phone? I have to find out what I can, and quick, before Claire comes knocking back on the door looking for it. I swipe through more of the texts. Before two days ago, there was no correspondence between Libby and Claire save for one message from a year prior. Claire texted her mother about getting a job at a private school, but Libby never answered. But that could mean nothing, she could have deleted all the messages for all I knew.

  Or maybe Libby just hadn’t cared enough to respond. Maybe Libby Radcliffe was like my father in those regards, cold and heartless toward her own offspring.

  The menacing messages and images start on Wednesday, and whomever this is, threatens to send all the pictures to her school, to each of her students, and all their parents.

  Jesus, that’s messed up. That can’t end well for someone teaching in a private school, can it?

  I click out of their conversation and open another. There’re only three different message threads. The one with Libby, another with a contact named Paul, and an ongoing conversation with a friend named Madeline.

  The Paul contact texted he was sorry for her loss and that if she needed anything, all she had to do was call him. He mentions her lesson plans are taken care of for the rest of the week. So, maybe that means her mother is really dead.

  The conversations between Claire and Madeline are a bit different. From scanning over them quickly they look like everyday chats between two friends. Plans to see movies, a long, drawn-out discussion about a book they were reading together, and sprinkled throughout were bits of Madeline venting about numerous dates that were a waste of her time. The last few messages contain Madeline asking if Claire wants her to help collect her mother’s things and to call if she needs anything.

  There was no mention about Claire being in a relationship, or being blackmailed by a dead mother. There was no mention of anything else at all.

  Her email is full of correspondence with parents and colleagues, nothing suspicious or personal, not even spam. I click through the deleted files and the spam files and still come up empty. She doesn’t even have a single image on her camera roll.

  So, what it looks like is someone is using her dead mother’s phone to blackmail her for my father’s money?

  Glancing up at the front door, I wonder why she hasn’t noticed her phone is gone and come storming back in here, demanding it back.

  A sharp howling wind blows just outside the house, reminding me of the storm—the blizzard I just threw Claire out in.

  Damn, what have I done? How cold-hearted can I be?

  I grab up my coat and shove my arms through the sleeves. By the side of the door, on a small side-table, I find a hat with earflaps that I jam on the top of my head. A skin-crawling sensation creeps at the back of my neck, as I wonder which selfish dead person the hat might belong to. I shake the thought away and open the front door to the snowstorm. The scent of pine needles and ozone burns at my nose.

  I rush out into the thick whiteness, my shoes sinking down through the icy snow. My socks are instantly soaked and the chill of them bite at my ankles. What the hell was I thinking coming out here in this? Even this coat isn’t heavy enough to withstand this kind of cold.

  Claire raced out of the house like a madwoman before, she’s probably already far gone.

  But up ahead, a few yards away, I catch a quick flash of taillights and hear the choking sounds of a car engine fighting to start.

  She’s stuck in the snow.

  I have to push myself to move. If I talk her out of that car, we’re stranded here together until the storm blows over and I don’t want to be anywhere near a Radcliffe. I don’t want to be alone with any crazy Radcliffe voodoo vagina magic she might throw my way.

  I’m thinking crazy. She’s a woman stranded in her car in the snow.

  I walk a few steps forward and thunder rumbles in the distance. Warning bells and red flags are screaming in my head, but I trudge through the snow anyway. I feel like a lamb being pulled to its slaughter. This woman is going to tell me information about my father that I’m going
to hate hearing, and it’s going to make me despise the Radcliffe name a thousand times more than I do already.

  The car window is fogged up, but I can still see through to the inside. Claire is leaning on the steering wheel, crying. Her shoulders are shaking, whether it’s from the cold or the intensity of her sobs, I’m not sure, but I pound my fists on the window to find out. Startled, she bounces away from the window. And when she looks up at me through the hazy glass and I see those red teary eyes, something in my chest breaks loose.

  Chapter 8

  Claire

  My heart almost bursts out of my mouth when I notice Vaughn by the car. He’s covered in snow, the drifts swallowing his legs up to his calves.

  “Open the damn door, Claire!” The side of his fist pounds against my window.

  Not today, son of Satan. He could freeze into a stupid Montgomery money-sicle for all I care, I’m not letting him in. He just insulted me and kicked me out into a blizzard and now he wants to what? Talk? Invite me in for a fun little reunion? Start a Dead Parents Society? Continue to blame me because his mother got traded in for a newer model, again? Nope, not happening.

  I turn the key in the ignition again. The dashboard lights flicker then die, and the engine laughs its click, click, clicking sound. I slam my palms on the steering wheel and bite back angry tears. Of all the days my car could turn on me, why does it have to be today?