Made of Darkness

by Erica M Kim

  25

  First Quarter

  The sun is shining through the blinds in my bedroom, and I drowsily turn off the beeping sound of my alarm clock—ten more minutes. I’m still dreaming about the way Lio’s and arms held me so closely. As my dream dissipates, reality starts to settle in. Lio is on his plane by now, flying hundreds of miles away from me. Perhaps he’ll find a good reason to stay in Greece longer, making it easier for our relationship to just fizzle out. I’m not ready to face the day, but I will one foot out of bed, then another, stumbling around like a zombie.

  Thursday breakfast usually comprises of toast with blueberry jam and eggs sunny-side up, but I don’t feel like it. Lio has successfully thrown off my morning routine. Before I know it, I’m whipping up a yogurt parfait, topped with homemade granola, fresh raspberries, and honey. It’s the first time in over six years that I’ve deliberately broken my meal routine. I blame Lio as I crunch on a granola bunch; this yogurt is damn good though.

  I spend the morning going through the motions to get ready for work, but what’s lacking is the thrill of seeing Lio. The day drags on as I try to get back into a routine at the shop. Every time the door opens, I look up, hoping that it’s Lio, ready to proclaim that he canceled his trip. I haven’t spent a day without being interrupted by him for a week straight, and my world feels utterly empty. The good and bad news is that tonight is my dinner date with Vincent. It’s a welcome and necessary distraction.

  The appointments are sparse today, and in between grooming dogs, my detective skills are put to work as I search for Lio on social media and Google. He’s completely absent from social media channels, but there’s plenty of information about M.M.S. and the Manos family on Google. The Manos family is well-known in the shipping industry, going back several generations of operating in the Mediterranean Sea and beyond.

  Not only do they have their hands in exports and wine, but they also have a significant stake in the oil industry. The magnitude of their wealth and power is unfathomable.

  I quickly scan photos of Lio from various press events, magazine articles, and charity galas. He always looks well-dressed and charming, but he is consistently alone. In fact, I can’t find a single photo of Lio with another woman. It kind of makes my petty, jealous self smile to be honest, and I suddenly miss Lio even more. I guess absence does make the heart grow fonder.

  After closing up shop, I settle into the familiarity of my workout routine. I head over to my favorite boxing studio in Santa Monica and get ready to drip some serious sweat.

  I am usually the teacher’s pet in this class, but after missing a few workouts, compounded with boozing, and I am gasping for air earlier than I’d like to admit. My instructor punishes me, and within an hour, my body hurts so good in all the right places. Routine and self-care are good. Focusing on myself is starting to feel normal again.

  Sitting on the floor in front of my closet with my head between my legs, I’m completely at a loss for what to wear tonight. On the one hand, I don’t want to wear something that will entice Vincent enough to make a move, and on the other hand, I need to lure him in. I glance furtively at the clock and see that I have two hours left before I have to meet Vincent at the restaurant. I refused his offer to pick me up, knowing well that a man like Vincent Moreno will take advantage of the situation if I rely on him for a ride. I eventually settle on a very expensive black Hervé Léger bandage dress that one of my previous clients bought me during an assignment. It hugs every curve of my body, showing probably a bit more muscle than I should have as a pet groomer. It’ll have to do.

  By the time I arrive at Cut, which is fifteen minutes early despite the heavy traffic, Vincent is already at a corner table with a bottle of red. His eyes are filled with predatory lust when he spots me, which quickly dissolves into a charming smile as he waves me to the table. I pull on my own charming mask. Two can play at this game.

  As I approach the table, Vincent gets up from his seat to pull out the chair across from him.

  “Good evening, darling. You look ravishing,” he says in his charming Spanish accent.

  “You look quite elegant yourself,” I reply as I give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He smells like sandalwood and clean linen up close. He’s wearing a dark-brown blazer with a black dress shirt and dark-washed jeans.

  “I took the liberty of ordering some wine for us. I hope you enjoy Merlot.”

  “Sure, that sounds great,” I say, going along with his game.

  “I also put our order in already. I assume that if you’ve agreed to come to this restaurant, you like steaks. I ordered the specialty, a grade A5 Japanese Wagyu Kobe beef.”

  “Wonderful,” I say with a smile. Not really, and it irritates me that I didn’t even get to look at the menu, but I accept graciously to stay in character.

  “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met last weekend. You have quite an allure. I can’t quite pinpoint who you are . . . or what you are,” Vincent says with a devilish grin. I can’t help but feel a bit on-edge about his last comment, but I take it in stride.

  “I’m sure I can show you soon enough,” I reply with a teasing smile.

  An hour into dinner, Vincent talks about his business, and the bottle of Merlot is dwindling down. I barely drank half of my glass. I don’t want to risk getting even remotely influenced by alcohol around Vincent; every move, every word needs to be calculated. He doesn’t seem to notice or mind my lack of drinking, and once he finishes the last glass, he asks the waiter to keep the bottles coming.

  As the night wears on, Vincent’s steely guard starts to loosen, and he begins to tell me more about himself and his business than he probably intended. Perhaps it’s the wine talking. But I think it’s also in part because he’s finally around someone who isn’t just here for drinks, drugs, and domination.

  I listen attentively, engaged in every detail, and occasionally offering up advice or insight. We both own businesses that act as a façade to a less noble source of income. Although he doesn’t know it, I understand his situation deeply. His pretense about the scrap metal business starts to fade away, and the grim realities of being a drug lord emerge. I am transfixed on his hazel eyes and invite him to get lost in my sea of green. He seems to have taken the plunge.

  It turns out that Vincent’s life story is kind of inspiring. He was raised by a mother who passed away when he was just twelve. Orphaned and homeless, he learned very quickly how to survive in the streets of Mexico City. Living on the other side of the law has been the norm for Vincent, and he’s built an empire from nothing. A self-made drug lord.

  “The most frustrating part is dealing with all the numbskulls who don’t know anything about the quality of the product we carry. They are trigger-happy and care more about petty fights than the larger organization. I don’t know how I’m going to find the right people to run the business.” Vincent rests his head on his hand with a sigh, in genuine frustration.

  “Where are you finding these guys?” I ask earnestly.

  “Off of the streets. Where else?”

  “Have you ever considered trying to find people who don’t come from brokenness? They may be able to offer more to the business than the young kids you recruit.”

  “How am I supposed to find legitimate, hard-working employees who are willing to work for this type of business?”

  “Simple. Put an ad out for your legitimate scrap metal business for college-educated, ambitious young people. Interview them. You’re a smart man. Talk to them. See if they can have an open mind. Once you trust them, show them the opportunity with your other business. Then lure them with money.” Vincent begins to laugh heartily.

  “Damn.” Vincent actually looks proud as he reaches to cup my face. “I need a smart woman in my life.”

  As we leave the restaurant, I realize that I’m going to have to be careful. I’ve been putting on a show for the past three hours, and Vincent has been surprisingly chivalrous, keeping his paws off of me, despite
lustily feasting on me with his eyes. While we are waiting for the car, the valet attendant disappears, and Vincent makes his move quickly. He grabs my ass and pinches it with enough bite to make a normal woman yelp. I know this is part of the game, but my conscience is seething with fury. I compose myself before I turn around by taking in a deep, quiet breath.

  “Next time, do it harder so I actually feel something,” I whisper breathily to him. The look on Vincent’s face borders madness just as the valet arrives with my car. Talk about saved by the bell.

  “Good night, Vincent. It was a pleasure. Thank you for dinner.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, darling. I’ll be in touch soon. I want to do this again.” He smiles charmingly.

  I’m still seething over the ass-pinch as I pull into my driveway, and my senses immediately tell me that something is amiss. The carpet-cleaning flyer that I always purposely leave stuck in between the seal of my door has fallen to the ground. I reach for my glove compartment and pull out a switchblade. With a quick flick of my wrist, the blade slides out. I hike up my tight dress to hug my thighs, in case I need to kick someone down, take off my five-inch heels, and creep toward the front door.

  Like a cat, I don’t make a single sound as I stealthily approach the apartment. My door is unlocked. Fuck. Could Vincent have already figured out who I am? Did he send someone to search my apartment while I flirted with him over steak? My mind races through hundreds of scenarios, as I reach one of my SIG Sauers hidden in the coat closet and load the gun. Nothing looks out of place. All of the finite details I put in place that an unknowing stranger would tamper with seem untouched, despite the fallen flyer.

  After I clear each room, I head toward the fireplace where I keep a picture of my parents. It’s a picture taken before I sullenly attended homecoming dance—without a date—my junior year in high school. I was wearing a shimmery gold dress that reminded me of Belle from Beauty and the Beast. My parents proudly squeezed me in between them, with all the love and adoration in the world. I had a smile on my face, but my eyes were cold and dangerous, as always.

  I turn the picture frame around and pull out the tiny camera that watches my living room and front door through the letter “o” in the word “love” at the bottom of the frame. I walk to my bedroom to get the other hidden camera to find out who this son of a bitch is.

  26

  Markus Sirelle. I could kill him with my bare hands. Anger flashes over me like lightning as I watch him sneak in through my front door. He must have picked my lock. Damn it. I call a locksmith right away and set up an appointment to upgrade my lock. I watch Markus carefully wade through all of my belongings, placing them back carefully to their precise, original location. He had the nerve to open every single one of my drawers, even opening one of my lace panties, scrutinizing it thoroughly, then folding it neatly back into its place. Fucking bastard. In the end, he only inspected but didn’t take anything. I have no clue what he’s looking for, and it is by no means excusable. I knew I couldn’t trust anyone associated with Aleksei.

  I bring out my phone from my purse and dial Markus up. He answers after just one ring.

  “What the actual fuck is your problem, Markus? When is it ever appropriate to sneak through someone’s home? You actually have the audacity to look through my fucking panties? Are you a perv?!” My voice shakes with anger, and I take a deep breath in to calm my nerves down just a notch.

  “It wasn’t appropriate by any means. But I just had to check up on who I’m dealing with. Aleksei sings your praises, but with all the heightened security around Vincent, I needed to see for myself if you are legit.”

  “Well, did you find what you’re looking for?” I know full well that he didn’t find shit in my apartment.

  “Not exactly . . .”

  “Bring your pussy ass to the Santa Monica MMA gym. Lincoln and Third. I’ll show you what I’m capable of. See you there in thirty.” With that, I hang up the line without giving Markus a chance to respond. Kicking someone’s ass sounds like the perfect way to end the evening.

  One text to the gym’s owner and he agrees to stick around for an extra half-hour after closing. Thirty minutes later, I’m waiting outside of the gym, dressed in a sports bra and leggings with my hands taped and gloved, doing careful stretches. Markus arrives not a minute late, also dressed in gym clothes. I don’t even bother greeting him and open the door to the gym.

  Darrell, the owner, is an African-American man in his mid-thirties with a body worth worshipping. He personally coached me for years in mixed martial arts, once I decided to take my combat skills up a notch.

  “Hey Darrell, thanks for sticking around for me. I owe you next time,” I say as I give the gym owner a quick hug.

  “No prob, Lunis, anything for a loyal customer. This the guy?” Darrell says, giving Markus a once over. He doesn’t say anything else, after noticing Markus’s icy glare.

  “Yep. You want me to lock up? I can bring you the keys later.”

  “Nah, I think I want to watch this one.” Darrell snickers in excitement.

  “Put these on.” I throw a pair of gloves to Markus as he looks around the gym and takes in the scene. He sniffs them before putting them on. Scoffing, I roll my eyes.

  Markus meets me in the ring after he has his gloves on. We’re a few feet apart, and he at last breaks into a smile. We take a few light steps dancing around, sizing each other up. He looks pretty relaxed for a guy who is about to get an ass-whooping.

  “You serious about kicking my ass?” Looks like he’s read my mind. I crick my neck and roll my shoulders to loosen up.

  “You deserve it after what you did tonight. You think I’m some phony who can’t handle this job. You won’t doubt me or my abilities after this.” Before giving it another thought, I instantly make a move. I go for my signature move, a roundhouse kick. Instead of landing it on his head as I normally would, I kick square onto Markus’s chest, which knocks the wind out of him as he lands flat on his ass, gasping for air. I allow myself to smile but refrain from laughing at the shocked look on Markus’s face.

  After a few breaths, he laughs out loud. “Okay, you’re not messing around. Then neither am I.” He rolls onto his back and kips up, landing right onto his feet in one smooth motion. So, he’s definitely athletic. His hands are back up, ready to go, and his eyes show a steely glint.

  I don’t give him any more time to recover. Markus’s size and strength immediately put him at an advantage when we’re on our feet. To combat his advantage, my speed and dexterity will need to outmaneuver him. A deep breath in and I dive straight for his knees, pulling his leg back and forcing him down onto the ground with a hard crash. Markus lets out a small grunt when his body meets the padded ground.

  “That’s my girl!” Darrell whoops in the corner. I let out a smirk but don’t allow myself to gloat. Markus uses his strength to roll on top of me immediately. His face breaks into a victorious smile. It’s too bad I was already anticipating this move.

  Swinging both legs toward his chest, I lock one leg beneath his left armpit and the other leg above his right shoulder into a high guard. He’s immobilized. I twist my legs to the side and push him toward the ground until we roll together, and I’m the glorious one on top, with Markus still locked in the guard between my legs.

  “I normally wouldn’t mind being caught between the legs of a woman,” Markus mutters breathlessly, his eyes flirty despite his precarious situation. Without hesitation, I bring his right arm into both of mine and pull it tightly into an arm bar, starting to bend it backward beyond comfort. I know it won’t take much more for me to snap his bone. Markus’s face contorts as he grunts in pain.

  “All right. You got me.” Markus taps out, his voice full of defeat, and I loosen the hold and roll off of him. I glare at him as he folds and unfolds his arm. He takes a minute to gain his breath and inspect his arm. I didn’t break it, dumbass.

  “Imagine this performance, at superhuman speed and godlike powers during
the full moon. With an unquenchable hunger to kill,” I say softly so Darrell can’t hear. My eyes graze Markus’s sweaty face as I lean against the cage unwrapping the gloves and tape. I don’t like to talk about what I become during the full moon, but this situation calls for it. I force myself to hold Markus’s stare and keep the shame at bay.

  After a brief pause, Markus responds. “I’m sorry, Lunis. You kicked my ass, and I’m certain during the full moon, you’ll have no issue taking down Vincent.” He offers an apologetic smile. “I shouldn’t have doubted you. You have my word that I trust you from here on out.” The truth comes out, and it’s magnificent music to my ears.

  “Great.” I offer Markus a hand to help him up from the ground. Darrell is clapping in the background, and I feel a smile tugging at my lips in pride. I feel damn good. And as I predicted, a perfect way to end the night.

  27

  I sleep like a rock, dreamless and motionless, all night. The sparring session with Markus last night wiped me out. Fully rested, I wake up at dawn and start my day with a run. The Strand is a twenty-two-mile paved path that stretches along the beach between the Pacific Palisades down to the South Bay—a beautiful way to focus on the here and now instead of the what if’s and could be’s that continually haunt my mind of late.

  Two hours later, I’m back in my quiet neighborhood, and ready to face another busy day filled with dirty canines. But first, I finish off my work out with weights and the punching bag. With each blow, I imagine all of the terrible things I’ve done release through my soul and into the punching bag until my wrists and knuckles are sore. If only atonement was so easy.

  It is a normal day at the shop, and before I know it, it is almost closing time. I finish drying a French bulldog, and I’m reviewing the day’s final numbers when my phone buzzes, alerting me of a text message. My heart skips a beat as I reach out to grab the phone and look at the screen. To my astounding relief and utter distress, it’s Lio.