Made of Darkness

by Erica M Kim

  Lio: Hi, beautiful. Just checking in to say hello and to see if the dogs haven’t eaten you alive yet. Or perhaps I should be more worried about the other way around? Counting down the days until I get to see your face. Sunday feels like an eternity. I miss you terribly.

  My heart pounds wildly in my chest, pleading my fingers to craft an equally affectionate response. As much as I want to respond to Lio, this is my small window of opportunity to start stepping away from him. I need to stop falling head over heels for this man before it’s too late. After about five minutes of debate, I slam the phone back onto the table a little harder than I intended and storm to the back of the shop. My heart hurts, but I know it is the right thing to do. If it hurts this much to stop this after just one week, imagine how a month or a year will feel. No, I can’t let that happen.

  In order to keep my mind off of Lio, I decide to stay as busy as possible. After closing the shop, I take the SIG Sauer to the shooting range and unload more magazines into the human silhouetted paper target than I can count. Not a single bullet misses the bull’s-eye target on the paper-enemy’s head and chest. Once that paper is tattered beyond recognition, I reel the pulley in and refresh the paper. I lose count of the number of times I do this, but by the time I leave the shooting range, over three hours have gone by.

  My mind creeps back to Lio as I pull out of the parking lot. His eyes. His smile. His kiss. His touch. My body shivers in response, and I know if I were home alone, I would be conjuring fantasies about him and doing some very naughty things. I decide to move onto the next activity, what any twenty-four-year-old girl loves to do: shop.

  I don’t necessarily love the act of buying clothes, but I love putting myself inside the mind of my next target and browsing through rows of clothes that he would find attractive. It’s kind of sick actually. Most assignments allow me to reuse previous outfits, if they aren’t shred to pieces during the action on the full moon. Generally, my targets are men who are easily pleased and single-minded. I have more lingerie than I can even keep track of, and in fact, I don’t think I could ever wear lingerie without feeling like I am working on an assignment. With Vincent, however, his taste for oddities and finite details go above and beyond any normal man. Vincent knows exactly what he wants, which makes shopping for him all the more enthralling.

  Spending too much money on clothes for an assignment doesn’t appeal to me, but Vincent will be able to notice if my clothes are cheap. He seems like a man of refined taste, and one that notices every detail. After perusing some high-end fashion stores at the mall, I decide to take a drive out to Palm Springs tomorrow to visit the Cabazon outlet shops. While I’m out in the desert, I might as well take care of some additional business.

  28

  During almost the entirety of the hour and a half long drive east to the desert, I unhealthily obsess over Lio over and over again. I berate myself repeatedly once I realize that I’m thinking about his voice, his laughter, and his warmth and force myself to think about something else, only to find my mind wandering toward him time and time again. If anyone could see into my mind today, they would find a tornado of tumultuous thoughts, cycling over and over again uncontrollably. I crank up the music to drown out the madness.

  As I get closer to my destination, I call my shop to check on how Ramon is doing. Normally, I would be working on a Saturday, being one of the busiest days of the week, but my assignment needs my attention more since it’s only five days away. Thinking about the full moon makes my heart flutter and my palms sweat as I grip the wheel tighter. On the eighth ring, a breathless Ramon picks up the phone.

  “Hair of the Dog.”

  “Ramon, it’s Lunis. How are things going today?”

  “It’s very busy.” Usually, I would be able to hear dogs barking in the background, but it is completely silent.

  “How many customers have come in so far?” I know based on what I saw on the schedule, there should be at least six appointments today.

  “Four today,” he says rather quietly.

  “Is everything okay, Ramon?”

  “Yes. Everything is good.” Ramon is probably just distracted by his sister. Maybe I forced him to work on a day when she wasn’t feeling well. I decide not to push him on it.

  “Sorry I’m not there, Ramon, I’ll let you get back to it.” I hang up the phone and push down the accelerator pedal on my car, reaching 110 miles per hour. Let’s get this over with.

  At about 10:30, I pull into a driveway in front of a dilapidated yellow house. The garage, once painted an immaculate white, is now a shade of gray, and the yellow house itself is almost completely hidden behind a spiny wall of cacti that have grown seemingly out-of-control. By the pathway to the door, there is a broken statue of a little boy angel that is in an equal state of disrepair. I can’t help but roll my eyes, knowing who I’ll be facing as I approach the front door to ring the doorbell.

  My finger hovers over the doorbell when the door swings open, and a shirtless man with disheveled hair appears in the doorway.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite Sugarpie? Where have you been all my life?”

  “Ben, it’s 10:30 in the morning, and you already reek of alcohol. Get a grip.”

  “This is what happens when you’re not around, Sugarpie.”

  In my rather uneventful love life, Ben is a small blemish in the otherwise gleaming track record of no one. After my parents’ death, I was looking for a way to make a living, and to Ben’s absolute fortune, he discovered me—young, desperate, and very reckless.

  With my entire world crashed down around me, I had nothing left, living in the slums of Los Angeles and determinedly looking for a way to channel all of the violence that trembled my core. Then Ben found me one. I granted him a couple of dates in exchange for what I thought would be the ticket out of starvation: fighting in the MMA ring.

  Ben relentlessly pursued me. Secretly, my eighteen-year-old self relished in the newfound attention, but Ben doesn’t ever need to know that. Not to discount his physical attractiveness, because he certainly does not lack there—he reminds me of the crazy Tyler Durden that Brad Pitt played in Fight Club—but Ben is just . . . Ben. And would be nothing more to me. Ever. But that doesn’t ever get through Ben’s head. Ever. Be that as it may, my relationship with Ben is the closest thing I have to a friendship, as dysfunctional as it is.

  “I need your help, Ben. And you owe me for the last time.” I saved his ass from a crazy drug dealer that he owed money to a few months ago. And that wasn’t the first time either.

  “Anything for you, Sugarpie, anytime. Even if you didn’t save my ass,” Ben says with a smirk in his blue eyes. His sandy brown hair is tousled, and it looks as if he hasn’t shaved for days. There is always an element of danger to his aura as if any misstep could completely tip him over the edge.

  “I’m looking for a concealed carry revolver. My SIG Sauers are a little too big to be hidden.”

  “Well, you’re just in luck because I just got a shipment of a Smith and Wesson .38 special that will get you aroused,” he said as he winked. Ugh. He never stops, but it’s that exact quality that also makes Ben really great at his job as a black-market arms dealer.

  “Anything else, Sugar?”

  “Stop calling me sweet things; it’s fucking annoying. Yeah, a case of hollow-point bullets.”

  “Of course.”

  “And . . . I need you to come shopping with me . . .” I say this last request more quietly than my other two.

  “Really? And why is that?”

  “I need your expert eyes on what looks good on the female body.”

  “You’re actually asking me to look at your body? Is this really Lunis, or has someone else taken over?”

  “Shut the hell up, Ben! Yes, I’m humbly asking you to accompany me to the outlets and help me find some clothes. My next assignment is a very particular man, and you, my friend, are a particular fellow.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” A
proud smile spreads across his face.

  “Take it however you like.” My eyes roll around in response.

  The Smith and Wesson revolver that Ben shows me is a marvelous piece of work, and it feels like it is made to fit perfectly into the palm of my hand. I can’t wait to take this baby to the range and fire it off. I smile when I notice the serial numbers have been scratched off, which means it won’t be traceable.

  Within an hour, we are on our way in my car to Cabazon for the outlets. Ben cleaned up nicely, and he looks like a presentable person at least, not the cuckoo arms dealer I was just with. He still has a flask in his pocket that he occasionally swigs without shame.

  “So, Ben, what have you been up to?” I attempt to make small talk, praying that he won’t take this opportunity to continue to hit on me.

  “Well, there’s been some drama lately with Aleksei.”

  “You’re still doing business with Aleksei after all of that shit he put us through? He fucked us, Ben. Fucked us hard.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. I was running dry and needed to ask him to hook me up with his Russian connections. Anyway, he and I have made amends, I think. What’s been keeping you busy?” Ben changes the subject because he’s trying to avoid talking about Aleksei. I know, but I let it go. I don’t want to talk about that bastard anymore anyway.

  “Just the usual. Assignments, the shop. Nothing really new,” I lie as I think of Lio.

  The sun is high in the sky by the time we park my car and start walking toward the shops. The warmth feels nice on my skin, and I take in a breath of the dry desert air. With Ben’s help, it doesn’t take long for us to find the dress. As expected, he’s pretty good at this, making comments about how my ass looks flat in one dress and how my shoulders look too big in another. In the end, we settle on a black faux-leather dress from Saks Fifth Avenue’s outlet store. It hugs my body like a second skin, which Ben admires openly. We also pick out a gold-and-black necklace that drapes down my collar in triangular shapes and gold cuffs for both wrists. Lastly, the outfit is complete with a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, the most expensive part of the outfit. The shoes are mesh booties that are sexy yet elegant.

  “Thanks for helping me,” I gratefully say as we leave the parking lot.

  “The pleasure was all mine. I had your permission to look at how dresses hug the curve of your body. Not a bad way to spend my day,” Ben says, grinning widely like a kid who just left a candy store.

  I’m on my way back to Los Angeles in the early afternoon when a ringing sounds through my car’s sound system jolts me out of my seat. Oh shit. It’s Lio. My heart flutters in my chest like a bird trapped in a cage. My thumb clicks the “answer” button before I even have a chance to stop it. Damn it.

  “Hello?” I answer more timidly than I intend, still in shock that my fingers answered the phone before I gave it permission.

  “I think you already forgot about me. Did you get my text yesterday?” Lio says with a hint of playfulness mixed in with his serious question.

  “Oh yeah, sorry, I was busy at the shop and forgot to respond,” I lie. “How is the trip going?”

  “Great, and guess what? I finished early this morning, and I already left Greece. I’m en route on the plane, and I’ll be home in a few hours. Can I see you tonight? I missed you terribly.”

  Shit! I had been planning on doing some more prep work for the assignment tonight. As much as I want to see Lio, getting closer to him is jeopardizing my focus.

  “Uhhh . . .” I feel like my voice is straining to craft a story. “I have plans tonight already,” I continue. “But I’ll call you?”

  “Okay, doll,” Lio says, sounding disappointed. I feel instantly horrible about lying to him. “Yeah, call me. I want to see you.”

  “I will,” I say goodbye before hanging up.

  I’m at a complete loss for what my next move should be. On the one hand, every conscious thought in my mind tells me that this is the junction where Lio and I must part ways. To continue further will only end in mutual destruction. Meanwhile, every cell in my body aches for his touch, his voice, just bask in his warmth.

  In an effort to dive deeper into my assignment and shove Lio out of my mind, I decide to scope out Vincent’s house, just in case things end up there. I need to know the neighborhood, how to get in quickly and get out. I need to know where his bedroom is and where he parks his car. With a man like Vincent, I’ll need to do everything I can to get the upper hand.

  29

  Any overt request to visit Vincent’s home will definitely give him the wrong idea. It’s an open invitation to “Hey, wanna fuck?” A known rule between all women and men. I may be ready to extend that invitation in a few days, but tonight, I’ll need to be covert. The only option is to be seen coincidentally in his neighborhood and hope to be casually invited into his home. It’s a long shot whether Vincent will even be home, or see me, but it’s worth a try. I call the shop as I’m exiting the 10 freeway.

  “Hair of the Dog,” Ramon says with his Spanish accent.

  “Hey Ramon, it’s Lunis. How did today go?”

  “Today was good, very busy.” His voice is relaxed unlike before.

  “Are you closing up now? It sounds quiet.”

  “Si, just cleaning the shop.”

  “How many clients?”

  “Just four.”

  “So . . . we didn’t get anyone else in after we spoke earlier?” I ask suspiciously.

  “No, there were two cancels.”

  “Okay . . .” I don’t push for any more information for now. “By any chance, do we have any dogs that we’ll be boarding tonight?” I’m hoping and praying that a dog is left for boarding tonight.

  “Yes, ma’am. One client just called in.” Score!

  “Great. I’ll be there soon so I can to take him home. Who’s the client?”

  “Jane Foster.”

  “Oh, Shepard. Okay, perfect. See you soon.”

  Shepard, a wonderfully trained American bulldog, gets boarded almost every time he comes to visit the shop. His owners see it as an opportunity to have a free night out without their dog. Typically, since requests for boarding are fairly infrequent, the dog comes home with me for the night, which the owners actually appreciate more than keeping their baby locked up in a kennel overnight. Shepard is no stranger to my home.

  Before heading to the shop, I drop off my shopping bonanza and trade the Audi for the old red Toyota pickup truck. I also swap my clothes for workout attire. By the time I reach the shop, Ramon has already finished up for the day and is outside walking Shepard.

  “Thanks for your help today, Ramon. Was everything okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ramon says as he avoids eye contact. He must be under duress with his family situation and I don’t want to press him if he doesn’t want to talk.

  “Okay, thanks, Ramon. If you ever need anything . . . don’t hesitate.”

  I watch Ramon leave before I go back into the shop with Shepard.

  By the time I load Shepard into the back of my truck, the sun has begun its descent. I will have to rush to Vincent’s neighborhood in hopes that I’ll catch him and that he’ll invite me into his home. The more I think about it, the more my plan feels like a shot in the dark, but at this point, I have nothing to lose.

  Shepard sticks his head out the window the entire way from Santa Monica to Hollywood, lapping up the wind, his ears flying around uncontrollably. During the drive, the plan I brewed to get into Vincent’s home replays over and over. I’m going to park my truck a ways off and walk to Vincent’s neighborhood. My story is that I brought Shepard to walk through the Hollywood Hills, next to the landmark sign, which is believable enough as I know many of my customers often did the same with their dogs.

  “Come on, Shep,” I call him out of the truck after finding a reasonably distant parking spot a few streets down near some office buildings. I only have about forty-five minutes before dusk will settle in, and I’m not sure exactly how many
times I will have to pretend to walk the block in an attempt to find Vincent.

  After turning a corner, I start to climb a gradual hill. The street is filled with some of the largest mansions that I’ve ever laid eyes on. I feel like a miniature person walking through a giant’s neighborhood. Shepard is racing back and forth between lawns on each side of the sidewalk, frantically sniffing every possible inch of grass that we pass. His stubbed tail is wagging uncontrollably, making it look like he’s dancing. I smile at the sight.

  Of all the homes, Vincent’s is the most giant of them all. His house, rather, mansion, sits on a curvature of the street, slightly elevated above the other homes in a stately fashion. Behind the iron-wrought gates is a home that likely holds at least eight bedrooms. It’s painted white with enormous colonnades that support the structure. As much as the house looks huge, there is also a coziness about it. The portico has a swinging bench, and from what I could see, there’s a pitcher of lemonade or tea sitting on a table. That’s a good sign, someone had been out there, and recently too.

  I walk Shepard around the rest of the street, but never quite far enough to let Vincent’s house out of sight. While Shepard claims the land as his own by mastering the one-legged lift, I survey the land and take careful mental note of every light fixture and hiding place on the street. Places I could hide, places where I could run. Because the mansions are so large and there is so much space between each house, escaping the neighborhood would be relatively easy. The only downside is the heavy security around every house on the street—gated fences and cameras seem to be the status quo around here. I won’t be able to hideout in any of the homes without triggering some alarm. Luckily, there’s plenty of vegetation to provide coverage if I’m being hunted.