Amber turns in her seat to face me. “See, isn’t this better than sitting in a seat someone has probably peed on?” She has such a wonderful way with words.
The car is absolutely gorgeous, with its cream-colored leather and all-wood accents. It’s immaculate and smells wonderful. The smell is so familiar—I can’t pinpoint it, but it wakens visions of my mom and her incense burner.
Of course, Amber has run of the radio, because her favorite song is playing, the one about some country-western-dude whose heart ran out on him, and his best friend’s semi-truck ran it over, or maybe his dog buried it—something like that.
“Dave Matthews would sound much better through these awesome speakers, I’m sure,” I state. Russell gets it, because he laughs, and Amber punches him in the arm. “So why the special treatment?” I ask, gathering myself and brushing away my brief break from sanity, as well as the tears from my face.
“Just because you have an awesome best friend, that’s all.” Amber chuckles to herself as she applies lipstick, and I see her glare at me through her mirror. “Hey, did your mom tell you I went and saw her yesterday?”
She sees my questioning expression through her mirror. “You did?”
“Yep,” she says, “and Russell, too. She just loved him. It was almost like they connected immediately.” She smiles at Russell, then adds, “She was happy I found love.” I roll my eyes behind them and I see her clench her teeth. “Give it up, Kailey. I’m not in the mood for your righteousness.” She continues with her makeup and doesn’t even look at my reflection.
I sit, broken-hearted. Russell then adds, “Really, Amber?” He looks at me in his rearview mirror and says, “She’s a bit crabby this morning. Please forgive her. They didn’t have her favorite syrup this morning at Starbucks.”
You already know her favorite syrup? I know her favorite syrup. I grow perturbed, so I go for the throat. “So am I to believe, Amber, you called Russell up early this morning to ask for the ride, or did he just happen to be somewhere very convenient? Hmm?”
They both blush. Great—I hit the nail on the head. I can easily return the attitude. For Russell’s sake, I decide to change the subject.
“Thanks for driving me, Russell,” I say.
“Anytime!” he replies, cheerily.
We arrive at our destination, and I thank Russell, again. Amber gives him her own “thank you” and my, what a “thank you” it is. This time, it’s my turn to blush. As we head toward the door, Russell steps out of his car, and then calls me back over.
“My grandfather really is a great man, and he deserves your utmost respect,” he whispers. “Oh, and he also hates it when people don’t keep their dinner dates.” Then he gets in his car, winking at me as I stand, dumbfounded.
As we head toward the elevator, Amber asks, “What?” She missed the whole thing, but she can read me like a hawk.
I had shoved the promise made to Gunthreon way in the back of my mind all weekend, but now I realize I must go back today for dinner. But I gather myself and smile at Amber. “Russell and Amber sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” I sing. I can’t help laughing. She throws her keycard at me and laughs, too.
We get into the elevator. “Russell is like no other guy I’ve dated,” Amber professes. “I’ve only known him a weekend and I feel more connected with him than I ever have with anyone—present company excluded.”
“Just be careful, understand?” I think of Gunthreon and our odd meeting—and the fact that Russell is his grandson has me briefly thinking of mystery novel-type plots to frame the innocent. But when I concentrate on the thought of both Russell and Gunthreon, and focus on the feeling I get from them, any thoughts of evil plots dissipate. They feel good to me—whatever that counts for.
Amber says, “I will be careful. I always am, whether you think so or not.”
“Don’t break his heart,” I tease. “I want to borrow his Mercedes someday.” I laugh and, exiting the elevator, push her toward her office.
I stop in the kitchen, make my tea, and then pop a stale doughnut hole into my mouth. And then one more for good measure—two’s good luck. Wait…that’s three’s a charm. One more won’t hurt.
I head toward my own office, still chewing, and say a few hellos, and finally settle in. I’m already tired, feeling this is sure to be a long day, but I attack my e-mails with fervor anyway. Let’s see what forwarded messages from my friends were “quarantined” today by our IT staff.
By the time I get to the very last two, I feel a wave of sleepiness come over me. I decide that, if I turn my computer just right, nobody walking by will see me with my eyes closed for a few minutes. It’s office policy to leave our doors open, otherwise I’d slam it shut and sprawl out on the floor.
As my eyes shut, it suddenly hits me what the smell was in Russell’s car—lilacs, a favorite of my mom’s.
After a long while, I feel like someone is standing at my office door, so I open my eyes and peek around my computer. Nobody there. Thank goodness, I think. All I need is for Evan to catch me sleeping. I’m sure that would go over really well at my next review: “Yes sir, I concentrate much better with my eyes closed.”
I turn to my screen to check those last two e-mails, and suddenly, my sight is blurry. I focus on the screen, and it seems to be getting worse, so I check my long-distance vision by looking out my door to the hallway.
Something is very wrong. The air is gray and thick, and my immediate thought is fire. I grab my purse and get up and walk to my door, yelling to a coworker whose office is next to mine, but I get no answer, and sniffing, smell nothing out of the ordinary.
“Hello?” I say questioningly to the haze before me. No response. “What the hell is going on?” I can’t see where I’m walking, so I grab onto what I think should be filing cabinets outside my office, but feel tree bark instead. In feeling my way toward the reception area, my hand slides over something slimy—some kind of greenish-yellow ooze. It’s sticky. I bring it closer my nose and gag. It reeks like rancid eggs and vomit.
Then, a faint, indistinguishable noise rises in the distance—something that sounds, and feels, big. I don’t dare open my mouth. I only wait to see if I hear it again.
I do. This time it’s a little clearer—closer. Still I wait, and don’t move an inch. Again comes the sound, even closer. It’s someone speaking very softly, in a kind of rhythmic tone.
I slowly start to back up toward my office, but the speed of its approach accelerates as I move backwards. So I crouch down, hoping this thing won’t see me. I don’t recognize the voice, and I’m scared that nobody else is around. Maybe they’re dead. Maybe I’m dead—he killed me.
At this level, I can see that the fog is about a foot off the ground, so I get on my hands and knees to see if I can see anything. And I do see something—something that could possibly be very big feet, yards in front of me, but I have trouble wrapping my mind around the concept. When I squint, I see three feet—not two, but three brown, dirty, hairy feet, with toenails the size of bear claws.
Now I can hear it clearly.
“Kailey, Kailey, come and play with me. Kailey, Kailey, come and slay with me.”
Bile rises to my throat as I start crawling, crawling to my apartment door, my blood leaving its crimson trail behind me. I scratch at the door with my nails, and break one off as he drags me backwards, back through my own blood, making my attempt at grasping the hardwood floors impossible.
The air is so thick I can hardly move through it, my lungs barely grasping enough oxygen. I realize I’m nearly to my office when I hear a thud. I stop and, with some effort, force enough courage to turn toward the feet. I see them again, along with the source of the thud—a bloody raccoon, which I assume from the angle of its neck is dead. It lies by the feet. Then, this thing—creature—somehow bends in a way that, though the feet remain where they stand, a face peeks under the fog directly at me, just enough for me to see huge eyes and nothing else.
Shit!
At this point, with all my might, I move as quickly as I can through the mist and back toward my office. I feel breath at my neck just as I slam my door shut. My panting is heavy, and I shake uncontrollably, as if I’ve run a marathon—or at least this is what I imagine it would feel like.
I run to my phone and sit in my chair. There is a soft knock at the door, and I hold my breath for what seems like minutes.
“Kailey, is everything okay?” It’s Evan’s voice. The door slowly opens, and I see his head peek in. “You slammed your door pretty hard there.” I see another coworker standing behind him, attempting to peek in my office. No fog. “You know the open door policy here.”
I think fast. “I just had to make a personal call—woman issues,” I whisper. “Sorry.”
“Uh, okay... Just checking,” he squeaks, in an embarrassed sort of way. “Hey, get some air freshener for your office. It smells like rotten eggs in here.”
He leaves and I sit straight, looking forward, wondering if I should tell anyone what’s happening to me. I choose to keep it to myself. Lunacy is not taken lightly with employers.
Chapter 6
Excited
After a swift walk past the gangbangers, who are still lingering on the corner—and a snide remark about me being as white as they come, despite Joe’s blonde hair and blue eyes—I get home from work, and my Kioto waits open-eyed for me. She’s a big comfort, especially after the nightmare I had at my desk today. That’s gotta be what happened. Note to self: No more food before work naps—especially stale office doughnuts.
I hug her for a good five minutes, gathering from her stiff body that the hugs aren’t going to do it. “I know, your bladder’s going to explode, isn’t it, girl?” I say. “Let’s go for a walk—” Her ears perk at the word, “—before I leave again.”
So we walk to South Lakeview Park and I let her empty her bladder. The guilt of leaving Kioto alone this evening gets the best of me, so I take a quick glance around, and then let her off the leash to chase squirrels, thinking that maybe the exercise will tire her out and she’ll sleep soundly tonight while I’m gone. Stupid move on my part. I should know better. She’s an Akita—a prey-driven animal originally bred to hunt bear, and protective to a fault.
I never see the man and his dog, a beautiful Irish setter, enter through the gates. The moment Kioto makes eye contact with them, I scream at her as loud as my lungs will let me. I know the possible outcome all too well after a fight with a Rottweiler last summer. Kioto won, but I suffered for months after paying both dogs’ vet bills. She does not get along with other dogs.
She takes off with the speed of a jet and runs toward the slim and graceful Irish setter. I run after her, yelling again for Kioto to stop.
The man steps in front of his dog and says some word to Kioto I barely hear. Instantly, to my surprise, Kioto stops and turns to me. I stop running and start walking briskly toward her before she changes her mind and attacks. I grab her collar and put her leash back on, apologizing up and down to this stranger while, reveling in the fact that my dog did not shred his like a piece of chicken jerky. Dog-fights are the worst ever. You don’t know what to do because you fear for your own safety, but want to stop the snarling and squealing and the madness you can feel overtake them. It’s so raw and feral.
“It’s okay,” says the stranger with a bit of an Irish brogue. At least I think it is. “Nothing happened. Except I think you may fall over from that rush of adrenaline. Do you need to sit?”
“No, I’ll be okay,” I say. “I just may throw up my lunch.”
“I won’t look.”
“What did you say to my dog? How did you get her to stop?” Kioto is sitting now, just staring at the Irish setter, perhaps telepathically daring the dog to move.
“Oh, I took some strict guard-dog obedience classes long ago, before I got Cherry here,” says the man. “The word I used is the most stern-sounding German word I know, so I used it, and it worked. Yeah, I know, Irish man speaking German—kind of funny. The instructor taught in German so that your typical stranger wouldn’t be able to give commands to your dog.”
“That was German? Didn’t sound like it to me,” I add. But I must have been too far away. “Your dog is so beautiful. I’m glad Kioto didn’t get to her—him?” My head turns, trying to peek at where I may find the answer myself. I let the dog sniff my hand before petting it.
“Her. I have this thing for redheads, I guess.” He says it without breaking his stare, embarrassing me slightly, and definitely satisfying his manhood, but it’s non-threatening. It makes me feel...good.
I giggle girlishly. He’s attractive—tall and muscular, with glowing blue eyes that make me hold my breath as I decide whether he’s looking into my soul or just plain through me. My fingers want to reach out and sail through his sandy brown hair.
I collect myself, clearing my throat. Flirting is usually Amber’s arena, not mine.
“You live around here?” My mind tries to replay what I’ve just said, hoping I spoke English and not girly boy-intoxicated gibberish.
“Just moved to the city from the south suburbs, but I’ve lived in the Chicago area since I was twelve,” he answers. “I was born in Waterford, Ireland, though—land of four- leaf clovers, barley, and hops. Do you live close by?”
“You are stranger-danger. Can’t tell you that!” I tease. “Unfortunately, I have to get going. I have a dinner date—not like a date-date, but like a friend date.” Pretty sure that was English.
“Sure, don’t mean to keep you,” he says. “We will see you around?”
I stand motionless, and examine him in my special way. Intrigue. It’s definitely intrigue I feel from him. “Probably,” I say.
“What’s your name?”
“Kailey, and yours?”
“Conner,” he replies, “and it’s nice to meet you—and Kioto.” He extends his hand, and I shake it. His hand is much warmer than mine, and softer, if that’s possible—definitely not a manual labor kind of guy. Feeling like a scaly alligator, I try to withdraw my hand—it’s time for a change in lotions—but he holds on as a small static shock travels up my arm.
“Ow,” I yelp as I pull my hand away.
“Oops, sorry. Did I do that, or was that you?” We both laugh as Kioto allows him to pet her head, without a shock.
“See you around, Conner.” My turn to leave is slow, but with a twist of the head—my best attempt at a model’s hair swish. Amber’s perfected it, so maybe I can? I only end up with a mouthful of hair.
After a few feet, I turn back to see that Conner and Cherry are already gone.
“Let’s go, my good girl,” I say, genuinely smiling—maybe for the first time in months. Kioto leads the way home.
Chapter 7
Nonsensical
Could I be any more nervous?
As dinner approaches, I keep asking myself all sorts of questions—questions like, did I wear the right clothes? Did I wear the right shoes? Is it all right that my hair is pulled back? When did I accidentally eat the hallucinogenic mushroom? What the hell am I doing?
The one thing that makes me decide to go is the pendulum. I have to give it back. I’m not a thief—never stole anything in my life, well, except that one bag of Big League Chew, but I chalked that off as a youth’s rite of passage.
I call a cab, making sure it’s a different company than the last I used. It arrives promptly, I take a deep breath, and direct the driver as I enter the vanilla-scented cab. We arrive in Chinatown, and I pay him, tipping him well, since we actually had some decent conversation on global warming. It was important that I take my mind off the trip or I might have opened the door while driving and just rolled out of the cab to avoid setting foot in Gunthreon’s place.
When I get out, I see the sign above the bar, which I conveniently failed to notice the other day: “Spirit Cave”. The neon sign of a champagne glass with tiny bubbles floating up to the roof flickers as I approach the door. But the ten steps to the door are absolut
e hell as I find myself fighting my better judgment. It’s practically screaming at me to turn my bony ass around and go home, where I’m guaranteed safety with Kioto as my guard. My palm might now have a permanent indentation of my silver ring as I grip it with all my hand strength. The “Closed” sign seems the perfect excuse to run back after my cab, letting my better judgment be the winner of this round, but instead, I touch the handle of the door and turn. It opens. I force my feet forward.
“Hello?” My voice echoes through the deserted bar. I don’t want to walk in any further, so I yell a bit louder, still hoping for an excuse to turn around and leave: “Hello!”
“Kailey, I’m back here. Come join me.” Gunthreon’s voice comes from the kitchen, along with some yummy smells. When I enter the kitchen, I swoon from the tantalizing aroma of sautéing mushrooms and onions and cream. I see a pot of noodles cooking and a quick glance in the oven reveals beautiful gargantuan lamb shanks. I think maybe I’ve died and entered heaven through a set of pub doors.
Gunthreon works on hand-rolled dinner rolls, speckled with oregano and garlic slices. He pats each one lovingly—like a baby’s bottom—before placing it on the cookie sheet.
“And I thought you were Asian,” I joke. “Turns out you’re Italian?” I nervously smile at him. I keep my distance from him and the large chef’s knife beside his cutting board.
“Can’t help it—I like good food. I learned to cook from the best. Go ahead and put your purse down on a chair.” Again, he exudes a strong and solid sort of confidence.
I walk to a chair and place my purse on it, slowly, not really wanting to leave my pepper spray beyond my reach. After I put it down, I sneak over to the small, hot saucepan on the stove—I could always use it as a weapon if things went awry.
As my nose sniffs the concoction in the pan, I can’t help but dip my finger in the cream sauce and bring it to my tongue. I instantly want to cry. It has a touch of tangy lemon, sending my heart aflutter. On the counter is a filled wine glass. I start to speak, and Gunthreon, without looking up, tells me to drink.
Renhala Page 5