Stolen Lust

by Charmaine Pauls

  “You missed the sunset,” Leon says.

  He knows how much I love the sunsets here. It looks as if the sky is ablaze with flames over the dark surface of the river.

  “It couldn’t be helped.” Business comes first. There will be another sunset tomorrow.

  “Do you miss them?” he asks, staring non-seeingly at the people dancing around the fire.

  “Who?”

  “Damian and Zoe.”

  I look at my brother. “Do you?”

  He shrugs.

  My voice is a tad harder than I intended. “It’s safer for them like this.”

  “Damian is out of prison. He’s been out for two years. I just heard.”

  Some family we turned out to be. Zoe seems to be the only one who ended up walking the straight and narrow. “I know.”

  He leaves it at that. Leon knows as well as I do dragging them into our lives will only leave them drowning in shit if we go down. That was what we decided the day we left. There are many days I still regret taking Leon, but I couldn’t bear leaving him either. Damian and Zoe had been too young, but Leon was almost fourteen and already earning his own way by pickpocketing and selling the coal he collected on the train tracks. When he’d stood on the landing in his threadbare jersey with the holes on the elbows, wearing a frantic look on his face, I couldn’t turn my back on him, go down the stairs, and walk out into the street. Only a person who grew up like us can understand that look. It’s one of desperation and fear, of being left behind. Alone. So I dragged him along and turned him into a criminal.

  Leon isn’t sentimental, but I understand his sudden bout of nostalgia. For the first time in our lives, I’ve chosen someone else over him, and he doesn’t know what to make of my choice. He’s no longer certain of me.

  “I’m not going to let you down,” I say.

  He doesn’t look at me, but his lips tilt in a wry way. “Is it over?”

  I know who he means. It cuts my heart open, but if he wants to see me bleed, I’ll give him that. I owe him much more. “Yes.”

  He squeezes my shoulder, a quiet peace offering.

  Ruben walks out onto the deck. He scans the crowd and gives me a nod when his gaze finds me. He bounces down the steps, grabs a chair in the walk, plants it next to me, and flops down onto the seat.

  “How did it go?” Leon asks, pouring another rum and Coke, which he hands to Ruben.

  Ruben grins. “Smooth as Palmolive soap.”

  In the glow of the fire, the tense lines of Leon’s face even out. He clinks his glass to mine and Ruben’s. “To the three musketeers.” Shouldering me, he says, “Right?”

  “Yeah,” Ruben and I say in unison.

  The Sun City heist was big. We’ve stolen enough through the years for all of us to retire, but the stealing has long since been about something other than the money. Yes, I need money, lots of money, to feel safe in this world, but it’s the challenge that keeps me going. It’s getting a kick out of outsmarting the cleverest systems and the most advanced technology.

  We watch the festivities in silence for a while.

  One of the young women, Danai, breaks away from the group. She saunters over and stops in front of my chair. “Come dance with me.”

  She’s twenty, by her tribe’s standards old enough to know what she wants, and very pretty. A week ago, I may have accepted the hand she holds out at me and taken her up on the offer, but I don’t put my drink aside or move my feet out of the way to make space for her.

  “Not tonight,” I say.

  She flings a leg over my thigh, standing wide-legged over me. The grass skirt shifts. The beaded blades part to give a glimpse of the smooth skin of her thighs. Her breasts dangle in her bikini top when she bends over me. Placing her palms on my knees, she slides them up my legs.

  I grip her wrist. Her sultry look drops. I don’t have to reject her with words. She gets the message.

  Yanking her arm from my hold and with sparks flying from her eyes, she says, “Your loss.”

  She holds my gaze as she takes Ruben’s hand. With his golden hair, green eyes, and pretty-boy face, he’s always a hit with the women.

  Ruben grins and chucks the rest of his drink on the grass as he lets her pull him to his feet. She looks over her shoulder at me as they take the path, heading in the direction of Ruben’s bungalow. The locals don’t wander around the unfenced property without a gun. Crocodiles cross the paths, especially at night. Knowing Ruben always has a pistol on him, I let her go. He’ll take care of her and see her home safely.

  Garai comes over with plates of meat, porridge, and a chunky tomato and onion sauce called sheba. “Here you go, Baba.” He hands me and Leon each one.

  We eat with the others. I listen to their stories and later to the complaints. It’s part of the communal culture. When the men light their pipes and the women sing softly next to the fire, I follow the path to my bungalow until the darkness swallows me and the sound of the crickets turns louder. A frog harps out of tune. Quietness dawns. The singing is background noise, a comforting sound like the soft beat of a heart when you put your ear to a warm chest. I light the lamp hanging on a hook by the door and check for snakes and scorpions when I enter.

  Taking off my clothes, I opt for the outdoor shower and turn on the tap. A partition provides privacy on the side, but the front facing the river is open. It gives me a view of the stars and the reflection of the moon in the water. I wash in the dark, letting my hand travel south, and when I fist my cock, I think about a platinum blonde with baby-blue eyes.

  Chapter 15

  Cas

  When Ian drives away, I walk into my building on autopilot. A faint ache persists in my chest. This feeling is new, and I don’t like it. I don’t like what it means.

  A new slam-lock security gate bars the entrance to my apartment. The door boasts a peephole, deadbolt, and new lock. Ian had this done yesterday.

  A beep sounds when I’ve finally worked my way through the three locks and get the door open. A red light flickers on a security panel on the wall. I punch in the code, and the green light goes on. An alarm manual lies on the small table in the entrance.

  I lock up and lean against the door.

  Ian has left, but my tension lingers. Every muscle in my body is drawn tight.

  Pushing off the door, I do what I always do when I’m sad or stressed. I spring-clean. I unpack the cupboards and wash the shelves. I arrange everything back neatly and pack the clothes I don’t wear any longer in a box to donate to charity. I strip the bed and air the room. After doing the laundry, I scrub the tiles on the walls and floors and vacuum the rugs and the mattress. The bath and taps are so shiny when I’m done I can see my reflection in them. By nightfall, my apartment is squeaky clean, and I’ve reached my objective.

  I’m exhausted.

  I still smell Ian on me. I still feel him inside me where I’m raw. I’m reluctant to rinse the last remnants of us away. Instead, I cling to the twisted memory in a perverse way. However, I’m sweaty from the cleaning. I get into the shower and wash everything that has happened down the drain. Well, not everything. I can’t stop thinking about his unspoken threat and that offshore bank account. Why did he give me so much money? Will he really keep an eye on me? Maybe he was bluffing to scare me into compliance.

  Taking a towel from the rail, I consider this turn of events while I dry my body. How much of my freedom have I truly lost? Two nights of my life or forever? Too tired to think about it anymore, I dress in comfy pajamas, make a veggie stir-fry, clean the kitchen, and crawl between the clean sheets of my bed. Despite the fact that I’m mentally, emotionally, and physically wrung out, I toss and turn until the sun comes up. Finally, I give up and get out of bed.

  The same thought that tormented me in the shower last night has been turning in my mind during the long hours of my sleepless night. I think about it while I brush my teeth and wash my face. Am I a long-distance prisoner?

  In the bedroom, I glance at the piece of pap
er on my nightstand. Padding over, I unfold it. My name, address, ID, and contact number are printed above the account number. Ian obtained that information the night he went through my bag. He must’ve copied everything while I was sleeping. The account number is long. I take note of the bank and memorize the number as well as the security pin. I’m good at that. During our holiday road trips when I was little, my mother and I memorized the license plates of the vehicles that passed us on the road. Later she’d question me on the color and model of the vehicles, matching them to the license plates. “Give me the number of the white Mazda, Cassy,” or, “What is the color of GP 36867?” It was a game we used to play. My mother insisted on constantly exercising my brain muscles.

  After repeating the number in my head and making associations with memorable dates for easier recalling, like 1920 as the year my grandfather was born, I go back to the bathroom and flush the paper down the toilet. When I lift my gaze, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My skin is pale, but my cheeks are flushed, telltale signs of stress. The dark circles under my eyes are evidence of the two sleepless nights I’ve spent. Ian and I didn’t get much sleep the night before. My skin is still chafed from his stubble, and the marks on my neck look suspiciously like hickeys. He didn’t mean to give them to me, but I bruise easily.

  I have the foreign notion of staring at a stranger. My life has been turned upside down in the short span of a week. I bite my lip. I’m not sure it will ever be the same. Will I have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life? I can’t bear the uncertainty. I can’t live with the constant fear. I have to know.

  There’s only one way to find out.

  My steps are heavy when I go back to the bedroom. The sun peels through the slivers of the blinds. When I open them, light pours into the room. I open a window. It’s already hot outside. Staring at the garden below, I make up my mind. I’m going to find out just how serious Ian had been about stalking me. After dressing in a sundress, I have a blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee, and then I set off to execute my test.

  On the walk to town, the number I memorized floats in and out of my mind. There’s no way I’m touching that money. First of all, it’s stolen. Secondly, it will feel as if I’m accepting a bribe. Nope. The five million can rot in the Cayman Islands. Eventually, Ian will get the message. He can close the account or let it run interest for life. I’m not dirtying my hands more than I already have. It’s bad enough that I’m hiding information from the police, information that could lead to Ian’s arrest. I don’t know his last name, but I know what his face looks like. How hard can it be to trace him? Yet when I think about him behind bars, my stomach clenches and my heart squeezes in an unbearable way.

  What a grand mess. I feel like I’m tumbling in the murky waves of good and bad, swallowing the dirty water. I’m stretched between opposite sides, torn between right and wrong.

  When I reach the main street, I go down the side alley toward the cinema and stop to look at the shop sign above me. Harry’s Tattoo Parlor. Sawing my lip between my teeth, I glance left and right, but both ends of the alley are deserted. The sun spills through the buildings, illuminating the corner of the pavement. At the crossing, cars pass on the main street. There are no men in Phantom masks. No one lurks in the shadow of the pharmacy alcove.

  Sagging a little, I utter a small laugh. How stupid I’ve been. Idiotic, really. How was Ian going to watch me? By putting a drone on my tail? Relief crashes over me, leaving me boneless. I haven’t realized how tense I’ve been until my muscles finally relaxed.

  I look through the window. A thin man sits on a stool behind a counter, making a drawing. I don’t really know what I want. It wasn’t my plan to actually walk through the door, but now that I’m here, I may as well go inside.

  Gripping the handle, I push it down. A fist closes around my wrist. I jerk, my heart slamming into my ribs. The air whooshes out of my lungs. Almost too afraid to look, I lift my gaze to the owner of the hand.

  A tall, broad man with a bald head stares down at me. I can’t see his eyes, because he’s wearing sunglasses. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and his thick arms are covered in ink.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says in a raspy voice. “I really don’t want to shoot that poor sucker inside.”

  Ripping my arm from his grasp, I back up a few steps. He doesn’t follow. My breaths come in spurts. Shock hits me from all sides. Where did he come from? He’d been close all along, just around the corner. It jars me in a way that shakes me to my foundations.

  I don’t look behind me as I backtrack to the main street. I keep my eyes on the danger in front of me as I feel my way with one hand on the wall. We’re watching each other, him taking a wide stance while I’m fleeing one footstep at a time.

  It’s only at the crossing that I find my voice. “Are you going to follow me?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “As in forever?” I croak.

  His smile isn’t unkind. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

  That’s as much as I can take. Turning on my heel, I run. I run as fast as I can, not slowing down, not until my lungs burn and a sharp pain shoots into my side. My heart is unequipped for the effort. It protests, letting me know it isn’t happy and about to go on a strike. Flopping down on the nearest bench, I dig through my bag for my emergency pills. Not having any water with me, I swallow them dry.

  It takes a few minutes before I’m stable enough to move. I still feel the strain on my body and in my chest when I finally push to my feet and force them to move. Ian didn’t lie. He is having me watched. Now even. Maybe. Shit, I don’t know. A part of me doesn’t want to know, but I’ve never shied away from facts.

  Mechanically, I walk back to my apartment. I’m too shaken to take in what’s happening around me. A car barely misses me when I cross the street. The driver honks the horn and shouts an insult, but I’m deaf and blind to everything. All I can think about is that I’m no longer a free person. I’ll never be again. Ian will know everything I do. He’ll know where I go and who I see. He’ll know if I move to a different city. He’ll know where I work, if I find a new job. Because I’m not using his money. Especially not now.

  My resolution strengthens when I reach my building. I look up and stop. A white Toyota is parked on the curb, and Detective Wolfe is leaning against it.

  Shit.

  Everything goes into overdrive again—my pulse and my mind—as I try to think at a mile a minute. What does he want? Are the cops watching me? Do they know I wasn’t home the night before last? What do I say if they ask where I’ve been? I can’t think up a lie, not this fast. Is the man still following me?

  I glance behind me, but there’s no one. I walk slower, but eventually, I run out of pavement, and I still don’t have an excuse for where I’ve been.

  “Get in,” Wolfe says when I reach him. He opens the backdoor and stands aside.

  I lift my chin. “Why?”

  “We need to ask you a few more questions.”

  I swallow. Ian warned me this may happen. As I duck my head and climb into the back, I repeat Ian’s instruction in my mind. Stick to the story.

  Should I ask for a lawyer? Would that make me look guilty? No, I’ll wait to see what he wants. Hopefully, I’ll just answer the same questions and he’ll let me go.

  We don’t speak on the way. Detective Wolfe takes me to the same office with the same sad-looking plant where his colleague is already waiting.

  “Ms. Joubert,” Detective Hackman says with a nod when I enter.

  Wolfe shrugs out of his jacket and points at the visitor’s chair facing the desk. “Sit.”

  My legs are stiff. My knees refuse to bend, but I manage to slide sideways into the seat. Faking a confident pose, I cross my legs.

  Wolfe wiggles loose his tie and unbuttons the top button of his shirt. He drapes his jacket over his chairback and removes a cufflink that he places on the desk. The other cufflink drops beside it. He rolls up his shirt
sleeves and leans his palms on the shoulders of the jacket, watching me with bent elbows and flexing forearms. His blond hair is styled with a longish brush cut, but two strands have come loose and are falling over his wide brow. He’s clean-shaven, showing off the dimple in his chin, and he stares at me with piecing blue eyes while the silence stretches like a contagious and fatal disease in the air.

  Licking my dry lips, I hold his gaze and wait for him to speak.

  Like the previous time, Hackman perches on the corner of the desk, resting one arm on his thigh as he, too, studies me. Unlike the quiet, dangerous tension emanating from Wolfe, he wears an uncertain look.

  “Why am I here?” I ask when I can’t stand the tension any longer.

  Wolfe’s fingers tighten on the shoulder pads of his jacket. “Where were you last night, Ms. Joubert?”

  I look between the two men calmly as my heart bounces around in my chest. “At home, sleeping.”

  “Can anyone vouch for that?” Wolfe asks.

  “I was alone,” I say. “Why?”

  He nails me to the chair with that piercing look. “What about Tuesday night?”

  Shit. I dig my nails into my palms. I visited someone? Who? I play for time. “I was out.”

  “Alone?” he taunts.

  “With a friend.” I rack my brain for someone who’d lie for me. Franck, maybe. I’d hate to do that to him.

  Taking a piece of paper from the desk pad, he pushes it toward me. “Care to explain where you got the money from to cover six months’ rent?”

  I stare at the termination of lease contract notice in front of me. Double shit. He must’ve spoken to my landlord. “Savings.”

  Smiling, he splays his fingers over another piece of paper and slides that one over the desk too.

  The blood drains from my head as I scan the print. It’s my bank statement. My regular statement, that is. There’s no arguing the numbers that show my empty savings account or the overdrawn balance of my cheque account. No surprises, my credit card is in the red.