Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1)

by Dunning, Rachel

  I know the place is small. I'm a little embarrassed about it, but it's all I have for now.

  The area is pretty safe but keep the door locked please.

  The radiators are off but feel free to put them on if it's too cold.

  There's a back door in the kitchen which leads to the center square of the building. There's a cat bowl there. Some random cat comes over and drinks the milk I sometimes put out for it. But he (she?) is not ours and The Hunter wants to get rid of the thing. What she doesn't know is that if we don't feed it then it scratches at the door sometimes and meows like mad.

  I consider the amount of effort Brooke is going to to feed this stray cat. Then the irony of the statement as it relates to my own situation makes me stop thinking about it, lest I get depressed.

  The first floor of the building is mostly stores, not really made for living. But the rest of it is residential. I, however, seem to be the only one who feeds the cat(s). I think my neighbors don't like me for it.

  That's all I can think of for now.

  Hope you're holding up. I'll be there to give you a hug as soon as I can.

  Can't wait to snuggle up with you in that tiny bed. It'll be just like college again!

  B

  College. Or, more precisely, community college. Things will never be like college again.

  Brooke and I shared a room for two years. It feels like an eternity ago. We hung out a lot after college for a little under a year. Then I got married and she came over to Germany to work. That was about a year ago.

  Then my life fell to pieces three months ago.

  I count the money and see she left me five hundred Euros. I stare at it for a while and can't believe how much it is. Considering she's only been in Germany for a year and working on an intern salary, that's probably all of the money she has!

  It makes a total of seven hundred that I have on me now. I'll have to pay her back as soon as I can. Brooke said she'd help me get a job here. But I'm not gonna sit around waiting for that. She's helped me so much as it is, coming through for me instantly like she did. Offering me her place and clearing it with her boss with no questions.

  I look the place over again. It's not "pretty small," it's tiny. Especially considering it doubles up as a living space in the back. It's part of the deal of her interning at this gallery. She gets to stay here rent-free. I guess the owner is making a killing out of the almost-free labor she's getting.

  I go to the kitchen, see the small fridge. I open it. There's a few packets of sliced Gouda, some sliced bread, jam and a whole bunch of sausage-looking things that I don't recognize.

  I instantly shoot my hand over to the sliced Gouda and guzzle down five slices. Then I open up one of the fat sausage thingies and eat it. I eat another one. My stomach starts aching it's been so long since I've eaten. I just plain forgot.

  There's no coffee machine, but there's instant coffee. I put the kettle on and start tapping my foot as I wait for it to boil.

  I open the back door and see the silver cat bowl. I open the fridge again. No milk.

  My attention goes to the front door. Did I lock it?

  I rush to it! Pull it open!

  Damn it! I have to be more careful. I lock it.

  The kettle stops boiling and I pour the water into a cup with two spoons of Nescafé instant coffee. The smell alone jives up my nerves and wakes me up. There's some cream in the fridge. I pour a drop or two of it in my cup.

  I grab the cup slowly and warm my hands on it.

  Then my hands get too hot and I drop it!

  "Shit!" The cup and contents spatter all over the linoleum floor. It looks like a Coffee World War III suddenly! For a moment I stare at it helplessly.

  Then I start laughing.

  It's only coffee.

  It's not him. It's not the bat. It's not that night.

  It's not...her.

  I almost feel a tear in my eye, but it doesn't break through.

  It was just coffee. Nothing to cry about.

  For the first time in weeks I feel safe, secure.

  I hunt the cupboards looking for something to clean the mess up with. I find various assortments of canned soups and foods instead. Then I see the rags.

  I put on the kettle again after cleaning the mess and walk up the wooden stairs to the second floor. There's a small hallway upstairs with two doors. One leads to a bathroom so small I can't even imagine closing the door when sitting on the toilet because it would hit my knees. There's a tub which doubles up as a shower. I put it on. It has hot water. Good.

  The other door leads to what looks like nothing more than an overgrown closet which Brooke clearly uses as a room. OK, I exaggerate, it's much bigger than a closet.

  There are clothes piled everywhere, shoes, underwear. On one side is a pine dresser that looks like it'd be better suited for firewood. On the other is a real closet made of some type of hardwood.

  And there's the mattress she mentioned. No bed in sight.

  Brooke and I have shared a room for a long time before. But I don't want to get in her way anymore than I already have. So I'll need to get my own place soon.

  And a job.

  And I need to brush up on my very rough German.

  One step at a time.

  I decide I'll clean her room up as a thank you. I start picking up all the clothes to put them away. In the cupboard there are plenty of suits. I guess she must wear those when she's manning the desk downstairs. I hear the kettle is ready so I don't quite finishing tidying up.

  I go back to the kitchen and make my second cup of coffee. This time, when I hold the cup, I keep it on the counter and let my hands go of it when it gets too hot so I don't drop it.

  I walk back out to the gallery.

  The street outside is gray and empty. One potato chips packet flies across the road. I imagine what it might look like on any other day except Sunday. I like the quiet. I like the empty street. Gives me time to think.

  I make space on the cluttered desk, put my coffee down. I sit back, sip it slowly.

  It was a long trip.

  But I'm here. I'm safe.

  I put my hand to the C-section scar that spans across the lower part of my belly.

  The image of her hits me hard.

  I take my hand off the scar.

  CHAPTER 3

  -1-

  Axle Rhodes

  Nov. 10, 2013 — Sunday Morning

  I lie on the couch feeling nauseous from the after-effects of Blondie Fuck-Me-A-Lot's perfume that seems like it was extracted from dying cats mating with skunks.

  Oh, no, that's just my hangover. The perfume was actually quite good.

  I sit up and try and stop the ceiling from falling onto my head.

  Did I wear a rubber last night? Oh, right, wait, she told me she was clean.

  I slap my forehead and tell myself I'm an idiot. I'm clean. Yeah, that ranks right up there with a dentist telling you, Trust me, this won't hurt a bit.

  I shake my head and try not to think about it.

  It seems to get worse every November.

  My living room's a mess. But who am I kidding? This ain't no fucking living room. It's a hole. Next to another hole I call a bedroom. Attached to a hole I take my shits and pisses in.

  Home. Whatever.

  With Zoey I'd been home—

  "No," I say aloud. "No, Ax. No. Move on."

  I get up from the tweed couch that probably belongs on eBay with a heading like "Great for starting fires." But, heck, it's my couch.

  When I get to the bathroom I splash my face and give myself a once-over. Yip, my eyes are still blue and my hair is still light brown. What was I hoping, that I'd somehow wake up being someone else?

  That's exactly what I was hoping.

  I slap my cheek and decide to go for a walk. Better than looking at the war zone which is my living room. Even I can't believe how many empty liquor cans and bottles there are everywhere.

  On my way out I see some cute red underwear ha
nging from the edge of my boring brown table which is above my boring cream rug. Whose they are is anybody's guess. They're not Blondie's. She's too forward a gal to leave underwear around under the guise of "Oh, did I forget my underwear? Well, why don't I just come on over and get it?"

  No, she was way too experienced for that.

  I smile as I close the door. She was a good lay. And at least she got my mind off...other stuff.

  That was the point.

  -2-

  I head on down to the arty-farty district of Frankfurt. I've been here eight years and I still don't know its damn name. All I know is that it's where all the suits go to flirt with their pea-brained secretaries who probably shag as well as Ms Fuck-A-Lot did last night—secretaries who are climbing their way up the corporate ladder one executive at a time.

  I generally don't like the area. But on a Sunday it's like walking down a cloud surrounded by nothing but sweet silence.

  When I get there I see the typical expensive jewelry stores that sell rings for seven times the price of what they should cost. I see fashion stores that sell items they claim are the latest trend but which really look like dead rat fur claiming to be mink.

  Two cops stand at a corner. One male. One female. All German cops look like Robocop. Maybe US cops look the same. But I haven't been there in so long I wouldn't be able to tell.

  The guy-cop looks at me with a squint. I don't take offense. I'm the type of guy that cops like looking at. As if committing crime has anything to do with the way you look.

  I keep walking down the long archway near the expensive stores and eyeing the jewelry real good just to piss them off. The babe cop (she is no babe) puts her thumbs in her belt and strolls on over to me.

  Oh, brother.

  But, hey, who am I to talk? I've tough-guyed it with plenty of people myself. Different play, same characters.

  "Tag," I say to the broad as she walks past me. My German's pretty good but I chose to say simply "Day" instead of "Good day" to her.

  "Tag," she replies.

  I guess the feeling's mutual.

  -3-

  I make it to the street with all the galleries. Gallery after gallery lines the sidewalk. Zoey used to love this place. I look at a picture at one place and wonder who in their right minds would ever put that up in their living room. Or even pay for it.

  I keep walking and get to another one. This one has some decent pics. At least they're big. I don't know shit about art. But I do know that big art gets my heart racing. Like there's something in it.

  But that's as far as my appreciation of it goes.

  The big painting I'm looking at now is about ten-by-ten feet in size. Makes a statement. It's in bright colors. Someone's face, a girl. No one in particular, I guess. She's looking up. Black eyes. Mouth slightly open. Background bright pink.

  Nyah, pretty good.

  I keep walking.

  Across the street I think I see a figure hunching behind a desk behind a gallery window. Curiosity takes me over there.

  This gallery looks kinda small, and the pictures are small, too. Oh, but I see they have some photos. Not bad. Framed in a plain silver frame, black and white photos of leaves and a nude under strong light.

  Also nice.

  Hey, I guess I do have some type of artistic bone in me.

  I get right up to the window and look at the person in there. Standing next to a desk. Dressed in denims and a sweater with sleeves that cover her hands.

  And looking like she just saw the devil himself rape the angel Gabriel up the ass.

  This girl looks scared.

  -4-

  She stares at me. She's tense. Her eyes are the size of saucers. She looks away suddenly. Then back at me.

  Something in her big brown eyes tells me she isn't really seeing me even though her eyeballs are directed straight at me. She's seeing someone else where I'm standing. Someone in her mind.

  This could get ugly.

  I raise my hand slightly, slowly, not scaring her. Whatever ghost this babe is looking at she needs to realize it ain't me!

  Hell, and the girl is good looking as well. Milky skin, slightly freckled.

  Anyway, that isn't the task at hand here.

  "It's OK," I say from outside the window. I figure she can't hear me because of the glass so I mouth the words widely. "It's OK."

  I point at the photos in the frames just below me, indicating that's what I'm doing—looking at photos. And I smile. Hell, I hope I don't scare her. I've been told I have one of those smiles that only makes people think you're looking for shit.

  But a dude can try.

  Suddenly she smiles back.

  And just like that, the ghost is gone. And she's seeing me now.

  The damn experience makes me laugh. First real goddamn laugh I've had in days.

  CHAPTER 4

  -1-

  Genevieve Katz

  Nov. 10, 2013 — Sunday

  The rugged man's smile is deadly beautiful and I feel myself blushing. I run a hand through my sweaty hair and skin and look down at the desk, then at my trembling hands.

  For a second I thought I'd been caught, that he'd found me. That "they'd" found me. I know it's irrational, but it doesn't make the fear any less real.

  The blue-eyed man looks nothing like Mason in appearance. Mason was thin and lanky, tall. This man outside the window is sturdy and stocky. Taller than me but that's not saying much. He's got very light brown hair, almost blonde. Mason had dark hair. He has a rugged, hard face. Mason's was the face of deception, always wearing a smile. The smile of betrayal.

  This man looks like the exact opposite of my ex-husband.

  I laughed because, well, I was somewhere else for a second, and then I was here.

  The man puts his hands in his pockets. He's wearing a denim jacket with a fur collar. Looks warm. I see the clouds billow from his breath as he exhales. He turns, starts walking away.

  I let him. It's good enough that I can let a man look at me without breaking into shudders. I almost did there for a second, but I got it under control. Talking to one—and in German on top of it—will happen far down the line.

  I start heading toward the kitchen, for what reason I don't know. But when I do, the man is suddenly there again and I gasp!

  "It's O...KAY," he says. His hands are up, and he shakes his head in frustration.

  I realize my foolishness.

  I realize, also, that he keeps talking...English? Yes, the Germans say "Ist OK." What he's saying sounds like "It's OK."

  Right. I'm dreaming again.

  He points to the door. I barely hear him talking from outside but I do hear something so he must be talking quite loudly.

  "Can you open?"

  Fear grabs me. My chest tightens.

  He rolls his eyes.

  "...hurt you..." "...not going to hurt you..."

  That's what he's saying. "...if you need help..."

  He wants to see if I need help?

  He stands there, cocks his head left, then says, "I'm not leaving."

  He looks at me. But I'm suddenly not afraid. I'm suddenly...comforted?

  I take a step to the door. Then I stop. He moves his hands, gesturing me on. Points to the door. It's becoming a little game now. Him getting me to open the door. I shake my head in frustration, thinking how absolutely stupid it is for me to be freaking out like this, and I stride to the door and—

  I stop.

  I hit a flashback.

  I see the door and hear Mason—

  "Bist du Okay?" He's speaking directly into the mail-slot in the door. Now he's talking German. But that's the worst goddamn German accent I've ever heard! There's no doubt this guy here is American.

  "You're American?"

  A pause. "Well, and no doubt so are you."

  "What do you want?"

  A pause. "Look, miss, you just seemed a little freaked out. So I came back. Is everything OK? Is anyone in there?"

  I get paranoid. Why would the
first person I meet here be American? Is he a friend of my ex-husband's? A friend of Brooke's? "I'm fine," I cough out.

  He clears his throat. He whispers, "You don't look fine."

  All I hear is myself breathing. I feel the tears hammering away. I graze my skin under my shirt, against my stomach, feel the raised scar of the C section. I hear my screams in the hospital.

  I'm on the floor now. On my knees. The room is spinning.

  "Miss?" The man's fingers are in the mail slot. His voice is a gentle rumble. "I'm going to wait outside here. Now, there's no need to worry. But I'm not leaving here, OK? Call the cops if you want. It won't be my first run-in with them. But something's not right here and..." He trails off. Then, "...and, well, I just don't feel right 'bout leaving you here until I've seen with my own eyes you're OK."

  I wait. I don't think. His words went through whatever wall I'd hit and have sunk in. He's here to help me. Without really consciously thinking it, as if I'm hypnotized from the terrorized flashback that has hit me, I unlatch the door.

  When the man enters, the tears break loose. I feel my whole body shake in terror. I sit back and hit the back of my head against the wall and cry out so loud I hear it echo back from the empty street.

  "What is it? WHAT IS IT?"

  He storms to the back, sees nothing. Storms upstairs and then comes back down. He looks outside. "Were you hurt? Where is he?"

  My howling dwindles into sobs.

  It caught up with me. The reality of it all has caught up with me.

  Slam! You bitch! I'll kill you!

  Boom!

  I must be tired. Thirty-six hours. Running.

  So tired...

  I wipe my eyes with the bottom of my sweater.

  I snuggle over into the corner.

  I don't even care about the guy in this room.

  I wish I was dead.

  CHAPTER 5

  -1-

  Axle R.

  Nov. 10, 2013 — Sunday