Triangle

by Sara L Daigle

  Evidently, he wasn’t the only businessman in the city who had chosen to stop here, even though it was so late and the weather cold and forbidding. Men and women crowded along the long, scarred oak bar that ran the length of the back of the tiny dive, a clean, bright, long mirror behind, which made it look as though the room were larger and more crowded. More people pressed against each other at the few tall wooden tables scattered throughout. There wasn’t a formal dance floor, but several people gyrated to the near-deafening music coming from loudspeakers high on the walls. The sound and press of people was suffocating inside the bar, all non-psi, all half or fully drunk, and exactly what Merran needed. He made his way to the back, slipping in between a hollow-eyed man with lanky brown hair nursing a drink while staring morosely at the line of liquor bottles reflected in the long mirror behind the oak barrier, and a wiry salt-and-pepper-haired man who was intently hitting on the woman sitting next to him.

  From long experience, Merran knew which drinks could affect his Azellian metabolism and which ones his psi and body would burn off before the numbing effect of the alcohol could take hold. The bartender leaned toward him. “What can I get you, buddy?” he shouted over the music and the din of the crowd.

  Merran ordered a drink that he knew would affect him—after he had enough of them, that is. “Do you know how to make a Geneva Slider?” he asked, making sure his voice cut through the high decibel level of the late-night establishment, using just a little of his psi so that he didn’t have to shout.

  The bartender took the request in stride, even though he probably didn’t get such an order every day. Or maybe he did. The only people who ordered a drink that strong were the ones who drank regularly, had built up an immunity to the alcohol itself, and undoubtedly spent a large portion of their time in a bar. The bartender nodded and Merran slipped some of his little-used currency across the bar rather than his credit card. He wanted to be anonymous tonight and not bring himself to the attention of the media.

  The bartender, who was probably only a few years older than Merran, wore a beard like many of the younger human men did, his short blond hair shaved on one side, the other hanging long over his eyes. His arms were covered in tattoos, and his white t-shirt cut high on his arms to better show them off. He slid the fluorescent blue drink toward Merran, flipping the money into the register with a nod, then moving on to the next customer, a tall woman at the other end of the bar. Merran sipped his drink, the alcohol hitting him softly, blunted by his body’s automatic response to the introduction of a drug. Too much, too powerful for even his body to block, though, with each sip the alcohol seeped its way deeper into his brain—dulling the noise in the bar, soothing his hyperactive thoughts, numbing his emotions, and lulling his conscious mind into a state of dreamy contemplation—as the alcohol burned down his throat, simultaneously heating up his stomach. For the first time in what felt like years, Merran relaxed. His shielding slipped, too, but he didn’t care. The alcohol-amplified emotions from the men and women around him flooded into his head—a combination of loneliness, desperation, lust, fear, and excitement settling into the pit of his stomach and making his body stir.

  Like many bars, this one was about frantic isolation, fear of being hurt, and the desire for immersion in a simpler way, a way that tried to pretend emotions weren’t involved. Merran had played that game for a long time, and sometimes he thought he still did. He took a gulp of his drink, trying not to think about it—the alcohol pouring through him, slamming into his memories and eroding them, veiling them in a shadow of mist—before his body got the upper hand and burned off the effect. To get drunk, he knew it was going to take more than one Geneva Slider. After ordering a second drink, he returned to his study of the others crammed into the small space, turning on his stool to scan the room.

  A leggy, slender woman with an elaborate hairstyle caught his glance, and he felt her body’s reaction to him immediately. Lust. Pure simple lust that right now was extremely attractive to him. He looked at her appraisingly. She was less pretty than statuesque, a large-boned woman with strong features, her blond hair tied up in a complex weave at the back of her head, dramatic blue eyes ringed by dark makeup. She smiled at him, revealing bright white teeth that softened the planes of her angular face.

  Merran returned the smile, lazily, and she took it for an invitation to move closer. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” she said, leaning in to shout in his ear, slipping in between the salt-and-pepper-haired man who, too intent on his own conquest, didn’t object, but rather used the opportunity to move into the space of the pretty little thing he was currently chasing.

  Merran’s nostrils flared as he caught the scent of her, a faint flowery fragrance mixed with the sweet smell of a fruity alcoholic beverage, probably the one she was cradling in her hands. “That’s because I haven’t been here before,” he shouted back, leaning into her ear rather than using psi, taking the opportunity to smell her and brush his silk-clad body against the bare skin of her upper arm. Goosebumps marched across her skin and she shivered. He could sense a tingling sensation spread up through her body, his body reacting to hers as the alcohol lowered those inhibitions he’d built up during the past few years in reaction to the media explosion about his “exploits.” It was probably not a good idea to let down his guard; in fact, he knew it was a terrible idea, but in this time and place, he didn’t care. He leaned into her a little more closely. “You smell nice,” he said, his mouth brushing up close to her ear where he could lower his voice enough to make it seductive.

  She turned her head so that she could look at his face, putting her mouth inches from his, then she stepped back off the barstool as she put her hand on his arm. Merran turned. Instead of talking to him, like he expected, she licked his ear and bit at his earlobe. It startled him, although it shouldn’t have, since he’d started the game. He shuddered at the touch of her mouth on his ear, and on the sensitive skin at the base of his earlobe and neck as she moved downward. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she murmured into his ear, sliding her body sensuously up his back and rubbing her breasts against the silk of his shirt. “Why don’t you come join me?”

  Merran was Azellian, and quite experienced, but because he’d never tried the human bar scene before, it took him aback that she was being quite so blunt. He’d gotten used to having to do at least a little courting to get into a woman’s bed, even if they both knew it was just sexual, but this woman was nothing but pure physical hunger. She didn’t care who he was or what he wanted—she just wanted sex. She was aching with the need for it, for physical contact and the touch of a man. Without meaning to, he read farther. Scarred by a father who had never given her any love, who had offered beatings in the place of affection, who had scorned and raped her, who made her hate herself and men far more than she cared about anything else, she chased after the thing she hated and craved. He’d met women before who just wanted sex, but nothing like this.

  He shook his head, desperately dragging sluggish shields up around his mind, the physical response she stirred dying under the onslaught of her self-hatred as though it had never existed. With her, it could be nothing but rape, her need too open, too raw for him to be able to perform, much less to want to. He gulped another swig of alcohol, which did nothing for the stability of his shields, but cut the gush of her desire to a dull enough roar that he could redirect, somewhat clumsily, her attention to the man sitting next to him. She shifted her attention to him, and he responded quite enthusiastically, unable to see into the inner depths of her mind, clueless as to her true motivations. Merran could sense the two of them a short while later, going at it in a stall in one of the bathrooms, but he forced himself to ignore their encounter and ordered another drink. After that, he disregarded the other women who tried to hit on him, too afraid to look deeply into the women who would be driven to a bar like this for companionship, or even just a sexual encounter, too fragile himself to let anyone else near enough to breach his shields. In his current
state, with his shielding so delicate, it wouldn’t just be sex, and he really didn’t want to analyze anyone else.

  His assistant Ketiana found him after his fifth Geneva Slider, when the alcohol finally started to affect his coordination, but before he’d reached the level of passing out. He didn’t notice her approach, despite the fact his shields were virtually gone, effectively deafened by the chaos and cacophony of sounds around him.

  An arm slid past him on his right, as he peered owlishly at the hand that planted itself on the bar. He turned his head and looked up at her, trying to focus. “Katie,” he said, slurring her name, the “tee” coming out more like “chee.”

  “Merran,” she hissed in English. “What the hell is going on? We had a Council meeting scheduled for tonight, but you missed it. I’ve been looking all over for you. It wasn’t until your shields collapsed that I was able to find you. What are you doing here?”

  “Getting drunk,” he drawled slowly, his words almost undecipherable.

  She picked up the half-full glass and sniffed it. “The aarya take it, Mer. What the hell is that?” She took a tiny sip and winced. “By the aarya’s eyes! What are you trying to do, kill yourself? Come on, I’m going to take you back.”

  “Okay.” He was far too drunk and relaxed to care what she did.

  Ketiana grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. He sagged, and she steadied him by sliding his arm around her shoulders. By the time they got to the door, he was liberally draped over her body, his weight on her more than on his own unsteady feet. “At least you’re an easy drunk,” she muttered to him as she shoved him into the backseat of the limo waiting outside. He slid bonelessly to the floor and passed out, the world going dark around him.

  His body woke him the next morning with a violent need to void itself. He stumbled out of bed, barely aware that he wore little more than his skin as he scrambled for the bathroom, making it just in time.

  He sat trembling on the floor, cradling his throbbing head and wondering if his stomach were going to rebel again, or if it was safe to move. The cold of the tile floor seeped into his backside and made his physical discomfort worse, but he didn’t want to change positions. It felt like any movement would either cause his head to fall off or his stomach to come crawling out of his mouth. It cramped at the thought and he moaned.

  A knock on the door of his bedroom wasn’t enough to make him get up.

  “Finally awake?” Ketiana’s voice sounded amused as she came into the bathroom. Merran buried his head in his legs and curled around them, resting his forehead against his knees. “Awake and suffering, I see.”

  “Go away.” He refused to look up at her. “Leave me alone.”

  Instead, she came closer, leaning against the sink. “What were you trying to do last night?”

  He lifted his head to meet her gaze. “None of your business,” he said, his voice shaky enough that the effort to be authoritative failed miserably.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You make a pliable drunk, but a lousy hangover sufferer.” She handed him a sports drink. “Here, drink this.”

  He shook his head, his stomach lurching at the thought.

  “It will help rebalance your body and will make you feel better, I promise. Now drink it.”

  Acquiescing to her authority, he took the drink from her. As soon as the liquid touched his mouth, he realized how thirsty he was and sucked down the entire bottle. Miracle of miracles, it stayed down. His stomach roiled a little, but then began to settle and accept what he’d put in it. He felt a little better, his headache subsiding slightly.

  “Now, get up and get dressed. You have a meeting in an hour with a journalist.” She eyed him critically.

  “An hour? I thought that meeting was going to be at three thirty this afternoon.” Merran pulled himself to his feet, using the sink for support.

  Ketiana didn’t even flinch at his state of undress, ignoring it effortlessly. “It is afternoon.”

  “Really?” Merran stared at her. “What time is it?”

  “Two thirty.”

  “What?” Merran’s jaw fell open.

  “Two thirty. Now get dressed.”

  Merran ran a hand through his spiky hair. “I need a shower first.” He made a face. “I stink.”

  Ketiana opened her mouth.

  “Don’t say it. Get out and let me take a shower.”

  “What, don’t you want me to join you? You certainly asked me to last night.” Her eyes flicked down the length of his body. A grin played at the edges of her mouth.

  “I what?” He pulled a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his waist. “When?”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘Make me forget that I ever knew her, Katie.’” She cocked her head. “Her being Tamara, I suppose.”

  Merran glared at her. “I did not say that.”

  “You did. I swear it by the aarya.” She grinned at him for a moment, then said softly, “It will fade with time, you know.”

  “What will?” He sounded as miserable as he felt.

  “The heartache.” Ketiana straightened and walked to the bathroom door. “The pain. As I told you last night when you were sobbing your heart out in my arms.” She closed the door behind her softly.

  Merran had a nasty feeling she was telling the truth. He stood in the middle of the room, flashes of memory coming back to him—Ketiana’s arms, a confused impression of her body, his own sobbing. He looked down at himself. Had they? She didn’t say whether they had or not—although something about her attitude said not, which relieved him. He and Ketiana had been lovers once, but not since he’d become ambassador, and he didn’t want even a casual sexual encounter to interfere with their working relationship. He pulled the towel off his waist and touched himself. No residual stickiness, except from his own body’s excretion of alcohol as fast as it could. He made a face. He reeked. Even he could smell the waft of stale drink coming from his body. No way did he have the physical control last night to do anything, no matter how much he may have wanted to.

  Merran sighed and pulled open the glass door to turn on the shower. No matter what did or didn’t happen the previous night, he had other things to worry about this afternoon, including how he was going to get through a difficult interview with this monstrous headache.

  He had to admit that he felt physically better after the shower, but emotionally, he was still somewhat of a mess. What had possessed him last night to get drunk, sob in Ketiana’s arms, and pass out? Wearily, he rubbed his forehead and stared at himself in the mirror. The dark shadow across the clean shaven parts of his jaw made him look older and scruffier, like some sort of villain in a play. His dark hair stuck up all over his head in a riot of little spikes, ruffled from the toweling he’d given it. His dark brown eyes were shadowed by circles in his skin, his face whiter than his normal tanned look, and it still had faint green tinges to it, his lips ringed with a faint white hue, paler than their normal color. He didn’t look that imposing or that amazing to himself, but he’d always known what he could do with his looks and used them to their fullest. They had given him a level of confidence, even arrogance sometimes, that his High Council training had refined into an art. He knew how to be authoritative, to take control, and, in response, people listened. He knew how to run an embassy, to negotiate a treaty, to read people to a fine level using both his psi and powers of observation. Why then did necessity hurt like this? He turned his back resolutely on the mirror, wrapped the towel around his waist, and walked into his bedroom.

  The room stank almost as badly as he had before his shower. He made another face.

  “You got sick more than once.” Ketiana spoke from her position just outside the door, where she stood looking at a computer pad in front of her. “I managed to get the trashcan to you, but there were several near misses.”

  Merran’s head pounded, but it wasn’t just from the hangover. He made his way into his large walk-in closet. “Were you with me all night?” he asked, trying to keep his tone most
ly civil, although embarrassment made him want to growl.

  “Pretty much. I didn’t think you wanted me to deposit you at the hospital or call in a Healer, so I watched over you.”

  Merran took a deep breath. “Thank you,” he muttered, not wanting to admit the need that had driven him to that point.

  Ketiana looked at him steadily. “Being in love sucks sometimes.”

  Merran went very still. “I am … was not in love with her.”

  Ketiana raised an eyebrow. “Oh really. So you felt the urge to skirt the edges of death just so you could get a release from a casual fling? Tell me, Ambassador Corina, do you always celebrate the ending of your relationships with a colossal drunk?”

  He didn’t flush, but it took some effort on his part to avoid it. He pulled on his clothes with short, jerky motions. “Tell me, Assistant Ambassador Dorvath, don’t you have anything better to do than deconstruct me and my emotional state?”

  Ketiana’s nostrils flared. “Yes, however, my job description does include running interference for the ambassador if it becomes necessary. Last night, it became necessary. I doubt you or your cleaning person would have enjoyed cleaning up the mess you made last night if I hadn’t been here.”

  Merran sat on the edge of the bed, fastening the buttons at his wrist and down the front of his chest. “Do you feel it necessary now to continue to bring up what might just be something I’d rather forget?”

  Ketiana looked down and he could feel a flash of something beyond irritation from her. Hurt? His head throbbed a little more. She was also angry, which he could tell from her posture as well as from the emotions leaking from the edges of her shielding. She turned to walk away.

  He sighed. She didn’t deserve the emotional abuse he was directing at her this morning—afternoon. “Katie. Wait.”