Such Dark Things

by Courtney Evan Tate

  Then cool hands are on my shoulders, and someone says my name, but the lights are exploding around me, like fireworks.

  “Corinne.”

  I open my eyes and it’s Lucy, and she’s calm, and she’s rubbing my back. Her hands are cool.

  “Breathe. Count to ten.”

  She doesn’t ask what the issue is. She’s just very no-nonsense. The nurse in her acts swiftly, and my face is buried in her bulky sweater.

  I suck in air, letting it out.

  I suck it in again, then let it out.

  It’s minutes before I can breathe, before I can relax.

  Minutes more before I can even process what happened.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say weakly, and I’m so humiliated.

  Lucy stares at me, her pretty face serious.

  “Why are you sorry?” she asks. “It’s a panic attack. People have them. I’m going to go get you some water.”

  I nod, and I close my eyes, and I hear Artie growling.

  “She won’t hurt you,” I call out. “She’s just old and grumpy.”

  “Okay!”

  Lucy comes back within a minute, putting a cool glass in my hand. “Drink.”

  I put the liquid to my lips and something something something still doesn’t feel right.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” I say. I don’t know what else to say.

  “It happens,” Lucy says casually. “Don’t feel self-conscious. Lord knows, you’re under enough stress at the hospital.”

  I nod, like that’s the reason. No one has to know any different.

  “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” I say hesitantly. “Please.”

  Lucy rolls her eyes. “I would never. You know that.”

  “Thank you. Not even Jude.”

  She rolls her eyes again. “I still have yet to meet that husband of yours in person. And it’s not like I’m going to tattle on you over the phone.”

  “Okay.” I nod, relieved. “Thank you.”

  “Do you want to ride with me to work?”

  She’s still concerned, and it’s sweet. But I shake my head. “No. By the time I shower and stuff, I’ll be fine. But thank you anyway. We’ll have to take care of my talons another day.”

  “You’ll do anything to escape pampering yourself.” Lucy shakes her head as she puts the bottles away. “I swear. Just don’t blame me when the patients start complaining.”

  I smile. “I would never.”

  “See that you don’t.” She tries to be gruff, but she doesn’t fool me. She’s concerned.

  “See you at work, Luce.”

  She hugs me. “You’ve got to take better care of yourself. Expect me to start nagging you about it.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  She leaves, and I’m alone, and I stare out the window, trying to suppress the fear that is bubbling up in me, gurgling to the surface like bubbles in the water.

  Am I going crazy like my father?

  Is this how it started for him? Irrational panic, and memories that he couldn’t explain?

  With a gulp, I shove the troubling thoughts away and head for the shower.

  * * *

  At work, I focus on not worrying about the panic.

  I have to compartmentalize. I have to do that to stay calm. It’s never been a problem before, even after the murders so long ago. In fact, that’s when I learned the skill. Every day, at school, I weathered the taunts that came from being a killer’s kid, and I was brave and defiant. But at night, in the dark, alone, I’d curled up in a ball and succumbed to fear. That was fine for me. As long as no one saw me break down, I could pretend that I was fine.

  It’s a skill I utilize to this day.

  I can do this.

  I can be brave, defiant Corinne.

  The nurses’ station is empty as I grab an orange and peel it, and I sit for a few seconds to rest my feet, checking over my shoulder for Lucy. She’s checked on me no less than four times in four hours, making sure I’m fine. It’s starting to feel a bit smothering, even though I know she means well.

  I take this moment of downtime to check my phone, and a text from my husband makes my heart flutter, and I smile.

  I love you today. You’re beautiful.

  “Hey, what’s funny? I want to laugh, too.” My colleague collapses into the chair next to mine, exhaling deeply as he drops his head straight back against the headrest. He stares at me from beneath half-closed eyes. “Well?”

  I smile. “Nothing’s funny. I was just thinking about Jude.”

  Brock raises an eyebrow. “Good thoughts?”

  “Obviously, Einstein. I was smiling.”

  He lifts a shoulder. “True. Don’t judge me. I had three hours of sleep last night. I’m slow on the uptake.”

  He grabs a coffee cup and gulps it, filling up for seconds.

  “Where’s Lucy? I might get her to hook me up for a caffeine drip.”

  I roll my eyes and grab a chart, trying to keep on top of my notes. It’s a never-ending task, and the charts end up in a mountain on the nurses’ station by the end of the day.

  “If she agrees to that, tell me. I’ll want one, too.” I rub at my neck while I write. “Also, I’ll pay you fifty bucks to do my charting.”

  “Ha. No.”

  “You don’t even want to think about it?” I look imploringly at him.

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “You’re not even sorry.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re heartless.”

  “No, I’m not. In fact, here.” Brock gets up and stands behind me, gripping my shoulders. He massages, and as he does, the tension leaves my neck in waves and I groan.

  “Sweet baby Jesus, that feels good.”

  “Yeah, I hear that a lot.”

  He snickers and I ignore it. I don’t even care about boyish sexual innuendo. This feels too good. “Don’t stop.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot, too.”

  “You’re a child.”

  He agrees. “A child with magic hands.”

  “Let me guess. You hear that a lot, too?”

  “Now you’re getting it.” He rubs up and down my spine with his fists, and when he’s done, I’m almost a pile of goo in the chair.

  I close my eyes, and when I open them, I notice two nurses staring at the two of us, whispering.

  “Great. Now we’re part of their rumor fodder,” I say ruefully. “You’d think they’d be too busy for that crap.”

  They have the grace to look away, but I can feel them whispering long after they walk away. Fantastic.

  “Oh, you know how they are,” Brock says easily. “They’re easily entertained. They were buzzing for days after that chick came in last week with the shower massager stuck inside her. But seriously, they had a point. Who does that?”

  I don’t know. I don’t care. People never cease to amaze me.

  “Did you know that Dr. Fields is screwing around with Gabby?”

  I stare at him. “Eeew. Gabby is so sweet and Fields is so...eew. And he’s on his honeymoon. He just got married. Are you sure?”

  I’m indignant on his new wife’s behalf, and Brock nods in affirmation.

  “Very sure. I got it firsthand from Sara. She was working a double and caught them in the supply closet.”

  “Gross. What a slime.”

  “Yep,” Brock agrees. “Men are dogs. They can’t keep their dicks in their pants.”

  He says this so cheerfully, even though he himself is in possession of a penis.

  “Jude can,” I tell him as I return my attention to my chart. “He’s got faults, but being unfaithful isn’t one of them.”

  “As gorgeous as he is?” Brock’s question seems weird, coming from another man. “You don�
�t ever worry?”

  I pause, looking up at him. “Do you have the hots for my husband, Romeo?”

  He laughs quickly, turning red. “No. Of course not.”

  “And no. I don’t ever worry.” I finish up my chart, proud of myself that it took one minute flat. It’s a new record for me. “He never gives me a reason.”

  Speaking of my husband... I pull my phone out of my purse and start to text him.

  Thank you for the flowers. I love you. I hope your day is...

  Lucy interrupts me. “You guys, I need you.” Her hair is sweaty, stuck to her forehead. “All hands on deck.”

  She pivots and jogs back toward exam room four, and I slip my phone back into my purse. We rush to help, and for the next twenty minutes, we’re consumed with a cardiac infarction, as a forty-year-old man with a high-stress job codes on the table.

  I do compressions while Brock grabs the paddles, and the entire team acts as a unit. We’re smooth, we’re practiced, we work together with ease.

  We get a pulse two minutes later, and the nurses cheer.

  Brock bows. “It’s all in a day’s work, ladies,” he says, and they giggle, and I watch him flirt with all of them. He catches me looking and shoots me a sly gaze.

  “I have to keep in their good graces,” he says sheepishly as we head back out to the desk.

  “Must be nice to have a penis,” I tell him. “I have to rely on simply being nice.”

  “Don’t be bitter,” he tells me. “Just bring them all decent coffee tomorrow. You’ll accomplish just as much. My flirting skills suck.”

  I laugh and he laughs, and once again, I catch the nurses looking at us. It makes me self-conscious. We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s not like he’s flirting with me. We’re just colleagues. We commiserate together because we understand our jobs in a way no one else can. The phone rings, and he picks it up.

  “This is Dr. Lane.”

  He listens and punches the hold button, returning his attention to his charts.

  “It’s for you.”

  I feel a rush of warmth. It’s Jude. I’ve missed him today. The mere thought of this morning makes my stomach flutter, and I pick up the phone.

  “Hey, babe.”

  “Dr. Cabot?”

  The voice is not my husband’s.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Deb Camden from USP Marion.”

  My heart starts thumping. It’s the prison.

  “How can I help you?” Did I just say that out loud, or did I only imagine it?

  “Dr. Cabot, this is a courtesy call to inform you that your father won’t be available for visiting hours this weekend. He’s currently in the clinic, being treated for non-life-threatening wounds he sustained in a fight. After that, he’ll be in solitary for a week.”

  I allow that to sink in.

  “Why did you call me, instead of my sister?”

  “He changed his emergency contact to you last year.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why?”

  “Now that, I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Thank you for letting me know.”

  “Oh, and, ma’am?”

  I pause, listening. “Yes?”

  “Your father is just banged up. He’s all right, so there is no reason to worry.”

  With a start, I realize that I was actually worried. Why? My father killed people, and I haven’t seen him in years.

  I should feel only disdain for him.

  But that’s not the case.

  I shake it off and hang up.

  There’s clearly something wrong with me.

  6

  Twelve days until Halloween

  Jude

  I watch the new waitress as she waits on someone else’s table.

  The mom smiles back at her, but the smile is guarded, and I’m sure I know why. She’s older than Zoe, tired, and she’s let herself go with her baggy Notre Dame sweatshirt and high-waisted mom jeans.

  Zoe, on the other hand, is only twentysomething with a tight-ass body. Other women probably don’t like her much, especially when she acts the way she is right now. She’s shoving her tits against her uniform top so much that the buttons are straining, and she brushes them against the husband’s arm as she bends down.

  The mom glares, and Zoe ignores her.

  “My name is Zoe,” she tells him in a low voice. “Whatever you need, just ask.”

  She makes eye contact with the wife for long enough to see the daggers before she sashays away. I watch the husband’s gaze follow her ass, and I can’t help but smile a little bit at the drama.

  Zoe is smug as she fills ketchup bottles at the side station, very confident in her sexuality. I watch her try not to look at me as she watches the husband. She maintains eye contact with him as she fills ketchup bottles and somehow manages to make it seem suggestive.

  She hums as she wipes off the sticky top and hums as she slides her hand along the bottle, holding it tightly in her grasp, sliding it back and forth, back and forth in a very sexual manner.

  The middle-aged guy watches her, his mouth open, and the ketchup bottle is clearly a penis, and she’s implying the penis could be his, and then it’s erupting in a red spurt and she grins triumphantly, licking her lips.

  The middle-aged guy looks breathless and weak, and I roll my eyes, raising my hand to signal her.

  She sashays over to me, making a huge show of walking in front of her poor other customer. The wife is fit to be tied.

  “You know, you might get strangled before you even finish your shift,” I tell her, eyeing the guy’s murderous wife. Zoe laughs, a sound like tinkling glass.

  “That’s okay,” she tells me, leaning toward my ear. “I like being choked. I like things very rough.”

  Son of a bitch.

  For some reason, that’s startling, and it actually tightens my groin, not that I’d let her know that.

  “Er, charming,” I tell her wryly. “My brother, the priest, will be joining me. We’ll both have coffee to start.”

  “Sure thing,” she says. “Anything you want.”

  Again with the suggestive tone, and does she ever turn it off?

  She pauses and turns back to me. “Oh, and, Mr. Cabot? I hope I didn’t offend you with my talk about rough sex. I just didn’t want you to knock it until you’ve tried it.”

  She winks and walks away, and my heart is still pounding when Michel arrives a few minutes later.

  He’s just sitting down when Zoe comes back with her coffeepot and order pad. She makes me feel uncomfortable and invigorated at once. It’s an odd combination to feel.

  “What can I get for you, sailor?” she asks, and her lip is slightly curled in the way that makes it look like she’s pouting. She probably imagines it being sultry, or herself as Greta Garbo.

  “I’m not a sailor,” I tell her, but I smile. “And my brother is definitely not. But I’ll take the smoked salmon and bagel.” Michel tells her he wants bacon and eggs, and she lectures him on cholesterol.

  “I’ve got an in with the big guy,” Michel tells her, pointing upward. “I’m not worried about little things like heart attacks.” Zoe giggles and turns around. As she does, she accidentally steps on Artie’s paw, and the big dog growls.

  Zoe flinches.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “She’s an old softy. She does sense evil, though.”

  Zoe looks over her shoulder at me. “The old softy is still growling at me, so I doubt it. I’ll have to take your word on that. I’ll check on you in a while.”

  Michel and I eat, and Zoe brings our check, and I realize I don’t have any money with me. I hand her my credit card.

  “Can I see your driver’s license, Mr. Cabot?” she asks. “Your card isn’t
signed on the back.”

  I’m surprised. “Sure. Thanks for asking.”

  “We can’t be too careful,” she says as she takes my outstretched license. “Scammers are everywhere.”

  She examines it for a minute before handing the license back with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  It’s not long before she saunters back to the table.

  “I have to jot down your phone number, Mr. Cabot. A security measure for the credit card.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “That’s weird. I’ve never had that happen before.”

  “Yeah,” she assures me. “Amex has been doing that lately. We’re supposed to match the number against their number on file to prevent fraud.”

  “That makes sense. The number on file is my cell phone.”

  I sign the check. “Are we set now?”

  “Yep! Have a great day.”

  Michel and I pause outside the front door, chatting for a minute longer, and Artie looks in the window, growling. I tug on her leash.

  “Knock it off, Artie.”

  Inside, Zoe looks up at me, brushing her long hair out of her face, and smiles.

  I ignore the weird sensation building in my chest. I haven’t felt it in forever, and I shouldn’t be feeling it now.

  Attraction.

  I climb into my Land Rover and drive away.

  7

  Now

  Jude

  Ju, Ju, touch me again.

  Corinne’s voice is sleepy and soft, and I love it when she takes that tone.

  I roll over and slide my hand up her thigh, and it’s soft and bare and smooth. My fingers search for the moist warmth that I know I’ll find, and when I do, my wife arches her back, thrusting into my hand.

  I smile into her hair, and she smells like warmth and vanilla and sunlight.

  “Come on, babe,” I whisper to her. “Cum on my fingers.”

  I move and she moves with me, and we rock and slide, until she quivers and moans, and her voice is husky as she orgasms against my palm.

  I pull away my hand, just long enough to hover above her, and then I thrust into her and...

  I wake up with an erection.