Lily's Temptation Vol. 1

by Michaels, C. C.

  Behind the door, Maddox is talking to Jonathan. Their discussion is kept hidden and I stand as a sentry for their meeting. The blood in my veins is amped up, pumping at a risky rate. If I get caught, that’s it. This could be the end. It’s not like I haven’t been here before, but I still haven’t got used to the situation. I expected the situation to carry more intrigue than this. But to the people who pass me in the hall, I might as well not exist. For Maddox’s sake, I hope their interest remains non-existent.

  My leg fidgets for a while but the sensation is waning. From far off down the hall, I can see a suited man making his way towards me. His path is set to me and he dodges the nurses and doctors who zip past him. I can see that it is...Wernicke. I whisper, “Oh, shit.”

  Have we been found out? Some prying eyes must have noticed Maddox walk into Jonathan’s room and alerted Wernicke. Just what we need, a volatile situation erupting into a full-blown catastrophe. Perhaps I can lead him down the hall, away from the room, and save everybody the headache. He is only a few steps away now. My palms start sweating; I bite my nails in fear. What lie can I possibly tell to redirect his focus away from this spot? Perhaps he won’t stop to talk. Maybe he will wave and keep going, along with the flow of people. I lean against the door trying to look nonchalant.

  From behind me, the door opens and I stumble back a bit. I turn to see Maddox, who says, “We need to talk.” His face is stressed with concern but before I can respond to him, I hear a voice call my name.

  “Mr. Wernicke,” I say dryly. “How are you?” He nods and greets me with a hello. Maddox is only halfway through the door. I can feel his eyes still on me as I make small talk to Wernicke. Maddox lets out a loud sigh, grabbing Wernicke’s attention and shifting our focus to his cold gaze that is trained down the hall.

  “Mr. Wernicke, this is my friend…” I angle myself in Maddox’s direction.

  Before I can finish my sentence, Wernicke interrupts, “Maddox, right?”

  Maddox brings his attention to Wernicke, then turns his head to me with aggravation in his face. He extends his hand to Wernicke, saying, “Yes, how are--”

  Wernicke ignores Maddox’s offer for a handshake and raises his finger in the air saying, “Interesting that you are back so soon.” Maddox tries to explain,

  “Actually, I’m--”

  “I hope our facilities were to your liking.” Wernicke douses his words in sarcasm.

  Maddox begins to angle towards me as he says, “Yes, everything was fine.”

  He raises his eyebrows to me, signaling a need to leave. He leans in to my ear telling me, “We have to go.”

  Wernicke hears this and says, “Off so soon?” in a snarky tone. Maddox looks at him for a second then turns his shoulder to block out Wernicke.

  “I have to explain some things to you,” Maddox whispers, “but not here. Call me when you’re off...” And then he slips a piece of paper in my hand.

  “Nice meeting you,” Maddox says as he turns around, not making eye contact with the man.

  Wernicke says, “See you soon,” as Maddox walks past him. Maddox keeps his eyes focused down the hall.

  “Not likely.”

  “Actually...” Wernicke says to the back of Maddox’s head, “I have been doing a little research into the night of your arrival here.” Maddox continues to walk down the hall, paying no attention to Wernicke’s prodding. “It seems we will most definitely be seeing more of each other in the future.” His voice echoes down the hall at Maddox.

  Maddox turns the corner out of sight and Wernicke smiles, then chuckles under his breath. A slab of disgust falls over me. He turns on his heels to me, telling me that he needs to see me in his office. Then he walks off down the hall, blending fluidly into the flow of people.

  Chapter 24

  It is some time in the afternoon; I can’t say, honestly, when because it feels like it should be dark out, but the sun still shines through the window of Wernicke’s office. There are framed diplomas and pictures of him everywhere, on every wall and in every corner, so you are outnumbered by the successive accomplishments of the man. In some photos he is in other countries, providing relief aid to people in what looks to be a hastily-made tent. Others have his face in black and white, a testament to another age. He is captured at the finish line of a marathon, holding an impressive fish on the docks and shaking the hands of important town figures, like mayors and governors and people who own businesses and grant their own salaries.

  It is a bit hard to figure out which version of Wernicke sits before me now. Is it the graduate, or the runner, or the man with connections? Which picture captures the real sense of the man? No hair is out of place, either; it makes the whole image seem creepy and forced. He is perfect in every picture. Even his photo finish at the marathon has him elevated off the ground, as if he were some sort of flying angel, or so the picture implies as it had been taken just as one foot left the ground but before the other lands. At least that’s the way it looks, regardless of reality.

  For the last twenty or so minutes, Wernicke has been talking nonstop. I can’t really remember how he got started or why he persists, or even what he is talking about. Maybe it is my lack of sleep, or my heavy workload, or his tedious yammering, but I just can’t pay any attention to him. My fingers tap against my leg; my eyes drift off at moments, and my leg bounces as he talks. He stresses no word over another, offers no break for my engagement and employs one tone over the entire speech.

  One sentence fuses with another to form one long, aggravated point and I don’t think the man is even taking the time to breathe out of his mouth. I think he has trained himself to breathe through his nose while he speaks to people so he can berate them with metric ton after metric ton of verbiage. His eyes move from me to the window, then back to me in a methodical rhythm, repeating every few minutes. His hands switch between two positions: fingers pointed at me while his elbows rest on the desk or fist lightly banging off of the desk.

  He has made an extra effort to call Maddox a list of names that are basically all the same thing. Maddox is a brute and thug and a violent offender. He wastes our time, he takes advantage of us. He is not to be trusted, he can’t be reasoned with, he steals the bones of young children who wander too deep into the forest. The whole litany of accusations and assaults spew out of the man like molten rock from a volcano.

  For a moment I consider defending Maddox, but then I look to the pictures of Wernicke in a tuxedo, holding a small glass up to a crowd. I see the Wernicke who is shaking the hand of the charity presidents. I see that Wernicke will not be nearly as receptive to logic as Mandel. The man across from me made up his mind about the world a long time ago. He assigned everyone a part and to everyone a mask. To Wernicke, Maddox is reducible, down to a convenient set of motives and actions that make it easy to pass judgment on him.

  I can imagine Wernicke has simplified me, as well. He assumes to have me figured out, so when he sees me with Maddox, it presents a great threat to his understanding of the world. That’s why he is telling me now to stay away from Maddox. He phrases it slyly, so as not to sound like an angry father figure, but still, he says, “The benefits for a friendship or any other relation with that man are none. Maddox will be of little comfort, aid or reliability. He’s a miserable soul waiting to infect those who grant him an audience with lie after lie.”

  I nod my head, agree with every point, and when he finally stops talking, I thank him and walk out of the room. It isn’t until I get to the vending machine that I ask myself why Wernicke is so worked up over Maddox. Even for a simplifier like him, the animosity is too potent. Wernicke certainly didn’t care about Mandel, let alone his son’s health. Why so enraged about Maddox, then? The last thing Wernicke said to me and what lingers on my mind was, “It would be unwise to seek his company again. The last place you want to be is with that barbarian.”

  Chapter 25

  I’m sitting in Maddox’s car listening to the rain make hasty footsteps on the roof. We
are parked outside of my apartment, waiting for a lapse in the rain to make our way through the winding courtyard that leads to my door. The windows are a system of beads and estuaries and when one bead of rain that has landed on the window gathers too much water it takes it weight and slithers along to find little rivers that sink down between other fat beads until it all flows out of sight.

  My leg shakes and bounces. Maddox asks if I want the heater on, but I reassure him I’m not cold. It’s funny to think how close I am to him now. How I could just reach over and pull his lips into my kiss. No one would stop us. We could just fall into each other without worry. He looks out the side of his window, up at the dark gray clouds in the night’s sky while his fingers tap against his thigh. The radio is on but the volume is too low. We can only hear a faint whisper of music that hardly breaks the silence. Maddox had planned to tell me about his fight and clear up all the confusion, but the weather must have been listening and sent vast nimbus fleets to block his attempt.

  He stops tapping his thigh and rubs the back of his neck, then returns his anxious fingers to his thigh. My hand covers his. He looks down at our hands and then to my eyes. His shoulders lower and sink a bit in his seat with a slight upturn in his lips. The rain calls off its barrage and we both look out the front window that faces the courtyard. Our eyes meet again and we shoot out of the car, flinging the doors open as fast as possible. I step out into a puddle nearly ankle deep, almost twisting my leg in the process.

  Maddox is already at the front of the car, running like he’s being shot at by the precipitation. Just before he makes it to my side, he slips under his own momentum and falls on his ass. A wave of panic erupts in my stomach until I hear him laughing. I ask him if he is alright as fat blobs of water begin to splash against the top of my head. The rain jumps out of the sky again, this time with more frequency and fervor. Against the metallic dings and splatters on the concrete, I hear Maddox laughing. Despite my fear, a smile widens on my face and immediately I get caught up in his laughter. He’s holding his side with one hand and with the other, his hip. I kneel down beside him, trying to block the bullets of water from pelting his face. He says, “It’s only rain.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “My ass really hurts.”

  We both laugh, but his sounds richer, rarer. It is as if it had been buried under miles of rock and only now is it being raised to the surface. Our eyes lock and we are both frozen for a moment, unfazed by the down-pouring rain. Wet strands of hair stick to his forehead as his eyes are search mine. He’s looking for a signal from me, the slightest glint of acceptance that he can find, the tiniest sign in my expression that indicates I want him. He brought me to life when he first kissed me that day in the hospital room and now I’ve found that passion again.

  I smile then part my lips, and it’s on. He grabs me and with as much force as passion, he kisses me in the rain. The cold in the rain is blasted away by the warmth of his lips. My lips spread to a smile while kissing. I don’t think I have felt this good in a long time. He rolls back, lying on the wet ground, and pulls me on top of him as he goes. His kisses deepen and I’m filled with endless desire, and although I know I shouldn’t, I melt into him, letting my heart go.

  When we pull back from each other, he holds me by my upper arms and stares into my eyes.

  “Lily, I...I just want to tell you that when I first saw you, I was transformed. I had been walking around under a black cloud and then I met you. You lit up my life, and for the first time in forever, things didn’t seem so impossible.”

  “Oh. I’m not Superman...or, well, Superwoman.” I blush despite the rain and all.

  “You are beautiful and wise beyond your years.” He looks hopeful in his eyes and I can’t take much more of this. I’m not good at accepting compliments, especially from a gorgeous guy like Maddox, so I try to brush it off.

  I stand first and help him up and we walk, slowly, towards the stairs that lead to my floor. In between fits of pain in his step, Maddox lets out small giggles. I grab his right arm and swing it over my shoulder, lifting some of his weight onto me. I wrap my left arm around his midsection and pull him tight to me as we walk step by step up the stairs. It feels good to have his weight on me. I can feel all the power in his muscles as he clings to me.

  We make it into my apartment, soaked from the rain’s assault. I tell Maddox to dry off in the bathroom and as I race to the cupboards for towels. I realize I don’t have any clothes for him to change into. I knock on the threshold of the bathroom door to tell him this and hand him a towel as he listens, with droplets of water dripping from his hair to his bare chest and down to the waistband of his jeans. He smiles and takes the towel, saying that he will only stay a while, anyway.

  Maddox wipes the towel over his chest and stomach, passing over the yellowed bruises that cover his sides and ribs. He finishes up in the bathroom as I crank up the heat and make some coffee for him. He walks out of the bathroom with a towel draped over his shoulder, like a fighter exiting the ring. He sits on the couch with his head slumped down and rubs the back of his head and neck. I set the coffee down on the table in front of him. The steam rises slowly out of the cup in wisps of white vapor. Warmth starts pumping into the room; the smell of roasted coffee rises with the steam and the low boom of the heater.

  Maddox raises his head and tells me, “I am going to tell you what happened the night of the fight. There’re a few things you have to know about me before I get to that night.” His eyebrows straighten, making his stare more pointed. He closes his eyes, breathing out a sigh that lowers his mountainous shoulder. He settles in his seat and takes the coffee in both hands, staring into the cream-colored drink. He looks back to me then to the floor between us. I take a seat next to him on the couch. We sit together with our clothes drowned in water. I don’t want to get up now to change, because he looks like he is about to say something.

  He turns his head to me and smiles then he looks straight ahead, saying, “I want to tell you everything so that you can have the right picture. I need to tell you so you can make the right decision.”

  “What decision?” I ask.

  He swallows a large gulp of coffee and sets the cup down on the table. He tells me, “Jonathan made me swear not to tell anybody about the fight. But I feel like...we have to do something.”

  He rubs his temples; I take his hand in mine and tell him, “It’s going to be okay.” I pause for a moment as he turns to look at me, “Just tell me what happened.” He nods slightly and then looks forwards again. His grip tightens in my hand, making a fist.

  “I have to tell you...because I’m tired of carrying this by myself.” The rain grows louder. It comes down in thick sheets that pound like drums. The heater clicks off, the steam rises, my ears ring with each drop of rain. He tells me the story. How it all happened.

  “I can remember throwing punches into loose jaws. I can remember a few things, like there was a group of guys in an alley. They were shouting at someone. I was drunk. I was drunk and I was angry. That night, I tried to drown myself in whiskey and vodka. But I have to explain the whole thing, why I was so drunk and why I chose to go down that alley and fight.”

  “How well do you remember that night?”

  He casts his stare out the window. Then he smiles a painful smile as he shakes his head. “You would think that all the drinking would erase the memories, but it doesn’t. The drinking solidifies the worst memories, at least for me. I remember from an early age I was angry, but I didn’t know why. I would hit things at first, just walls or light posts. I didn’t think it was fighting, it was just hitting. But I grew into fighting; I was always good at it. From the beginning, no one could touch me. I was too quick for sloppy haymakers and too smart for the close game, the fighters who waited, counter strikers. I could always see the other guy’s move even before he knew to make it”

  “How many fights have you been in?”

  “Like I said, I was always good at it.” He turns his head
as if disgusted by his own words. “My parents didn’t understand it. They couldn’t make any sense of my fits. I would see someone looking at me in a crowded place and all of a sudden, I would feel this heat climb up my back. It made me clench my fists and lower my chin. I would start fights with people for no reason.”

  Maddox looks up and sighs. His eyes seem to be searching for something to hold onto. He picks at his jeans, at some invisible threads that provide a stall for him.

  “I had my first drink when I was fifteen. I was standing in a room full of better, cooler people and someone handed me a beer. Then I remember how all the anger inside seemed to go out of me but... it didn’t last. The more I drank, the more erratic my thoughts got. But by the time I reached college, the thoughts were no longer erratic, they were just normal to me.