* * *
I don’t drink, no, don’t drink, I don’t drink. I keep reminding myself, keeping my head down and staring at the glass in front of me. Swallowing reflexively, I push it away from me.
I’m still very shaken up by my encounter with the detective earlier today. The memory of the dread I felt at seeing him there causes my stomach to form hard knots. More than anything now I want to know exactly what happened. Is this the person I’m running away from? Is this the person the other me talked about? I wish I had some answers, but now when I need her more than anything, she has chosen to go silent on me.
Nevertheless, I will find out the answers for myself. I look at the card I found in my purse earlier, the one advertising the strip club. Tucking the card into the back pocket of my jeans, I begin my mission of seeking out answers.
“Aw, doll. Is the beer not good enough?” A lady walks up to me, brandishing a pair of very round and very fake boobs. I recoil at her touch.
“No, thank you,” I say, deciding this was a bad idea. A card advertising a strip club could mean anything, anything at all. What if I picked up a hobby during my blackout? Or maybe I came here to make friends? Or maybe I sold them insurance. It doesn’t mean this is the key to unlocking months, years even, of a memory gap.
“Come on, talk, what is it?” she pushes, sitting down across from me.
“What’s your name?”
“Lexi.”
“Hello Lexi, have I been here before?” I ask cautiously, looking around. This is not my scene, but to be honest, I don’t know what my ‘scene’ is anymore.
“Let me see...” she pulls my hands towards her and places them firmly on her boobs, I gasp in shock.
“Does anything feel familiar?” she jokes, her voice, light before, becomes husky.
“That’s not what I’m looking for,” I explain pulling my hand away from her bosom.
“Well? What are you looking for then?” she asks, leaning too close. I want to turn away but I stay stock still while her eyes roam my body.
“But do you recognize me?” I push. She nods breezily. I let out a sigh and almost sag with exhaustion. She knows me – that’s a start.
“Do I come here often?” I push, looking earnestly at her.
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around. We’ve spoken a few times,” she answers, cradling her chin in her upturned palm. Good! Good! This is leading somewhere.
“You’re so sad, let me make that better,” she says, placing a hand on my face. She has a cloying smell, like too sweet perfume and smoke and sex.
“Can we talk somewhere a bit more private?” I ask.
“For you, doll, anything.”
“Good, because I need to talk to a familiar face. Don’t worry, I’ll pay,” I say, hating how her eyes sparkle at that last sentence.
* * *
We’re in her room now. I take in all the scattered junk lying around: a pack of tarot cards, a large dream catcher hung over her bed, melted candles, their stumps stuck to the board by all the wax surrounding them. The room smells like roses and her too-sweet perfume, but there’s something else underneath, musky and stale, that I ignore.
I’m very aware that there are others in similar rooms like these, doing other things than talking. Sure, the music in this place is loud, but not loud enough.
“So, what do you want to talk about?”
“Me. My life.”
She takes off her clothes and sits beside me in her bra and knickers. I stare at her huge breasts – no way those are real.
“I’m more comfortable this way,” she explains, waving her hand dismissively at the look on my face.
“I just, you see. I don’t remember much about myself and I would really like to remember.”
“Why?” she pushes.
Because I feel like there are people after me. Or even worse, there’s the nagging feeling that I may have hurt some people. Why else would Martin, and all be dead? What happened? I think all this but I don’t say it because what if it’s true?
“You’re too tense,” she says, leaning in and brushing her lips against mine.
I pull back, realizing with regret that this woman doesn’t know me. Not at all. To her I’m just another customer. And she has lied to get me here. The card was just a card after all. I’m back to square one.
“Come on, don’t be shy. Many people come in here wanting to talk and end up doing much more. I don’t mind if you’re shy. Let me help you.”
She unclasps her bra and sits on my lap straddling me, all in one fluid motion.
“I don’t want this,” I say, frowning up at her, ignoring the throbbing at the base of my pelvis. She unhooks the button on my jeans and slips a hand into my pants. A small moan escapes my mouth. Heat fills my face by my reaction. I hold her hand in a bid to stop her. “This isn’t what I want,” I reiterate as firmly as I can, even though my body feels differently. I can feel my mirror-self banging on my skull, wanting to be let out, her want is so raw and open it scares me a little – this is more her scene than mine. Maybe I should let her enjoy this. We can trade: I can give her this, and she can help me understand what has happened.
“Don’t be shy darling... you can touch me too if you want,” Lexi coos, returning my hand to her not-quite-real boobs, grinding ever so slightly against me.
I am distracted and she knows it – not Lexi, the other one – and she uses this to her advantage, slipping out and shutting me in. I’ve taken her place hiding behind our eye, a stranger in my own body. She takes one free nipple in my mouth – her mouth – and Lexi squeals in delight, wriggling against me – her – us. I shut my eyes as her fingers probe deeper into my jeans, willing to be elsewhere.
A memory floats by, I grab on to it. This feels familiar, like I’ve done it before. With someone else, a girl... blond hair spread out beneath me as we both explore each other’s bodies, the familiarity of it fills me with warmth. Not the bad kind.
Noah! I think suddenly. And then the image of the girl beneath me changes into one where her fair hair is matted to her scalp with blood. She is tied and bleeding, naked on a dingy motel bathroom floor.
The image shocks me awake. I immediately flip the script, pushing her back inside. We’re done here. Even if she doesn’t tell me what happened, I’ll go to the police and find out for myself. I’m awake now; I’m in my body, not just relegated to my mind.
Reaching down gingerly, there’s a sticky warmth in between my legs, as well as a device. I pull it out, shuddering as it exits and immediately fling myself away from Lexi. She’s naked now, knickers and bra discarded. My own shirt is on the other side of the room and my pants are around my ankles. I stare in horror at the purple device I have ripped from myself. Its tip is oddly shaped, like an arrowhead, while its entire length is ribbed. My face flushes with shame as I understand what has happened. I start to cry, uncontrollably, raw.
“How dare you!” I scream out to no one, searching for my clothes and putting them on in a hurry while Lexi stares nervously. She’s saying something but I can’t quite hear her. I don’t even want to. I bring out a few notes from my pocket, throw them on the bed, and I storm out.
As soon as the cold air hits me, I feel much better. I flag down a cab and tell the cabbie my address. This ends now.
Chapter 6
Verity
I arrive my house so many different shades from being alright. At least now she’s back – the only problem is, now I can’t shut her up. And I can’t get her to say what I want to hear.
“We need to go back! You don’t start and stop half way, it’s worse than not starting at all. Let’s go back. C’mon, you enjoyed it as much as I did.”
I ignore all the thoughts filling my head, making sure to stay focused this time.
“What happened to Noah? And Martin? And the others?” I ask out loud, exasperated. When I get no answer, I retreat to our shared alcove and find her lying on her back in our old room, staring at the worn ceiling. Rainwater and age have ca
used flecks of plaster to peel off and hang, distorted.
“I saw Noah, is she alright? I kept calling all their houses, what’s going on? What about my PI job? My apartment? It’s like I took a little nap and woke up years later with a terrible headache and duffel bag with of questions,” I try again. But she shrugs, not looking at me.
“We need to go back. I’ll answer all your questions if we go back,” she whispers into the silence.
“No,” I whisper back, like we’re playing a game.
This seems to silence her for a while. I suspect she’s sulking, like a little child, angry at being told what to do. In a way she never matured. She might have taken up the role of big sister and protected me (if you can call whatever this is protection), but when push comes to shove, she’s always been a big baby, going after what she wants and not minding who she hurts in the process. It’s her gratification that’s always mattered in the end.
I don’t even know if she and I are the same. I’d like to think we’re not. Just stuck in the same place, like companionable cellmates. I got sentimental, she probably never did. I don’t matter to her. All that matters to her is herself and this body.
It’s stupid talking about her like she’s a person, a different entity of her own. But in truth, she is. I once went to a shrink because, well, that’s what sane people do. He said, “Isolate the problem,” like it was that simple. Just carve her out of your mind, be done with her, and go on with your life. I’d have better luck at slitting my wrist than doing away with her. We shared a name, a headspace, a body, and it had been that way ever since the trucker with beady eyes and big hands. Long before him, even. She has been with me ever since my father...
I hear the sound of a pitiful whimper followed by a wail and then a sob. The walls in this apartment are paper-thin, you can hear everything that goes on in the next apartment, not that I often listen because I couldn’t care less. Most of the time it’s seedy, raunchy discussion on things you’d rather never hear. But today, listening to the little girl in the next apartment, Bebe, scream and cry out for a mother that’s probably never coming back, I’m transported to a different time.
A father...
His daughter...
All alone in a house...
Without thinking, I throw open the door and pound on his door, my blood boiling. There’s a small part of me that’s telling me to think about this, it’s none of my business what goes on between a father and his daughter, I escaped, she’ll escape too, hopefully.
I quell all my good senses and proceed to pound the door furiously.
He opens after what feels like forever and I plaster on my best fake smile, the one reserved for people like him.
“Hello there neighbor,” I greet with a cheer I don’t exactly feel.
“Bad time,” he says, without inflection, and moves to close the door. I put my foot in the way, regretting instantly when they come in contact and I hear a crunching sound.
“I just, had to drop by,” I start, my voice very strained both from the pain in my throbbing foot and searching around my head for a suitable lie. “To see you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, baby.” I cringe inwardly at how terribly I am at flirting.
“You don’t say?” he counters. He gives me a once over and, deciding I’m not worth his time, moves to close the door.
“It’s been a long day, and I’m all alone. Won’t you be a good neighbor and help me out?” I pinch my voice so it goes several octaves higher and sounds as nasal as possible. I really am terrible at flirting. But if he notices he doesn’t say anything. Finally he lets me in.
“Go play in the corner,” he barks, and a tiny figure scurries along to hide. I swallow and taste bile.
“So, how can I help a lonely lady?” he asks, his demeanor changing slightly as he faces me. My skin crawls at the thought of him touching me, but I keep up my act.
“Your place looks much better than mine,” I say, looking for something, a weapon, anything at all. I do a quick walk around. There’s a cleaver on a pile of dirty clothes. What a man like this needs a cleaver for will forever remain a mystery.
“Yeah, yeah. Back to you,” he says hurriedly, standing up and walking over to where I am. I turn around to face him. Up close, he really is gorgeous. How come I never noticed it before? He draws me roughly to him.
It takes only a quick second to realize that she’s quiet. Not a word from her. She isn’t ignoring me, on the contrary, she’s watching. I can feel her anticipation building.
“You should send Bebe in. Wouldn’t want to scare her.”
“Go into the room,” he orders. I don’t see her pass by, but I do hear the thud sound of the door closing and know she is safe. I place one hand on his chest, distracting him while the other wraps around the cleaver handle.
Men! I scoff, the word sounding oddly familiar.
Chapter 7
Detective Joy
I know what I saw at the train station today, even if Peyton doesn’t believe me. And now my wallet’s gone. The entire universe seems to be in cahoots behind my back, out to make me look as terrible as always. I retraced my steps and didn’t end up finding it, much to my chagrin and Peyton’s pleasure. I can only assume someone swiped it. It’ll turn up eventually, I hope.
Taking my clothes off, I listen for any voice messages. The only message is from Nikki and the moment it plays into the room I melt.
“Hello, Daddy. Don’t forget my match tomorrow.” Someone says something in the background to which she responds, and then adds “Don’t forget to bring fruit rolls and, and please come, because my team will win and I want you to be there.”
Eleanor’s voice floats in. “Of course he’ll be there, I’ll make sure.” She sounds so sure of it I almost laugh. “Now say ‘’bye Daddy’, I need my phone.”
“’Bye Daddy. Oh, and I love you,” she adds, ending the call. The gloom descends on me instantly. I shiver at the phantom cold.
Things used to be different. I can’t change it now, no matter how hard I try, but at least I can try. Resolving to show up at Eleanor’s unannounced and with boxes of pizza placates me. I hurriedly lay out my outfit and hop in the shower.
Chapter 8
Verity
I finally spot the house, his house. A tall suburban duplex nestling quietly, far-removed from other similar houses in this sleepy town, every domicile separated from others by a miniature-sized picket fence that seems inadequate. What exactly is the use of a picket fence? Definitely couldn’t be defense or protection, maybe it just signaled where your house stopped and your neighbor’s started... That seems sensible. Detective Joy’s house seems not to need the picket fence, because it sits leisurely without one. A gnarled and wobbly-looking tree, more than half of its roots are above the earth, is leaning towards the house (almost on it) like the two objects are long-time friends caught gossiping. It’s almost whimsical.
I ignore my feelings of sentiment, swapping them for logic. My headache has started with an immeasurable force, which leaves me shaky and also provides me with much-needed clarity. Going around the back, I climb the gnarled roots of the gossipy tree, its branches reach to a precarious place near the upstairs bedroom window. I believe it’s my luck. The window itself is locked and some sort of burglary guard surrounds it. Breaking the glass on lower pane, I unlock both burglary guard and inner lock. Shimmying my way into the house, I land crouched on all fours.
By now my headache has gone from a dismissible throbbing to a screaming pain – it feels like my head might split open at any point. I clamp down on my lower lip, nails digging into my palm so deeply they leave crescent-shaped cuts. I struggle to navigate my way out of what seems like a study, judging by a large mahogany bookshelf. Trudging around on weak legs that are barely holding me up in my current state, I steer my way to the only room in this house that has a light turned on. I’m on autopilot, too many things to focus on at the moment.
There’s no one here, but some clothes
are laid out on the bed, along with what seems like a brown leather holster of some sort. It takes a while for me to process exactly what I’m looking for and in that time, the shower I didn’t realize was running turns off with a loud squeak. I immediately dive for the gun in the belt, aiming it at whoever is making their way out of the bathroom and right towards me.
“Who...” Detective Joy starts, but falls silent upon noticing the gun in my hand. A minute passes with both of us staring each other down. He’s naked, I realize, heat filling my face at my body’s reaction to his naked self. It’s an echo of someone else, a lifetime ago. He doesn’t make a move to cover himself, choosing instead to stare at me like an unruly child. I am forced to look elsewhere.
“You don’t want to make this any more complicated than it already is, Verity,” he says in an even voice that sounds civil but feels like ice.
I swallow hard, wetting my lips before speaking.
“I just want to talk,” I plead earnestly.
He reaches out for something beside him, far out of my eye view. I immediately remove the safety on the gun, clicking it and hating how well my body remembers this. In another life, I’ve stood in this same position, holding people at gunpoint; in another life I’ve probably pulled the trigger too. He stops short, something in the way I say it must tell him I’m as unstable as I look.
“Don’t do it!” I warn, surprising myself with how loud and firm my voice is, despite my splitting headache.
“I just want to get my towel,” he informs, holding his hand up.
Lowering the gun, I nod for him to cover up. As he does, he surreptitiously reaches for something else. I catch the movement in the corner of my eye and immediately turn the gun back to him.
Lead or Lipstick (Sword and Lead Book 2) Page 3