Requisite Vices

by Miranda Veil

  Chapter 10

  I drive the hour and a half back, and stop in to the office to finish up an unrelated assignment I promised I’d have done last Friday. Hopefully, Angela won’t rip me apart in the morning. I’m really bad at deadlines. It’s a miracle she hasn’t kicked my ass out the door yet.

  By the time I make it home, the sun is just beginning to set. The various shades of purple and orange splatter against the sky like water colors on a child’s canvas.

  I pull into the driveway and the door flies open, revealing Riley in the doorway. Her hands grip her hips firmly, as if that gesture would somehow curb her desire to beat me to a bleeding pulp. The look on her face is vehement; her eyes burning so fiercely that they evaporate the normally cool, calm ocean from their depths and turn it into a churning grey maelstrom of death.

  I avert my eyes; she’s pissed. I can feel the air between us trembling with her rage.

  I gather my things from the car, being sure to grab the bottle of wine I picked up. As I move closer, I grip the bottle by the neck and hold it out before me, cowering behind it as if it would somehow provide a shield against her inevitable assault.

  “Peace offering?” I whisper meekly.

  “Hmph.”

  She snatches the bottle from my hand and meticulously inspects the label. Her eyes light up.

  “Ohh….”

  “So am I forgiven?”

  “Hardly.” She laughs. “I’m not that easy.”

  She flashes a smile and turns on her heel. Flipping her long, ginger locks across her shoulder, she marches into our house.

  Our shared house is nothing spectacular. It’s a two-story, three bedroom home that we rent from an elderly couple who moved to Florida last year. The house sticks out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood filled with squat, one-story ranch homes. It’s blanketed in brick, with round, white columns that stretch from the ground to the roof.

  Once I walk across the threshold, my nose is filled with the savory smell of Riley’s lasagna. Now, it should be noted that this isn’t some frozen tray of premade crap that she threw in the oven for a few hours. No, this was a labor of pure love and dedication for the art of cooking. It was a carefully crafted masterpiece that would bring tears of joy to Bottura himself.

  Everything was made by her hand, from the sauce to the noodles. All of the vegetables were lovingly plucked from the greenhouse she tends in our backyard.

  She has become my domestic goddess, and I’m eternally grateful for it. My version of dinner is normally a grilled cheese, or a granola bar and a cup of coffee while I pour over my work.

  I follow Riley through the hall, then climb the stairs to my room to empty my bag and clean up.

  “I have company joining us!” she yells up the stairs.

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Tom, of course, and Ryan.”

  “Ryan?” I groan. Why couldn’t it be just Tom?

  “Yeah, sorry hun. It couldn’t be helped.”

  Tom is Riley’s boyfriend, and Ryan is his slightly less attractive friend from work. Ryan is Tom’s opposite in every way. Tom is, well, in a word, gorgeous. He’s tall, somewhere around six foot two or three, which dwarfs poor Riley who comes in at just under 5’3”, and has deep ginger waves, which roll gently over the top of his head coupled with pale blue eyes. He’s eloquent and refined, with a boyish charm, impeccable sense of humor, and a silver tongue that could talk the pants off of the most stoic individual. If that wasn’t enough, the way he moves his hips when he dances, would put any Hispanic man to shame. It truly was a sight to behold.

  Oh…those hips make even me swoon in desire, though I guess that isn’t really saying much.

  Ryan on the other hand, is completely overshadowed by his colleague. He’s just shy of 5’5” with unruly, dark brown hair which hangs like straw around his face. He’s a bit on the heavier side, but not terribly so. Physically, he could look worse, but his personality definitely leaves something to be desired.

  For whatever reason, he has clung to me like a starving tick on a deer’s ass. It’s borderline obsessive behavior. Not one day goes by that I don’t receive a call, a text, or an email from him. On holidays or my birthday, he makes it a point to send something. Though that would normally be a sweet gesture, his gifts often take on the appearance of being something expensive and a tad inappropriate. Jewelry, shoes, clothes (how he knows my size, I’ll never know, nor do I want to). It’s sad and creepy, and the complete stink of desperation is off-putting.

  Though I spurn his advances, I think in some twisted way, he finds enjoyment in it, and like an overly affectionate puppy, I find it impossible to bring myself to be outright cruel to him. I’ve tried the ‘let him down easy’ approach. Either he’s completely blind, refuses to accept it, or thinks persistence is the key.

  I step into my room, dump the contents of my bag into the hamper and slip into the shower. I close my eyes as the steaming droplets coat my body. White noise from the gushing waters block out the clashing sounds of dishes and silverware from downstairs, as Riley prepares for our guests.

  As I work shampoo and conditioner through my hair, filling the entire second floor with the scent of peppermint, my thoughts stray back to the night before.

  I can see him, smiling at me behind closed eyelids, and instead of my hands in my hair, they’re his. They trail up my spine and grab my hair from beneath, tugging lightly. He coils himself around my body; his long, slender fingers probing the deepest, darkest desires of my soul. His labored breath coats my neck as he pushes against me. Every cell of my body aches for him, crying out for another touch, another kiss; another scream of blinding pleasure ripping from my lips by his skillful advances.

  A soft knock on the door interrupts my daydream. The door whips open immediately following the knock, exposing my soap covered body to the cold air from the hallway, and Riley’s face.

  “Riley!” I scream, immediately covering my body with my arms. Riley sighs exasperated, rolling her eyes as she steps into the bathroom. Closing the door, she settles her rump on the closed toilet seat by the shower.

  “Oh, please. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Get over yourself.”

  I sigh and dunk my head under the shower stream, rinsing the soap from my body and conditioner from my hair.

  “Cass, what really happened this weekend?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask in my best innocent voice.

  “You normally don’t go that long without checking in. Geez, Cass. I sent a text to make sure you got there; I called Friday and Saturday night, and got nothing. No text or call or even a damned smoke signal. Would it have killed you to let me know you at least got there okay?”

  I wanted to snap at her. Who does she think she is? She’s not my mother, or my keeper. I don’t owe her any explanations of any kind on where I go or what I do, but I look at her, and those thoughts die where they sprouted.

  Her voice is shaky near the end of her statement and her eyes begin to water; tears threatening to break the dam she’s built to hold them at bay. The sight of her like this wrenches at my heart. She’s normally so calm and collected, no matter what. In fact, in the many years I’ve known her, I have only seen her cry once.

  I turn off the shower, grab my towel, and kneel down in front of her, then look up into her quickly reddening face.

  “I’m sorry, Riley…” I murmur gently. “I wasn’t thinking. I let myself get distracted and caught up with everything I had to do. I’m really sorry.”

  Leaning in, I hug her tight, my still damp skin soaking through her clothes.

  “Ah! Get off! You’re getting me all wet!”

  “All wet, huh?” I smirk.

  She laughs, reaches over and playfully pinches the top of my breast.

  “Don’t ever put me through that again. Now get dressed. They’ll be here any minute. And please try to be nice to Ryan.”

  With an exasperated sigh, I roll my eyes and get dressed. Oh how I hate playing nice.

/>   When I come downstairs, Riley is already seating our guests.

  “Cass, why don’t you grab the wine glasses?” she asks as I reach the bottom step.

  I head into the kitchen and, after rummaging through the cabinets for glasses, turn to find Ryan standing right behind me.

  “Need help?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

  He beams at me, as if accepting his help was the pinnacle of his day. I pass the wine glasses to him, grab the bottle of wine by the neck and usher him back towards the dining room while dodging his unwelcomed advances. I settle in next to Riley with the two guys sitting opposite us.

  Riley is still stuck in what I like to call the ‘honeymoon phase’. It’s normally the first 3-6 months — and sometimes up to a year — of the relationship where your partner is absolutely perfect, though Riley’s phase has gone on for the entire time she’s been with him. The significant other can do no wrong, and your complete and total love for them is so overwhelming, that you can do nothing other than grin stupidly like a lovesick school girl whenever they are around.

  Perhaps, that’s just how normal relationships are. I haven’t really had relationships to compare against hers. I mean, I’ve had relationships, but they’ve all been complete washes. Maybe I’m just not good at them.

  I have to give Riley some credit though. When Tom does piss her off, the entire neighborhood can hear the swear words flying from her mouth, as if she were raised by sailors. Riley isn’t the type to take anyone’s shit, whether she’s hopelessly in love with them or not. I often think it’s the reason Tom stays with her. He loves her fiery passion in all things, her head strong nature and her overly compassionate heart. She is both sides of the coin. The two competing extremes of her personality somehow complement one another, like chocolate and chili powder.

  As Tom, Ryan and Riley laugh over the events of their last few days together, I lose myself within the glossy surface of the sanguineous liquid resting in my wine glass. I watch helplessly as the liquid swirls, forming into a picture of Alexander standing over me. I can hear the crack resonate through the air as he brings his hand down, hard, on my backside again and again.

  Biting my lip, my cheeks grow hot as I grow damp from the memory. My body tingles in response to the excitement drawn from my memories as my heart pounds against my rib cage.

  I force down another bite of Riley’s delectable lasagna and chase it down with a mouthful of wine. I can’t get him out of my thoughts. Even after two showers, I can still smell him on my skin, oozing from every pore. I’m sure I just need a few days to let the memory fade.

  Just a few days…

  “What do you say, Cass?” Tom asks as he beams at me from the other side of the table.

  “What? Sorry, I haven’t slept well lately…I wasn’t really paying attention…”

  His question clears my thoughts; even if it’s only for a moment, it’s a welcome respite from the face of Alexander Delacroix. They’re all staring at me expectantly.

  Damn, what where they talking about?

  “I’d like to treat us all to a movie after this exquisite dinner Riley has prepared for us.”

  Tom’s eyes are piercing, and his boyish grin stretches straight up to his ears. The way he looks at me makes me shift in my seat, as if he can somehow see my thoughts, and is grinning at the knowledge of all the dirty secrets he’s coming across.

  “I uh…I’m sorry. I really have a lot of work to take care of from the weekend. I have an article I need to piece together, and it needs a lot of polishing.”

  I haven’t the slightest idea how I’m going to build an article around a short coffee meeting and a night of drunken debauchery.

  “Awe, Cass! C’mon. Take a break. You’ve been working all weekend!” Riley whines.

  “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Rain check?”

  “Sure.” Tom says, as he reaches over and squeezes Riley’s hand.

  Ryan looks crushed, like I ran over his heart with a semi. He looks up at me with sad, puppy dog eyes, and it’s absolutely nauseating.

  “You can’t just put it off till later?” he whimpers.

  “No, I really can’t. Sorry.” I’m not sorry. Anything that he’s involved in instantly makes me sick to my stomach. I want to be as far away from his as humanly possible.

  God knows what he’d try if I actually went. I’d have to swallow down the urge to shrug out of his arm on my shoulder, or turn a cheek to ward off his kiss. At the end of the night, I’d have to scrub my skin from my bones just to feel clean again.

  We finish dinner, clean up, and the three of them leave for the theater. Ah, sweet silence. The entire house is mine for the next two hours. Three, if they decide to stop for a drink after.

  I take a moment to pity Ryan; he really needs a girlfriend, or at least a good lay. Not that I’m volunteering. Something about him makes my skin crawl.

  Climbing the stairs to my room, not bothering to close the door, I collapse face first into the bed. Pulling out my phone, I stare expectantly at the screen. No calls, no text. Nothing at all from him. Not even a few words to ask if I got home safely.

  Rolling onto my back, I stare at the stark white ceiling, groaning as I push my thighs tightly together. Behind closed eyes, he’s towering over me on the bed, his fingers plunging into me as he draws scream after scream from my lips.

  I slip my fingers into my panties and trace lightly over my throbbing clit. The light touch sends a shock of instant pleasure followed by an ache and more wetness.

  More…I need more.

  I glance at my phone again as I trace lazy circles around the sensitive little button. No, it’s too late to find someone, and I’m far too tired to go out anyhow.

  I stare at the screen longingly, as if my force of will would somehow, subconsciously, convince him to text or call, then dropping the phone on the bed in frustration, I grip my hair, tugging hard as I force my eyes closed.

  I need to get him out of my head! This pining is so pathetic!

  Groaning in frustration, I move — or attempt to move — my thoughts onto someone else. Anyone else. Taking a deep breath, I conjure an image of a pale man who vaguely resembles Ethan. Smirking, I clothe him in a royal purple shirt. The buttons at his chest are straining; on the verge of ripping apart, and exposing his smooth, white flesh to my fingers and lips. I bite my bottom lip and moan; my fingers adding pressure as I picture him moving between my thighs, slipping down my body and tracing his lips over my skin. His tongue flicks between them, causing a ripple of fire to course through my body.

  As the scene dances through my mind, my fingers twirl between my thighs; stroking, rubbing and lightly pinching in order to draw me closer and closer. I’m teetering on the very edge; every muscle in my body tensing as my breath catches in my chest. Swirls of reds and blues dance behind my fluttering eyelids then burst into a scintillating collection of stars as I reach my peak and toss myself from its edge.

  As every ounce of strength seeps from my body, my breath shudders in my throat as my heart struggles to regain a regular rhythm and I sigh, satiated, as all the worries and stress from the last few days fade away. Turning to my side, I cuddle my pillow and drift peacefully to sleep.

  I wake to River perched on my back, kneading at my skin, and mewing against my ear. I lift my head and my eyes cross, focusing on a pink, heart-shaped post-it that’s been stuck hastily to my forehead. Pulling the note from my head, I glance over the scribbled words.

  “Cass, I didn’t want to wake you because you looked so peaceful. I’m staying at Tom’s tonight. I just didn’t want you to worry (because I CARE). See you in the morning.”

  It was signed with a smudge of her lipstick. At least she didn’t have him stay here. All their moaning and groaning surely would’ve woken me.

  It’s already 6 a.m. I must’ve been more tired than I thought if I slept through the night. River’s incessant mews remind me that the poor thing hasn’t had her food bowl refreshed sinc
e the night before, and if even one small silver spot is visible in the dish, she acts like it’s completely empty. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m her owner, or she’s mine.

  I make myself busy caring for River then prepare for the day ahead. Checking my phone reveals a glaring text from Angela. I’m sure she’ll want me in to discuss the pile of crap I left on her desk yesterday. On my way in, I’ll be sure to ask the barista for an extra shot or two in my morning mocha. I may need it to deal with Angela.

  Chapter 11

  Several days passed by without another word from Alexander Delacroix, and my thoughts have moved from regarding that night with fond memories, to questioning myself about the validity of the events. As the ache in my body begins to fade, so does my recollection of everything that happened. The bar, the drinks, his scent, and the feel of his lips against mine seem no more real to me now than an old dream struggling to tug at the edges of my memory.

  My meeting with Angela earlier this week wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but she made it a point to harass me about finishing the article about him. I have nothing, and she’s riding me for the article on Delacroix on a daily basis. Surely I can spin something from the time I spent with him, and mix it with a bit of internet magic.

  I’m reminded — by a quick peek at my email — that amidst the flurry of activity this past weekend, I completely forgot to stop at Ann’s on my way home. She has sent her full 500 page manuscript to my inbox with texts every other day asking whether or not I’ve finished going over it, coupled with apologies over her actions the night we had dinner together. When am I going to have time to read through 500 pages? I should demand money for this shit.

  By Friday, I’m dragging. I’ve emotionally and mentally put myself through hell, bouncing back and forth on my thoughts about Delacroix. I’ve been fighting off the urge to text him, and scolding myself by trying to convince my lust addled brain that he’s not worth another thought if he doesn’t have the decency to check on me.

  Coupled with stress from Angela, and having to balance the part time teaching gig, I find it hard to keep my eyes open, and it’s only 9 a.m.