I stand and approach him. “I don’t know. I don’t go to school, but I never heard Corey use that term.”
“What would your friend Corey say?”
“He would say I have a wet spot for you.”
He blushes. We laugh. “I must be getting old,” he says.
I keep as close to him as I can, enjoying how he tries to hide his nervousness. Something about his scent makes me hungry. I wonder what his neck taste like.
“Um, don’t you have a boyfriend?” he asks.
“I do.”
I step closer, looking up into his eyes. I could kiss him long enough before he could react at this distance.
Otto then holds his hand up, but doesn’t touch me. “You’re sixteen.”
“A very mature sixteen.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“So I can’t get a kiss out of you.”
“Call me in two years. But that’s a big maybe.”
I step back and hold my heart as if it was punctured. “Oh.”
“I should go.” He makes his way to the door. “You going to be okay now? Someone coming home soon?”
“Yeah, Corey and Grandpa should be back, and tonight I’ll be with my boyfriend.”
“Okay. You have my number. So you know, I’ll be on the team tonight that watches you.”
“Shouldn’t you be chasing Devlin Douche Bag?”
“Hersh is handling that end.”
“’Bout time he was good for something.”
Otto shakes his head, smiles, and then leaves.
PERSONAL TOUCH
Chris picks me up right at my door. He doesn’t want to take a chance and leave me unprotected in case Devlin Straub has any ideas about getting me alone. He promises Grandpa that I’ll be safe, and then escorts me to his limo. As the driver opens the door, I look around the dark street to see if I can spot Otto or any of the other officers shadowing me tonight. Either they’re very good at their job, or he was lying. All I see are people walking up and down West Street either coming home from work or getting ready to go out to have fun.
“Miki, you okay?” Chris asks.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
Chris and I sit in the limo and the driver locks us in. We drive up 6th Ave to Midtown. Chris lives in one of those huge white stone buildings across the street from Central Park. The architecture is so Gothic that gargoyles peer down to the street as pigeons nest on them. I step out of the limo and look up at the thirty-story building.
“Man, you live here?”
Chris kisses my cheek. “Yeah, it’s small, but it’s home.” He walks me past the doorman and into the lobby.
“Small?” I ask. “Where did you live before?”
“In a mansion.”
I don’t doubt him.
The lobby reminds me of a five star hotel except there’s no one sitting around reading magazines on the chairs and couches. A man behind the front desk next to the elevators greets Chris and calls him Mr. Chandler. Chris says hello and introduces me to the man as if he doesn’t want the concierge to forget me. I’m so impressed how Chris shakes his hand and has an honest to God smile on his face and doesn’t show any superiority.
I smile at the middle aged man in a dark suit-like uniform and say how nice it is to meet him. Yes, I can be classy and rise above my Jersey City roots.
We ride up in the quietest elevator in the world. I touch the walls and can’t believe that they’re lined with red silk. The doors open to the 14th floor. A dim red hallway with white trim greets us. Chris takes my hand and we walk down the hall and around the corner. I notice that there’re very few doors, which leads me to believe that these apartment/condos take up soooo much space inside.
We stop at apartment number 1405 and he unlocks the door.
“Welcome to my home,” Chris says.
I walk into the Chandler apartment…or is it a museum? The front room is right out of the richest hotels of America. The basic theme is white. The couches are white with wooden armrests that form lion heads. The marble coffee table keeps a safe distance from the huge fireplace. The walls are white with wood trim. The bookcases are stained white, but very old looking. White, white, white. And then there’s my painting on the wall where everyone can see it. My statement about the World Trade Center mosque on glass covered canvas. I walk up to it, not sure I’m seeing it right. This is the first time I have seen my work in another’s home.
“I replaced the frame,” Chris says behind me. “I thought this was more fitting.”
Oddly enough the new frame isn’t white, but a nice black and gray metal. I turn to him. “Looks great.”
“Looks beautiful, which shouldn’t be anything less coming from you,” Chris says. “My mother loves it, too. She thought it would look great here.”
Chris takes my jacket and hangs it in a closet with a sliding mirrored door. He then pulls his keys out and locks the bottom lock on the front door. Weird, why does he need a key for an inside lock?
“I hate these doors,” Chris says. “I want to change the knobs and get easier locks but the Association are being pricks about it. All knobs have to match the outside ones in the hall.”
“Think that’s their job, being pricks,” I say. “Written in the Bylaws most likely.”
I check out the bookcase filled with original hardcover classics. I would take one out, but I’m afraid they’ll crumble in my hands. Asian vases are strategically placed on end tables and in glass display cases against the wall. Then it strikes me. There’s nothing personal here. No pictures of Chris and his family. I find it a little sad that his home appears so emotionally sterile. But then again they must still be going through the motions of mourning his father. All their pictures probably have him in it.
Chris wraps his arms around me from behind. He kisses my neck and sets off an army of chills down my spine. “Want a drink?”
“Sure.”
As he moves to the bar, I walk to the curtained glass doors. I peek around it and discover a large balcony. The chairs and tables outside are metal and black, which would make sense considering the weather.
“Want to go outside?” Chris hands me a glass of red wine.
“No. Just being nosey.”
“Good. The wind is murder in the winter. Not only is it cold, but it can knock you around. The summer is a lot better.”
I sip the wine and scan around the room.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, just…I don’t know. You have a beautiful home, it just seems…”
“Like something out of a sales floor?”
“I’m so glad you said that.”
He smiles. “You’re right. My mom designed it. It’s not homey, I know. When we moved in I tried to add some personal touches, but mother just took them down. I think it has to do with my father and what happened. She’s just not ready to face the past, I guess. I don’t know.”
Sadness pulls his face down. I hug him, careful of the wine glasses.
“I’m sure she’ll come around. She’s been through a lot.”
“She has. I have, too. Your painting is the first personal touch in here. And here.” He places his fingers on his heart.
I smile and squirm. “Well, she’s got a great son.”
He kisses my lips. “So, you ready to eat?”
“Starved.”
Chris takes my hand and leads me into the dining room. Although the décor continues to be impersonal and I feel like I’m eating dinner in a high-class furniture showroom, I do enjoy the food and Chris’s smile at the end of the table.
FAMILY OF SILVER
After dinner, Chris and I go back to the living room and finish off the bottle of wine. My head spins a bit and my body melts into his arms. I’ve been waiting to be alone with him like this since I met him. And here it is. Even though I’ve only been with one other guy in my life, I can’t help but feel like a pro with him. Our wine tainted lips and tongue move together, tasting and teasing, and our hands explore.
I feel how hard he is under his shirt, my fingers pressing into his chest. When he makes a move to cup my breast over my top. He’s cautious with his moves, giving me a chance to draw the boundary. I don’t stop him. I doubt I will stop him from doing anything with my body tonight. I’ve been through so much the last few weeks that I need this kind of healing, this kind of tender attention.
As I start to massage his lap, Chris moans and says, “We better go to the bedroom, no?”
“Your mom should be home soon?”
Chris cranes his neck to the clock above the white marble fireplace. “No. But you never know, we could lose sense of time. Better to be safe.”
“Mmmm, the prospect of losing sense of time is a big promise.”
He grins. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
Unlike the rest of the apartment, Chris’s bedroom should not be in the magazine. The white theme is gone, giving ways to browns, blacks, and some grays. The standard bed with sharp boarding school edges, dressers, and desk occupy the room. Framed posters of Aspen and Hawaii hang from the gray painted walls.
“Should I get another bottle of wine?” Chris asks.
“Yeah, that would be great.”
Chris, his hands on my waist, plants another sweet kiss on my lips. “Be right back.”
When he’s gone, I wander to the pictures taped to the mirror over the dresser. Most of them look like they were taken when Chris was in high school. I smile and touch his cute face, which was more of a baby face then. The snapshots on the other side are more recent. I notice he’s with a lot of girls in the pictures. I’m not surprised, but one of them catches my eye. From the background it looks like they’re at a booth in a bar. Katherine Moore sits on his lap. The kiss looks serious. Their hands are all over each other, and I spot tongue. Right below that is another picture of just Katherine holding up a drink and smiling at the camera.
“Here you go,” Chris says.
I take the glass of wine and point to the picture. Jealousy percolates and sharpens my movements. “You dated Katherine Moore?”
“I wouldn’t really call it dating.”
“But you didn’t mention that when we met.”
“I said we were friends. And we were. Sometimes we were…friends with benefits. Doesn’t mean I didn’t care about her.”
I sip my drink. My mind spins, I don’t know if I should be mad at him for not telling me the truth or be okay with it. No, he didn’t lie to me. But I lied to him when I met him and said I was a friend a hers.
“Does this bother you?” Chris asks, his face lined with worry.
“No.” I kiss him and put the drink on the dresser. “It’s fine. Just surprised me. God, can’t believe I got jealous over a dead girl.”
“No. It should bother you.” He swipes the pictures off and slaps them face down. “I feel so stupid. That’s not how my life is now. Besides, I want new pictures up there. I want you there.”
Chris puts his drink down and kisses me. As my lips move against his, I forget about the pictures. He’s right. It’s in the past. And he wants me in his future. And I want him in mine.
I lead him to the bed. I push him down on the blanket and straddle him. He smiles, clearly enjoying my assertiveness. I don’t stop. I start to unbutton his shirt all the way down, pulling it out of his pants. I part the shirt, caressing his skin. He lifts up and helps take it off. When he lies back down, I see something that stops me.
Hanging from a gold chain is a quarter-sized silver pendent of a silverfish. It’s exactly the same one from my painting, the same one the killer wore when Katherine was killed.
I freeze. I hear nothing but my heart racing in my ears.
“Miki? Are you okay?”
The memory of the knife going through Katherine’s stomach resurfaces in my gut.
“Miki?” He notices what I’m staring at. “Is it the pendent?” He smiles. “It’s just the Chandler company logo. The primary product is insecticide. God, don’t make me sing the jingle.”
I stare down at Chris’s concerned face. Otto said that they have not found the video of Katherine’s death. And they won’t. How could I have been so stupid? She wasn’t killed in the studio. She was killed in the alley.
“Miki?”
He seems so genuine, so sweet. But underneath he has to be evil. He has to be Katherine Moore’s killer. He didn’t run into me by accident at the memorial. He knew exactly who I was. And my unlisted cell phone number. I wasn’t too drunk to give it to him. He was the one who called on my cell phone and threatened my family.
My tears drip down on his chest. “Oh, Chris.”
He tries to take my cheeks in his palms. I slap his hands away.
“What?” he asks.
“Don’t touch me.”
I jump off him and the bed. I face him, not daring to give him my back. Chris sits up, keeping his confused act going.
“You killed her,” I say. “You killed Katherine Moore.”
His concern cracks. His eyes look around the room like he’s following a fly. I can see it, just the slightest bit of worry. “What are you talking about?”
“It wasn’t Devlin Straub and his web site. It was you. That’s the pendent I saw in my vision. That silverfish.”
“Miki, y-you’re confused. This is the logo for my family’s company. It’s on all our products in the store. You-you had to have seen it before someplace else.”
“Doesn’t matter. I still saw it that night. I know what I fucking saw.”
Chris stands up and slowly walks closer. I back to the closed door.
“Miki, just calm down. Okay. I swear I did not kill Katherine. I loved her.”
“Oh, now you love her? Before she was just a fuck buddy.”
“I…You don’t understand.” Tears stream down his cheeks. “I love you. Please don’t do this.”
He reaches out. I slap his hand away.
“I told you not to touch me,” I say. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
Chris rushes me. I slam my foot into his groin and then punch him in the jaw so hard he falls to the floor. Pain flares out in my knuckles and jaw, but my fear is stronger. I turn around, open the door, and run down the hall.
“Miki,” he screams. “Don’t”
I cross through the living room to the front door. I grab the knob and pull. It won’t open. Shit! I need a key. I scan around the room and realize there’s no place to hide…except for outside. I rush to the glass doors and step onto the balcony just as I hear Chris call out my name. The wind blows so strong that I feel my flesh turn to ice. I crouch down between the couch and the stone railing. My back to the loud traffic, I take my cell out of my back pocket and text HELP ME!!! to Otto’s phone . If he’s really watching me tonight, then he can get up here faster than my screaming his name down to the windy street.
“Miki?”
I keep still, fighting the urge to peer over the lawn couch to see where Chris is standing. It’s hard to tell with the winds, but he could just be by the door.
“Miki, please come out,” Chris says. “I know you’re out here. C’mon. Come back inside so we can talk.”
I slip the phone back into my pocket, wrap my arms around my legs, and try to keep my teeth from chattering too loud.
“I swear to you, Miki. I did not kill Katherine.” His voice sounds closer.
Yeah, right.
“When I heard what happened to her, I nearly fell apart,” Chris says. “I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe that it happened again.”
Again?
“I really thought she was getting better. I had no idea it was going to happen,” Chris says. “And when I heard that she called you…I…I just couldn’t let it happen. I know this sounds stupid and cliché, but I didn’t think I would fall in love with you. I love you Miki and she promises she’s not going to hurt you or anyone in your family. Please. I know you love me, too. I know you love me enough to…accept her. To keep quiet and help her.”
Who th
e hell is he talking about?
Chris kneels on the couch while his upper body hovers over. “Miki?”
I scream out.
He grabs my arm. With my other, I slam the heel of my hand into his nose.
…a crunchy pain flares in my nose as the world flashes white for a few seconds…
Chris releases me and grabs his busted face. He screams out and falls to the ground.
I gasp and stand out from behind the couch. My eyes flood with tears as the phantom pain in my nose throbs. I make a run for the glass doors. Chris moans, holds his bleeding nose, and rolls around on the floor. Just as I grab the knob, he grips my ankle. I fall into the doors, opening them, and land inside. Chris barely stands and glares down at me. Blood and tears coat his rage-sculpted face. His body hunches over and his shoulders hitch for air.
“Get up,” he growls and offers his hand.
I take it. For a flash I feel sorry for him for being so gullible. As he pulls me up, I slam my fist into his nose.
…white lightning and cracking bone…
Chris and I fall back. I land on the floor, but he stumbles to the stone railing. He must be so disorientated that he leans too far back, loses his balance, and flips over the edge.
Instead of reaching out to save him (I know I’m not going to help him in time) I scramble as faraway from him as I can. Just as I clear the couch…
…stars above me…millions of pounds of asphalt slam into my back and head and legs and arms…an explosion of jelly within my pulverized bones…the air escapes my body…
…all black…
PARENTAL RAGE
I open my eyes and wonder how I got home. My painting of Chris wearing a raincoat and derby and holding a large knife hovers over me. The silverfish charm dangles from his wrist. But the lighting is different. And he’s breathing. And I can make out the face under the brim of the hat.
No. It’s not Chris.
Where the hell am I?
“I knew you couldn’t be trusted,” she whispers in that harsh voice. “Where’s my son?”
I recognize her make-up job. Eye shadow that reaches up to her forehead, red lipstick smeared across her lips, and lashes as long as mosquito legs. It’s as nutzo as the night Katherine Moore was murdered. I moan. She didn’t just find me that night. She was never homeless. She probably woke me to find out if I saw anything, if I saw her kill Katherine.
A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1) Page 12