Valentine Kisses: A Kiss to Last a Lifetime

by Abigail Drake

  “Damon...”

  “Is it because I’m stone broke?”

  His bitter words scattered across the pillow between them like glass shards, shimmering with the promise of heartache.

  The past few days, she’d felt closer to him than she’d been to anyone in much too long. The problem was it was too close. She couldn’t have him read the emotions off her face like sheet music. She couldn’t give him that much power over her. She’d given up too much, lost too many people in order to become free and independent, to waste it on a pair of soulful eyes and a few heartfelt words. Regardless of how good they made her feel.

  “No. It’s not that,” she said, and the lie slowly turned into the truth as she dug the hole in her heart, deepening it with every fib she uttered, uprooting everything which was decent and tender in her.

  He turned away and didn’t look at her even after she called his name twice. She leaned closer and wanted to kiss his cheek, but then he turned and her lips touched his. When his hand went to her neck, she didn’t fight it. Giving in was easier than she’d thought it would be. But that made a lot of things much harder.

  His hands were almost reverent. His fleeting touches held meaning she couldn’t ignore. Her pleasure was the sole focus of his lovemaking and it tore her heart into shreds while her body soared into delightful oblivion.

  She felt the dampness on his forehead when he rested his head on her shoulder. Her arm was buried under his rising and falling chest. She felt the thudding of his heart. When he looked up and smiled, she knew that he loved her and was careful not to say it. Neither of them spoke, which was just as well.

  His breathing softened and then evened out.

  She extricated her arm without waking him. The bed creaked when she got up and she closed her eyes, tense. He didn’t move or make a sound.

  Dressing as she went, she walked to his desk—a plank on top of two trestles. She wanted to leave him a message, but she didn’t know what to write. She had no words that could make her a person she was not, a person who would deserve someone as sweet as Damon.

  She’d made up her mind. She could still retrace her steps to the bed and lie down but that would mean waking up next to him in the morning and she couldn’t deal with that.

  She was tempted to caress his hair back from his forehead as she watched his peaceful form on the bed but she grabbed her coat instead.

  She opened the door quickly because it made an angry sound when opened slowly.

  ***

  Walking up his street to the Tube station, she’d never felt more alone. Windows in most shops were filled with heart-shaped items with Valentine Day approaching. Twinkling red lights winked at her as if to say, “Well done, girl.”

  What she didn’t understand was why her? He could get any girl he wanted. Why pick her when she didn’t want this?

  She slipped on the last step into the Tube station and caught herself on the railing. The light at the far end of the deserted platform flickered and drove her crazy as it kept drawing her gaze. Just as she told herself she would stop looking at it, she caught a shadow out of her peripheral vision.

  She was jittery with the need to look again but she didn’t dare for fear of alerting whoever it was. She made a list of the things she’d lose if they stole her purse. She had her phone in her pocket, but they would probably demand it, too.

  Whatever they want, just give it to them. Don’t fight them and you’ll be fine.

  Just as the train drove into the station and the doors wheezed open, she saw a man make a step toward her, but three teenagers lunged out of the train, loud and shameless, and cut between them so he had to make a detour. She jumped on and ran the length of the train to the front carriage. There was an old man asleep in one of the seats, and a skinny man with dirty stringy hair and his long legs stretched out in front of him. Neither of them would be of much help if her pursuer tried anything.

  As they neared Euston, the train filled up and she still didn’t see her tail anywhere. Maybe she was imagining things. The creep following Damon and asking about her had spooked her. She wasn’t sure anymore that it was Jason. He was a big enough ass to make a big deal about not doing it. He had no reason to lie about it. Except...

  Except if he wanted to get rid of her more permanently than to just stop seeing her. But she wasn’t a big enough threat to his future career. Surely?

  The train neared the next station and she weaved her way to the door. She sprung out onto the platform, looking around to see anyone suspicious following her, when she felt a tug on her arm. She turned and was faced with a dark, looming figure. The low-pulled hat and the turtleneck covering the lower half of his face hid most of his features. His eyes looked crazed as he tugged on her arm again. A small crowd of passengers exiting the train surrounded them and she frantically glanced around for help. They all seemed oblivious of the threat.

  There was a dark niche at the end of the platform, where he was pulling her. If he dragged her into the utility tunnel, she was lost.

  Even the small effort of breathing hurt her fear-frozen lungs.

  “Help!”

  A few faces turned, and it was enough for the brute to slacken his hold on her arm. She pulled her arm with the force of desperation. Her shoulder popped with a sharp and hot pain but she didn’t stop.

  She ran through the turnstile and up the steps. Skulking in the shadow of the building, she winced when stark light from a restaurant doorway exposed her.

  Don’t run, just don’t run. That’ll only alert the attacker to your whereabouts.

  She was too scared to go to her studio. The attacker obviously wasn’t after her credit cards and cell phone. He could’ve taken those the second he bumped into her on the platform. This had been no ordinary robbery. What if she led him to her apartment? She had to cover her traces and lose her tail before she ventured home.

  Her hands shook and her breath was uneven as she sat in the lobby of a hotel, her mind reeling from that familiar look in his eyes. But it couldn’t be. Ralph was gone; he couldn’t be here in London. She needed to regroup and figure out what was going on, who was after her, and why.

  Those eyes... She couldn’t forget that disturbing, crazed look. That was not the polished, sly Jason. Only, he could’ve paid someone to do her in, God knew he could afford it. He had a housekeeper for his love nest, for God’s sake.

  Four months ago, she had run into the woman when she came to see Jason and he was late, stuck in traffic. The woman, in mid-fifties and disapproving, held out a G-string to her, dangling at the very tip of her calloused finger like a body on the gallows.

  “Is this yours?”

  She spoke through her nose, in a thin voice that oozed priggishness.

  It wasn’t, and while Anaïs didn’t care that it belonged to yet another one of Jay’s women, she felt humiliated in front of this ruthless judge that reminded her of their housekeeper, Mme. Renó. She was too proud to let her think she was just one of the many women that came to the apartment, although she wasn’t naïve enough to believe the housekeeper didn’t know the truth.

  “Yes.”

  The woman kept holding the thing until Anaïs took it, picking it up with two fingers, touching as little of the silk as possible.

  She felt sick with how broken and perverted all her relationships were. Compared to the kind and compassionate Damon, it all seemed even more nauseating. The reminder that something good and pure was so close, within her reach, but not, made her insides tremble, and she had to get up and move or she would have called him right then.

  She’d caused him enough hurt for one day. Her misguided life was her problem and she was going to solve it herself.

  Guardedly, she left the empty hotel lobby. A church bell chimed ten o’clock as the streetlights tried in vain to dissipate the mist. Smog particles clutched to the infinitesimal droplets of moisture, scenting the night with exhaust and the smell of burning coal. A wave of greasy smell enveloped her when two teenagers exited a
fast food joint a few feet in front of her. A taxi blew its horn when another car drove in front of it, and Anaïs jumped at the shrill sound.

  She walked the short distance to her place, stealing glances over her shoulder, keeping to the shadows. A border collie nipped at her heels when she passed it on the pavement. It was too late an hour to be out walking a dog, and too old a woman to be doing it. Anaïs was used to the city’s eccentricities but tonight she seemed to be more attuned to the strange because of the earlier incident which had caused her to fear for her life. Her utterly normal and boring life suddenly changed into a world she didn’t recognize and it made her feel insecure and disoriented.

  ***

  She was a nervous wreck by the time she unlocked her door. Her eyes fell on her unmade bed and the memory of Damon’s lovemaking lingered on her skin, warming her soul, and at the same time deepened her loathing of herself. She cringed at the thought of having to face him.

  She dropped her coat across the armchair and kicked the shoes off midstride. She went straight to the tiny fridge and poured herself a generous amount of vodka. She tossed it down without pausing.

  Standing by the counter, eyes closed, she waited for the alcohol to penetrate her cells, to tackle the idiotic fear and swamp it in drunkenness. After five minutes of this near-yoga posture, she inhaled, opened her eyes and stared at her fingers. They were still for the first time this evening, and she dropped into a chair with a sigh.

  Across the back of the sofa, the red shawl Father had sent her for her birthday spread like bloody evidence on a crime scene. Anaïs was certain Father’s secretary had sent it in his name because he never remembered her birthdays.

  Still, she liked the soft silk. She had worn it the day Damon cooked pasta and the next morning, she hung it on the peg on the inside of her closet door. She could have sworn she had. She apparently had forgotten.

  Her legs felt wobbly when she got up and walked to the sofa. Before picking it up, she let her fingers slide against the smooth texture. Was this how Damon felt caressing her? Touching his skin felt better.

  She closed the wardrobe once she hung up the shawl and then dropped onto the bed. Her heart beat loud in the silent studio. She stared at the stack of study materials by the bed, mindlessly, until the image finally penetrated through to her foggy mind.

  There had been two stacks of books before she left.

  She jerked upright and searched around the flat for other signs.

  The figurine of a ballerina she’d always liked, although she detested the man who’d given it to her for her fourteenth birthday, lay overturned on her desk. When she walked over to pick it up, it was headless.

  It took two attempts of her trembling fingers to turn on the reading light by the bed. Traces in the film of dust on The Red and the Black by Stendhal suggested alien fingerprints on her reading that she hadn’t touched since October.

  “What the…?”

  She was on the brink of hyperventilating, her fingers jittery despite the vodka. She made a few quick steps, only to realize she didn’t know where she was going. She stopped, looked around, then hurried to the bathroom and turned on the light there. She checked every corner, behind the door, even behind the shower curtain. All the windows were locked. As far as she could tell, nothing was missing. The door, when she had entered, was locked. Was she seeing things? Was she becoming paranoid?

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

  She dropped her face into her cold hands. A sob escaped her.

  She screamed when her phone rang on the desk. Her fear morphed into aggression, but then she deflated when she saw the caller ID.

  “Where are you, Anaïs?” Sleepiness blended with something else in Damon’s voice.

  “Hi, to you, too,” she said, and then, regretting the sarcasm, “Sorry. You have every right to be furious. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m...Where did you go? I woke up and you were...Oh.”

  Damon’s silence felt worse than the intruder’s traces.

  “Oh,” he said again. “I think the idea of ditching a man requires you not to answer his phone call.” His quiet, measured tone exposed the depth of his disappointment and hurt.

  Anaïs closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I’m...” Would sincere and meaningful words be invented to fix her screw-ups?

  “What now? Do you want me to leave you alone?”

  “Right now, I need you, Damon. Some crazy stuff has been happening to me and...”

  “What stuff?”

  “Remember the guy you told me about, the one asking about me? Someone’s been calling my landline and when I pick it up, there’s no one there. When I left your flat, just now, someone attacked me. And someone went through my things. I’m...I’m scared, alright?”

  “Attacked you? Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine. I ran.”

  “Did he steal anything?”

  “No. I don’t think he wanted my purse. He was trying to drag me with him.”

  “Jesus, fucking, Christ!”

  “But I’m alright,” she said, hurriedly, when she heard the shock in his voice. “I think I’ll spend the night at a hotel. I’m afraid to stay here. The door lock is not broken, but someone was in here.”

  “Do you want me to come get you? I could be there in half an hour, forty-five minutes tops. You can sleep at my place.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Despite having repeated that several times, she felt decidedly unwell. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Can you at least message me when you reach the hotel, so I’ll know you’re safe?”

  “Sure.”

  “Damon...” She regretted speaking up, but the silence on the line forced her to say something. “I’m sorry.”

  She’d messed up, just like with every relationship she’d ever had. She used to think Damon’s inability to let go of his infatuation with her was pitiable. Now it seemed his feelings for her were the only genuine thing in her life.

  Talking to Damon didn’t calm her; it scraped her insides raw. The feeling of being a terrible person added to her anxiety and led to her feeling miserable.

  She stared at her phone, mentally checking her directory. There was no one else to call, except for her father. She loathed the thought of needing him. But the need somehow felt safe because of the distance. Not only was London thousands of miles away from where Father lived, his life was perhaps even more distanced—it might well be in another universe.

  The phone rang for a good minute, before someone picked it up. The first word of greeting was cut off, but Anaïs recognized the voice of his secretary, Miss Em.

  “This is Anaïs.” She was shocked at how frail her voice sounded. She had no idea what she would say once Miss Em connected her to her father.

  “Hello, Miss Anaïs. I’m sorry, your father isn’t in.”

  Even over the phone Miss Em’s voice sounded rich and soft, like a down coverlet that offered comfort on your sick days. Em’s kindness reminded her of the well-being which seemed unreachable to her, and Anaïs started to crack. Damon used to be the closest thing she had to a best friend, but the damage she’d inflicted was irreparable. And Father...Yes, well.

  “When would he be back, do you know?”

  A keyboard rattled and the image of Miss Em’s slender fingers typing made Anaïs think Father had probably slept with her, too. He always did. It was almost part of a job interview when he was hiring new employees. He could be a prick like that. Pun intended.

  “He’ll be out most of the day today, I’m afraid. But he’ll be here between seven and eight p.m. Local time,” she added after a pause.

  “But that’s...It’ll be four in the morning here.”

  “I’m sorry.” She was probably sorrier than Father ever had been.

  “Thanks.”

  After hanging up, Anaïs sat down at the kitchen table. This time she had a glass of cold water in front of her as she tried to come up with a plan. She was far from feeling safe here despite it being
her place. Whoever it was that had gone through her things—what had they been looking for when nothing seemed missing?—could be back any time. They obviously had a key or some other way of getting in through her front door. So the stay and fight option seemed to be out of the question. The only other thing to do was run.

  Run, she could. She’d been doing it her entire life. Perhaps not in this capacity, but close enough.

  On the table, she gathered all the cash she’d had on her, her cards, keys, her phone, a change of clothes, a folder with her documents, and a photo of her family when she had been three and life still seemed enchanted, and one of her and Damon at a freshman year party with him grinning and her staring at the camera coyly. She touched their glossy faces with her fingers, and sighed. The scene felt unfamiliar as if she’d borrowed it from some other girl’s life.

  She picked up the headless ballerina, deciding whether to take it with her. It reminded her of Ralph who’d given it to her and an ominous sensation came over her. She shivered, and let the figurine lie in pieces on the desk.

  She had trouble finding a bag into which she could fit all her things. Finally, she dug an old backpack out of the bottom of her closet. She didn’t remember ever using it but the less like her it was, the better.

  She changed into a pair of jeans, swapped her silk cobalt top for two t-shirts that she used to sleep in in high school. One on top of the other, they felt tight across her chest.

  She was on the verge of tears when she let her hand skim across the clothes in her closet—Fendi jackets, blouses, skinny trousers, miu miu tops. They symbolized everything she was and what had brought her to this point. Luxurious materials and splendid designs, but in essence just clothes to cover her ugly nakedness.

  She took the backpack and walked to the door. Passing the life-size mirror by the front door, she was shocked by her own image. She looked bulky and disheveled. She’d only ever worn the white tennis shoes the three times she tried jogging before she gave up her plans of keeping fit.