On Edge

by Kim Cong

  The doors to the main house opened and I was led up the stairs. The place was a triumph of marble and white brick, with double bay windows on every floor. There were multiple balconies, all with French doors and floaty curtains.

  As I was led up the stairs, I was once again the meat in a Suit sandwich. The housekeeper held the door open for us. She wore a little black-and-white outfit that I honestly thought people only wore in movies. She didn’t make eye contact with any of us.

  We headed down a hall toward the centre of the house. Rooms flanked either side of the great hallway, but we were moving too quickly for me to see anything except more marble, rugs, furniture and what I assumed was expensive art.

  Even in my panicked state I could appreciate that while the outside was beautiful, the people who owned this place were terrible at interior design. The whole thing came off as pretentious and overdone.

  A door at the end of the corridor opened and another housekeeper, or maid maybe, walked out. She shuffled past us as we entered and then the door closed. A man was seated behind a massive wood and leather desk.

  “Jetta. Welcome.” He talked like I knew him. “Take a seat. Water? Coffee? Something to eat?” I sat on the leather chair and shook my head.

  “No thank you.” If ever there was a time for being polite, I think this was that moment.

  “Ah. Well, let’s get started shall we?” As he stood I registered that he was short, shorter than I anticipated, with greying hair but a decent body. He was immaculately dressed, but the image was ruined by his undignified attempt at fighting male pattern baldness. He looked like someone’s accountant.

  His study was done in wood and dark heavy colours. It was like he’d seen a Pinterest board and just vomited everything from it into the room. There were dead animal heads, signed baseball gloves, basketballs, footballs from NFL, AFL, and rugby, books that looked like first editions, two world globes—one of which may have been a liquor bar—and framed pictures of him with various famous people.

  “Is that my dad?” I nodded to the picture hanging on the wall behind his desk. He turned and strode over to remove it.

  “I have one with your mother in my other room. I also have a recent one with your sister. I would like to have one with you, but…” His voice trailed off. I didn’t react. Cold tore through me. Goosebumps rose on my skin. He watched me and smiled a little, handing over the picture.

  “My name is Simon Esso.” He said it like I should know who he was. I fingered the frame, looking at the faded picture of my dad, who was laughing as he shook hands with Simon. Esso was serious in the picture, his face turned to the camera, a small smile on his lips. My emotions were everywhere. I was scared, confused, panicked. I looked back up at Simon Esso.

  “I’m really sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”

  Esso nodded. “I realise this. I should have met you years ago, but unusually, I let my wife talk me into being generous. Your loss was sudden and your sister needed to be your priority.” He gestured to the pictures on his desk of him surrounded by a woman and multiple children.

  “It’s not something I normally do, but I understand the value of family. And now is the right time. Actually, to be frank, I’d forgotten about you until yesterday. My wife had been watching Entertainment Tonight and they were commenting on the anniversary of your parents’ death. Today, I believe it is.” I nodded, feeling something sinister crawl into my stomach.

  He continued, “Watching the segment, the presenters mentioned on your sister and you. It was then I remembered you were related and knew it was time to have a chat.” He pulled a manila folder out from his desk and handed it to me. “Your father owed me a lot of money upon his death, Jetta. This documents his debts.”

  I looked at him and then down to the folder. Inside were notes and typed quantities. “Are you a mortgage broker?”

  “Of sorts.”

  I read the information inside. “What’s… moonrock and happy dust?”

  “Crack cocaine.”

  I jerked, this time unable to hide my surprise. “Are you… are you serious?”

  Simon sat on the edge of his desk, hands clasped between his legs. “Your father was an addict. But I’m sure you knew this. It was hardly a secret. I was his pharmacist, helping him with his medical needs.”

  “You’re a drug dealer,” I said bluntly, the words tumbling from my mouth in a rush. His mouth smiled but his eyes remained cold.

  “I am in the business of demand and supply.”

  I stared back down at the papers and began flicking through. There were at least an inch of notes.

  “How much?”

  Simon straightened. “Your father owed me just over 250,000.”

  “Two…. Fuck!” I was startled. “How did I not know about this?”

  Simon shrugged, then turned and took another manila folder off his desk and handed it to me. My fear grew.

  “This is your sister’s.”

  I caught his eye as my stomach clenched in protest. “Courtney?”

  Esso nodded. “Your father was smart. He only snorted, smoked or shot his own. Your sister? Not so much. She’s only been in the game for three years. Already her debt is three times this amount. She has friends with expensive tastes. And she’s got a three-a-day habit.”

  I sat back, devastated. “She was doing this while I lived with her?” I whispered, not really expecting an answer. He didn’t offer one.

  “How much do you want?” My thoughts were in chaos. My heart was racing, tears threatened. My body felt like ice.

  “Including interest for the last ten years, we’re talking one million.” I jerked as if I’d been punched.

  “I can get you maybe 80 percent of that. My mum and dad, they liked to live large. They didn’t leave us a lot of money. I had to sell our house to pay for some of their debts. Jesus.” I ran a shaking hand through my hair. “Jesus.”

  Simon stood and leaned toward me. I stared at him.

  “Listen well, Jetta. I am being generous here. It is a lot of money, I know. Your sister is burning through this shit faster than she can pay for it. She may be a fucking pop princess, but everyone from her accountant down is taking a ride on her money train.” He gripped the armrests of my seat, leaning closer. His breath smelled like garlic and cigarettes.

  “She’s been dragging this out for months so it’s time to bring big sister in. You. This is your problem now.” His eyes bore into mine. “I want my money. I don’t get it, I cut your sister off. And a crack whore like her?” He shrugged.

  “She’s not going to look too pretty after that. You get her out? I don’t care. I got a hundred other crack addicted popstars waiting for a piece of my shit. You get me my money. I don’t care how. Otherwise I call you and your slut sister in and you earn it on your back. You get it?”

  I stared at him. I’d retreated. I couldn’t deal with this. He tugged the manila folders out of my hands and placed them back in his drawer. He handed me a small card. A phone number was printed in neat writing on the front, and a price.

  $1, 000, 000

  “You see that number?” I nodded. “You call that when you get the first payment. I’m generous. I’ll give you a month to get me my money. After that, I call you in.” He sat back and nodded to his henchmen.

  “We’re done.”

  I was pulled up by the suits and marched out of the house back toward the SUV. Once in the car, we peeled out and headed back to the cemetery. I sat silent, shell-shocked between the two men.

  We pulled into the graveyard just as the sun was going down. The cemetery had degraded into what appeared to be a semi-naked orgy. My parents would have loved it.

  Mr. Suit One got me out and took me back to my car.

  “You all right?” he asked as we neared my vehicle.

  “I… no.” I didn’t really pay attention to him. He glanced behind him at the SUV then paused.

  “You shut up. You listen. You keep your eyes forward. You don’t say anything to
anyone about what I’m about to say, right?”

  My breath hitched and I gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “You got a friend. You go to him. You tell him what’s going on. You say to him ‘The Owl and the Pussy Cat.’ You got that? ‘The Owl and the Pussy Cat.’ He’ll sort this shit out for you. You don’t go to the police. You do what he says and you let him handle this for you. Got me?” I bobbed my head again to let him know I got him.

  “Good.” He opened my door for me. I paused as I got into the car and I noticed again that he was quite attractive.

  “Who do I go to?” I whispered softly. His eyes raked my face.

  “You know.” With that, he tucked my head down and shut the door before heading back to the SUV.

  When my parents passed, they left behind a crap-load of debt. I wasn’t talking about a mortgage or a few bills, I’m talking about mountains of purchases for which they had failed to pay. Months and months, years of unpaid debts.

  I hadn’t known it at the time but my dad’s planned final tour had been to finance us. He and my mum loved living in fucking la-la-money-gets-us-everything land. They didn’t have any idea of how to save for a rainy day. They were so far in debt Courtney and I had nothing when they died.

  Their life insurance had gone to paying off the debt. When that was gone—so rapidly we’d had nothing left after four weeks—I’d sold everything of value. The private jet, the tour trailer, the houses around the country and overseas, our family home, most of the memorabilia.

  I’d moved us into a two-bedroom flat in a middle-class area of Canberra and Courtney had hated it. She was like my parents, always wanting and spending more than she could afford. There were only a few things I’d kept of my parents’: instruments, photos, a few clothes and jewellery, things that meant a great deal to me or to Courtney.

  “I am responsible. I am reasonable. I am rational. I am worthy of respect.” I recited my 4Rs mantra, trying to find my calm.

  Following the upheaval that was Mum and Dad’s death, the discovery of the debts and then personal heartbreak, I’d enrolled both myself and Courtney in counselling. While sessions for minors were covered by the government and were uncapped, I was limited to six visits. It was difficult to discuss grief, loss, debts, taking guardianship of a teenager and having the man you love leave for war in only six one-hour sessions.

  I ended up borrowing self-help books from the library. Devouring those buggers after long nights fighting Courtney about everything had led me to develop my four Rs. Responsibility, Reason, Rationality and Respect. A reminder that I could control my situation.

  “I can do this.” I started the car, putting it into gear.

  “I am rational.” I pulled away from the curb.

  “I am responsible.” I exited the cemetery and merged into the traffic.

  “I am reasonable.” I took the exit into town.

  “And I am worthy of—” A guy cut me off, causing me to swerve and nearly take out three cars.

  “Motherfucker!” I flipped my middle finger at him, yelling, “I am worthy of respect, you idiot!”

  I pulled my hand back into the car window and deep breathed.

  “Bank. I need a bank.”

  Thank God for late night shopping. Arriving at the bank, I immediately authorised for the money in all of my accounts to be transferred to my checking account. The teller was happy to help me.

  I told them I want to re-mortgage my apartment and no one blinked; they just had me sign a shit-load of papers.

  I was an expert at crisis decisions. Life experience had taught me to triage the issue, look for options, and then take action. A trip to the bank was the first part of my three-step plan to deal with Esso.

  I just didn’t know what steps two or three would be.

  Yet.

  An hour later, I walked out of the bank, the papers in my hands telling me I had re-mortgaged my apartment for just over $250,000. Add the twenty grand I had sitting in savings, and I barely had over a quarter of the cash I needed to get out of this situation.

  I leaned against the exterior wall, tears threatening to fall. It took three deep breaths to halt them.

  “I am responsible. I am reasonable. I am rational. I am worthy of respect. I am responsible. I am reasonable. I am rational. I am worthy of respect. I am… I… I am…” My voice trailed off as a hysterical bubble of laughter surged from between my lips. I clasped a hand over my mouth, suppressing the noise.

  “I am fucked. So incredibly fucked.”

  I closed my eyes and considered my options. There were exactly two. I could not pay Esso and end up on my back as he said (or more likely dead), or I could try and get the money from somewhere and maybe be dead. Neither option appealed.

  It seemed to me I was doomed if I did and dead if I didn’t.

  “Please, God. Why do these things keep happening?”

  An SUV slammed on the brake, laying heavily on the horn. A guy in a suit jumped out, shouting and waving wildly at the older gentleman who had nearly reversed into his new car.

  I watched the scene absently, replaying my final interaction with Suit One in my mind.

  “I need help.” I breathed out as awareness flooded through me. I closed my eyes.

  “Pax.” I blew out a deep breath, thinking. I could do this alone and fail. Probably end up as a prostitute like Esso had said. And there was no guarantee that they would take the money and leave me alone. Not to mention Courtney. Dear God.

  Courtney.

  My beautiful sister. My beautiful, gorgeous, funny, clever, smart, crazy little sister.

  My sister with who I was so mad and disappointed.

  I hit the speed dial on my phone.

  “Jetta?”

  “Hey, Courtney.” I breathed a little easier hearing her voice.

  “Are you okay? I’m sorry about before, I just—”

  “Shhh.” I hushed her, closing my eyes. “I get it. It’s a hard time and everyone deals with grief differently.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice sounded small, apologetic.

  I wanted to ask her about the drugs. About the partying. About why she never told me and why she did it. I wanted to yell and scream and cry. Instead, I breathed deeply, reaching for control.

  “I’m going to drive up tomorrow and see you, okay?”

  “Why? What’s happened? You sound weird. Are you sure everything is okay? I can catch a flight and—”

  “No, Courtney. I’m fine. We just—we need to talk, okay?” There was a slight pause.

  “Okay, Jet. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Ney-ney. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Jet Plane.”

  We both hung up and I deep breathed again.

  “I am responsible. I am reasonable. I am rational. I am worthy of respect.” I opened my eyes. “And I am not a pussy. I will put on my big girl panties. I will recognise that I cannot handle this situation alone. And I will do what needs to be done. I will do this!” I pushed off the brick wall, took a step forward, and nearly get taken out by a cyclist.

  As she pedalled away, yelling abuse at me, I clutched my bank notes to my chest.

  “This bodes well.”

  Ten years earlier – Jetta

  “Jetta! Stop!” His voice was laughing and I giggled as I ran down the private beach away from him.

  “Hurry up, Pax!” I headed for the ocean, ripping my shirt off and pausing to kick off my flip-flops and cut-offs.

  “Jet!”

  I ran in and did a shallow dive. The water was cold, racing over me, hitting me and pulling at my hair and feet. I broke through the surface in a swirl of white foam, water cascading off my shoulders and hair. I stood up and looked at him at the edge of the water. Waves licked his feet and sand dragged slowly backwards as he stood watching me, a smile on his face.

  “Pa-ax!” I called in a sing-song voice. He shook his head with a smile and pulled off his shirt and tossed it to the side, leaving only board shorts in place.


  “Oh, my.” I licked my lips and he waded in. We’d both attended a co-ed boarding school. His dad was in security, my dad in rock. We’d met while in detention. Sometimes life could be good and Pax made my life good.

  He made it to me and looked down, a teasing grin on his face. “Your bra is showing.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. This was the last time we’d be hanging out for months. He’d graduated high school two years before and had just finished army training. We had three weeks before he was shipping off to Afghanistan. I was headed off to university—one that offered musical excellence programs. We may have been following in our parents’ footsteps, but we were doing it our own way.

  I swallowed. “I know. You’ve seen it before.”

  His eyes grew darker. “Yeah.”

  He leant down and while the surf crashed around us and salt stuck to our skin, he kissed me. He tasted of salt and heat and I felt a rush of desire hit me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and his hands ran down my sides slowly. They slipped under the water to cup my bottom. He pulled me harder against him and deepened our kiss.

  “Fuck.” He broke it with a groan. “Jet….”

  I put my head against his chest, panting. “I know.”

  “Fuck this.” He whipped around, carrying me toward the beach.

  “Pax!” I squealed, laughing, my arms snaking around his neck. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re doing this! Right now!” We were halfway up the beach toward the house before he stopped, looking down at me. “Do you want this, Jet? Tell me now or I won’t be able to stop.” The look he gave me was blank. It was up to me. I smiled, just a little.

  “Hurry up.”

  The smile he gave me was killer. It started small and grew. It was sexy as all hell and I melted. He pulled me toward the house. Inside was cool, the air conditioning blowing steadily. We kicked sand off and he whipped me around, pressing me into the glass windows framing the view. We kissed and groped. It was hot and heavy. We were young, and horny as fuck.

  “Let’s go!” He dragged me toward the bedroom. The phone rang, shattering our lustful haze. We both paused. It shrilled again.