by Carian Cole
“Of course I will. And he'll be okay; I’ll show him where his stuff is when I get there. Give him a day or two to adjust.” I gently disengage Sterling’s nails from my jeans. “I’m glad you kept him.” Her voice lifts in happiness.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your evil plan worked. Thanks for everything, Evie. And tell Storm . . . tell Storm I’m sorry for the things I said to him. I was just fucked up. More than usual.”
“He knows that. He's not mad. He just wants you to be okay. They all do.” She sneezes and then goes right back to talking. “They’re not punishing you; they’re just trying to get you to straighten out.”
"I'm trying, Evelyn,” I reply, half meaning it. I stand and place Sterling on the floor by his cat bed. “I’ll text you when I'm up there."
There’s a yellow Post-it next to my laptop that catches my eye as I hang up. It’s screaming for my attention so badly that I wouldn’t be surprised if it grew legs and chased me around the house. I start a debate with myself. Lie on the couch, drink, take some painkillers, and watch horror movies all day in a daze with Sterling slumbering on my chest, or pick up that Post-it and follow what’s scribbled on it. I cross the room and pick up the small yellow note, staring at it for a few seconds before shoving it in my pocket and grabbing my car keys.
I’ve had many addictions throughout my life. They all have a voice, demanding to be heard, seducing me to give in to them. Once that starts, I am powerless to ignore it. I have to have it—I have to quiet the voices and quench the desire for whatever the evil of the day is.
Today it’s an address across town, and the voices lead me right out of the house to my midnight-blue Camaro. I listen to some of my favorite rock music while I drive, windows down, hair blowing. I haven’t felt this undead in a long time.
This part of town is not overly familiar to me, but with the help of the GPS, after about thirty minutes I am soon turning down the quiet residential street scribbled on the sticky note, and slowly creeping past each house until I reach number 1999. That number excites me, and it’s got nothing to do with the Prince song about a fucking party. It’s the year I grew a pair, left the shit-storm of a mess that was my home, and went out to live on my own.
The house I’m hawking is a small cape-style, and is very cookie-cutter with its blue shutters and matching front door. The grass needs to be cut and mail is spilling out of the mailbox, and I’m sure it’s because she hasn’t bothered with it, and not because she’s on a vacation in the Hamptons. A small silver SUV is parked in the driveway. I wish I could see the backyard, but I can’t risk someone seeing me if I go creeping around back there. My veins thrum as I examine the house and everything around it. Everything that is her.
No, this isn’t stalking. Not really. I’d call this interested observation. Bright colored flowers line the brick walkway to the front door, and wind chimes dangle from a low-hanging oak tree branch, creating a soft melody floating in the breeze. A small gnome and three bunny statues surround a stone birdbath with no water in it. She likes whimsical. I bet she likes angels and fairies, and she smiles at butterflies and marvels at hummingbirds.
The only way to make someone happy is to know what makes him or her happy. Alternatively, the way to instill fear in someone is to know what scares him or her. Knowing how to use those feelings to spin a web of seduction and trust takes patience and control.
I’ve got both.
On my way home, I grab a monstrous steak and cheese sandwich and a six-pack of beer. I eat it in the living room and give small pieces to Sterling, who likes to supervise all things food-related. When I’m done, I wander into Katie’s room and sit on the edge of her small bed. The kitten has followed me in and walks around slowly, sniffing everything, his little ears twisting around. Sometimes my mind goes screwy and I think I can somehow undo this and bring Katie back, as if it were all a big mistake or a bad dream.
After staring at Katie’s things for a while, I take a few sleeping pills and check Tabitha’s page before I prepare to pass out on the couch. She hasn’t posted anything in quite a while, but I still check every night, just to see if she’s shared any new thoughts, and today she has.
“Whoever said life is too short obviously never endured heartache or loss, because life is too long. It’s one long, miserable day that just drags out forever... I hate this life.”
How fucking true. Life is really for the happy people.
I miss Katie more than I can put into words, but she’s my daughter, my flesh and blood. Remembering how I heard Tabitha crying in despair at Nick’s grave, I know damn well if I had died in that crash, no one would be crying over my grave or still missing me months later. I’m oddly jealous over Tabitha’s intense love for her husband.
There’s another picture I found in one of her many online photo albums where she’s sitting on an old staircase, looking up into the camera, her huge eyes half hidden under her bangs, her small cleavage pushing out of the black dress she’s wearing. I’ve saved it to my computer so I can look at it whenever I want to and fantasize about her on her knees, gazing up at me in that same way with those big enchanting eyes.
She’s stirred me.
CHAPTER 8
VANDAL
I THROW some clothes into my saddlebags and hop on my bike, looking forward to going to the lake for a few weeks. The past three months have been torturous for me, living in my house without Katie and I need to get away from all that. On my way, I stop at the cemetery to visit Katie once more before I go, and also to check one of my foot pegs that I heard rattling. Once in the parking lot, I take out my tool bag and tighten it up.
Off to my right, I hear a sound coming from the direction of my tree. I put my tools away and push my hair out of my face, looking toward the noise. Wiping my dirty hands on my jeans, I take another teddy bear from my bag and head for Katie’s grave.
I can hear her crying, but can barely see her this time because she’s sitting on the ground on the other side of the headstone. Seeing her again is unexpected, but I can’t resist going to her because I’ve thought about this too fucking much to just walk away. It’s like she’s been handed to me.
She startles at first when she sees me, staring up at all six-foot-four of me with a small amount of fear in her teary eyes. Those eyes. Holding my breath, I wait for some glimmer of recognition, but there’s none. I slowly exhale.
"You've got black stuff on your face,” she says, sniffling. Her voice is softer than I expected it to be.
I kneel down in front of her and rub my thumb across her cheek, smudging the stain of tears and make-up under her eye. She flinches a tiny bit and sucks in a breath.
"So do you,” I say.
My heart is thundering in my chest just from touching her warm, soft flesh. It’s the same feeling I get when I cut myself—only this is far better. This is its own heartbeat, its own breath, its own blood and fear.
I fucking want it.
She wipes at her face with the back of her hand and rips her gaze away from mine, landing on the bear I’m holding.
She nods her quivering chin towards it. “You’re holding a teddy bear.”
I turn the soft toy in my dirty hands. “I am.”
“Why?”
I glance over at my daughter’s grave. The sun is shining through the leaves of my tree and casting a ray of light onto her stone, making it glow. I take this as a sign.
Looking back at Tabitha, I hold the bear out to her. “I was going to give it to someone, but I think maybe you need it more.”
Her hand shakes as she takes it from me and she cradles it against her. “Thank you.” Her voice is slightly above a whisper. She swallows hard and squeezes her eyes shut. Katie would want her to have it. The bears were always meant to cheer someone up. Why not a grieving widow?
I can’t take my eyes off of her. She absolutely takes my breath away. She’s so beautifully damaged. She’s wrecked. I can see it in her lifeless eyes. And now I want to fix her in the only way I know how.
<
br /> Standing, I offer her my hand. “Wanna go for a ride?”
Her eyes widen and her fingers tighten around the bear before she slowly puts her other hand in mine. I pull her up to her feet and her head barely reaches the middle of my chest. She looks down at the grave and takes a deep shuddering breath.
“Yes,” she finally says, nodding a little. “I’d like to get away from here.”
That’s all I need to hear.
She follows me to the bike and surprises me when she just gets on the back without any reaction or question. I can see the defiance in her as she plants herself on the seat and stuffs the bear into her purse. She doesn’t look at me at all—she just stares off into the distance, completely expressionless. I start the bike and the engine roars loudly, but she doesn’t even jump at the sound. I tie my hair back, put my sunglasses on and turn to the side to peek at her. I don’t wear a helmet, as this is a no-helmet-law state, and I don’t have an extra one on my bike for her. She doesn’t seem concerned about not having it, like most chicks are. Maybe she’s like me and is also daring fate. That’s right -- we’re the ones that got away. Wanna try again?
“You gotta hold on, darlin’, or you’re gonna fly right the fuck off.”
“Not sure I’d care,” she replies, but wraps her arms tightly around my waist. She’s going to be mine, I have zero doubt.
Yes, baby. Embrace the darkness with me.
I pull out of the parking lot, leaving her car and our lost loved ones behind. As the wind whips our long hair behind us, I think we both feel that this is the start of letting go.
The lake house is about an hour away, tucked deep in the mountains. I have no fucking idea what I’m doing, but her hands clasped around me as we ride along the tree-lined curvy roads ignite all sorts of dark thoughts inside me. The feel of her warm thighs spread and pressed against my legs makes my cock ache.
Riding my bike has always been an escape for me—just me and the road and the wind, and nothing else. Having a chick wrapped around me, giving me a hard-on, is an invasion of the Zen I usually feel when riding, but I ain’t gonna complain.
A few times, she rests her cheek against my shoulder, her arms squeezing me tighter, hiding in me.
Melting into me.
The driveway is dusty and gravelly, and I take it slow when I turn in so we don’t wipe out. I park just in front of the garage and kill the engine. She takes the cue and hops off, walking around a bit to stretch her legs as I unlock the garage and push the bike in next to my hot rod. She walks even further away as I pull my stuff out of my saddlebags and I find her standing by the lake at the edge of my back yard a few minutes later.
“Where are we?” she asks when she hears me walk up behind her.
“My place.” I follow her blinkless stare over the water. “Wanna come inside?”
She nods absently and crosses her arms, hugging herself. I’ve never seen a person look so incredibly lost before.
I cock my head towards the house. “Come on.” I step away, and she follows a few feet behind me.
Sterling is sitting in the hallway when we walk in as if he’s been waiting for me, and he meows softly when I lean down to pat his head.
“Oh no!” She’s on the floor instantly, scooping him up in her arms. “What happened to him?”
I throw my keys on the credenza by the door. “Yeah, a friend gave him to me. His name is Sterling. He was tortured by some sick fucking kids and lost his eyes. He’s okay though -- not in pain or anything. It’s amazing how he gets around actually.”
Her mouth drops open in horror, and she starts to stroke his head, and of course he’s loving it. “Poor little guy,” she coos. She looks up at me. “It’s so nice you’re taking care of him. He’s just precious.”
So, Sterling is a chick magnet. I’ll have to thank Evie for that little bonus. I shrug. “It’s no big deal. I just feed him and let him hang out.”
“I want to kill those fuckers that hurt him.” Her voice is laced with hatred, and I like it. She’s a spunky little thing beneath all that sadness.
I head for the kitchen and take out two bottles of water that Evie has left in the refrigerator, along with a shit-ton of other food for me. Tabitha follows me, still holding the cat.
Grinning, I offer the water to her. “He can walk, ya know,” I tease. Her face reddens, and she gently puts the cat back down on the floor and watches him prance across the room. Straightening, she wipes at her eyes and looks around.
“Can I use your bathroom and wash my face? I’m kind of a mess.”
I step closer to her, and she doesn’t back away from me. “I like messes,” I say, my gaze traveling from her pouty lips up to her eyes. I push a strand of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear, my fingers lightly touching her flushed cheek. She holds her breath but doesn’t break eye contact. “The bathroom’s down the hall.”
When I take a step backward she practically runs down the hall, away from me.
I should take her home. What I’m doing is wrong, but this part of me always seems to win because there’s just more bad in me than there is good. Besides, being bad is way more fun.
She comes out after a few minutes, her hair brushed and the dark stains of mascara cleaned off her face. “Sorry I looked so bad . . .” Her voice trails off.
“Grief isn’t pretty.”
She shakes her head. “No . . . it’s not.”
I put my water bottle down and move closer to her, leaning my hip against the kitchen counter. “So I gotta ask. Why did you come here with me?”
She tilts her head a little and bites her lip. “To forget.”
“Forget what?”
“Just . . .” She looks off out the window at the lake. “Everything.” Tears start to fall down her cheeks. “Him . . . me . . . the pain of losing him. All of it.” She chokes and wipes at her eyes. “It’s killing me. I feel like I want to die, and I don’t know how to make it stop. I’ve never been this way, ever.”
I think back to her social media statuses, how happy and whimsical she was before the accident, and what a shame it is that her light has been snuffed. By me.
“I’m scared of the thoughts I have. I feel alone, like no one is really listening to me. They just want me back how I was . . .” She coughs and takes a sip of water, and I’m mesmerized by her pink lips around the rim of the bottle. “I’m not that person anymore, and I’m tired of trying to be. I’m just . . . exhausted. I don’t want to think, or do, or anything anymore. I want it all to stop. I want a reset button. And I have no idea why I’m telling you all this. You’re just a stranger on a bike.”
Oh, I’m so much more.
I did this. This cute, pixie-like girl doesn’t smile anymore because of my mistakes. I can’t change the accident or bring back Katie, Renee, or Nick, but I can fix Tabitha. I can flip her all-the-fuck back around again. I know this without a doubt because I know myself, and I know pain, and I know pleasure, and I know how to unfuck and refuck and fix fuck, and it starts with breaking her down, gaining her trust, and renewing her.
I don’t know shit about love and romance, but I know that true submission goes far deeper than love. It gives more; it takes more. Love is fragile and can be destroyed. Submission is strong and only strengthens with time. Love leaves people weak and devastated, as she is now. Submission heals and awakens. Submission is love on fucking steroids. Men like me have a radar for women that need to submit, and she’s silently screaming for it just as much as I’ve been silently begging to give it. Maybe I’m wrong, but my gut tells me I’m right. Or maybe I’m just twisted.
I lift her chin and force her to look up at me. “You probably won’t believe me, but I understand more than you know. I know exactly how you feel.” I take a deep breath and search her eyes. “I can help you, if you want me to. I could help you forget. I can help you out of this bad head space you’re in. But you’d have to trust me.” I sound like a psycho, but I can’t pick the right words for what I’m trying to say
. I curse myself for being verbally challenged.
“I don’t even know you.” Her voice shakes.
“Sometimes, we can’t trust what we do know, and we have to trust what we don’t.”
She lets out a little sarcastic laugh. “You really think you could possibly help me? I’ve already talked to a therapist and she’s useless as shit. I feel like she’s . . . like she’s analyzing me. Judging me. I stopped going.”
“I’m not a fucking therapist. But I’m pretty sure I can make you feel things you’ve never felt before, and it’ll be way better than what you’re feeling now. How does that sound?”
She licks her lips, absorbing my words, the glimpse of her tongue making my cock twitch. “All right, then. I’m all yours,” she says with a daring lilt. “Make me forget, if you think you can. Make me want to live again. I’ve tried everything else.”
I waste no time accepting that challenge and bring both my hands up to the sides of her face to hold her still as I take her lips with mine. I kiss her, feather soft, barely touching her lips, tasting her breath, lingering close to her and lightly running my tongue along her bottom lip, and she quivers and shivers beneath my touch. She gasps but opens her mouth for my tongue to explore hers. Her hands clutch at the sides of my shirt, hanging on to me.
After a few moments I pull away, and she sways on her feet. I put my hands on her waist to steady her, enjoying the effect I have on her immensely. It’s exactly what I wanted.
“You okay?” I ask, studying her face.
“Yeah . . .” She brings her hand up slowly and touches my hair, as if she’s petting a wild zoo animal. “Your hair is so shiny and pretty.” She says it so softly, mostly to herself, then tugs my hair, trying to bring my head back down to her for another kiss. Oh, this little girl has some spark in her. I grab her hand and flash her an evil grin.