Chaos, Desire & a Kick-Ass Cupcake

by Kyra Davis

  Well hello, 1955. “Do you know what went wrong?” I asked, “With his wife that is?”

  “I was his boss, not his therapist or confidant,” he said, the edge creeping back into his voice. “Anita had problems. I don’t know the exact nature of them, depression, anxiety, whatever. And London couldn’t be an easy man to live with. I suppose it became too much for her. But that’s just random speculation.”

  “You don’t remember London’s wife’s name and yet you know she suffered from depression and anxiety?”

  “I met her at company events. Christmas parties and the like. She came across as jittery and withdrawn. But you’re right, I don’t know that was indicative of anything, I’m guessing. Would you like me to go on the record with a guess?”

  “Well, you never said we were off the record sooo…” I smiled and shrugged. “Did you ever meet his daughter?”

  He looked at me blankly for a moment and then let out a short, startled laugh. “I didn’t know he had one.”

  I blinked at him, surprised.

  “As you must have gleaned by now, we didn’t socialize outside of work. Perhaps if we did I would have seen the signs that he was falling apart much earlier than I did.” He loosened his grip on his hands enough to steeple his fingers in a way that revived my ideas about his super-villain identity. “Sophie…may I call you Sophie?”

  “Of course Gundrun,” I replied without missing a beat. “Speaking of names, Gundrun Volz it’s…unusual.”

  He smirked and shook his head. “I know, everybody wants to know what kind of parents would give their son a girl’s name.”

  “I’m…sorry?’

  “Gundrun. It’s a girl’s name, but you obviously already figured that out. My friends and colleagues spare me the embarrassment of it by just calling me Gun.”

  Gun? I don’t care how unassuming this man looks, he is definitely a super villain.

  “Sophie,” he went on, “I’m a little baffled by this interview. Are we here to talk about Sobexsol, the Gilcrest merger, what Aaron London said or are we here to talk about who Aaron London is? And if it’s the latter, why?”

  Shit. I took in a deep breath as I decided how to best handle the question. “I’m just trying to get a sense of who my source was.”

  Gun arched his bushy brown eyebrows, causing the lines across his forehead to deepen into trenches. “Was?”

  “Oh, you don’t know?” I readjusted myself in my seat, all the while carefully watching Gun’s expression. “Aaron London is dead.”

  Three seconds.

  Three seconds is all it took for Gun to react exactly as any decent human being would. He verbally conveyed his shock and horror. He asked all the right questions. Was I sure? How did it happen? Had he been sick? And this daughter of his, does she know? Is she okay?

  Yes, they were all the right questions. His reaction was on point…except for those first two seconds that preceded the third.

  In those first two seconds, he had seemed disturbingly happy.

  “The problem with conspiracy theories is only one of them has to be proven to be true for people to start believing all of them.”

  --Dying To Laugh

  “I’ve spent the entire day reading up on Gundrun Volz but outside of his starting up Nolan-Volz and a lot about his philanthropy, there just isn’t much interesting out there. ” I was sitting on my sofa, my feet crisscrossed in front of me. Mary Ann was in the armchair to my right, Dena lounging in my window seat, a glass of red in her hand. The two of them had agreed to do another girls night with me (but only after I promised them this one wouldn’t include a break-in). Our original plan had been to watch old movies like we used to do on a weekly basis, but we had started talking and drinking and talking some more. The television and Blu-ray remained untouched and neglected. Ms. Dogz had turned her body into a big, black comma at my feet and Mr. Katz was snuggled up against my side, purring like he was an only child again. “He doesn’t seem to have a criminal record. He’s been married for sixteen years, worked in pharmaceuticals his whole adult life, lived in the Bay Area for even longer than that. But there’s more to read, more to go through. I know he’s guilty of something. Something really bad.”

  “I still can’t get over his name being Gun!” Mary Ann exclaimed as she readjusted the position of her bra strap. “You can’t be a real humanitarian if your name is Gun, right?”

  “At the very least it would make pacifism a challenge,” Dena agreed, her eyes on the darkened world outside my window. “Gun’s for disarmament just sounds weird. But as for the rest of it,” she shrugged and sipped her wine, “it doesn’t seem all that suspicious to me, Sophie.”

  “Now you sound like Anatoly,” I complained. “The more I look into this thing the weirder it gets.”

  “But if he was bipolar…”

  “Even if he was, that doesn’t mean he didn’t know what he was talking about,” I said. “It just means people would be less likely to believe him. And Gun got so defensive the minute I brought up London’s name. And I’m telling you, he was relieved to hear London was dead.”

  “If he found out he was dead from you, that would mean he didn’t kill him,” Dena reasoned.

  “Not necessarily. Not if London was being slowly poisoned. He could have hired someone to do that. The evidence pointing to this being a homicide keeps piling up.”

  “Jason agrees with you,” Dena noted.

  “Well there you go then,” I said, satisfied.

  “You know that’s not a good thing, right?” Dena asked before taking another sip.

  “Oh come on, it’s not a bad thing,” I pressed. “I mean, yeah, when I first met Jason I thought he was out of his mind. But you’re the one who’s always argued that he just has a different take on things. He sees the world a little differently than the rest of us but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s an overly distorted view.” I leaned forward. “Those are your words. You must have said them to me a hundred times over.”

  “Yeah, well maybe I’m changing my mind about all that,” Dena countered, still evading eye contact. “Maybe I’m thinking of breaking up with Jason.”

  Both Mary Ann and I did a double take.

  “You’re not!” Mary Ann exclaimed while at the exact same time I said, “Again?” Dena and Jason had broken up before. He was the only guy she had ever taken back after ditching. I thought that implied he was somehow different than the others. I wanted this to work for them.

  Also, girlfriend-code would require that I have nothing to do with Jason if the two of them split and selfishly, I really didn’t want to cut off communication with him before he helped me figure out exactly what London was trying to tell me.

  Dena finally turned her face toward the room, eyeing Mary Ann, then me. “I’ve always liked that Jason is different,” she said, evenly. “He’s an incredibly smart man, his ability to memorize facts and dates is impressive and I know he’d kill on a debate team. But people overlook his intellect because they mistake his obsession with conspiracy theories as stupidity.”

  Now it was my turn to look away. I had been one of those people who thought Jason was a bit of a moron, at least at first. Once again my first impression had been way off, just as it had been with London. There’s very little correlation between crazy and stupid.

  “But I always recognized his obsessions as evidence of a sharp, deviant mind,” she persisted, “one that looks for different angles and can see connections others can’t, even if he does allow himself to draw misguided conclusions from those connections. His ideas were crazy, but not ludicrous and that made him…entertaining.”

  The way she said the word entertaining implied she thought of him as a mere amusement. But I knew better.

  “You don’t think it’s entertaining anymore?” Mary Ann asked, although by her tone it was clear she was really asking, Don’t you love him anymore?

  Dena shrugged as if slightly embarrassed by the whole thing. “A moment ago you said Jason has a view o
f the world that is different than the rest of ours. That used to be true. He was into conspiracy theories before they were cool.”

  I giggled then stopped abruptly when I realized she wasn’t joking.

  “Don’t fool yourself,” she said, sharply. “Conspiracy theories are definitely in right now. Believing in conspiracy theories almost makes you basic.”

  “That’s what this is about?” I asked, laughing again. “Well, I guess that makes sense.” I turned to Mary Ann. “Remember how she almost gave up S&M after Fifty Shades came out because she was afraid of being mistaken as a bandwagon-dominatrix?”

  “And then, when I read that book I realized it has nothing to do with BDSM,” Dena shot back. “It was an insult to the entire master and servant community.”

  “I really liked that book,” Mary Ann said, meekly.

  Dena looked like she really wanted to reply to that but she seemed to stop herself, pressing her lips together and shaking her head. “It’s true that I was worried Fifty Shades might make my weird look normal, but that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m not worried that the increasing normalization of conspiratorial thinking will make Jason’s correlating world view seem boring. I’m worried that the normalization of conspiratorial thinking could destroy us.”

  “Destroy who?” Mary Ann asked. “The three of us?”

  “The entire country. Maybe the entire Western World.”

  I laughed despite myself. “And they say I’m dramatic.”

  “Sophie, I’m serious.” Ms. Dogz immediately woke up and lifted her face toward Dena, checking to see if she was being called. “It doesn’t matter what end of the political spectrum you’re on. Almost everyone, and I mean a good eighty-five percent of the general goddamned public, buys into these crazy theories that aren’t based on any kind of logic, just fear and paranoia. So no.“ She exhaled loudly as a siren went off miles away and looked pointedly at Mary Ann. “It’s not entertaining anymore. It’s…scary.”

  “But you’re not scared of anything,” Mary Ann said. She sounded like a little girl who had just discovered the fallibility of her parents.

  Dena stared down into her wine. “I’m scared of a society that rejects reason because they don’t find facts to be as compelling as fiction.”

  “But I write fiction,” I blurted out.

  “How is that in any way relevant?” Dena asked.

  “It’s relevant because…because as an expert on fiction I’m attracted to the truth that resembles it. I relate to it. Maybe I even need it. Maybe we all do.” I scooted forward on the couch cushion, disturbing Mr. Katz who fixed me with an aggrieved stare. “Come on, anyone who has been paying attention to the news now knows that crazy things happen all the time. London’s death was kind of crazy. If he was murdered, like he thought he would be, that would be crazier still. But I’m good with crazy, Dena. I may not be as seeped in the paranoid mindset as Jason but still, I understand crazy.”

  “We’re having two totally different conversations,” Dena said before throwing back some more wine.

  “Are we?” I asked. Why was I getting irritated? I had no idea, and yet not indulging the emotion didn’t feel like an option. “I’m talking about the murder of an innocent man. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about how my best friend co-opted my boyfriend in order to share in and exacerbate his dysfunction,” she retorted. “My boyfriend is an addict. He’s addicted to something that is destroying more lives in this country than opioids. He’s addicted to paranoia. To conspiracies that reaffirm his whacked out world view. And what do you do? You supply him with more of his drug of choice. You’re making him worse, Sophie. This stupid case,” she used air quotes around the last word, “is making us all worse.”

  Mary Ann was hugging her knees to her chest looking both uncomfortable and worried. “Whatever it is we’re doing right now, right here,” she said, making a broad gesture with her hand as if trying to encompass our entire antagonistic exchange, “I don’t think we want to be doing it.”

  I looked from Dena to Mary Ann, then back again. “Look,” I said, quietly, “I didn’t know you and Jason were having problems. I certainly didn’t mean to exacerbate them.”

  Dena silently sipped her wine.

  “I’ll call him,” I offered. “I’ll tell him he can’t go into London’s apartment with me.”

  Dena scoffed but I could tell she was listening. “I’m the one with the key,” I continued. “I decide who accompanies me. I was speaking with him before you arrived, he thinks the best time to go over there is in the middle of the afternoon, like three o’clock. I’ll call him back, thank him and tell him his part in this is done. I won’t consult him anymore. I won’t drag him further into this. I won’t let him insert himself into this. It’ll be my problem, not his, not yours.”

  “But it’s not your problem either, Sophie,” Dena said with a sigh. “It’s Anita London’s problem. It’s her kid’s problem. I don’t know, maybe it’s even the dog’s problem. But this has nothing to do with you.”

  “I can’t let it go, Dena,” I said, softly. “I…I need this.”

  Dena looked at me quizzically. I waited for her to push me to divulge my recent inner turmoil in the way Marcus had. But instead she just brought her wine glass to her lips once again. “Whatever. If you want to be self-destructive on your own I can’t stop you. Just cut Jason loose.” She looked away again and we all sat in silence for at least two excruciating minutes. Finally Dena let out a deep sigh and forced a small smile. “Is it too late for us to watch a movie?”

  It was a little after two am. Dena and Mary Ann had left less than two hours earlier. I was snuggled under the covers, hovering in that space between sleep and consciousness. Images of Dena scowling at me kept floating against my closed eyelids, her warnings echoing inside my head until they began to just sound like jumbled and meaningless admonitions. I saw Images of London too. I saw him collapsing on to the street, his glasses cracking beneath him. And standing in the corner of my mind was Gun, flashing his frighteningly white teeth.

  I wasn’t pulled back into wakefulness until I felt Anatoly climb into bed next to me, exhausted, warm, perfect. It was hardly his first stakeout. I had become accustomed to them, only waking long enough to know he was there before falling asleep again. But this time was different. I don’t know why, but having him creep into my bed in the middle of the night, even though he slept in this particular bed every night, seemed sort of…well, thrilling.

  I made a mumbling sound like I was fast asleep while allowing my hand to sort of flop onto his abs, rock hard as always. How does one maintain a six-pack without spending every second of their life in a gym and how did I luck into snagging one of the few men who could do it?

  Still pretending to sleep, I slid my hand a little lower, then lower still until I was sure that his abs weren’t the only thing that was hard. My hand curled around my prize, moving up, then down.

  “Why Ms. Katz,” he said in a low, slightly sleepy voice, “you’re in a mood tonight.”

  “You have no idea,” I murmured. I rose, climbing on top of him without another word, looking at his face that had been made featureless by the dark. His hands pushed up my nightshirt as I straddled him, only my legs touching him now, my knees on either side of his waist.

  His hands moved to my hips and slowly but firmly he pulled me down, guiding me as he pushed inside my walls in a slow, smooth gesture. And then, just before he filled me completely he lifted me up, just a little, denying me full satisfaction while at the same time making me long for it even more than before.

  “I need you,” I whispered

  He responded by pulling me down again, this time with speed and force, making me gasp as I felt every inch of him fill me. We started moving to a rhythm that was completely organic and totally ours. Anatoly’s hands sliding to my waist, then my stomach until finally they were cupping my breasts as I continued to ride him. Dear God, did I love this man’s han
ds. They were big, strong and just a little bit rough. I felt the slight hint of a callus on the padding of his right thumb as he ran it over my hardening nipple. He then lifted me with those hands, pulling me off him only to pull me back down again, setting off a new series of explosions. I reached forward and gripped his shoulder, digging in my nails, unable to restrain myself, too far gone to be careful with him.

  He flipped me over so my back was pressed against the firm mattress, our connection never broken. So strong, so powerful and yet so very gentle. A series of luscious contradictions. He stilled for a moment, bringing his face only inches from mine. “Sophie,” he whispered, “are you sure I can’t run my fingers through your hair?”

  “Fuck,” I gasped, “you.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re doing.” And then he took away my ability to speak as one of his perfect hands found a key pressure point, sending me into a delicious frenzy. I wrapped my legs around his hips as if it was possible to force him further inside me, I was shuddering, wondering how I could have ever believed we were losing something. This passion was every bit as overwhelming as it was the first time he touched me. Back then there had been so many secrets.

  And what was this energy between us now? Was it fueled by secrets once more? Or by love?

  “You’re beautiful.” The words were breathed against my skin, tickling me, ensuring that the warmth in my heart matched the fire of my body.

  “But you can’t see me,” I said. “It’s too dark.”

  “Sophie,” his accent had become thick, making my name sound exotic and mysterious, “I know every detail of you. I see you.”

  And just for a moment, that brought me out of my ecstasy, and put my brain into play. Why hadn’t this man, with whom I shared so many intimacies, been the one to guess that I hadn’t been writing? Anatoly, the man who claimed to be able to truly see me?