A Shadow in the Water

by April Hill

  By this time, you see, I had persuaded myself that the note on the fridge wasn’t a genuine threat, and that it might possibly have been nothing but a joke. Regina maybe, being her usual bitchy self? Okay, I didn’t really believe that, but I didn’t want to remain in protective custody, that much was for sure. I wasn’t stupid enough to go back to Carlotta’s, not only because of the danger of being eviscerated by a deranged killer, but because Matt would find me there, and at this point, I wasn’t sure which of those possibilities I was more nervous about. I had felt small twinges from the infamous restroom spanking for close to two days.

  I got a cab to Santa Monica, and then used Carlotta’s keys to get into the back entrance of the dinky little strip-mall where she rented a shop and I sometimes worked. Getting in took two keys, actually. You had to go in the back door of the building, then walk down a creepy concrete hallway to the rear door of the shop, and unlock that, as well. Inside, there was a toilet and a sink, and since I occasionally worked late, Carlotta kept a cot in the tiny back storeroom. There was a little fridge and a two-burner gadget for cooking, and a phone. A rudimentary hideout, but okay until I could think of something better, or until they caught my secret admirer and locked him safely away.

  I let myself in, closed the door between the storeroom and the front shop to avoid light leakage, and then turned on the tiny lamp on my worktable. Like the good citizen I was, I picked up the phone, called Matt’s cell phone, and left him a terse message. “Yes, Matt, dear, I’ve flown the coop, but I’m perfectly fine, so you don’t need to worry about me or to try and find me. I’ll call you every couple of days, to keep in touch.” When I hung up, I surveyed my new digs, began unpacking my bag, and nearly passed out.

  Once I had devoured everything in the little fridge that was still remotely edible, I felt better, but still very dizzy, so I lay down on the cot, pulled up the blanket, and was just beginning to feel drowsy when I heard someone pounding on the outer door. I guess I was a little more scared than I thought, because I came almost instantly unglued. No one knew I was there, and Carlotta was still wandering around Mexico, presumably. Maybe I had been followed from the damned motel! So, like an idiot, I crawled into the only hiding place I could think of—the narrow cabinet under the sink. Hoping it was just a night watchman or a wandering drunk, I held my breath, and waited. More pounding, and someone yelling. When the noise didn’t stop, I closed my eyes and prayed, which is something I don’t do much. If there was a God, and if I hadn’t already overdrawn my account with Him more substantially than I thought, I might get out of this alive. Then, again, I had spent a lot of years doing a lot of the very things God specifically speaks ill of.

  Next, I found myself wishing that I’d stayed at the damned motel with the belching, chain-smoking cops. Here I was, again, in a dumb predicament I’d gotten into all by myself. And now, in violation of my deeply-held convictions about women’s equality, I was praying abjectly for some man—divine or otherwise—to swoop in like Superman or Mighty Mouse and save my ass. Me! The liberated lady who despised those dingbat, scatterbrained women you see in the movies—the helpless airheads who get themselves in a mess and then have to be rescued by the macho male hero. Now, though, just this one time, I was ready to swallow my pride and take what help I could get, from any quarter.

  It was already a tight fit under the sink with just me in there, but I discovered that I was sharing space with a giant bottle of liquid-plumber, three mousetraps baited with clots of chunky peanut butter, and too many fully occupied roach motels to count. I could still hear a loud voice outside the door, but the fire door was steel, and the voice was too muffled to make out, so I stayed where I was, crouching, cold and miserable—waiting to maybe have my throat cut while sitting on a sticky, gooey mouse trap.

  As the pounding got louder, I racked my still-fuzzy brain, trying to remember where I had left the X-acto knife after last using it. My plan, as I envisioned it, was to get the upper hand on my murderous assailant by leaping out from amidst my nest of roach traps and stabbing him repeatedly with a teeny-weeny half-inch craft blade. Not such a fabulous plan, but better than dying without a fight.

  And then, I heard the rear door to the little mall open. The pounder was in the building! Then, the ominous sound of footsteps in the outer hall, and a moment later, someone fumbling with the knob on the back door of the shop. With agonizing death just steps away, I closed my eyes. (I have this theory that if you keep your eyes closed during terrible events, like when someone cuts your throat cut from ear to ear, the whole experience will somehow be less disagreeable.)

  When back door creaked slowly open, I clapped my hand over my mouth and squeezed as far into the cabinet as I could, with my face crammed against the rear wall. Two more steps… And then…!

  A brief silence, while the murderer looked for me, probably, and a moment later, a sudden crack of light as the door to my hiding place opened! And then, just like in the movies, I screamed. A strong hand reached in, grabbed the waistband of my jeans, and yanked me halfway out of the cabinet onto the cement floor, on my hands and knees. My head and upper body were still stuck inside the cabinet, though, and I clung desperately to the bent pipe under the sink, fighting as hard as I could to stay where I was.

  “Jesus Christ, Gwen! Are you out of your damned mind, running away like that?”

  Matt, of course, and yes, I know what you’re thinking—that nobody could be so technologically challenged that they wouldn’t think about caller ID, but it’s true, I hadn’t. I’ve never owned a cell phone, and Carlotta still had those old rotary-style phones in the house, so how was I to know?

  “Are you all right?” he demanded, presumably addressing my backside. I wrapped both arms around the pipe, and from my unlovely position, informed him in a firm voice that I was absolutely fine, and to go away and mind his own business. He gave what sounded like a cross between a groan and a sigh, which suggested to me that maybe he was not really angry, but genuinely concerned. So, I decided to come out of the cabinet.

  I must have taken too long, though, because two seconds later, Matt began whacking the holy shit out of my raised butt with what felt like a long, narrow implement. I started howling immediately, because in that specific position, every swat was landing on that taut exposed area between my legs, and directly between my… Okay, never mind. I’m sure you get the picture. With my upper portions still inside the cabinet and my bottom portion presented at such an ideal angle, I was more or less helpless to defend anything, especially my dignity.

  I would like to think that Matt hadn’t deliberately targeted such a sensitive and embarrassing area on my person, but one can never tell with men, can one? Men think differently, and don’t find certain things off-limits, the way we women do. To his credit, though, he had granted me the small mercy of not pulling my pants down before he started whacking.

  Later, I learned that the implement was one of my long-handled paintbrushes—stiffened with dried paint and artistically useless. As a flogging device, however, it worked quite well, even through my cotton underwear and a layer of Old Navy’s best quality denim. The image that came to mind was of having both cheeks branded with a white-hot iron. I was wailing at every fresh stroke, and doing my best to squirm out of the damned cabinet. But I had become stuck between the legendary rock and a plumbing fixture, unable to move more than a few inches either backward or forward.

  Finally, to my immense relief, Matt dropped the paintbrush and pulled me out of the cabinet. But my relief was short lived. Once my hindquarters were free, he yanked my pants down just far enough to land a couple of open-handed smacks my already sore and possibly bruised rear end. At that point, I suppose his curiosity got the better of him. He pulled my jeans down even further, and gave a low whistle.

  “Wow! I’ll bet that really smarts, doesn’t it?”

  After I had struggled to my feet and pulled up my pants, I gave Matt as foul a look as I dared. In response, he reached down and picked up the ev
il brush, again.

  “Who would have thought something so lightweight could leave that kind of color? Maybe I’ll just take this thing along. It’ll come in handy the next time you try another stunt like this.” When he slapped the brush against his own thigh, he made a face, but it was me that jumped.

  He ushered me out of the shop and closed the door, and a few moments later, we were outside, at the rear of the mall. While he locked the outer door, I rubbed my rear end, and sulked.

  “Where did you get those keys?” I asked sullenly.

  He pointed to a large green sticker on the back door. “From the security company. Not only did you leave your number on my caller ID, but you set off the damned alarm. You’re lucky they took so long to get here. You could have been arrested.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” I growled. “Carlotta hasn’t paid the bill in six months.”

  He swore. “So, you could have been murdered in there and no one would have known about it until you started to smell?”

  “Well,” I sniffed, “I didn’t get murdered, did I? So, just calm down and stop yelling at me.”

  Matt motioned for me to get in the car, adding another stinging swat smack as he passed behind me. “Get in.”

  “If you lay another hand on me, tonight,” I grumbled, “I swear to God I’ll sue.”

  “I wasn’t planning on using my hand,” he said. “I was thinking more along the lines of a bullwhip or a cat of nine tails. Trust me, though. You don’t want me to make that decision now. Just get in the car and explain to me why you have this compulsion to get yourself killed.”

  I sat down gingerly on the seat, and yelped. “I hated that stinking motel.”

  Matt wasn’t sympathetic, to the yelp or the complaint. “Tough.”

  “Well, I’m not going back, and you can’t make me—legally, anyway.”

  Matt reached down and started the car. “Okay, here’s another idea. How about if I just haul you down to the county lockup for tonight?”

  “Stop threatening me!” I snapped. “Just do what you want. I’m too tired to care.”

  “There’s this guy who works the night shift at county,” Matt said. “Kyle. Big, hairy guy—around three hundred pounds. Not bad-looking—except for all those missing teeth. Poor guy gets stuck with most of the body cavity searches, but he seems to like it just fine. Every time he puts on that rubber glove, he gets this big smile on his face.”

  “Who knows?” I said smugly. “That might be very interesting.”

  Matt smiled. “Well, then, keep it up, and it can be arranged.”

  “You’re a damned bully,” I sulked.

  “Whatever works. Now, shut up and buckle your seat belt. If you promise to stay put, this time, I’ll find someplace else to stash you.”

  Agreeing that my “cover” was probably already blown at the motel, Matt did take me someplace else, and by happy coincidence, that place turned out to be his condo. By the time we arrived, I was weak with hunger, and feeling very light-headed, but I didn’t mention it, afraid that it might spoil the mood. Despite his growling and the impromptu paintbrush episode, Matt was obviously in a very protective, “Me Tarzan, You Jane” mode, and I had begun to hope that my chances for finally being properly ravished were getting better. He was still mad at me for running away, but when I groveled, admitted my error, and promised (with my fingers crossed behind my back) never to do it again, his disposition seemed to improve.

  My fondest hopes were realized, and we were barely inside the front door before Matt reached out and pulled me to him. Before I could say or do anything, his warm mouth was on mine, and he was squeezing me so tightly I could hardly breathe.

  “I’m sorry about what happened, earlier,” he said softly, “but you scared the hell out of me, disappearing the way you did.”

  I leaned my head against his chest. “I know. It was dumb, and I’m really sorry. Forgive me?”

  “I’ll think about it,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss me so hard and deep this time that I was positive that the long-awaited “good” part was finally about to begin. And then, with one strong, sure hand inside my bra and cupping my breast, he let his other hand wander south—and gave my still very sore behind a painfully firm pat. “And if you ever do anything that stupid again, I’ll blister your bare butt so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a damned week without leaving fingerprints. You got that?”

  I nodded, and rubbed my rear end. “I got it.”

  “Good. Now, where was I?”

  He apparently remembered where he’d been, because maybe two seconds later, my bra and blouse were on the floor, and my right nipple was in his mouth, exactly where it should have been. When he surrendered the right nipple, moved to the left nipple and began nibbling at it, I groaned with pleasure, and melted.

  No, I mean literally melted—more like crumpled, I suppose, because the next thing I knew, I was on the floor, gazing dreamily at the ceiling, which was glittering with thousands of tiny, twinkling stars. Like heaven, or nighttime at Disneyland.

  The stars turned out to be mica chips, imbedded in the damned ceiling, but they did twinkle, I swear it. Yes, I was a little out of it. I hadn’t slept much, or eaten anything in five days—one whole day longer than the stupid diet required. And then, I had stuffed myself with the entire, possibly tainted contents of the little shop fridge. Everything that happened next felt like a pleasant, slow-moving dream. I’m lying on the couch in a swoon, and Matt’s sitting beside me, looking terribly sweet and concerned. His hand is on my head, and I know he’s about to say something hopelessly romantic, which turns out to be, “You just threw up and then fainted. What the hell’s going on?”

  Okay, so not exactly romantic, but still concerned. I explain to him the thing about the ninety-six hours and the fifteen pounds, to which Matt says, “Shit” and disappears for a while, then comes back with a bottle of water and a banana. But I don’t want the banana or the bottle of water, and I tell him that, and then Matt asks yeah, well do I want my damned butt blistered again, instead? (Some people can be so touchy, even in a dream.) So I eat the banana. Then, I drink the water, and throw up the banana.

  I woke up in Matt’s bed, although not the way I had been hoping for. I was completely naked, since it turned out that Matt had washed and dried all my clothes, but I’d missed all the good stuff in between. Like when he slipped my panties slowly down over my silken buttocks and ivory thighs, and when he unhooked my bra with his sure, strong fingers, freeing my voluptuous, full, rounded breasts, and … Jeez! Do I have rotten timing, or what?

  Luckily, I was still too bombed out to worry about the impression I’d made by throwing up all over his living room. I did have on clean underwear when I passed out, thanks to all those childhood admonitions from my mother, but I have a feeling that throwing up on a man’s couch probably loses you more points than you’ve accumulated through simple cleanliness. Once again, I had botched things, and my romantic future with Matt was back to looking very bleak.

  Pretty soon, Matt showed up in the doorway carrying a tray, with chicken noodle soup, crackers, and tea. I complained that he was undermining my terrific ninety-six hour diet, but when he threatened the blistering my ass business again, I decided to just shut up and eat the soup. Wonderful! I hadn’t eaten chicken noodle soup since probably the fifth grade, and I discovered that it hadn’t changed at all. Too much salt, noodles the consistency of soggy play dough, and chunks of rubbery pseudo-chicken. Heaven in a can.

  “I didn’t know you cooked,” I said sweetly, batting my eyelashes. When Matt smiled and then leaned down to kiss me, I knew for sure that I was hopelessly in love with him.

  Two days later, I was comfortably ensconced in Matt’s small guestroom, enjoying the pampered life of an endangered crime victim, but still plotting how to get myself promoted to the master suite, since that’s where the master slept. Matt had collected poor Ben from the kennel, since Ben hates going to the doctor or to the kennel, or pretty m
uch anywhere I’m not. I was afraid that a weeklong sleepover would throw him over the edge into suicidal depression. (Like me, Benjamin tends to go on eating binges when he gets depressed, and when that happens, no shoe in the house is safe. I draw the line at eating shoes, of course, but just about anything else goes.) Anyway, Ben was predictably delighted to be out of jail, and celebrated his release by walking in the door and peeing immediately on Matt’s sand-colored Berber carpeting—twice. Matt is a dog lover, as well, and didn’t take revenge on Ben, which made me a bit jealous. If it had been me that peed on the rug, I’m pretty sure that my rump would have suffered a swat with a rolled up newspaper, at the very least.

  As usual, the good detective was taking his job much too seriously. Some silly rule about it being unethical for police officers to enjoy carnal knowledge of the crime victims they’re protecting. He had already taken me to the orthopedist to have my cast removed, and now I was a virtual prisoner in his apartment, forced to eat wholesome meals, trundled off to my lonely little room each night by eleven, and forbidden the pleasures of the master suite.

  Yes, despite a couple of near misses, I was still sleeping alone, unless you count Benjamin, who always hogs the covers, and has been known to wet the bed.

  On the fourth day, with Matt still being a morally upright and overly protective fuddy-duddy, I was overcome by a sudden flush of cabin fever, probably brought on by sex deprivation and too many whole grains and healthy green vegetables. I needed chocolate, so I decided to take Benjamin for a short walk to the drugstore, which is where they keep the chocolate, and which is only four blocks away from Matt’s condo, in an excellent neighborhood. Benjamin seemed actually willing to walk, since he had been penned up on a brick patio for two days, and he gets self-conscious when forced to attend to his daily ablutions with anyone watching. I bought two giant Hershey Bars (one for later) and a big bag of potato chips, and shared the chips with Ben as we walked home. A lovely outing was had by all.