by Marta Acosta
“I’m only going to say one thing about Ian. I think you are too ready to find fault with him because he’s not Oswald.” Her phone rang; when Mercedes finished the call, she said, “If you update the club calendar, I’ll give you a bowl of peanuts and a Bloody Mary.”
While I worked on the My Dive website, Juanita and the Rat Dogs rehearsed the same new song for hours. Each time they played it, I liked it more.
When I went to get Rosemary from Mercedes’s office, I saw her taking something out of a small padded envelope and grimacing.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She held up a brushed aluminum flash drive. “One of Los Hackeros sent me this as a present.” Los Hackeros was her nickname for her inner circle of computer hackers. “He designed a worm that he says can bypass any firewall and implode a system. Hackers have a strange way of showing admiration.” She tossed the flash drive in her trash can.
Before I could say good-bye to her, her soundman came by to talk about equipment. When she got up to talk to him, I reached into the trash can, took out the flash drive, and put it in my pocket. I’d delete the worm file without opening it, and then I could use the drive.
I waved good-bye to Mercedes, and I took my dog and went home.
We walked up the stairs and went to my front door, but when I put my key in the lock, it was already unlocked. I pushed the door open slowly and went inside while Rosemary charged ahead of me.
Ian, wearing a beautiful black suit, sat in a pink velvet chair by the windows that showed the glittering skyline beyond. He was holding a large book, and I saw that it was my annotated collection of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I felt as shocked as if I’d gripped a wire with a live current.
“Hello, Milagro.”
I couldn’t say anything about his unexpected visit because I’d given him a key and I’d always gone to his place unannounced. “Hello, Ian.”
His dark eyes gleamed below the hooded lids. “I stopped by on my way to Gigi’s. She told me you were coming to her little gathering tonight.”
“Gigi always thinks she’s invited me to things, but she forgets to actually invite me.” I sat on the fuchsia sofa.
“I heard that you were in London.”
“Yes, I had a business meeting there and got a big writing gig.”
“Congratulations. I hope you enjoyed your trip.”
“Very much.” I tried to sound calm as I said, “I met Wilcox Spiggott there and he acted as my host. Vampire society in London is much more advanced than the backward feudalism here or in other places. I’m going to see Wilcox again. He’s visiting soon.”
Ian gazed at me, making my every nerve alert.
“Milagro, I waited for you through your infatuation with Oswald, or, more accurately, your infatuation with his grandmother, because I know how important it is for you to have a maternal figure.”
“You waited for me by consoling yourself with an anorexic Eurotrash model.”
“That’s a very impolite way to speak of my friend,” he said. “I’ve made my feelings for you clear, and I’d hoped you returned them.”
I stared at Ian, thinking of how his touch made me forget who I was, how his taste made me delirious, and how he’d never told me he loved me. “I knew exactly how you felt about me when I saw Cricket freaking up against you and your marks all over her body.”
“You’re behaving like a petulant child. I’ve explained that …”
“You’ve explained that you were just using her and I don’t know what’s worse—if you’re fucking her, or if she’s just a meal to you and you’re playing with your food,” I said, my voice rising in anger and hurt. “I never had sex with anyone else when I was with you! I never even had sex with Oswald after that night when you and I …” I hesitated and then said, “And I never let him cut me after you gave me your blood. I lost Oswald because of you.”
“Is this the fable you’ve been telling yourself?” Ian asked scornfully. “I have a reason for befriending the Poindexters, and that’s what we are—friends.”
“Friends with benefits,” I sneered.
“I didn’t intend for it to progress as it did, but Cricket was aggressive and I had to steer her attentions.”
“Right into your crotch,” I shouted, and stood up.
“My association with the Poindexters is more important than you, more important than my personal life.”
“But you can’t explain it. You never explain anything,” I said. “Every time I’m with you, Ian, I feel as if I’m drifting farther and farther from my moorings.” I began pacing, walking along the far wall of windows.
“Milagro, why do you grasp so desperately at those moorings? Personal happiness aside, do you really think it is even possible for you to live like others do?”
Then I asked him the question I’d always been too afraid to ask before. “Have you ever killed anyone, Ian?”
He stood and came to me. He ran his finger across my lips and even then I wanted to open my mouth and take his finger between my teeth, but I jerked my face away.
“The difference between us, darling, is that you haven’t killed yet. But, because of who you are, there will be a time when it’s necessary, when you will have to decide between something that is wrong and something that is far worse. Then you’ll understand.”
“No, because I will never ever kill another human.”
“I wish it weren’t so. I wish you could live a safe and happy life, but I don’t think it’s possible.” He stared at me with his deep brown eyes. “Did you intend for your recent antics to humiliate me publicly?”
Although he didn’t raise his voice, he was angry and for the first time, I was afraid of him. “No, my antics were to please myself, just as your antics with our neighbors were to please yourself.”
He took my wrist in his hand, turning it to show the blue veins and the pale pink scar on my arm. Then he said, “Are you coming with me to Gigi’s?”
“No.”
“Very well.” He kissed my wrist and then walked to the door. “Be assured that whatever your intention, you succeeded in enraging me.” He turned to look at me. “Milagro, when you’re finished with Spiggott and you’ve disposed of him, perhaps you’ll want to come back to me, but don’t expect me to wait for you or take you back again.”
“So that’s it then?” I said. “It’s over? Am I finally free of you?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said. “I hope you get everything you deserve. Good-bye, Milagro.” Then Ian Ducharme walked out the door and out of my life.
Perhaps it was jet lag, but as soon as he was gone, I felt shattered. The knowledge that he was amoral and dangerous gave me no solace as I sobbed at the thought that I’d never make love to him again, or see him smile and call me his own girl, or make him burst into that wonderful rumbly laugh.
I thought of all his kindnesses to me, all his attentions, the gifts that were always so perfectly suited, the way he treated me as if I was the most fascinating person he’d ever met, the way he made me feel beautiful, smart, witty, strong, desirable.
I thought about the way he looked at me when his dark eyes opened in the morning, as if I was what he wanted to see most in the world.
But catching him with Cricket had proved that it was all a lie. So why did I feel as if someone had carved away a piece of me so deep that I would never heal from the wound?
I was too upset to sleep so I threw myself into my fauxoir. I began rereading Othello and thinking about how I could use themes of jealousy and manipulation in Don Pedro’s zombie story.
I crashed at some point and when I awoke I was bent over in a chair, the hard edge of the flash drive jabbing into my waist. I straightened up, pulled it out of my pocket, and tossed it into a dish filled with barrettes, makeup, and pens.
The sun rose, staining the horizon the same vermilion as my chaise, when Wil phoned. “It’s night here and I’m missing you. Do you still want to see me?”
“Absolutely!” I
said in a voice more cheerful than I felt.
“Good, I’ve booked a flight and I’ll arrive midmorning tomorrow,” he said.
“That’s wonderful, Wil! Bring a wet suit.”
“Ooh, kinky.”
“I meant for surfing. It’s cold and gray, so you should be okay with waterproof sunblock.”
“Awesome. I’ll buy gear there. One of my bros has a surf shop, and I’ll be hanging with him.”
“I thought you were staying with me.”
“For a few nights, but I don’t want to impose the whole time. You’ll get tired of me.”
Which is what Ian had predicted. “How could I?” I asked. “Wil, I told Ian about us.”
“How did he react?”
“Very well, considering,” I said, my voice catching a little. “I’m sure he’s got hundreds of replacements lined up.”
“I can’t believe I nicked the Dark Lord’s girl!”
“Um, Wil, please don’t laugh about it. It wasn’t easy for me.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I love you, Milagro.”
It was so easy for some people to say, but I knew he didn’t mean it. “You’re fantastic, Wilcox Spiggott. Oh, I think my house key fell out of my purse at your place. Could you look for it?”
“Ah, I found a key on the table. Thought you had left it for me.”
“We’re not at that stage yet. Would you like me to pick you up at the airport?”
“I’ll hire an Avis car so I can hit the beach straightaway. How about dinner tomorrow night?”
“Perfect. I know just the place.” I gave him the name and address of a groovy restaurant-lounge before we said good-bye.
I had a lot to do before seeing Wil again. I got a mani-pedi with polish the color of crushed blackberries. I went to a fancy butcher shop and bought meat dripping with blood, as well as fresh blood. I picked up deep red California cabernets, baskets of raspberries, strawberries, and loganberries, and bottles of blood orange juice.
I visited the Womyn’s Sexual Health Collective to buy “relationship accessories” for Wil’s visit. While I waited for a sales clerk, I read over a poster titled “Does It Itch?” for the local free clinic.
A gray-haired sales counselor with a cozy round tummy and little gold-rimmed glasses was happy to give me advice for buying restraints. “For you?”
“No, for my friend. I’m the one in control.”
She smiled and said, “Sweetie, the bottom is always the one who controls.” She suggested a beginner’s kit of soft, black velvet-covered ropes and said, “If you want to stock up, we’re having a two-for-one sale on lubricants and all our eco-friendly fetish toys are ten percent off.”
“Uh, well, um …” I was about to giggle like a schoolgirl when I saw the fuzzy pink handcuffs I’d bought when I was engaged to Oswald. I’d thought the cuffs would prevent me from hurting Oswald when he tried to taste my blood. Oswald and I never got to use them, though.
The sales counselor saw me staring at the handcuffs. “Those are one of our bestsellers in bondage play.”
“People never handcuff me for fun. The last time I got cuffed, someone was trying to kill me,” I said, finally managing to shock her.
“Oh, dear! I can show you an easy trick to open handcuffs. All you need is a bobby pin or paper clip.”
“I don’t plan on being cuffed anytime soon.”
She laid a hand on my arm. “Not to preach, sweetie, but in my experience, which is extensive, you should learn to be prepared for anything. Why don’t you sign up for our BDSM workshop? Everyone raves about it. If you join our Toy Club for fifty dollars, you can attend free and you’ll also get fifteen percent off every purchase.”
“I’ll just take the restraints and the club membership, thanks.”
I didn’t know how late I’d be out with Wil, so I dropped Rosemary off with Mercedes and told her I’d call her in the morning. When I saw my brown dog run through her apartment, heading for the cat door to go to the backyard, I said, “He loves being with you. I wish my loft had access to a yard.”
“He’s a good house dog and everyone at the club loves him.”
She took off her glasses and rubbed her nose, so I said, “What is it, mujer?”
She shook her head, sending her dreads bouncing around. “I’m not getting involved.”
“You think I’m going too fast with Wilcox, but you don’t know the half of it with Ian.” His mouth sucking on Cricket, her blond hair against him. “He told me I’d kill someone eventually. That’s what he thinks of me. I’m not going to see him again.”
She didn’t say anything, but the furrow in her brow was still there.
“Mercedes, you’re always doing things for me. What can I do for you?”
“Keep me out of this business with Wilcox,” she said. “You did something anyway. Those demos you brought back are great. I’m going to contact the bands and see if we can work anything out.”
“Anything as in a gig or a recording?”
“I’m hoping. Oh, my mom sent a present for you.” She went to her bedroom and returned with a garment bag. “It was my grandmother’s, and Mami thought you’d like it.”
I took the garment bag and unzipped it. Inside was a scarlet satin cocktail dress with a lovely low sweetheart neckline and a tight waist. The fabric had a soft luster like old pearls. “Oh, Mercedes, it’s beautiful! You can’t give this away.”
“Can you see me wearing it?” she said, and laughed. “Even if my sisters had the tetas for it, they prefer new clothes. You like vintage.”
I gave her a besito and said, “Thank you! I’ll save it for a special night at your club.”
When I returned to my loft, I admired the beautiful dress for a few minutes before getting ready for Wil’s visit.
I set out beeswax candles, rinsed and polished my best wineglasses, and changed my bed linen. My duvet had smudges from Rosemary’s muddy feet and I didn’t have time to wash it. On my craft table, I saw the woven cloth that Don Pedro had given me.
It was large enough to cover the bed. The yarn was soft and had a delicate floral fragrance, like the powdery scent of plum blossoms. It felt almost as if it had been dusted with talcum. I rubbed my fingertip against the cloth and then touched my tongue. It tasted faintly of dried grass, but not druggy dried grass.
I spread the cloth over the bed and then I took the velvet-covered restraints from the plain brown Womyn’s Sexual Health Collective bag and looped them around the bedposts. The sales counselor had given me a brochure about attaching the restraints, but the illustrations looked hopelessly convoluted.
If my mother Regina had let me join the Girl Scouts, I would be better prepared to tie up my hunky new boyfriend.
I went to the closet and pushed my dresses on the rack, looking for something pretty to wear. One of Ian’s shirts was there. I took it from the hanger and brought it close to my face, inhaling his scent, immediately missing and wanting him. I put the shirt in the back of the closet, where I wouldn’t see it.
I decided to wear a cute lemon yellow dress that I bought at a shop owned by a Stitching & Bitching amiga. It had a corset-inspired bodice and a narrow skirt. I wore it with a narrow black patent leather belt, black peep-toe patent leather sling-backs, and black rubber bracelets and earrings.
I slicked on red lipstick and liquid black eyeliner for a dominatrix/bumblebee look, but I resisted the urge to cut straight bangs because Nancy claimed that cutting one’s own bangs was the first step to madness.
I went to the garage downstairs, got in my truck, and drove to the restaurant, telling myself how much fun it would be to have Wil here and show him my town.
He wasn’t at the restaurant yet, so I waited on the sofa by the entrance. After ten minutes, I took the hostess’s suggestion and had a drink at the bar.
I chatted with the couple next to me, but kept looking at the mirror above the bar for Wil to arrive.
After thirty minutes passed, I called his cell phone. He didn’t an
swer, and I left a message saying that I would wait another fifteen minutes. The couple next to me went to their table for dinner, and more people came and left the restaurant. Even if Wil was delayed, lost, or having a difficult time finding parking, he could have called.
I nursed my second drink slowly. He was an hour late and I felt stupid staying any longer. I left a large tip and drove home cursing him.
As I walked upstairs to my loft, I thought, He is so inconsiderate. I went to unlock my front door thinking, He’s flaky and irresponsible, but the door was already unlocked.
Had I left it unlocked, or had Ian returned?
When I stepped in, I smelled the beeswax candles and froze. I walked inside slowly and called, “Hello?”
The candles were flickering and there was red wine in the glasses on the cocktail table.
Wil was on my bed, motionless on the woven cloth, his wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts with the black velvet restraints. He wore a gray my dive T-shirt I’d given him, and in the center of his chest was a dark wound with scarlet blood blooming all around it like a prom corsage from the devil.
eight
Love Lies Bleeding
There was such a stillness to Wilcox that I didn’t need to touch him to know he was dead. But I did. I stroked his fine bleached hair, feeling the grit of sand from a day of surfing. I kissed his cool, smooth forehead, and ran my finger over the well-shaped, narrow lips that had always been quick to smile and laugh and kiss.
My tears fell on the pretty face that had been so full of life and happiness.
I wanted to cut myself, to pour my blood into the deep knife wound in his flesh, to make him heal, whole, well—my laughing, lusty Wil again, but I knew I was too late. The dead couldn’t be brought back.
I closed Wil’s empty hazel eyes, smudging the kohl, and untied the velvet restraints from his wrists and ankles.
My survival instincts cut through the fog of grief. Someone was setting me up and I had to move fast.
I blew out the candles but didn’t turn on the lights. I wrapped the soft woven cloth around Wil’s body, and then I swiftly changed into jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. I threw my laptop, wallet, the composition books, clothes, and other necessities into an enormous sports bag.