by Deanna Chase
“You don’t like me, not really,” she said, as her head hit the pillow. “You’re just using me.”
“No, I like you. I like you a lot, in fact.” He paused for effect, running his fingers along the curve of her jaw, before burying his face into the crook of her neck. She smelled like dime-store perfume, sweat, and beer.
She pushed his head back, forcing him to make eye contact with her. “If you really like me, say my name.”
Armand stared down, biting his lip. “Your name?”
“My name,” she repeated. “Or you’ll get nothing.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” Her smile cooled as she crossed her arms across her chest.
“Your legs are open and bare. I could take you if I wanted to.”
She clamped her legs shut, calling his bluff.
The move excited him. Still, Armand enjoyed a good mental game. He pulled himself upright, his knees still flanking hers.
Her name?
She mentioned it last night, but Armand had been preoccupied, listening to a man at the next table recount his experience at a real bullfight.
The woman pushed herself up on her elbows, grabbing for the sheet. “Well, it’s obvious you weren’t paying attention when…”
Armand softly snapped his fingers. “Shhh…”
The woman blinked rapidly, but lay back down. The confusion trick would only last a moment. He needed to work fast if he wanted to win.
He focused his attention on the area between her eyes. Reading her thoughts would take a great reserve of his energy, but that could be replenished. He inspected her aura. It was steadily growing, fueled by her desire and her indignation. He licked his lips, tasting brandy and salt.
What was her name?
A series of letters flipped through his brain, like cylinders on a slot machine. At last they stopped on four letters: K A T E.
He knew with certainty that her name was Kate.
“So?” She undid the top button of her blouse again, revealing the hollow of her bare neck. “Tell me my name and you’ll get everything you deserve.”
She was offering him a treat, like one would a dog that performed a particularly clever trick. Armand could have KATE again, if he were a good boy.
Armand was not inclined to be good.
“Your name,” he said, straightening his body onto hers as he bit into the lobe of her ear. “Is Edna.”
Two
Autumn arrived and the tourists left the mountain village of Santo Aldea in search of sunnier weather, or places with real mountains to ski. Armand thought about leaving, too, as the once blue Spanish skies became nothing more than a colorless painting. But he had come here on a quest to find out more about his father, had saved up money for the better part of a year, living on nothing but eggs, cheap beer, and whatever else he could con some skirt into buying him. He wasn’t about to leave until he knew something.
It had been two weeks since his night with the English woman. She left with her friends for larger cities where they could witness the spectacle known as Day of the Dead, a time when the living honored the deceased with a play and a parade.
Armand had no interest in paying homage to the dead; he rarely paid homage to the living.
With the tourists gone, he was left with only the local women to entertain him; those women were watched carefully by their chastity-defending brothers, fathers, and priests. Armand thought about abstaining altogether, but he knew it would weaken him. He’d take his chances and deal with the consequences later.
There was a heavy nip in the air and he put on his long leather jacket, the one he’d bought for the trip because he thought it would make him less conspicuous. He saw what a joke that was now. The people of this village did not wear jackets that hugged the backs of their knees, nor did the other tourists.
There was only one bar in Santo Aldea, a lively establishment at the far corner of the square that served both drinks and dinners. Unlike the other buildings in the village, it shared no walls with neighboring businesses. It held its own, open hours after the lights went flickering out in the rest of the town.
The cantina was crowded for a Wednesday night, even with the sudden exodus of the other tourists. Armand attributed it to the change in weather, a signal that the festival season had begun. Customers laughed and embellished stories as they swilled their brandy, while an old man played acoustic guitar near the front window.
Armand seated himself on a rickety stool near the end of the counter, lowering his head and listening to the conversations around him. Young men and old men spoke on topics of weather and wars and women.
“…headed for another civil war…”
“…changing world…”
“…Franco can’t live much longer.”
“…Shhh…”
“…he caught his wife…”
The chatter around him grew louder, rumbling together like idling cars on a crowded highway.
These Spaniards, so passionate about everything. It was refreshing actually, after living in California where all his friends talked about was an impending draft. At twenty-five, Armand was too old to be called up for service unless Uncle Sam became really desperate.
Armand shook his head to block out the noise, feeling the swish of his ponytail against his cotton t-shirt. He would have left his auburn hair loose, had it not been for the disapproving stares from some of the older men when he’d first arrived. There would be a time to let it down, but that would come later in the evening.
A conversation to his left caught his attention.
“…and then, Sebastian died…”
Armand jerked his head towards the speaker.
“He did? How?” an older woman asked.
“Yes. They say of a heart attack. We just got the news…”
Armand lowered his eyes. Of course, it wasn’t his father they spoke of. Sebastian Diaz was long dead. Still, he listened whenever the name Sebastian was mentioned.
When he first arrived, he had considered asking the elders about his father, but quickly changed his mind. Sebastian was most likely deemed a traitor, having left Spain during the revolution only to end up fighting on the side of the Allies during World War II.
True, times were changing, but not fast enough, and there were those with long memories who might not take too kindly to the son of Sebastian Diaz. If he was going to find out anything, he’d have to discover it on his own.
A slick-haired, mustached gentleman sidled up beside Armand and elbowed him in the ribs. His chin nodded towards a young woman at the far corner of the bar. Her ankles were crossed and her hands sat folded primly in her lap.
“Nice, huh?” he asked in English.
Since the town had opened itself up to tourism, the locals all learned English and did whatever they could to capture the American dollar.
“Yes, nice,” Armand agreed, studying the woman. Her eyelashes were so long they couldn’t be real, and her hair was the color of midnight, cut above her shoulders.
The man gave Armand a knowing grin, revealing a mouth with two brown teeth. He glanced from side to side and then leaned further in.
“You like? I can arrange for you.” Beads of beer clung to the man’s mustache. “Not too expensive. Not for you, my friend.”
The man continued his pitch, explaining what services were provided and how much each would cost him. Armand was surprised by the man’s audacity. Prostitution was illegal here, for both escort and john, and unlike LA, you wouldn’t just serve a night in the can and pay a fine. You might disappear for weeks, even months.
Perhaps the pimp was paying someone off. Whatever the case, the man didn’t seem too worried about the consequences. Maybe Armand had been overly paranoid about the whole Policia business.
“So what you think? I make special deal for you.”
Armand raised an eyebrow and appraised the woman again. She certainly didn’t look like a lady of the evening. Her clothes were both expensive and modest.
Her aura was soft and inviting, not hardened like those of the hookers he knew back home.
The woman caught Armand staring and returned his gaze before demurely lowering her head. The light around her blazed neon-orange.
In that flash, Armand saw that she was no innocent; she was a skilled woman working her craft.
“What you say?” the man asked, his eyes darting around the bar in search of other potential customers. “I have room next door. I let you use for a few pesetas more.”
“No thanks,” Armand said. “Not tonight.”
The man looked disappointed but quickly brightened. “I have others. Younger. Older. Bigger. Smaller. You tell me what you like and we make deal.”
Armand sighed. It wasn’t that he had anything against chippies, he just wasn’t in the mood for that tonight.
“No, thank you,” he said more firmly.
“Okay, then. You come find me anytime you change your mind.”
The man finished his beer and left. Armand pushed the empty stool away with his foot, hoping to discourage anyone else who might want to strike up a conversation.
The bartender poured him a drink and he relaxed, watching as customers continued to filter in. Armand’s desire stirred as he noticed that more than a few were unescorted women. He took a long, slow breath and exhaled, allowing his energy to flow out from him in thin wisps, circulating around the room.
His energy feelers sought out each woman, coiling around her like a vine, tasting her essence. Finding nothing that interested him, he reeled them back in.
The act left him exhausted and he shook like an alcoholic who had gone too long without a drink. He’d been foolish to expend so much of his energy. It would be a sleepless night without a fix, a night of sweats and hallucinations.
He eyed the young prostitute again.
Her life force was strong, if not particularly clean. He could use the pimp’s room for an hour or so, siphon off enough to get him through the next few days. Still, the thought of paying for it was almost as unappealing as the thought of going without.
He tapped his empty glass, signaling to the bartender that he’d like another drink. He loved brandy and had become quite the connoisseur over the last month. It was one of the things the Spaniards did well.
That, and the inquisitions, he thought bitterly.
While he contemplated his next move, an argument started near the front door. Two men shouted at one another, calling out insults. The younger of the two lifted a stool and smashed it into a table close to the guitar player.
His adversaries’ eyes darkened, his energy roiling around him like a building storm.
Armand ate an olive from the tray beside him. He had never been in a fight before and wondered how he’d fare if he had to use his fists instead of his mind to get out of trouble.
A petite woman in a green dress charged into the bar, wagging her finger at the two men.
“Andale!” she yelled.
The stool-thrower reached for another chair when she pressed her finger into his chest.
“Leave, now!” She looked from one to the other. “Leave, or I will call the Policia.”
The men argued with her, though their voices were now subdued. She stamped her foot then pointed to the door.
After several minutes, the men grabbed their hats and left the bar. The woman called the bartender on duty worthless, then put on an apron and began pouring drinks, ignoring the throng of cheering admirers.
She worked here?
Armand gave her a once-over, taking in not only her physical beauty––of which she had a great deal––but also the light that encircled her like a golden nimbus. She wore a pale pink flower in her unbound hair.
“Isabella!” A young man called her over.
Isabella?
A fitting name, Armand decided. The name of a queen.
She floated through the room, smiling as she bantered with the customers. Armand felt strengthened by her light, even at a distance.
After several minutes, she found her way to his side of the bar.
“Another drink?” Isabella asked, her eyes already checking to see who else needed her.
Her lack of interest intrigued him. He wasn't used to being dismissed.
“One more, yes.” He put on a carefree grin and pushed a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. While holding the smile, Armand extended his energy outward, wrapping it around her like a shawl. He trembled with the exertion of the task, but if it worked…
Her aura shimmered as she fully noticed him for the first time. He leaned forward, introducing himself.
“I’m Armand.”
“Your eyes are so beautiful,” she said, her hand clenched around his drink. “They’re green with silver flecks inside. I’ve never seen anything like them before.”
The other bartender approached her from behind, ready to interrupt. Armand briefly redirected his focus, pushing the man away.
The bartender walked off, confused.
“I can’t take credit for my eyes,” Armand said, returning his attention to Isabella. “I got them from my mother.” He took the glass from her and set it down.
“She must be beautiful,” Isabella said, bending forward enough for him to cast a quick peek down her loose blouse. He inched his hand across the counter, until his fingers found her elbow. At his touch, she shivered.
“My mother was very beautiful,” Armand answered. “She was the kindest woman I knew, practically a saint.” He smiled at the memory of her in her white uniform, leaving for work. “She was a nurse.”
“Was? She no longer works in the profession?”
“No, she…” Armand spread his fingers and stared at his drink.
“Oh.” Isabella’s face reddened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. A nurse is a noble profession.” Her light spread out around her, warming them both.
Armand scooped her hands in his. He hadn’t planned on reading her thoughts, but they were so bright he couldn’t help but see them. She was a kind child who had dreamed of becoming a nurse too, a dream killed by her traditionalist father.
“You would have been a great nurse,” Armand said, stroking the tops of her hands. “But everybody helps in their own way. Even here, you help others.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Her eyes softened further and she gave him a grateful smile.
“I hope one day to find a compassionate woman like my mother.”
The golden light around her flickered. “You have no wife, then?”
“No.” He massaged her wrists, her energy pulsating wildly as he touched her. “I guess I haven’t met the right woman, yet.”
Her co-worker reappeared, tapping Isabella on the shoulder and pointing to the room full of ignored customers.
“I’m getting to them,” she said, not hiding the annoyance in her voice. “I won’t be long,” she promised Armand, then left to take orders.
After a short while, she returned.
“Where were we?” she asked.
Armand smiled. “You were about to tell me your dreams.”
“Was I?” She shrugged. “I’m not sure I have any dreams. Getting out of here, maybe.” She opened her arms to show that she meant not only the bar, but the entire town. “What I need is a gypsy to come and tell me my future.”
Armand licked his lips. “You are in luck. I can tell you your future. I have gypsy blood running through my veins.”
“Is that so?” she asked, her eyes flashing. “Will I marry a prince or become a famous actress then? Or perhaps inherit a castle?”
Armand clasped her hands in his, then closed his eyes. “You were named Isabella after your grandmother, correct?”
“Yes,” she said with a startled hesitation. “But that is no secret. You could have found that out from anyone here.”
“True, but I didn’t.”
She trembled slightly and leaned in closer. He could smell the flower in her hair. “What else do you see?”
Armand relaxed his grip. “
It will cost you a coin.”
“A coin?”
“Any coin. Your future is worth nothing if it’s free.”
Her eyelashes fluttered thoughtfully.
After a moment she reached into her apron pocket and produced a copper penny. Armand accepted the token, placing it on the counter between them.
He cleared his mind, focusing only on her thoughts. They spun before him like a roulette wheel, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, before settling on the memories of her future.
She had a myriad of roads before her.
Some were bright, such as her father’s attitude softening so that she become a teacher or a nurse. But there were bleaker paths too, falling for men who didn’t love her back or working at this bar until she was old and her spirit deflated.
Isabella’s fate wasn’t sealed like most of the women he’d met. It could go either way.
He quickly withdrew his hands from hers.
“Having trouble seeing my future?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
She tapped her foot on the wooden floor. “I paid you good money. I’m waiting.”
He struggled with his desires. He wanted the woman, but what if he altered her course so that she veered down one of those hopeless roads?
Isabella leaned forward again, allowing him another glimpse down her blouse––this time, most certainly on purpose.
“So?” she asked, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger.
She had chosen her path, on this night at least.
“You want to know your future?” Armand stood and captured her hands on the bar beneath his. “When your shift is over, you will meet me by the fountain in the square. We will share a drink and take a walk,” he whispered. “During that walk I will guide you back to my apartment where I will invite you in. You will hesitate, but follow…”
“That is not…” Isabella shook her head, trying unsuccessfully to pull her hands away.
“…once inside, I will push you against the wall and remove all of your clothing. I’ll run my hands across your body and kiss you until I erase the memories of any other man you’ve ever been with.” He paused, staring into her eyes. “You will not be able to fight me off.”