by Sunniva Dee
I lean in over my dad’s hospital bed. Loom over him the way he did over my bed when I was little before I learned how to lock my door. “Should I kick you in the gut, Daddy? Remember how much fun you had doing that to me?”
“Ssstooh—” my father rattles.
“Stop it? Is that what you mean? Wow, sounds mighty familiar. Hmmm.” I lift my index finger to my lips and make a show of mulling over my déjà vu.
“Oh! Right. Kat said that to you. Over and over and over again. You don’t enjoy it when the tables are turned on you?”
The beeping speeds up, and Kat is crying. Don’t want her to cry but… fuck this bastard!
“Leon,” she pleads. Kat never was much for using my birth name. Whenever she could, in homage to the light side of our lives, she’d use the Japanese word for lion as my nickname, Shishi, like Mom did. “Don’t become him.”
No one knows my buttons the way Katsu does. This fucking glob starts to ferment in my throat, making it hard to breathe as I glare at my father.
“Guess what, dude.” I squeeze the words out through my teeth because this man, who is nothing, hasn’t earned my tears. “I’ll never turn into you. When I become a father, I will be one. No fucking hard liquor. No violence. No losing it. Because I learned from the worst.”
I’m back in control. I’ve got it now.
My chest isn’t about to implode with anger anymore, and I rub Katsu’s shoulder while she cries on her chair. Shit, I love this little girl so much. “Don’t worry, Kat,” I say to her. She’ll never be too old for me to want to protect her.
A tear slinks out of the corner of our father’s eye, trailing halfway down his cheek. His mouth opens, but he can’t form words anymore, and fuck me if I don’t hope it’ll always be this way.
“Dad, we’re about to take off—got stuff to do—but I wanted to tell you a goodnight story first,” I say.
The heart monitor reacts immediately, hacking up inconsistent bleeps. Good sign; the monster brain works well enough to comprehend that this story is not one he’ll want to hear. “It’s got a happy ending,” I tell him.
“Take it easy on him,” Kat whispers, because she is a fucking angel, and I love her to death.
I’ll try. I’ll try.
“Once upon a time,” I begin, modulating my pitch down to Disney storyteller level, “there was a father who wasn’t a father. He was an evil wizard, without the magic powers.” I nod, enlarging my eyes for emphasis. A small sob escapes my sister, and I’m sorry, but I can’t stop now.
“A princess lived in his dungeon. She was an itty-bitty princess, and one night when her brother, the prince, was away on a tournament—” I lower my voice and cup my mouth to indicate how I’m revealing a secret. “That’s me, Father, at the karate black-belt grading test.” I wink before I continue, “—the wizard beckoned for the princess to join him in his chambers. His chalice was empty and his head and his dick were raging. The wizard—or was he a devil?—took the girl to his royal en suite and locked the door.
“But, see, the brother-prince knew better than to stay behind at the tournament once he’d won. He galloped over the moat on his fair stallion, threw the reins to the stable boy, and dashed into the dark castle.”
My sister laughs through her tears, laughs at my fairytale, and the pressure in my chest drops.
“The brother-prince ran to the dungeon and discovered that the itty-bitty princess was gone. He wasted no time running to the wizard’s chambers where he knocked, then used his tournament skills to break down the door.”
The piggy eyes staring at me from the pillow have widened. They plead of me to stop, but I won’t—can’t—even when Kat’s low giggles fade and die.
“And guess what he found?” I use the tone of a kindergarten teacher who dreams of Broadway; I’m excited to let my audience in on the conclusion. Fucking ecstatic to rub salt and vinegar, whatever else medieval heroes tortured their victims with, into my father’s wounds.
“Eeenuff…” my father manages through a cough.
“Sorry, didn’t get that,” I say, hardhearted like him.
“The brother-prince barges in and finds the wizard on his throne in the en suite. The itty-bitty princess sits astride his lap, and neither of them wear royal underpants.” I’m not smiling anymore. I’m not in character, because—
“The fucking wizard was a child molester and the brother-prince saves the princess in the nick of time!”
I’m done. I’m done. I could so easily destroy the monster on the bed that’s too good for him. Demolish this room. I get up to leave. I rake a helpless hand through my hair and my eyes connect with Kat’s watery brown ones.
“You didn’t finish,” her small voice nudges.
“What?” I ask. My chest still needs air, expanding and shrinking too fast. “You want more?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “This is the best part.”
Katsu is right. I did promise a happy ending, and I’ve focused too much on the bad. I owe it to my sister to detail the good. The thought makes me feel less wrecked.
“True,” I say, inhaling a lungful of oxygen. “The brother-prince ripped the itty-bitty princess off the evil wizard who was not a father. He put her behind him, out of reach from the wizard. Grabbed the wizard by his shirt collar, and placed him on his feet.
“In quick succession, the brother-prince fired off a series of bare-knuckle swipes and kicks. The rising elbow strike caught the wizard off guard and sent him pummeling to the ground, but the brother-prince wasn’t done. No, not at all done.”
My father’s eyes close, lids trembling. He can’t escape this.
“The brother-prince was a karate expert,” my sister whispers, licking a tear that has leaked into her mouth.
“He was,” I say, straightening a bit. I’m in character again, and I like the way we’re summing this up together. “So the brother-prince hoisted the half-naked wizard off the floor. Shoved him into the wall, and got him with a rising punch first. Then, he followed up with a gut-wrenching mid-level punch and a double hook that left his face in shambles. In the end, the spear-hand strike that broke his clavicle sealed the deal.”
My sister claps. It’s a faint, fragile thing that doesn’t indicate joy.
“What did the itty-bitty princess do?” she asks.
“She got the brother-prince out of the bathroom before he could destroy the wizard,” I sigh out. Kat nods, her eyes so full of tears I can’t believe they don’t spill over. I let out a laugh.
“Your eyes, Sis. Are you trying to hold back?”
She smiles, drying them with the back of her hand. “Did she live happily ever after?”
“Yes, yes, the itty-bitty princess did. Because the brother-prince sent her to another, better kingdom, where there were no wizards, only real moms and new schools.”
“New schools.” She emits a choked laugh.
“Yeah, new schools.” I help dry her tears, pull her into the crook of my arm and walk her toward the door. Neither of us turns to say as we head out and back to the car.
I’m mad at myself for my scheduling deficiency. We had to race to the airport after visiting the sperm donor. I’m leaving, and Leon is not okay. As good as it felt to hear him tell the fairytale version of my last night in our father’s house, I wish I’d gone alone to the hospital. My Shishi almost lost it, and I hate to see him this way.
He’s kept the memories stitched up, but now they’re bleeding fresh. He should have someone with him, to keep him from suffering. I stare at him seated across from me in front of the security gates. The minutes tick by, and we’re not smiling anymore. If it weren’t for my job, my awesome, too good for someone with an associate’s degree in game design job, I’d move back temporarily. Until this dirt has been cleaned up.
Shishi’s elbows are on his knees, his fingers running through his hair. He senses my gaze on him and looks up, milky blues prodding me.
“Are you going to be okay, Kat?” he asks, always concerned for
me. “Sorry I couldn’t stop in there. Not the kind of shit you wanted to rehash.”
I ruffle his hair and speak in a burst of bravery. “Don’t worry about me. I’m strong. I cry. I survive.”
“Yes, you do.” He links an arm around my head and pulls my forehead in against his. “You be good out there, okay?”
It’s the cue for my lower lip. It starts quivering. “Always.”
I stare after my Shishi when he leaves. Head held high, he weaves his way out, sinuously dodging the crowd going in the opposite direction. Soon, he’s a dark silhouette that makes sliding doors open and close. The other travelers file to the checkpoint one by one, and I get in line too.
Before we left Smother, I exchanged phone numbers with Arriane and Ingela. Now, I text Arriane.
Watch my brother for me? Rough day at the hospital.
Her reply ticks in as I get comfortable in my aisle seat. Is he okay?
Before I turn off the phone, readying myself for takeoff, I reply.
Not sure. Dad’s out of the coma.
It’s Sunday, the slowest night of the week at Smother. My shield is back up by the time I park the car and approach Jason at the entrance.
Besides Christian and Arriane, he’s the only one at the bar who’s seen me go rogue. He physically saved me from making fucking crazy decisions when Pandora left me for Dominic. I promptly fired him, but I missed his ass and offered him the job again a few days later.
“What about the severance package?” he’d asked in the gravelly voice that keeps the lunatics at bay in the club. “Was gonna buy a motorcycle.” I’d snorted and told him to keep the payout as long as he came back.
I shake Jason’s hand in greeting. “Hey, man. What are the stats so far?”
He checks the manual counter he swears by, Jason’s little hang-up. He’s loving that I ask. “Not too shabby for a Sunday, boss. We’ve got a hundred and thirteen heads.”
“Nice,” I say and slap his back like it’s his doing. By the way he tilts his head, beaming, he thinks so too.
“No problem, boss.”
I consider taking my unfinished rage upstairs to the Bag Room. With a hundred guests, they can handle business without me for a couple of hours. Got to check on Arriane, though.
My baby mama.
Jesus.
If I dwell on this fact too right now, my head will explode, so I don’t. All I need is to make sure she’s fine, then I’ll head upstairs.
As usual, I linger in the doorway to the main room. Behind the counter, Arriane sways her hips to the music. Ingela does too—in her jeans yet again. The two girls are polar opposites and a knockout together. Ingela shakes her short, natural blonde hair wildly, emphasizing some story she’s telling, and Arriane throws her long black mane back, giggling at her shenanigans.
I blow out a puff at the sight of them; for a second, all’s right with the world. As if Arriane senses my attention, she straightens and waves at me. She hasn’t done that in a while, not since last year. Lately, she’s teetered between staying out of my way—and giving in whenever I corner her.
Instead of waving back, I cross to the bar with a purpose. Arriane is handing over a Corona to a regular as I enter behind her. “Arriane—Ingela. All good?” I tip my head up, making sure they can read my lips. It’s what you do in rooms this loud.
“Yes, sir!” Ingela screams in her signature way. The girl mouths nothing.
I point at her jeans, and she nods fervently. “Oh! Sorry! I brought my work pants, though!”
Ingela is quite the character. Between the runway looks and her happy-go-lucky attitude, I understand why she’s got several “gays” coming in most nights, vying for her erratic attention.
Arriane shakes her head at me, a small smirk playing on lips I love to kiss. “She didn’t. I brought them.”
I break into an actual smile for the first time since the hospital visit. “Incorrigible.”
“Totally.”
I want to touch her. Rest my arm around her waist and cradle her stomach with my hand. Shield whatever could hurt her—him—with myself. I see the pulse at her neck. The shifting lights above don’t allow me to count the beats or decide if it’s rapid, slow, or just right. But if my lips were on it, I’d know.
I puff out a breath, almost wishing she’d get sick. I’d take her upstairs, then—tend to her. Fucking A. If I got to clean vomit, I might not need the Bag Room.
“What’s so funny?” she asks me.
“Oh, nothing,” I reply. She doesn’t want anyone to know that she’s slept with the boss, which I respect. I lean in, acting like we’re conducting club business. “He’s not making you sick tonight?” I ask.
She smiles up at me but keeps her thoughts hidden. “No, he’s being a good boy. Sleeping and letting me keep the crackers down.”
“Can you eat something else? You’re getting skinny.”
“Eggs. I loooove eggs.”
“I’m an egg-making champion,” I say into her ear even though I could start rumors by doing so. Thankfully, the only ones close by are Ingela, who’s with a customer, and Christian. His girl, Shannon, is here, keeping him busy.
A patron flags Arriane down, indicating some sort of mixed drink. He’s trying to order with gestures only, it seems.
“He wants a San Francisco!” Ingela shrieks to Arriane, and the guy bobs his head like she just won the lottery. She’s good. No idea how she did that.
San Francisco.
My mind’s back to my little sister. She’s safely on her plane, flying back to her real life. A better life. A fist clenches in my stomach as I stop myself from ruminating over the life she left here again. The evil wizard. Fuck.
“Arriane,” I say. “Gotta head upstairs for a minute. Walk straight in if you need the bathroom, all right?”
She’s at the blender, vermouth in one hand and sloe gin in the other, pouring. Her face is hidden, so I pull back her hair. Ingela snipes a glance our way, which reminds me to step down on the touching.
“Thank you, boss,” Arriane replies, and I’m not so sure I like my job title on her lips anymore. Fucking efficient way of creating distance.
I change immediately, even bind my hands. At the moment, gloves defeat the purpose for me, but a little tape never hurts. I’ve got my system. I know what works. Besides having kinky-ass sex, this and my bike are the only things that calm me down. Bare-chested and in my black gi pants, I rage into the heavy bag.
The music from the club thunders through the floor, but I need more, so I shove in a CD before I continue. The collision between the tunes downstairs and my own death metal make me want to break into a crazy laugh.
I don’t, though, because I’m spending my energy on this. For every punch, I visualize my father’s face when I took him down at sixteen. The shock, the bruises, the blood I left him with. The fucking cracked collarbone.
Something surges in me at the thought—I force everything else away. There’s no room for Katsu’s broken expression on his lap before I ripped her off him.
I tear into the medium bag. Tear at it, tear at it—killing the damn thing like I wish I’d done to him. The mirror tosses back my glistening shape.
What evil god let him survive the stroke?
I snarl out my disappointment, joining the chorus of ugly roars from the stereo, and I don’t stop, don’t stop killing him until a hand touches my shoulder. I freeze, because not even here, in my sanctuary, am I less than one step from control.
My chest rasps with the need for oxygen. I realize I have none left, and my lungs can’t pull it in fast enough. In the mirror, I see her, small, scared, watching me gulp down air. She’s smothered in this music that’s straight from hell, the opposite of anything she represents, and the baby—
Shit, the baby can’t be hearing this!
I bound to the stereo and power it off. From below, a ballad slinks into our bubble, and I stare at her, wordless.
Enormous eyes flicker with compassion. With slow, tentativ
e steps, she narrows in cautiously, like I’m the frightened one. I cover my face with my hands. Shut her out. Move back into the corner I’m in.
“Sweetie,” she whispers.
I see the two of us from outside myself.
This man. His shoulders uncurl, straightening his body into the imposing, don’t-you-fuck-with-me posture I know. Emerging from widespread fingers, his face lifts, stills—reveals irises lustrous with agony when they trap mine.
I move, keep moving toward him.
This man. He’s a wild creature, a cornered animal that wants to flee, but he’s Leon too, the one I don’t stop loving, and he needs—needs…
“Stay the fuck away right now, Arriane. Go. Leave!”
No. Katsu’s text message breached my resistance. I’m here because he’s suffering, and I want to alleviate this pain. I’ll never jeopardize the baby’s happiness for Leon’s, but before he’s born, I’ll be here for his father. For now, the only one who will hurt if I comfort Leon, is me.
“Sweetie,” I mouth again. With the instincts of a jungle cat, Leon shakes his head, perceiving my intent. I inhale for courage and take the final step into him.
Sweat, musk, teary cologne. Distress drips from muscles taut and ready for attack. “Arriane, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You don’t want this—how I’d be with you. You! Are not made for this.”
He shouts the last part, and I blink, absorbing and rejecting his warning; I experienced him going nuts on New Year’s Eve and survived. I won’t let that intimidate me again. All I want is for him to be—
“You done being a victim, Arria?” Leon’s tone has changed. Suddenly, it slinks low, caressing me with each syllable. “You’ve got five seconds to scurry off. Go be safe somewhere. Go home, okay? All the way back to that fuzzy, pink little place you probably have.”
How can so much tension, such menace, vibrate in such a quiet voice? He barely breathes out his threats, and yet my pulse rattles in every limb.
“Bet your bed smells like you.” He drags a hand over his face. “Ah! Arria. Let me finish this. Please leave.”
“I can’t,” I say, and suddenly I realize it’s what I always tell him. Lately, no matter what he asks for, I can’t. This time, it’s to his benefit, though, and he catches the difference too.