“They’re cut up and bloody. And do you know why?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell us,” Mosley said.
“Tryna cut logs from a tree to build a raft. With a switchblade.”
“We have a chainsaw.”
“But no fuel,” Deborah said.
Mosley sighed. “Of course. And I’m guessing this switchblade didn’t work.”
“The effort was there,” Deborah said. “James kept going despite the pain he must’ve felt in his hands. He did that for each of us. We should be putting our heads together to come up with a solution to our boat problem instead of condemning this man.”
Mosley turned to Merritt. “Maybe we’re being a bit rash. Deborah here makes a compelling argument. Do you have any thoughts about how we’ll manage this mess you’ve gotten us into?”
“No.”
“That’s it? No?”
“That’s it,” Merritt said.
Mosley shook his head and looked at Deborah again. “He’s very inspiring, my dear. A regular Che Guevara. We should emblazon his image on T-shirts and fucking coffee mugs. Let’s all run through brick walls for him.”
“You’re upset.”
“You think?”
“Take a deep breath, Mosley.”
“Oxygen I have plenty of, darling. Water? Medicine? Other shit? Not so much. So fuck a deep breath.”
“We’ll survive this.”
“The outlook isn’t very bright, sweetie.”
“On the surface it isn’t,” Deborah acknowledged. “And if you keep talking down to me—with all the ‘darlings’ and ‘sweeties’ and ‘honeys’—it’ll be even worse for you.”
“I apologize. And I didn’t actually call you ‘honey,’” Mosley softly replied.
Merritt stifled a grin.
“So how do you suggest we proceed?” Haywood asked Deborah.
“We give James some time to figure this out.”
“A week sound fair?”
“No.”
Mosley blew out an air of frustration. “You’re starting to sound like him. Two weeks?”
“Okay.”
Mosley shook his head, a tiny smile at play on his lips. “You’re a hellcat.”
“From a long line of ‘em,” Deborah said.
Mosley turned to Merritt. “You’ve got yourself a fine woman here.”
Merritt stood, impassive.
Mosley shook his head. “From Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis to Michele Obama to Deborah…”
“Rambhajan,” Deborah supplied.
“Mmm. Can’t say it has a First Lady ring to it.”
“I’m betting it’ll grow on you,” Deborah said, smiling.
Merritt frowned, tired of this happy-go-lucky bullshit. He’d much rather they kept ripping at his throat. “Is a vote still in order?”
Mosley looked at the others—Haywood, Pleasant, Will, everyone. Then he shook his head. “We can hold off for the two weeks Deborah bargained for you.”
“We’ll talk more tomorrow then,” Merritt said, dismissing them.
There were no more murmurs. No complaints. Mosley and the others turned, nearly in unison, and started making their way back toward the tents. Will looked back over his shoulder as he stumbled away with the rest of them. Pleasant moved forward with the same slow pace of usual. Merritt watched them go, Deborah beside him. She said, “You’re welcome, James.”
“I’m heading back to the beach. You coming?”
“Not even a thank you?”
“You coming?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said, “but if you stay with that ungrateful attitude you won’t be.”
That made him smirk. “Coming, you mean?”
“Yuh.”
“An idle threat.”
“Aye, you would say that. You’re a badjohn, nuh?”
“A bully? I won’t deny it.”
Surprise glowed in Deborah’s eyes. “You know it? Badjohn?”
Merritt nodded.
“You continue to surprise me, James Merritt.”
He smiled. “I’ve plenty more surprises for yah, doux-doux.”
Sweetie, sweetheart.
“Jeez-an-ages,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re back to your old self, nuh?”
Merritt’s smirk turned into a full-out smile. “More so than ever. Which you will soon find out.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“Some light?”
Aiden blinked in the darkness and focused on the woman’s head cradled in his lap. But he could only make out the shape of it—the gloom obscured the bruises painted into her skin. For that he was grateful.
“I lost someone close to me as well. Couldn’t find my way to a full night’s rest for several months after I buried her. I started taking Rohypnol. Rope. Flunitrazepam. It’s meant to be a short-term drug treatment, but, well…”
Aiden closed his eyes, wanting the voice to cease, to go away. Wanting this to be a nightmare he would wake from. But with the voice came the odors of raw earth and sweat, the sound of boots scraping across the floor as the man behind the voice moved farther into the room.
“…it’s been suggested that my dopamine levels make me susceptible to compulsions, impulse control issues, patterns of addictive behavior.”
Aiden whispered, “Could you leave me alone with her, Dmitri?”
“I’m boring you?”
Despite the darkness, Aiden could visualize Dmitri’s pinched eyes, his flared nostrils, the muscles churning in his jaw. There was a hint of choler in his voice. Aiden softened his own tone as a counterpoint. “I’d just like some time with her.”
“Isn’t that what I’ve given you here?”
“Alone,” Aiden said.
Dmitri’s boots scraped closer. “You think it’s prudent to be pushy rather than gracious?”
“Thank you for cutting her down,” Aiden said softly.
For a moment Dmitri’s breaths—animal rasps—were the only sound in the room. Then his breathing evened out, and he asked, “What do you think made her do it?”
“I imagine that’s a question I’ll ponder for a long, long time,” Aiden whispered.
Dmitri clucked his tongue. “A real shame, this. Your Lemon was a beautiful woman. I’m going to miss seeing her sashay around. She had some walk on her.”
“Just a few minutes alone with her,” Aiden tried again. Calm and reserved, mindful that Dmitri was baiting him and to fall for the trap would be folly.
“You can have five. I’ll get the light for you on my way out.”
“You don’t have t—”
But the room brightened, and Dmitri’s heavy boots retreated, and he tromped out through the front door, the porch moaning under his weight. Aiden released a breath. His head spun as he regarded the room. Saffron-yellow walls, a coffee table covered with a doily of dust, a tapestry throw rug corroded with balls of white lint. The floral print chair Lemon had used to stand on—turned over on its side now in the center of the parlor. The chandelier above the chair, still swaying, a fringe of ragged curtain tied and hanging from it. The low ceiling. Fucking low ceiling.
His fingers trembled and tears stung his eyes as he traced the outline of Lemon’s face. In the movies or poorly written novels this would be the point when, voice choked with emotion, he’d call out, “Why? Why? Why?” But despite what he’d said to Dmitri, the “why” of it all simply didn’t matter. Lemon was gone. And her absence would remain with Aiden for the balance of his days. There was some irony in that, he thought. An absence that was forever present.
Inexplicably, he started to hum a hushed tune. It was a made-up melody, one he couldn’t recall ever hearing before. But it was oddly soothing. Personal. Intimate. Somewhere he hoped Lemon was smiling.
The front door creaked open. The porch hadn’t moaned, so whoever this was, they weren’t as large as Dmitri. Aiden had an idea who it might be. “Shepherd?”
“May I enter?”
“Give me a moment,” Aiden replied. He worked t
o loosen the knot of shorn curtain from around Lemon’s neck. He didn’t want it to be the lasting image anyone had of her—save for himself and Dmitri. He balled the fabric and tossed it aside. Smoothed Lemon’s hair. Then went ahead and pushed it back away from her face. The furrow from the curtain tie had burned a belt mark into the skin around her throat. It took his breath away. Her eyes were still open. He looked into them for a moment before gently closing them. They mostly remained closed.
“Now?” Shepherd called.
Aiden found his mouth was too dry to form words. He mumbled something indecipherable.
The old man shuffled in, pausing at the threshold as he glanced at Aiden on the floor with his back pressed up against a mantel. Shepherd raised a hand to his bony chest as he noticed Lemon splayed out, her head in Aiden’s lap.
“Pull up a seat,” Aiden said, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.
“I think I’ll leave.”
“Nonsense.” Aiden’s tone almost cheery.
“Whatever I had with Lemon is…” Shepherd swallowed, shuddered. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll leave you to mourn in peace.”
“Her face is congested and scleral,” Aiden said as Shepherd turned to exit.
The old man turned back, frowned, moved into the room.
“I glanced at her eyes,” Aiden added. “There’s a clear presence of conjunctival petechial hemorrhages.”
Shepherd’s face looked as if it had aged in the time since Aiden had seen him last. Loose jowls, new wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. White beard stubble. He sighed as he looked down at Lemon. “I notice the mark from the ligature is horizontal as opposed to angled,” he said in a quiet voice.
Aiden smiled sadly. “You’re a wise old man, Shepherd.”
“All of which means…”
Aiden nodded. “She was strangled. She didn’t hang herself.”
Shepherd cleared his throat. “Whatever you’re thinking, you should stop thinking it.”
“What makes you think I’m thinking anything?” Aiden smiled. His fingers were still stroking Lemon’s face. “There’s a tongue twister for you.”
“Bloodlust,” the old man said, unmoved, it seemed, by Aiden’s attempt at levity. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Aiden shook his head. “Bloodlust? You’re mistaken. I avoid portmanteaus.”
“Odd you would focus so much on humor during a time like this.”
“Mmm.”
“Nothing you do will bring Lemon back. Nothing you do will mitigate the pain. Time is the only thing that will heal you.”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
“You should focus your energy on trying to leave this place.”
“You know what?” Aiden said. “You’re right. Here…come grab Lemon’s head. I’m packing my bags and blowing this joint. Tonight.”
“I’m serious.”
Looking into the old man’s eyes drained all of the humor from Aiden. “You have a plan.” It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t want to see anyone else hurt.”
“That’s what you call what they’ve done to Lemon…hurt her?”
“I don’t want to see anyone else die.”
“And your plan will get me out of here?”
The old man nodded. “Tomorrow at tiffin, if you’d like.”
“Tell me about this plan.”
“I think your chances are better the less you know in advance.”
“There’s a chance it will fail?”
“The only things promised are…”
“And what do I owe you in return?”
“Put aside the dark thoughts you’re having,” Shepherd told him. “Stop entertaining any idea of revenge.”
“Hmm.”
“Lemon wouldn’t want you to suffer simply because…”
“She suffered,” Aiden said softly. A sobering thought. “Tomorrow at tiffin then.”
He didn’t bother asking Shepherd what “tiffin” meant. It really didn’t matter.
Shepherd cleared his throat again. “And in the interim…”
“Don’t worry, old man. I’m out of the vengeance business.”
A bold lie, and yet Aiden could tell that Shepherd actually wanted to believe it.
✽ ✽ ✽
Her hair was the color of midnight, thick, and long as his arm. He grabbed ahold of it and yanked her head back. He gripped her waist with his other hand and forced her toward him as he thrust forward. Hard. A collision that had her mewling like a stray kitten.
“Shit,” she growled. “Harder.”
She was unlike any woman he’d ever dealt with. It shouldn’t have surprised him to discover that she liked it rough too. Their other times together had just been play. The equivalent of lovemaking with the lights on. This was realer. More authentic. More fulfilling.
“Harder dammit. Harder.”
He squeezed her hair until his fingers burned. Plunged in and out of her taut anus, his dick slathered with the last of the island’s Vaseline. Her idea. Birth control was as scarce as water and most other supplies, and she couldn’t imagine going through the nine months and then labor on this island. Plus, his ejaculate had somehow managed its way into her hair when he pulled out the last time they’d made love. Too much trouble. Have way with the bamsee instead.
“Bamsee, bamsee,” she sang. “Take it, baby. It’s yours. Take it.”
Her T-shirt and shorts lay in a corner of his tent. Her ripped panties trapped halfway down her thigh. He’d been too eager, too aroused, too ready to feel her heat. Sliding them off—too much trouble.
Something they both agreed on: life was too short to waste contending with trouble.
“Oh, yes,” she groaned. “That’s it. Damn that’s it.”
Her anus tightened around his throbbing dick like a fist. His stomach muscles clenched up. His legs began to tremble. His breaths coming in gasps. Warmth, all over.
“Don’t pull out,” she whispered. “Just let it go. Let it go, baby.”
His climax seemed endless, enough release to fill a small bowl. He fell away and let out one emphatic breath. A dying breath. Sex the closest any of us could come, he believed, to the edge without completely stepping across it.
She said, “Shit, boy,” and nothing else. Stood and stretched. Lifted her voluminous hair above her shoulders and ran her fingers through it. Sharp, bony ridges of spine raised beneath slick wet skin. High round ass as shiny as an overinflated soccer ball.
He watched as she gathered up her clothes and quietly dressed. Watched as she left the tent and went to dip her toes in the water.
He took a deep breath and sidled up next to her at the water’s edge. “You have to get back to Noah?”
“Might want some more of dat dere,” she replied, nodding at his soft, dangling penis.
“Still hungry?”
“Always.”
“I don’t think I could manage another go.”
“Is so?” She reached down and gripped him—played just below the head of his snake with her thumb. It started to stiffen right away.
“Most of the women I’ve been with…” His breathing quickened as she continued to stroke. “…wouldn’t suggest…”
“You have your way with their dookie chutes?”
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Fell silent. Unbelievably, within minutes of her stroking, he felt a warm spill on his thigh that made him shudder.
“It’s a different kind of pleasure,” Deborah explained as she wiped her hands on her shorts. “A different kind of sensation than in the vagina, for sure. I know it has the possibility of getting messy, but precautions can be taken for that.”
“Precautions?” Merritt asked, his voice raw.
Deborah smiled. “I emptied my bowels earlier today.”
Merritt shook his head. “That’s information I didn’t need.”
Deborah said, “There’s more on your mind.”
He frowned. “The women I’ve been rough
with? Afterwards their voices would get soft and they’d avert their eyes.”
“Troubled ’bout how you sexed ‘em?”
Merritt nodded.
Deborah smiled again. “No worries here. Sex is a battle best waged with ferocity.”
“You’re something else,” Merritt said, shaking his head and kicking at the water.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Meant it as one. Noah won’t be afraid at night without you with him?”
“Why you fixed so on my boy?”
“Concern.”
“He don’t need a father,” she said. “No matter how far you and I go with this.”
“No?”
“He’s an island boy. I’ve taught him to care after himself.”
“That’s good to hear.”
She nodded. Which was also good. It meant she hadn’t heard the strain in his voice.
After a minute of looking out over the water, she said, “Still can’t believe that bitch did dat with our boats. Any new ideas?”
“A few,” Merritt said.
“Lemee hear ‘em.”
He shook his head.
“You’re just full of secrets.” She eased behind him and kneaded the muscles of his back. “And still so tense, James.”
“I don’t trust,” he said softly.
“Don’t trust what?”
“The calm,” he whispered. “The people here.”
“Mosley, Haywood, and ‘em? I fixed that, James. You have some breathing room now, until you figure out what we do next.”
He chuckled, said, “breathing room,” more to himself than her.
“Wanna share what’s so funny, James?”
“Breathing room,” he repeated, turning slowly and looking into her eyes, seeing some realization bloom in them as he stepped forward a foot.
“No, do—”
Her voice was cut off as he wrapped his hands around her throat. She thrashed for the first little while. Staring at him the entire time, stupefied, her eyes brimming with tears that dribbled down her cheeks.
He stared back.
And squeezed harder.
No point in trying to run from this deed.
“I don’t trust,” he said out loud, once it was done, as he nudged Deborah’s lifeless body in the water with his foot.
In John Donne’s 17th meditation, the English metaphysical poet and cleric famously claimed, “No man is an island.”
Scared of the Dark Page 28