Living Violet

by Jaime Reed

  “Dream big, Cake Boy. Reach for the stars.”

  Smiling, he drew me closer. “Come on, lie back down.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  Pulling me down, he held me tight in his arms. “Well, I’m not. So please, humor me.”

  20

  I climbed the walls with that nail-biting, floor-pacing, methadone-clinic restlessness.

  I hadn’t heard one word from Caleb in two days. He didn’t return my calls or answer his phone. He barely looked at me at work, and when he did, it was only to ask me for Robbie’s phone number. Granted, Robbie was the one to call when organizing a coup or partaking in espionage; however, what Caleb wanted with him remained a mystery—a mystery that he had no intention of sharing.

  Sneaking a kiss on the neck, he purred, “All will be revealed in due time. It’ll take a few days to get everything straight. I’ll tell you then.”

  Caleb’s motives came into question yet again. Did he hang out with me out of gratitude? Did he see me as a challenge or something safe to be around? Maybe I had been too hard on him for feeding on me and he wanted to give me space. It’s not like I didn’t have a right to be upset.

  I’d never had a hangover, but if it was anything like what I felt the day after our club adventure, then I’d stick to a simple concussion. Caleb assured me that he didn’t take enough energy to cause harm, but no one told me about the disorientation that occurred while recuperating. Not to mention the obscure sense of loss. Caleb may have taken a drop, but I felt its absence, like a fading dream, a name on the tip of the tongue.

  In either case, Caleb couldn’t get away without a proper scolding only heard from drunken sailors with Tourette’s syndrome. Despite the lethargy and the morning-after regret, there was an element of intimacy about it. A part of my life resided in him, sustaining him, bringing him joy. But that wasn’t enough to dismiss the gross factor.

  To keep occupied, I spent the day cleaning and reading. I made it halfway through the book for the monthly meeting, when Katy Perry’s “ET” killed all tranquility. Reaching for my bag, I fished out my cell, then yelled, “Oh, so you know how to use a phone now?”

  “The buttons are tricky, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.” Caleb laughed. “I told you I was working on something.”

  “Yeah, you just left out what that something was.”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “You’ll like this one. Can you come over?” he asked.

  I stared at the phone as if it bit me. “Now?”

  “If you’re free.”

  His nerve knew no bounds. I put the phone back to my ear and unleashed the pent-up anger. “You expect me to drop everything I’m doing just to see you?”

  “It would be nice,” he crooned, sounding amused at my frustration.

  “You must’ve forgotten who you’re talking to. I don’t jump through hoops for a guy. And I’m not at your beck and call.”

  “I know. I’ll make it worth your while,” he enticed, and I wondered why he sounded better on the phone than in person.

  “I’m not sure that I wanna go. What if I have a date?”

  “Is that where you’re going now?” His tone dripped with accusation.

  “What?”

  “I heard your car start. Are you meeting up with someone?”

  I looked around and took in the new setting. There I was in pajama shorts and flip-flops inside my car with keys in the ignition. The last thing I remembered was sitting on my bed. I had never encountered a mental blackout like that before, and I wondered if Capone’s mojo could travel through phone waves.

  “Hello? Sam?”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “Yeah?”

  “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” He ended the call.

  I banged my head against the steering wheel. As Mom would say, “Ignorance was to not know, and stupidity was to not know and not care.”

  Pulling out of the driveway while still in my pajamas, I came to the conclusion that I was grade-A certified stupid for Caleb. I knew it, Caleb knew it. The entire eastern seaboard knew it. This was so unfair.

  I could now sympathize with drug addicts. They understood the illness, fully aware that what they crave would probably kill them, and yet they go back for more.

  For most addictions, the need accumulated through an ongoing course of events. Deep-seated tragedies and childhood trauma were common factors. The behavior was inexcusable, but the addict eagerly supplied excuses nonetheless, either out of self-pity or a way to pass blame to someone else.

  My defense was blatantly simple: It was all Caleb’s fault.

  When I got to Caleb’s house, he met me at the curb, jumping up and down with no shoes on. It was good to know that I wasn’t alone in my insanity. I barely shut off the car before he opened the door and pulled me out, then herded me inside the house.

  “What was so important that you ha—” I stopped at the sight of his living room. CDs were scattered everywhere with state-of-the-art music equipment, wires, cables, crates of albums, and a turntable in the corner.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  Sweeping a hand across the open space, he said, “This is my surprise.”

  “What? That you need a maid?”

  “No. I think I found something stimulating. Music.”

  “Okay.” I struggled to follow the logic.

  “I talked to Robbie and he set me up with the deejay that played at his party. We’ve been talking for the past few days—he’s been showing me the ropes.”

  “Wait, back it up. You want to be a deejay, like on the radio?”

  “No, a club deejay. I’ve always loved music, and I have a wide collection that no one has. Mark, the deejay at the party, came by and lost his mind at all the albums I have. Half this stuff you can’t find in the U.S. I let him borrow some in exchange for coaching. I even got a turntable to practice on. Right now I’m organizing a set.”

  “Do you even know how to mix?”

  “I dabbled in it in high school, but I never thought it would come to anything. But I’m learning. Give it time. Right now I’m compiling a playlist for Mark. He knows a promoter in D.C. that’s looking for some new talent.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Nothing’s set in stone. I still need to hear back from Mark, but I’m pretty excited. And Robbie wants me to mix at his next party.”

  “What party?”

  “He’s having a birthday bash in two weeks, and he wants me to deejay.”

  “Why didn’t I hear about a party?” And when did he start calling him Robbie?

  Caleb patted my shoulder in sympathy. “I guess you’re out of the loop.”

  “That’s it; I’m leaving.” I went for the door, but he pulled me to him.

  “Aren’t you happy?” he whispered in my ear.

  “I’m happy, you’re happy, Capone’s happy; all is right with the world.”

  “But,” he pressed.

  I didn’t like being so needy, but I had to know the score before whatever this was went any further. By clearing the air now, I could walk away with half my sanity intact.

  “What are we?” I asked.

  Caleb seemed a little slow on the uptake, so I gave him hand gestures to help him along. “Us. You and me. Are we dating?”

  “That was my impression.”

  “What does that make me?”

  He looked at me like I was slow. “My girlfriend?”

  “I never got that memo. You expect me to read minds now?”

  “I thought you knew. I’ve known since the night at Europia Park.”

  The news took me aback. “Really?”

  Caleb had the gall to laugh, a deep, throaty laugh. “Yeah. I told you I wasn’t into the lovey-dovey stuff.”

  “Well, a girl needs to know these things. What if a guy approaches me? What am I supposed to say?” I asked.

  All humor left his face and tone. “You
’re taken.”

  Lifting my chin, I turned away from him. “By who? You haven’t staked any claim.”

  Caleb obviously saw that as a challenge. In a blink, I sat on top of his kitchen counter with my legs wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck.

  Vibrant eyes burned into mine, singling me out as marked prey, a position most intoxicating and equally disturbing. “I never saw you as one for formalities.”

  “Me either.”

  Placing my hand over his heart, he said, “In that case, I, Caleb Nolan Baker, hereby declare you, Samara Nicole Marshall, esquire, as my main squeeze. I proclaim exclusivity and promise devotion and loyalty. I am internally, externally, and eternally, yours.”

  One could knock me over with a feather. I could now understand why brides cried at weddings. Though the declaration was overkill, my heart couldn’t stop racing, and his nearness made me pant.

  “Sam?” he whispered. “You okay?”

  Probably sporting a half-baked grin on my face, I nodded. “Yeah, I’m just a little buzzed. I thought you said you weren’t sappy?”

  “It’s not sappy if it’s true,” he countered.

  “Well then.” I placed his hand over my heart. “I, Samara Nicole Marshall, esquire, declare you, Caleb Nolan Baker, as my main squeeze. I proclaim exclusivity and promise devotion and loyalty. I appoint you keeper of my heart and champion of my terrestrial and celestial domain.”

  Fighting hard not to laugh, his cheeks reddened. “That’s not much acreage.”

  I pushed his chest. “Hey, you put me on the spot.”

  “Didn’t you bring up the topic?”

  “I know, but I wasn’t expecting you to get all syrupy on me.”

  He trapped my face in his hands. “We’ve been officially dating for ten seconds and we’re already fighting.”

  “As long as we don’t end up like Dougie and Mia, I’m cool.”

  Nodding in agreement, he said, “Mia loves Doug a lot.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “She doesn’t react to me. She might give me a look or two, but she’s not attracted. That means she’s happy.”

  Threading my fingers through his hair, I wondered why guys were blessed with softer hair than girls, or was it due to all the products girls put in their hair? I was learning a lot about Caleb Baker. He was a closet romantic with a caged ardor that had me anticipating his next move. He was also very sensitive around the ears. My playing invoked a response that left him gripping my hips and struggling for breath.

  Seeing the internal conflict in his eyes, I decided to provide a distraction. “I have a question. When you fed from me, what did you learn?”

  He stared off for a moment, rounding up his mental resources. Grimacing, he said, “When you were three, you drank from the toilet. Your favorite color is light green. You hate any type of injustice, no matter how small. You over-analyze too much, and you love very deeply. That’s why you don’t do it often.”

  I gaped at him. “All that from a drop?”

  “It’s fragmented. I only get small flashes. Um, why were you drinking from the toilet?”

  “I don’t know, but my mom’s got pictures,” I replied before noticing the sudden change in his demeanor. His breathing grew shallow; stress lines appeared around his face as he withstood a private torment.

  I cupped his jaw and searched his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hungry,” he growled and turned his head away.

  Unsettled by the cold response, I attempted to slide off the counter. “We can go grab something to eat.”

  His hands kept me still. “Not for food.”

  “Uh-huh. What exactly are you hungry for?”

  Despite his evident pain, an insidious grin split his face. “Get your head out the gutter, Miss Marshall. I’m referring to my roommate.”

  “Speaking of the gutter; let me ask you something. Have you ever ... you know?”

  “Had sex?” When I nodded, he answered, “Of course. I’m a walking chick magnet, but it’s been a while for me though.”

  “How long?”

  “Five months.”

  That wasn’t the answer I expected, but I tried to keep an open mind. “Oh. I figured you’d—”

  “It’s a little dangerous to be involved with women like that, don’t you think?”

  Seeing his point, I asked, “How did you do it before and not hurt them?”

  A nice shade of pink rushed to his cheeks and neck. “This aggression from women is only a recent thing, so it wasn’t that difficult. The enticement works with eye contact, and I was in a situation where we didn’t have to look at each other.” He didn’t say any more, and he didn’t need to.

  “Don’t you miss it?”

  “I’m a guy, Sam. Of course I miss it, but not enough to put a woman in danger.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s a great stimulant. Scratch that—it’s one of the best—but there’s something even better.”

  “What?”

  “Feeding. Words can’t describe it. Sex is more a physical thing, where feeding is far more intimate. I’m taking in life, the physical, mental, emotional blueprint of existence. It’s intense; so much is coming at you at once. It’s like you’re dying and living in that exact moment. The rush is better than anything that you will ever know, which is why my celibacy hasn’t driven me crazy yet.”

  Seeing the elation in his eyes, I could only imagine the thrill that came with the act. This man literally got high on life, and I wanted to become his supplier. I wanted that look to remain on his face whenever he saw me.

  “When was the last time you fed?” I asked.

  “Last night.”

  “How is that going, anyway?”

  “Pretty good. I try to feed twice a day, but I haven’t gotten around to it today. Being near you doesn’t help.”

  I shrugged, offering no pity. “You invited me over.” “I know you’re worried about what would happen, but is there any way it’s possible for us to kiss again?” Biting his lip, he stared at me with the eyes of a naughty child who promised to behave.

  “I don’t know. I’m still freaked out over the last time.” I hesitated, not sure how to get the words out. “But, if you need me ... you can have me.”

  His eyes fixed to mine, trying to find meaning in my statement and any sign of objection. I answered him with silence.

  He reached for my hands and dragged his lips across my wrist. “The pull isn’t nearly as strong this way, but you may feel a little light-headed.”

  His moist lips, his hot breath, the stubble on his chin wreaked havoc on my nervous system. The warmth traveled up my arm to my vertebrae. During his slow exploration up my arm, every movement illustrated the need for control, which only heightened the excitement.

  Closing my eyes, I presented trust and vitality as an offering, a gift that he handled with care. My thoughts flew back to our first kiss in the bookstore as the pulling sensation returned—the numb weightlessness, the icy tickle of static on my skin. Textures and heat I never knew existed invaded my body, assailing all reasoning. Not just touch, but all the senses fostered pleasure. I relinquished all purchases of self for the sake of the moment, for the sake of the pull. The longer the contact, the more of me bled away.

  Feathery strands tickled my cheek when he reached my shoulder. His breath shivered against my throat. “Sam?”

  “Huh?”

  He tipped my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “What do you see?”

  I stared into the vast plane of lavender and saw the life behind the world, that uncharted territory never seen by the living, where the flesh could never endure. I alone could see his eyes that way, which secured our bond long after all things of this world ceased.

  Touching his face, I whispered, “I see joy.”

  The next three hours took place in Caleb’s arms on the sofa. I rested against his chest, counting the spaces between each heartbeat and inhalation of air. I gave in to the moment: a feelin
g so convoluted, so pure, it was blinding. The slow descent from the clouds made me drowsy, and the fall settled me into a warm embrace that greeted below. Light fingers dragged across my arm and neck, coaxing me into sleep.

  “What did you learn about me this time?” I asked.

  His fingers coiled around my hair. “People gray early in your family. When you found a streak, you dyed it white and red in defiance.”

  “Wow, I never told anyone that.”

  “I know. I like it. I also learned that you trust me.”

  I lifted my head. “Oh yeah?”

  “I’m glad. I promise to keep that trust intact.” He held me tighter as if his security blanket would be taken away. Though I couldn’t see his face, I knew something bothered him. Before I could mention it, he asked, “How are you feeling? You need some more orange juice?”

  “You made me drink a whole carton.”

  “It helps you recuperate faster; you won’t get that hungover feeling.”

  “You should have told me that the last time.”

  He rolled onto his side and pulled me to him. “Must’ve slipped my mind.” His lips brushed my forehead; his hands drew me closer. It seemed that we couldn’t get close enough. I wanted to merge with him, graft my skin to his. He smelled like the inside of a bakery, warm and sweet, just like him.

  Before I dozed off, I heard him say, “It doesn’t take much to make me happy, but the simplest things are sometimes the hardest to get. But when it finally arrives, heaven help those who try to take it away from me.”

  21

  The first week of August was an entertaining one.

  Mia and Dougie broke up that Monday on account of a pregnancy scare. Maybe she found death a turn-on, because the day after Garrett’s funeral, Mia and Dougie finally sealed the deal. After three years of dating, they figured it would cement their bond as destined soul mates. Folly it was, considering she broke up with him the second her period ran late.

  Dougie called, begged, even camped outside of my house the day of the test, so Mia had to park a block away and enter from the back porch. As we waited for the verdict to read from five home pregnancy tests, I told Mia the latest on me and Caleb—minus the demonic possession, of course.