by Marta Acosta
Seven
Sorry, I don’t Prey that Way
A s Ian drove me back to Mercedes’s, I slipped off my shoes and rubbed my feet. There were no parking spaces, so he left his car double-parked. The windows of the house were dark. I was well aware that Mercedes wouldn’t get home from My Dive for hours. Ian walked me to the door.
“Ian, thank you so much for coming with me. I had a good time.”
“We always have a good time, querida.” He stepped close to me. “I’ve missed you.”
He took my hand and turned it. He bent his lips to the veins of my wrist. His mouth was warm and his teeth very gently nipped the skin. “Come with me,” he said. “We belong together.”
“I can’t. You know that.”
“Let me have one kiss. Then I’ll leave you.”
He was looking at me gravely. I didn’t know if I was attracted to him because he was so effortlessly sexy, or because he respected me despite my inclination toward silliness. Nancy had always said that it didn’t count as cheating if you had sex with someone you’d been with before. This wasn’t sex and there would be no sex. This was only a single friendly kiss between single friends.
“One kiss as a friend and then you go.”
His mouth was on mine then, his lips soft, his tongue slipping into my mouth, and he pressed me close to him. The kiss was slow, lingering. I hadn’t been kissed by anyone but Oswald for months. The kiss felt strange, yet familiar, reminding me of all the pleasure Ian had given me. I knew then that I was doing something very wrong.
I broke away from him, and my voice was shaky as I said, “Good night.”
“Until next time,” he said. He brushed his fingers along my throat. “Dream of me.”
I put the key in the lock and opened the door. I turned to wave good-bye. That was when I saw the movement between two cars. A figure was squatting down. Ian was standing by his car, looking down the street. The figure, dressed in dark jeans, a black-and-
white plaid shirt, and a ski mask, began moving in a crouch.
I dropped my shoes and took the steps two at a time. “Ian!” I cried as I ran across the sidewalk.
There was a flash of metal in the man’s hand that I saw as I tackled him. I felt nothing for a moment, then wetness on my arm.
The man scrambled out from under me and I saw alarm in his hazel eyes. He said something that sounded like “oh-oh-oh-oh.”
“Milagro!” Ian shouted.
Suddenly the man was gone and I heard footsteps running away. It wasn’t until I looked at my arm and saw the blood flowing from a deep gash that I felt the pain. I was able to recover from small cuts, but this was no small cut.
Ian lifted me in his arms and carried me inside. He kicked the door shut and carried me up the stairs and into Mercedes’s bedroom.
“Call an ambulance,” I said.
“No time.”
“This is bad, isn’t it?” I felt oblivion pulling at me and I closed my eyes.
“Milagro, try to stay awake.”
I opened my eyes. Blood drenched Mercedes’s creamy comforter. I really thought he should be calling an ambulance instead of taking out a gold penknife. I needed a doctor, not another trinket. My skin was clammy and I heard a sound that I realized was my own rapid, shallow breathing. I was so cold.
Ian shrugged off his jacket and yanked up his sleeve. Then he flicked open the knife. “This is going to hurt, darling, but it must be done.” Then he sliced his left palm with the knife and said, “Be brave.” The penknife clattered to the hardwood floor.
He pressed his hand to my open wound.
I screamed, but Ian’s right hand was over my mouth, muffling the sound.
It felt as if he was holding a branding iron to my flesh, pain so overwhelming that I fought against him, trying to stop it.
Ian said, “Bite down if it helps.”
I bit hard, going through the skin, tasting human blood for the first time since Oswald had infected me. Through my agony, I was aware that Ian’s blood was warm and viscous and delicious. Pleasure flooded over the pain, washing it away. I sucked on his hand and filled my mouth with his blood, felt it slipping down my throat.
“Milagro, please, do not die,” Ian said. His dark eyes, filled with something that looked like affection, gazed into mine.
I was in a bewildering place between pain and pleasure. Sensation surged through me and I felt as if I was moving toward something that might be death or ultimate delectation. I resisted the pain, I resisted the pleasure, and I held on. I released his palm from my teeth.
Ian bent over and kissed my brow, my temple, my cheek. He tucked his head against my neck and I felt safer.
“I’m cold,” I said.
Still gripping my arm with his hand, he folded the comforter over me and he lay down beside me. “Is that better?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you put yourself in harm’s way?” For the first time in our acquaintance, Ian sounded puzzled.
“To save you.”
“Milagro, I saw him. I was waiting for him to get closer. Promise you’ll never do anything like that again.”
I was too sleepy to think through any promises. I felt very peaceful and I worried that it might be the treacherous type of peace you feel when you are freezing to death, like in a Jack London story. So I did a survey of my body functions. Toes and fingers wiggleable: check. Eyeballs able to focus on objects both near and far: check. Lungs and heart operating in the normal range: check.
Ian released my arm. I shifted it out from under the comforter. Under the wash of red, I could see a long line demarking the gash. Ian brought my arm toward him and, like a cat grooming her kitten, began licking away at the smears of blood.
Placing my hand atop his head, I said, “I miss your curls.” Then I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
Eight
I’m not Sick, but I’m not Well
W hen I awoke, I reached for Oswald. I opened my eyes and recognized Mercedes’s sunny yellow ceiling with rosette molding around the vintage light fixture. I snuggled under the blankets for a second before I remembered what had happened: the mugger, the knife, the blood, Ian.
Panic squeezed me like an old tube of toothpaste. But I was safe here and now, breathing in and out, in and out. My body felt tender all over, even in places I never thought about, the insides of my elbows, the skin between my toes, the small of my back.
I glanced down and saw that the stained comforter had been replaced by blankets. I was wearing a long-sleeved, oversized My Dive T-shirt. After a moment’s hesitation, I shoved up the sleeve of the shirt and saw a shiny pink line of new skin on my arm.
A carafe of water and a tumbler were on the bedside. I sat up in bed and sharp pains like needles went through me. The room spun. I clenched the blankets in my hands and waited for the pain and dizziness to subside. I was so thirsty. By concentrating very hard, I was able to reach the carafe and bring it to my mouth. I drank all the water, felt it dribbling down my face, running along my neck.
Mercedes came into the room just as I was contemplating the advisability of standing up. She put her hands on her hips and stared at me.
I couldn’t bear seeing the anguish on the face that I loved so. “Morning, sunshine,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Why don’t you turn that frown upside down?”
“Milagro De Los Santos, don’t you ever do that again!”
“Do what?”
“Scare me to death. There was blood on the stairs and all over the comforter.”
“I plan to avoid any further displays of blood spillage.”
“How are you feeling?”
“A little weird, but alive,” I rasped. “Where is Ian?”
“He stayed until he was sure you were okay, but said he had to leave to take care of something urgent. I got the feeling he was going out looking for the guy who hurt you.”
She sat on the bed beside me. I reached for her hand and suddenly saw a confusing image of red, red, red all
over the creamy comforter, blood covering my arm, blood soaking Ian’s ivory shirt. My body flushed with heat, and I felt a surge of nausea. I released Mercedes’s hand and closed my eyes until the feelings passed. I hoped I was merely suffering from blood loss.
“A man with a knife tried to mug Ian,” I said. “For his money or his car, I don’t know.”
“Ian said you got hurt protecting him.”
“I just reacted. It was faster than saying, ‘Watch out, there’s a guy creeping out from between the cars.’ ”
“I thought we should take you to the hospital, but the wound was, well, mira, what the hell is that?”
I held out my arm. “My new and improved ability to heal. I don’t want to go to the hospital, but I do want to call the cops. Hell, Mercedes, you never told me things have gotten this bad here.”
“I called the police last night,” she said grimly. “I had to tell them that it was an attempted mugging, because there was no way I could explain your arm. They said you could go down to the station today.”
“What?” I said, as outraged as a vegan at the Cattlemen’s Banquet.
“They were handling a couple of drive-bys last night. Two teenage boys died. They didn’t have time for an attempted robbery.”
“What kind of society is this where violent crime is a normal occurrence?” I said, and we shared a sad look. “I’m supposed to meet Silas later, but if you fix me a cup of coffee now, I have time to file a police report. Where’s the closest station?”
I waited until Mercedes had left the room before I tried to get up. My body felt as it had during puberty, when things were mysteriously changing, when even my bones ached. I forced my legs over the side of the bed. Then I lurched up, and everything went woo-woo-woo. After I steadied myself, I walked slowly to the bathroom. I sat in the tub and let the shower wash away the remnants of dried blood.
Mercedes already had cafecitos and pan dulce on the kitchen table. “Ian called while you were in the shower,” she said. “He wanted to know how you were.”
I took a sip of the coffee, but something tasted off. “Did he say anything else?”
“Only that he wants you to go back to the ranch, where it’s safer. He said he had something urgent he had to do and he’ll be in touch later.”
I took a bite of the pan dulce, but the bread had the consistency of papier-mâché in my mouth. I ate and drank anyway so Mercedes wouldn’t think I didn’t appreciate her hospitality. “Did you ask the neighbors if they saw anything?”
“I talked to my tenants. They were in their bedroom in the back and didn’t hear anything. I checked with the people across the street. They said they didn’t see anything, but even if they did they’d say that. People won’t get involved because of payback.”
The thin scar on my arm felt hot and itchy, and I rubbed at it. “Mercedes, I think you should sell this place and move. You shouldn’t be living in a war zone.”
My friend twisted one of her locks. “Usually the dealers just fight with each other. It’s not the suburbs, Milagro.”
“Maybe I’ve been out in the country too long. I was nervous walking down the street the other day, and I never used to feel like that.”
“You were used to it,” Mercedes said. “I’ll go with you to the station.”
When Mercedes was glancing at her newspaper, I cleared our plates and slid the bread into the trash.
“Are you going to tell Oswald what happened?”
“I don’t know. The Ian factor would aggravate things. And I’m not going to have him rushing back when I’m fine.”
Mercedes let out an exasperated breath. “Milagro, you know how to survive, but sometimes I wonder if you know how to live.”
I ignored her ad hominem comment and asked, “What did you think of Ian?”
“Muy suave. He’s got charisma, like a performer. He seems to be in love with you.”
“He’s only interested because I turned him down.” I washed out the tiny cups she used for coffee and our plates. I wanted Oswald with me. He would have sewed up my cut and made jokes and put a bandage over the injury. “I hate feeling frightened. I’m no good at it.”
“No one is.”
At the police station, we had to stand in line to talk to the desk sergeant. I was given a form to fill out and then we had to wait for almost an hour to talk to a weary middle-aged detective, who had golden hair shot through with silver that contrasted fantastically with his ebony skin. His name was Antwon Jefferson. Despite his presidential last name, he didn’t strike me as likely to be a vampire. He listened to my description of the attack and said skeptically, “So the guy ran off after you tackled him? And he had a knife?”
“Yes, he ran off. I’m very scary when I’m angry.”
“Yeah, a lot of women are.”
Detective Jefferson tapped his pen annoyingly on the edge of his chair and read over my form. Finally he said, “Could be anyone. Gangs usually work in teams. Less risk, higher payoff. But if your boyfriend was driving a Jaguar, it sounds like a crime of opportunity.”
“He isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Why didn’t he call us last night?”
“I called,” Mercedes said. “You were too busy to send someone.”
In the end, the detective took my report and said he’d get back to me if he learned anything.
I said, “Detective Jefferson, it’s very disappointing that a man with such fabulous hair is showing such apathy about this attack.”
He exhaled a breath that smelled of refreshing spearmint gum. “Look, I’m sorry you had a scare, but since you weren’t hurt, this isn’t a priority. We have a backlog of violent assaults and murders. Some teenager gets shot in broad daylight on a crowded street and not one damn person will come forward as a witness. Welcome to my world.”
We walked out of the station and I said, “That was a major waste of time. Will you drop me off for my meeting with Silas?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to cancel and go back to the house and rest?”
“No, I want to get my mind off things. This guy is rather intriguing in an ascetic, neuter way.”
“You think all men are intriguing. I’ll drop you off, then I’ve got to run home. I’ll be at the club later. Be careful, okay?”
She drove me to a café on the busy waterfront. I felt more comfortable here, among office workers striding hither and thither, and tourists meandering and staring into store windows.
The café was all brushed stainless steel and honey-colored wood. I didn’t see Silas among the casually chic people who worked intently at the small square metal tables. Someone walked by with a bright red frozen drink that looked delicious. I went to the counter and ordered a raspberry smoothie.
Then I picked up a local weekly and read it while I waited for Silas. I’d gotten through an editorial advocating the banning of all motorized vehicles in the City when my phone rang.
“Yello, talk at me,” I said.
“Misss De Loss Santoss,” the caller hissed.
“Hi, Mr. Madison,” I said. I felt silly calling him that, but I liked feeling silly. “I’m here as arranged.”
“That’ss why I’m calling. I apologize, but other businesss hass held me up. Please accept my most ssincere regretss.”
“It’s okay. Things happen.”
“I would like to make it up to you, Misss De Loss Santoss. Could you meet me tonight for a drink at a private club? I am an investor and I think you will like it.”
“That would be fine.”
I heard a commotion at the other end of the line. Then Silas came back on. “Excellent. I must rush off, but I will call you later with the address and directionsss.”
We said our good-byes. I stared out the window at the gray-green bay and wondered what I should do. Should I call Oswald and tell him about the attack or wait until he returned? Should I go to the Museum of Modern Art or go see a movie?
A small, sleek man dressed in jeans and a gray sweater stopped at my
table. His head was shaved, which made his oversized black-frame glasses look even larger. I smiled tentatively at him, not encouraging him, but not wanting to seem hostile either.
“Hi. I don’t mean to bother you, but I recognize you from college,” he said. “You and Sebastian Beckett-Witherspoon used to go to the English Department parties, right?”
“Guilty,” I said.
He saw me staring at him and laughed while he rubbed his head. “I used to have lots of hair then, and I wouldn’t wear my glasses half the time.” He pulled off his glasses and grabbed a napkin and put it on top of his head. “Look familiar now?”
I’d never been good with faces, so I said, “Yes, a little. I’m Milagro De Los Santos.”
“Skip Taylor.” He held out his hand and we shook. “I was in the grad film program, but I had friends in the English Department.”
Skip seemed pleasant, so I said, “My friend just canceled. Would you like to join me?”
“Sure.”
When he returned from the counter with some gigantic and elaborate coffee concoction, he said, “I saw a big article a while back on Beckett-Witherspoon in the alumni mag. He seems to be doing well with his novels.”
“The critics loved the first one. I haven’t heard much about the second.”
“Do you stay in touch?”
“I saw him when he stopped in the City last year on his book tour, but we don’t keep up.” I didn’t think it was necessary to add that SLIME had tried to kidnap me and then wanted to keep me as his concubine after he’d married his posh F.U. sweetheart. “I was here for the wedding of my frosh roomie. I got mugged last night.”
“No crap! Are you serious?”
I was glad to see that someone was suitably shocked by my ordeal, and I told him the public version of the story. “Do you live here?” I asked.
“No, I had a few meetings with backers of my next project and with the idiot screenwriter.” He mimicked the expression of Edward Munch’s The Scream.
“You’re still doing film, then?”