White Lady

by Bell, Jessica

  My stomach tightens and tingles travel down to my crotch. Kimi’s lips move closer to mine; she smells like white musk. Saliva accumulates under my tongue, but all I can think about is Mick being here too. If he was, I wouldn’t pull away.

  Just before Kimi’s lips touch mine, I swivel my head to the right. I can’t do this. I want to try it. But I can’t. It just feels wrong. Kimi steps backwards and gives me room to move away from the dresser and stares at the floor with her arms crossed.

  I grab my bag, hook it over my shoulder, and pick up my flats.

  “You really should tell me what it is you need me to do.” I say, and stand by the door. “You can’t bait me with speed forever, man. At some point I’m not gonna want it.”

  “I don’t need to tell you anything. You can easily help me on the spur of the moment. It’s not as if I need you to plan a murder. I just want you to—” Kimi holds her forehead like she has a headache. “You’re just going do something in a place I can’t be seen. That’s all.”

  “That’s all? This is stupid. Why can’t you just tell me?”

  “I’m trying to protect you. If I tell you, you might be liable.”

  “Liable? For what?” This doesn’t sound good.

  Kimi flicks her head towards the door. “I think you should go now.”

  “Why?” Is she serious?

  “You just should. My foster father doesn’t know you’re here, and he’ll be up here to check on me any minute.”

  “But—”

  “You got what you came for, didn’t you?”

  She shuffles me to the front door. “Sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Kimi smiles as if she’s a little embarrassed. Maybe she’s really in trouble and genuinely needs my help. Maybe I’m being too suspicious. Maybe I’m just a clueless idiot.

  I open my mouth to say “okay,” but Kimi closes the door on me before I can even utter the “O.”

  I stare at the chrome knocker, imagining the taste of musk in Kimi’s mouth. I’ve never been attracted to a girl before, and I wonder if it’s the influence of the speed or the effects of being “needed” for something, even if I am being totally taken advantage of.

  I turn around and walk out through the front gate, wondering where I’m going to go that’s not home, when I think … fosterfather? She said she was adopted when I arrived. Is she full of total shit, or what?

  I feel inside my back pocket. The twenty-dollar bill Dad gave me for food is gone. Did Kimi pickpocket me? I backtrack through the events in her bedroom, trying to pinpoint the exact moment she grabbed it, and I suddenly realize where I’ve seen that dark-skinned guy before.

  He was in that footy photo with Dad.

  The one I smashed against the wall.

  Chapter 31

  Celeste: No more Botox.

  I pop three Xanax and swallow them without any water. My throat stings as I breathe in the metallic air of Karter’s office, and I clutch his door handle in an attempt to stop my hand from shaking. Karter’s secretary, Freda, hovers behind me, whispering for me to reconsider interrupting him right now: He’s very busy.

  And we all know what that means, don’t we?

  I flick Freda away like she’s filth.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and exhale as I twist the handle and swing the door open. Karter’s head is down, a tuft of hair reaching for the ceiling, red pen in hand, scribbling with abandon on what seems to be some sort of report. A woman in a black leather skirt is sitting cross-legged on his sofa, buttoning up her white blouse. She winks, smirks, grabs her leather jacket off the armrest, and shrugs it on.

  “Darling,” Karter says, still scribbling. He doesn’t look up. “As you can see, I’m slightly busy at the moment. Make an appointment with Freda. I think I have a cancellation this afternoon that I can slot you into.”

  Sofa Woman stands, licks her lips, and says, “Ich hätte meine Muschi lieber dir überlassen.”

  Freda gasps.

  Karter stops scribbling, looks up, and smiles at me. Little does he know that I learned German in high school and can pretty much figure out what she said. Repulsed, but slightly flattered by her lesbian advance, I scoff at Sofa Woman as she brushes against my shoulder on the way out.

  “Very well.” Karter nods at Freda hovering behind me in the doorway. “Freda, you may leave Celeste here with me. It’s fine.”

  “Yes sir.” Freda nods and closes the door.

  I run my tongue along my teeth and hug my handbag to my chest. The room smells like a barber shop. Was he shaving in here? Oh … her pubic hair. What a laugh! He did that to me before our very first sexual encounter at the Hilton in Melbourne. He hit on me at the bar. I was supposed to meet Ibrahim for a drink. But his stupid wife decided to get arrested that night, and he didn’t want to risk being seen in public.

  “What is it you want?” Karter laughs. “Change your mind about the Botox?”

  “I wouldn’t let you stick me with another syringe if my life depended on it,” I snap.

  Karter caps his pen and aligns it next to a pile of papers. He cups his hands together and rests them in front of him. “I see. What is it you want then, dear?”

  “A divorce.”

  Karter scoffs, props up his feet on the corner of his desk, and runs his fingers through his hair. “That might be difficult at this point in time. I have a lot on my plate.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” My voice quivers as I force myself to relax my limbs before I snap in half. “I’ll have my lawyer send you the documents. From today, you will communicate with me through my lawyer only. I’ll have him send you all the necessary documents to—”

  Karter sits upright and smacks his hands on the desk. “Back up a minute. You can’t just—”

  “Of course I can.” I snicker. “And don’t worry. It will be done quietly. The press won’t hear a peep of it until your grant is awarded.”

  Karter clears his throat. “And what, may I ask, did I do to deserve your discretion?”

  “Nothing. It’s what you will do. And if you don’t do it, you know exactly who I can ask to pay you a visit.” Ibrahim and I have stayed in touch.

  “I see.” Karter laughs again as he gets out of his seat, walks around his desk, and sits on its front edge. “How much is this going to cost me?” He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes like he’s trying to read my mind.

  I swallow, hold my breath, and let it all blurt out. “I want a million dollars, a ticket to Australia—for as soon as possible—and for you to never, ever, contact me again.”

  Karter nods and stands. He holds his fingers to his lips in thought. What a parody.

  “I’ll give you two million if you remain at my beck and call until the spotlight fades.”

  “I refuse to stay.”

  “Then I suppose I misjudged your needs.”

  Now he’s getting cocky. “What do you mean by that?”

  “We had an unspoken agreement, did we not?”

  I clench my teeth. I knew threatening him with Ibrahim wasn’t going to work. He has his own connections that could do Ibrahim and his family just as much damage. I can’t even imagine Ibrahim being any sort of saviour anyway. He loves his stupid wife too much. But I have just the thing to counteract it.

  “Wasn’t I your so-called shield of protection? From your less-than-favourable past? Isn’t there something you wish to keep from your imbecile of an ex-husband? Not to mention the fact that such news, I imagine, would be absolutely devastating to your daughter.”

  I step closer to Karter with more conviction than I’ve ever had in my life. I lean forwards and curl my top lip. Those Xanax might be kicking in already. Or maybe it’s the 400ml of vodka I downed before leaving the house.

  “I’ve already told them.” I sneer. “And something else you might like to keep in mind. I know all about the Dexfenfluramine you smuggled into the country. I suggest, if you want to retain your reputation as a good Samaritan, you will do as I ask.”

  Karter sits be
hind his desk again and picks up his phone. He stares at me with his finger holding down the hook. Why is he even bothering to think about this? He knows his career would blow up in one big mushroom cloud if this information got out.

  Karter’s nostrils flare. He lifts his finger off the hook and presses a button. “Freda, can you please book the earliest possible flight to Melbourne, Australia, for my lovely wife?”

  I smile, hang my handbag over my shoulder, and adjust my left bra strap. I hold out my hand for Karter to shake. “Nice doing business with you, Dr. Schwörer.”

  Karter stares. His eyes glaze with defeat.

  I shrug, swivel round on my heel, and stride out of the office with a victorious smile on my face. Never in my life have I had the confidence to do what I just did. Today is the beginning of a new life. A life in which I will be the manipulator and acquire every single thing I desire.

  And I will knock down everyone who gets in my way.

  Chapter 32

  Mia: Ciggies and cornflakes.

  First thing Friday morning I have Social Sciences. When I get out of class, I notice Mick standing at the entrance of the building with his hands in his pockets, eyes searching through the crowd of students. I hold my breath. Maybe I’ll walk over to him, just to see what’s up.

  I’m a masochist. Can’t deny it.

  There’s something about him. Something that excites me. And I need a hit.

  Mick sees me hesitating by the classroom doorway and raises his hand a bit. But he quickly puts it back down, stares me right in the eye, and flicks his head towards the exit. A flutter in my stomach silences the teenage corridor chaos in my head.

  He wants to talk to me. Me.

  I follow him behind the toilet block. Mick leans his shoulder against the brick wall and lights a ciggie. I stop about two metres away and hug my schoolbooks to my chest. Mick sniffs, takes a long drag of his ciggie, and looks at the ground.

  “What?” I squint at him.

  Mick laughs. “Yer comin’ over for dinner next weekend.”

  I look at the asphalt between my feet. The sun is hitting it just right. It shimmers like black diamonds.

  “And?” I say. Is this a message, or something else?

  Mick’s ciggie hangs from the corner of his mouth. He shrugs.

  “Do you need me for something, or are you still trying to ‘break’ me?” I say with a smirk.

  Mick’s top lip twitches. He steps closer, sliding his shoulder against the wall until his breath brushes against my face. I don’t move, but I look at Mick’s chest. Usually I would hold his gaze, but today I’m nervous. I like him. A lot. I think he likes me too, but I’m really not sure.

  Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I let out a tiny unintentional squeak. Man! I hope he didn’t hear that. How embarrassing.

  Mick smiles. I think he did hear it. Oh man, really? I’m such a dork. He moves his face closer and closer until his lips almost touch mine.

  He whispers, “I’m a cunt.”

  Shit, you think?

  “Uh, I don’t—” I whisper back, but he doesn’t let me finish my sentence.

  “But I’m a cunt that can’t stop thinkin’ ’bout ya.”

  My breath catches in my throat. Now I have to look up. And the butterflies in my stomach are going berserk. He likes me?

  Oh my God oh my God oh my God …

  Mick is still squinting at me with a wonky smile on his face. Almost sad, and somehow innocently sly. A total paradox. But it suits him. I think there’s a gentle person inside him. He just doesn’t want to show it.

  I open my mouth to speak. I want to say something sarcastic. I don’t want to appear too interested. That’s the way it works, right? If I don’t play hard to get, he’ll lose interest in me. I definitely don’t want him to lose interest in me. I should tell him I’m not worth the effort, that I’m a fat cow, and that he must be trying to mess with my head.

  But just as I’m about to tell him to get stuffed, he kisses me.

  Mick’s eyes stay open as his warm tongue slides against mine. The taste of ciggies and cornflakes fill my mouth, but his fresh aftershave balances it out. It sounds disgusting, but it’s not. My stomach is doing dances. If we weren’t in school, I’d take his hand and touch it to my breast. Our gaze remains locked as he gently pulls away and takes another drag of his ciggie, making sure to blow the smoke away from my face.

  My top lip twitches as I try to stop myself from smiling. Mick notices, laughs a bit, and then pulls me into him for a hug that feels more like how a bloke would pat a mate on the back. But he’s hugging me. Me. Hugging. Crazy.

  “Meet you here after school?” Mick says.

  I nod and watch him walk across the car park.

  When I turn around, Kimi is standing right behind me.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Mia!”

  Chapter 33

  Sonia: 1, 2, buckle my shoe, 3, 4, open the door …

  Numbers. Numbers are my thing. Numbers keep my life on track. Numbers are my safety net. Working with numbers keeps me calm. They’re a way to occupy my brain through periods of stress … and criminal cravings.

  But not lately. Numbers are not doing their job. I’m scared I’m going to slip. Especially now that Ibrahim is back in town.

  I sit at my desk in the staff room, staring into my tuna salad. Going over and over the possible reasons he would still be here.

  What proof do I have? A faint army-boot footprint in my hallway? A stapled fertilizer bag in my shed? Mick claiming he didn’t clean the kitchen? It’s all pretty telling, even if not solid proof. The sole of that army boot has collided with my head more times than I can count. It’s Ibrahim’s footprint for sure. He slipped up. He missed one. Or maybe it was Mick’s footprint. Maybe I’m mistaken about the bag of fertilizer and I never noticed it before. It’s true I have tried to stay out of the shed lately. And maybe Mick is denying cleaning the kitchen simply because he— I shake my head. I can’t find a logical reason for that.

  Maybe Icleaned the kitchen and forgot? Could I have experienced something similar to the other night in bed with Nash? If not, what was Ibrahim doing in the house? And why doesn’t he want me to know he’s back? Is he planning something with Mick? Is that why he has a stash of push daggers in his room? Trying to keep it a secret from me just in case I try to get him caught again? Or what if he’s planning a kill? But who? All the old crew are dead or crippled, and the ones that are left in action would be hanging on Ibrahim’s every word like their lives depend on it.

  Well, their lives do depend on it. I scoff. Realize I may be muttering aloud to myself. I look around me, making sure there aren’t any teachers in earshot. No. I think I’m okay.

  What if … what if he wants to kill … me? I wouldn’t put it past him. I betrayed him. And though I would never do that again, obviously he doesn’t truly know how much I regret it. Maybe his desire to look the other way to “preserve me” has reached an expiry date. And if it’s my life he’s waiting for the perfect time to expire, and he’s been in the house, why hasn’t he gotten rid of the pistol I keep hidden by the front door? He’s not stupid. It’s not something a man like Ibrahim would overlook.

  I’m still staring at my salad when Nash kisses my head. I jump in my seat.

  “Sorry, mate,” he says.

  I spin around and smile. “Me too.” If only the smile signified genuine happiness instead of adulterated worry.

  Nash sits on the edge of my desk and peels a banana, takes a bite, mumbling something with a shrug I can’t comprehend.

  I tsk in jest. “Say that again?”

  Nash takes a deep breath. It whistles through his nostrils. “Mia is on drugs.”

  I widen my eyes in fake shock, then nod when I realize he probably already assumes I’ve thought the same. “Makes sense,” I say.

  “Makes sense?” Nash says a little too loudly, then lowers his volume. “What makes you say that?”

  “She’s trying to fin
d an easy way to get thin. I knew it the instant I saw her dancing on your kitchen counter.”

  Nash sighs. “I confronted her about it. But she has an excuse for everything. I don’t know. What do you reckon?”

  “I don’t think you should beat yourself up over this,” I say. “There isn’t much else you can do right now.”

  Nash nods and takes another bite of his banana. I watch as he squashes it to the roof of his mouth. I listen for the squish—it mixing with his saliva—and the swallow—the sound of fear when my victims see the knife. My heart rate slows as if I’m entering a meditative state.

  I rest my hand on Nash’s knee trying to stay focused on the image of a potential kill. It feels so calming … so right.

  Nash slides off my desk and into a chair. He rubs his forehead, and then his beard. “What do you reckon I should do?”

  What should he do? I snap out of my reverie. If only I had someone I could ask that very same question. I take a mouthful of salad to buy myself a moment to think. But I believe Mia being on drugs is the least of his problems right now. Something is not gelling for me regarding Celeste’s claim that Mia is another man’s daughter. Ibrahim and I were a part of their lives so much so that I can’t remember a time when he and I did anything without them. And we were all so close. A family. I’m sure I would have noticed if Celeste had been raped. An event like that cannot be hidden from a woman’s face. And even if, somehow, she did manage to hide it, why would she want to? What was she afraid of?

  I go out on a limb and tell Nash my thoughts. I don’t want to instill an unwarranted sense of suspicion; he’s got enough to worry about, but I can’t just keep these thoughts to myself. If the tables were turned, I’d expect the same from him.

  “I think you’re doing fine. But I also think there is something more serious you should consider.” I pause and wipe my mouth with a serviette. “I’d investigate what Celeste told you a little further.”