Summer Loving: A Dark Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  We cut through one of the neighborhoods with wide, meandering streets and stereotypical beach houses. Stones instead of grass line their fronts, although some of the bigger and wealthier have nice, manicured lawns anyway. I used to fantasize about owning one of those houses and mowing that lawn every day. I’d take it so seriously, be so proud of that little patch of grass, if only I could have a slice of paradise. I’d turn my life around, get myself together, forget about all the horrible things that happened to me in the past. If only I could have that house, that grass, it would save me.

  But there’s no saving me. I know that. Leo’s sunken chest, his rasping last breath.

  “Just this way,” the man grunts. We move across the street to a squat little apartment building. Not exactly what I was thinking, but close enough. We barrel inside, up a flight of stairs, and he produces a key from his pocket to open a door on the top floor.

  He slams it shut behind him as we get inside. The place is surprisingly neat. I don’t know why that’s the first thing I notice. There’s a couch, a television, a little table, and a kitchen. Toward the back, down a hall, I’m guessing there’s a bedroom and a bathroom. It’s an apartment like a million others, except this is his.

  Small personal touches jump out at me. There’s a Tiki mug on the counter. There are a surprising number of plants. Art hangs on the walls, sparse and spare. There isn’t any of your usual beach-kitsch stuff, no anchors or sandals or seagulls.

  I stand in the living room, afraid to move, as he rifles through a drawer in the kitchen. He shoves something into his pocket before looking at me.

  “Don’t move,” he says.

  “Okay.” I blink as he leaves and heads back into his bedroom.

  I hear him rifling through something, opening and shutting drawers. I stand there a second, staring at his living room, and it occurs to me.

  I can get away.

  So I run. I run to his door, throw it open, my hands shaking. I get out into the hallway and toward the stairs before he comes barreling out after me. I don’t scream as I take the steps two at a time, trying to get away, but he catches me again. He pushes me up against a wall, almost like a lover, his body crushing mine, pinning my wrists down by my sides.

  He’s breathing deep and staring into my eyes. I stare back and I realize they’re ocean-blue, flecked with algae green, maybe the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “You ran,” he says, breathing deep.

  “You let me.”

  He stares for a second. “What’s your name?”

  I’m surprised by the question. If anyone walks past, they’ll probably think we’re just drunk and making out, or about to make out.

  “Kaylee,” I say. “Call me Kay.”

  “I’m Julian.”

  I don’t know why, but his name makes me cringe. It makes him human, but I want him to stay a monster.

  “You can’t keep running, Kay. This isn’t just about me anymore, do you get that?”

  I bite my lip, staring back at him. “I don’t know.”

  His hands tighten on my wrists, mouth coming close to mine. I think he’s about to kiss me, but instead he whispers in my ear, sending chills down my spine.

  “They want you just as much as they want me. If you’re going to stay alive, you can’t run away. Okay?”

  He pulls back to look at me. I nod slowly. I don’t know why I believe him, but I do.

  “Good,” he says. “I’m going to let you go. We’ll head back upstairs, grab my bag, and leave.”

  “Okay, Julian.” His name tastes strange on my tongue.

  He gives me a look and just nods. He releases my wrists and I almost wish he wouldn’t. I follow him back upstairs and wait for him in the living room while he collects his things.

  Ten minutes later, we leave the apartment. We don’t take his car and he leaves his cellphone behind. I don’t have anything on me except my hoodie, my shorts, my flats, and a pack of gum in my back pocket.

  3

  Julian

  “What were you doing there tonight?”

  Kay looks up at me, the hoodie on the ground beside her as she stretches her legs out. I’m leaning up against the wall across from her, and she’s sitting on an old, ratty green chair.

  We’re in a random motel after walking for an hour. It was a risk but we couldn’t stop anywhere closer. They’ll be looking for us, and they’ll start near my apartment. Kay didn’t complain, not once.

  “It was Leo’s idea,” she says.

  I wince. “That was his name?” I ask softly.

  She nods. “We were supposed to meet a guy on the beach that had two kilos to sell us.”

  “Heroin?” I interrupt her.

  She nods again. “We planned on cutting it up and selling it to the dumber, younger junkies, try and make as much money as possible.” She hesitates a second, her beautiful, thick hair falling down around her. “Obviously, that’s not what happened.”

  I study her for a few seconds. She’s even more beautiful than I thought at first, the shiner and the needle marks on her right arm aside. Clearly she’s a junkie, just like her shitty boyfriend, but he was desperate. The wheels start turning faster.

  “Why were you going to cut it?” I ask her. “Why rip people off?”

  “We owed some guys money. Leo wanted to get into the selling business, but he wasn’t exactly good at it. Mostly just shot it all up his arm, barely made a dime. He got into a pretty deep hole and planned on digging us out.”

  “By buying more drugs,” I say, shaking my head. Typical idiot junkie plan.

  “Yeah,” she says, and shrugs. “Not the smartest.”

  “That explains why he reacted that way.”

  She goes distant for a second. “He probably thought… I don’t know. That it was his last chance.”

  “Last chance to what?”

  “Make amends before he got himself killed.”

  She stares at me and we both go silent. I know what she’s thinking, and I can take it. I’m a killer, a bastard.

  “Was he your boyfriend?” I ask without thinking.

  She shrugs. “Not really.”

  I grunt, nodding, not sure why I even care. Doesn’t matter, not at all. That’s not what I fucking want from this girl.

  And yet I keep glancing at her. Without the big hoodie, I can see more of her generous breasts, braless under her gray t-shirt. They’re full and round, the sort of tits I want to suck and squeeze as I rock my cock into a nice, tight pussy.

  I look away from her, thoughts turning back to that beach for a second.

  “I need to make a call,” I say.

  “Wait. Aren’t you going to tell me what you were doing there?”

  “Later.” I walk over to my bag and root around until I feel the metal handcuffs shoved in at the bottom. This kinky girl I used to fuck stashed them at my place but never picked them up after I told her not to bother coming back. They’re the real deal, legit police issue type things, heavy and indestructible.

  “No,” she says, eyes going wide.

  “I can’t trust you.” I dangle them in front of her. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  She squirms, glancing at the door, probably regretting her decision to come with me.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say softly, and I think that might be a lie.

  She shakes her head. “The hard way.”

  “Okay then.”

  She bolts for the door. I catch her, lift her, and put her down on the bed. She kicks and thrashes as I slip one handcuff over her right wrist and the other around the headboard post. I slide it up to make sure it can’t get over the knob at the end, satisfied when it hits and won’t move.

  She glares at me the whole time and I just sigh.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  She doesn’t answer, just looks away. I leave the room and head outside, out into the early morning chill.

  It’s nearly five in the morning now as I approach the pa
yphone at the corner of the motel’s parking lot. I know I have to make this quick, just in case.

  I slip in some quarters and dial. It rings, and I’m cursing myself, but Isaac finally picks up, bleary with sleep. “Yeah?”

  “Bet you thought I’d be dead or in jail, huh?”

  Nothing for a heartbeat. He’s probably just startling himself awake. “Julian?”

  “That’s right. What did you do?”

  “What are you talking about? Did the fight go okay?”

  “There was no fight and I think you know that.”

  I hear the phone move, probably as he gets out of bed and scrambles to figure out what to do.

  “I don’t know what you mean, man,” he says. “I talked to, uh, Vinny, yeah? Set it all up?”

  “Stop playing games, Isaac. I was set up, but I don’t know why or by who. What did you do?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, man. It was just a fight. Didn’t Vinny show up?”

  I sigh. He’s not going to give me anything and I know it.

  “Listen, tell whoever you’re working for, I’m not finished. I’m far from finished. I’m coming for you, I’m coming for them, and I’m going to fuck you all.”

  I slam down the phone, anger pouring out of me. I turn and stomp back to the motel room, satisfied that there’s no way Isaac had time to try and trace that call, even if he could.

  I push open the door and find Kaylee struggling with the handcuff, twisting her wrist and jamming the other side against the headboard’s knob. She looks at me and slowly stops what she’s doing.

  I close the door behind me. I guess I should’ve expected this. I handcuffed a fucking strange girl to my goddamn motel room bed. She probably thinks I’m about to murder her or some shit.

  Blood on the sand.

  She stares as I walk over and release her. She rubs her wrist, but doesn’t say anything. When I’m close, I notice that she’s sweating slightly, just a sheen on her skin. My eyes narrow.

  “You warm?” I ask her. “I can turn down the air.”

  “I’m okay.”

  I nod a little bit. “Fine. We’re sleeping in the same bed tonight, and let me warn you. I sleep light, so if you so much as fucking move, I’m waking up, and I’m going to be pissed. Get some rest, we have shit to do.”

  She glares at me. “I can’t.”

  “Why the fuck not?” I ask, sighing, exasperated and tired and sick of this fucking shit so much already.

  She doesn’t answer. I stare at her, and it hits me. “When was the last time you took it?” I ask softly.

  She looks away. “I don’t know. Five, maybe six hours ago.”

  I nod slowly. “You know we can’t get you any, right?”

  “I know.” Her gaze is fierce, but there’s fear in her eyes.

  “Okay.” I sigh and sit down on the bed next to her, pulling off my shirt. I catch her glancing at my bare chest, at my tattoos and my muscles. “You’d really better sleep then. Tomorrow’s going to be a rough day.”

  She clenches her jaw as I switch off the light and slide down, sleeping on top of the comforter, the pillow propped behind my head.

  After a minute, she curls up next to me, shuts her eyes, slows her breathing. She’s asleep before I am, but I’m not far behind.

  4

  Kaylee

  I wake up, but I don’t wake up. When I open my eyes, maybe an hour later, maybe ten days, my entire world is sweating freezing searing broken pain rolling in waves along my skin.

  He’s standing next to the bed. I think he’s wearing a suit, a bowtie hanging loose around his throat. He smiles at me, murderer, killer. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like shit,” I croak.

  He’s wearing a hoodie, the same hoodie as Leo. “You look like shit.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I try to sit up, but I’m chained to the bed. “Why can’t I move?”

  He frowns. “You can move.” He’s wearing a black wetsuit like a surfer. “Try to sit up.”

  I groan and manage to roll from my side to my back. “Leo? What’s going on?”

  He crouches down next to me, his mouth near my ear. “Leo’s gone,” he whispers. “You’re with me now. You’re with Julian.”

  I snap my head to the side, but he’s not there anymore. I roll over and get sick into a trashcan that’s on the floor. I hug it for a few minutes before rolling back over. Someone puts a wet rag on my forehead.

  He frowns down at me. I recognize him now. Julian is handsome, way more handsome than I realized. “Taking care of me?” I croak. “How long’s it been?”

  “Most of the day now,” he says. “You’ve been in and out.”

  “Really?” I shudder as a wave of nausea washes over me. It passes and I’m not forced to get sick in that damn trash can. I get the sense this has happened before.

  “You’re doing good.” His hand rests on my shoulder. “You’re doing really good. Just try and sleep.”

  “Sleep,” I grumble. “Always telling me to sleep. I’ve slept enough.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” he whispers, and I meet his eyes. Leo’s staring back at me, his face twisted into that stupid, manic grin of his.

  Take the shot and shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch.

  “Quiet and high,” I whisper. “That’s how he liked me.”

  I feel the nausea again before Julian can answer. I roll over and get sick again. Dizziness assaults me from all sides and I have to close my eyes to get myself together.

  It’s dark when I open them up again a second later. I’m lost, tangled up in something. I struggle, writhing around, until there’s a voice nearby.

  “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Another body in the bed, massive and looming over me. For a second, I can’t breathe.

  And then he touches me, hands steadying me.

  “It’s okay,” he says. I blink up at Julian’s face. I barely recognize him. I should hate him, despise him, but right now I feel like he’s the only thing keeping me sane.

  I reach out and find his hand. It’s right there, big and warm. “Please,” I whisper. His face looms closer. “Please,” I say again.

  “What do you need?”

  “I need a shot.”

  I meet his gaze, and the whole room spins, but his face remains steady, unchanging. “No,” he says.

  “Please.” I reach for him, for his chest, his hair. I grab at him, my hands feeling his skin and his hard muscles. “I can’t do this, I’m going to die without the stuff. Please, I’m begging you, I need it.”

  He pushes me back, gently but firmly. He pins me to the bed, holds me there, his body on top of mine. I’m breathing deep, sweating, panting, ready to get sick or cry or scream or both.

  “No,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Please,” I whisper. Tears roll down my eyes. “I hate this. I hate this. I want to die. Just let me have a little bit.”

  “No.” His face is impassive, steady, in complete control.

  I feel my world roll around me.

  I’m five years old. My mom stares down her nose at me. “You can’t leave the house like that.”

  I’m wearing my favorite shirt and my favorite tights and my favorite purple tutu. I feel like a ballerina and a princess, all rolled into one. “Why?”

  “Because you look like a little bitch.” Her eyes narrow. “Do you want to grow up to be a whore, Kaylee?”

  “No,” I say, even though I don’t understand.

  “Good. Get changed.” As I’m walking back to my room, I hear her call out behind me.

  “And if I see that tutu again, I’ll burn it.”

  I’m ten when my dad first hits me. He says it’s for my own good, but I don’t believe him. I come home covered in mud after playing with a neighbor boy in a nearby stream. He gives me one look before he hits me, slaps me across the face.

  It shocks me more than it hurts me.

  “Why did I just do that?” he asks.

  “I don’t
know.” I choke back my tears. He yells when I cry.

  “You got your clothes dirty, and your bitch of a mother is going to take it out on me. Do you get that? She’s going to fucking bitch and moan at me, and it’s your fault.”

  “I’m sorry, daddy.”

  He hits me again. “Sorry doesn’t help.”

  I can’t stop crying when he sends me to my room.

  I’m thirteen when a teacher asks me about the bruises. She brings me in to see the guidance counselor, and together they ask me to lift up my shirt. I do it, even though I don’t want to. I show them the bruises on my stomach, my sides, my back.

  They exchange looks. “How did you get those?” my teacher asks, a nice, older woman named Mrs. Bouvier.

  “I don’t know,” I lie.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” the guidance counselor says. He’s younger than Mrs. Bouvier, and I don’t remember his name anymore. “We won’t tell anyone.”

  “I fell. In the creek.”

  “Kay, that isn’t true. How did you get the bruises?” Mrs. Bouvier moves closer to me.

  “I fell,” I say, “I’m not lying. I really, honestly fell!”

  Mrs. Bouvier and the guidance counselor exchange looks.

  “We can’t force you to tell us the truth,” Mrs. Bouvier says slowly. “But please, Kay, if someone is… if someone is hurting you, at home or somewhere else, you can tell us. We can help.”

  “I fell,” I say, feeling a panic set in. I can feel my father hitting me with his special sock. It’s just a white gym sock full of batteries, but it’s special because that’s his favorite thing to beat me with. He never hit me anywhere the bruises would easily show, and I don’t know how Mrs. Bouvier caught me. But Daddy said that if I ever told, they’d take me away and put me in a home, and I’d never see my friends ever again.