His voice came from a small speaker beneath the alarm pad. “Come in.”
I stepped inside, peered into the empty living room, and paused.
“I’m in the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll be a minute. Come join me.”
I walked toward his voice. As I entered the kitchen, it dawned on me that it was the first time I’d seen it. White cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and Carrara marble countertops gave the space a very sterile appearance. In the center of the room, a large island with barstools positioned along one side added a little complexity to the otherwise simple space.
The smell of butter and herbs was faint, but it caused me to salivate, nonetheless. Leaning over the stove with his time and attention divided between three skillets and a small saucepan, Marc peered over his shoulder.
He was wearing gray sweats and a stark white tee shirt, which I thought was cute. Upon seeing him, I wanted to ditch my plan to air all my dirty laundry and see if he’d consider doing something fun instead.
But. If I expected him to be truthful about being a contractor, I first needed to be truthful with him about some things.
“How was your day?” he asked.
I smiled at the thought of him taking the time to ask me about my day. I pulled out one of the stools and sat. “Another basic Tuesday. Tuesday’s are Monday for me. I had a full day of demanding clients.” I held up my hands for him to see the stains, and realized his attention was back to his meal. “How was yours?”
“Same. A basic Tuesday.”
“Can we have a talk?” I asked.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Absolutely. As soon as I’m done.”
It was reassuring to have him respond with such authority, and to do so without questioning my motives or the proposed topic of conversation.
He placed the large skillet on a hot pad, then grabbed one of the others and lifted it from the stove. A quick flick of his wrist later, and the vegetables flipped into the air and then came to rest right back down in the pan.
It was a trick I loved watching, but knew better than to try myself. My ability to cook was limited to pre-prepared meals and other simple items. Flipping vegetables through the air would result in eating my dinner off the floor.
“What are you cooking?”
“Pacific Halibut, vegetables, and wontons. Low-cal, and high in flavor. The wontons might seem out of place, but they taste great. Hope you like it.”
“You can go ahead, I don’t need--”
“I started cooking ten minutes after I got your text,” he said. “I planned on both of us eating,”
I smiled. “Okay.”
He set the third skillet aside. “It’s not Crab Crusted Icelandic Cod, but it’s fresh.”
“It sounds good. How do you cook all of this without stinking up the kitchen?”
“There’s a huge exhaust fan attached to the hood that sits over the stove. When the stove is on, it runs. All the smell is sent outside, so the neighbors can enjoy it.”
“You don’t really have any neighbors.” I chuckled. “But, most serial killers don’t.”
“We prefer seclusion,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
I knew he wasn’t a serial killer, but it troubled me that I had no idea what it was he did for a living. I felt foolish for not knowing, and equally as foolish for not taking the time to ask. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, it was simply something that didn’t really matter.
At least it hadn’t yet.
My focus was more directed to paying attention to who he was, how he handled himself in my presence, and what he liked to do with his time. So far, he’d proven to be a very interesting man. I doubted what he did for a living was going to have any bearing on my decision making.
After Googling the word contractor, I did wonder about the mercenary thing, though.
He divided the food on two plates and carried them to the island. Wearing a cute grin, he set one of the plates directly in front of me. A fish filet covered in red sauce, a colorful mixture of vegetables, and several pan-fried wontons looked – and smelled – terrific.
“Wow. It looks great. What’s the red stuff?”
“Tomato cream sauce,” he said. “What would you like to drink?”
“Water, please.”
He poured two glasses of water and turned to face me. “Side by side is cozier than at the table. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure.”
I was thrilled that he cooked a meal for me. Sitting at the island elbow-to-elbow with him made me feel that we’d made a little more progress than the eleven days the dash-mounted calendar in my car indicated.
He set the glass of water, a napkin, and silverware beside me and then sat down. “Eat it before it gets cold. Cold fish is awful.”
We both began to eat at the same time, almost matching each other fork for fork. Halfway through the fish, I took a drink of water, and then looked at him. “Holy crap. You can cook, dude.”
“Thanks. I’ve got plenty of practice.”
I poked a wonton. “I figured you for eating out. Salads and stuff.”
“I eat breakfast every morning at a little restaurant. Other than that, I rarely eat out. The breakfast thing is an odd tradition that I can’t seem to shake. I cook quite frequently.”
He was becoming more interesting as time went on. I hoped our little talk didn’t wreak havoc on our relationship. Regardless, it was time we had a discussion. The discussion. The big reveal. I poked the wonton in my mouth and then decided I’d spill the beans after the meal.
“I like your hair,” he said. “It looks nice.”
I was wearing a curly updo, but not for any reason. Having him compliment me made me feel warm inside.
“Thank you.”
“I like it that you change it up. It gives me something to look forward to.”
I liked it that he noticed the changes in my hairstyle, but I liked it more that he mentioned it. It was something that took very little effort on his part, but meant the world to me. I couldn’t remember the last time a man complimented me on anything, other than my father.
Halfway through the meal, I noticed him watching me. With his mouth curled into a shallow grin, he sat with a piece of fish balanced on his fork. His eyes followed the movement of my hands.
I wasn’t versed on the proper procedures of eating fish, and wondered if I was doing something wrong.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“Not at all.” His grin turned to a smile. “I like watching you eat.”
It was an odd response, but I found it adorable. “Thank you. That’s cute.” I looked him over and then met his gaze. “I just like watching you. You’re sexy.”
“Sexy?”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“That’s kind of what I’ve figured out. You’re different, that’s for sure. I thought at first that you were arrogant, but you’re not. I think it’s confidence. I like your hands. And, the way you walk.”
He swallowed the fish and then coughed out a light laugh. “My hands?”
“You’ve got sexy hands.”
“I didn’t know hands could be sexy.”
“They aren’t always,” I said. “But they can be. Just look at yours and you’ll know what sexy hands look like. They’re hand perfection.”
His gaze dropped to my stool. “You’ve got ass perfection wrapped up pretty nicely.”
I worked hard to keep my butt in shape. It wasn’t easy at thirty-four years old, and required more hours of hip lifts and leg raises than I care to admit. I was flattered by the comment, and fought not to smile from ear to ear.
I’m going to fuck this up tonight, aren’t I?
I looked at him and smiled. “Seeing you slowly opening up gives me something to look forward to.”
“I’m not opening up.”
I scrunched my face into a scowl and looked at him. “
You are too.”
“I’m doing my best to maintain prick status.”
I laughed. “You’re failing miserably.”
He gave a slight nod. “Thank you.”
I pierced the last of my vegetables with the tines of my fork and glanced at his plate. A single wonton remained, but not for long.
I savored the crisp vegetables and then took a drink of water. The best way to do it, I decided, was just to do it. So, I started by blurting out the introduction to my story.
“I was sixteen when I lost my virginity.”
He swallowed the wonton, cleared his throat, and started to speak.
I raised my hand. “Hold uhhm. Hold on a minute. This isn’t going to be easy.”
He pushed his chair away from the bar slightly and turned to face me. Despite his repositioning himself, I faced straight ahead. I hoped it would make things easier, but seriously doubted it would make much difference.
“We uhhm. We were going to get married and have kids. That was the plan. After we graduated, I moved in with him. His family had oil money, and they bought him a house. More like gave it to him, I guess. It was one of their rentals. Every year, we’d say we’ll get married next year. After four or five years, it became an ongoing joke with his family.”
I stole a quick look. With his legs crossed and his arms folded over his chest, he listened intently. I shifted my gaze to the stove.
“We were the homecoming king and queen, for what that’s worth.” I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. I had truly recovered from the breakup, but Marc didn’t know it. The rest of the story was what was important to me, and to tell it, I needed to start at the beginning.
“We were together eight years. Then, one night after work, he came home and told me I needed to find somewhere else to live. He uhhm. He said he had a girlfriend. A pregnant girlfriend. The kid they were having was their second.” I looked at him. “Everyone in town knew it but me. I felt like such an idiot.”
He let out a sigh and reached for my hand. “I’m so sorry.”
I squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. It bothered me a lot at first, but I’m okay now. That was ten years ago. I uhhm. There’s more, but I’m…I’m going to look over there when I talk, okay?”
I pointed toward the other side of the kitchen.
“Okay.”
My hands found their way to my lap. I clenched my right into a fist and pressed it into my left palm. As I wedged them between my inner thighs, I began to tell a story I had yet to tell anyone. For some reason, however, I felt compelled to tell Marc.
“I’d never really drank before that. Not really. But. I started drinking a lot. I was eating Xanax like tic tacs, and drinking tequila like water. And vodka. I moved back in with my parents. We were…we were uhhm…we went to Tulsa to eat. It was right before Thanksgiving. My sister was at. She was going to…”
I began to rock back and forth in the chair. It wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped. I took a drink of water, hoping that it would help with my tightening throat.
“She was attending college at OSU in Stillwater. It was her fifth year, and she was going to be home for the holiday. They had…my mom didn’t like to drive, and her and my dad had a lot to drink. They were celebrating. My dad had a hole in one at the country club.”
I realized tears were rolling down my cheeks. I wiped my face on my shoulders and somehow managed to forge ahead.
“When we left, he wanted me to drive. I wasn’t drunk, but I wasn’t sober, either. I was much better off than he was, though. So, I drove. We made it back to...” My gaze dropped to the countertop. I let out a heavy sigh, wiped my eyes with the heel of my palms, and shoved my hands into my lap. “Choctaw. 9th and Choctaw. The light was…it was green. We had uhhm. Two blocks. Two blocks to go. So, because it was green, I went through it.” I shook my head. “I was going through it. He came from…”
I lifted my hand and pointed to my right. “He came from that way. He was in a truck. A white truck. It hit the back…”
I bit into my lip to stop it from quivering. I was almost done, but had my doubts I would make it. My heart ached. My soul had a hole in it that would never be filled. I missed them desperately, and wanted things to change, but knew they never would.
I felt his hand on my thigh.
I glanced in his direction. With my lips pursed, I nodded several times. He mouthed the words, I’m sorry, and although I was sure he meant it, it did very little to comfort me.
Nonetheless, I somehow managed to speak.
I shifted my gaze to the floor and swallowed hard. “He uhhm. He ran the red light. His name was Todd. Todd something, I don’t remember. He hit the back of the car, right where my mom was sitting. My dad was. He was back there with her. They uhhm. They liked to…”
I couldn’t continue. I began to sob.
Marc stood, wrapped his arms around me, and pulled me tight to his chest. I rocked back and forth for some time, not really knowing how – or if – I could continue. At some point, the sobbing stopped.
With his arms wrapped around me, I continued.
“They liked to sit together. So, they were…they were side by side in the…the back seat. Todd? The guy in the truck? He was drunk and wacked out on meth. They said he was uhhm.” I looked at Marc. “Ninety. He was going ninety miles an hour when he hit us. It tore the car open like a cardboard box and flipped it over a bunch of times. It tossed us…we all ended up scattered around in the street. I was the only one…they were…”
My throat constricted. A dull ache resonated through me with each beat of my heart. I was almost done. As much as I didn’t want to continue, I knew finishing was the most important part. I inhaled a deep breath and decided to say it in one long, breathless sentence. I took a drink of water and then wiped my eyes.
“They were both killed. That Todd guy got thrown through the windshield, and he was dead, too. I was the only one that lived. When they asked who was driving, I thought about it for a while. I knew if I said I was that I would go to jail, regardless of whose fault it was. At least I thought I would. My dad wouldn’t have wanted that to happen, I knew that much. That’s what I told myself, anyway. So, I told them he was driving. I thought it would be easier that way.”
He lifted me from the chair and held me in his arms. I was exhausted, and doubted I could stand on my own if he released me.
But. He didn’t.
In each other’s arms, we swayed back and forth while he hummed a tune I didn’t recognize. The buzzing in his chest resonated through me, and provided a sense of comfort I hadn’t had the luxury in feeling for many, many years. I continued crying, nonetheless.
I needed to.
After a moment, he carried me beyond the glass wall and onto the back deck, humming the entire time.
He lowered me onto a large sofa that faced the beach and then sat down beside me. It’s been said that it never rains in southern California, but on that night, it did. A light sprinkle began as soon as we sat down, peppering us lightly with the sky’s tears.
It was impossible to tell where the tears stopped and the rain began, so I welcomed it, not once considering going inside. I’ll never know if it was the rain or his humming that eased my pain the most.
While the waves crashed against a beach that I couldn’t see, a darkened sky continued to shed its tears.
Eventually, mine dried up.
It was right after that when his started.
Chapter Two Hundred Fifty-Four
Marc – Day eleven
Over the course of the evening, the light rain came and went repeatedly without warning. The eave of the roof shielded us from most of it, but from time to time, a drop found its way to where we were sitting. As I gazed toward the ocean, I found the sporadic rain to be symbolic.
Taryn’s talk revealed that she had tremendous strength, which didn’t come as a big surprise. Her trust in me was a different issue altogether. I hoped it would come with time and exposure, and although it was somet
hing I would require of her, had no expectation of her expressing it so early.
Convincing myself to trust anyone was a struggle, and for good reason. Over the years, my confidence in people – all people – had diminished to nearly nothing. Nonetheless, I realized if our relationship was going to make any progress, I had to give as much as I expected to take.
“You’ve been here ten years, then?” I asked.
“Uh huh. Moved here when I was twenty-four.”
“To escape your ex, and all of the people who knew about his affair?”
“You know, that’s what I told myself.” She looked at me and then looked away. “But in being honest with myself, I’m thinking I really came out here running away from the other thing. From the wreck. My parent’s death. The lie. My sister doesn’t even know.”
“Do you only have the one sibling?”
“Yeah. She’s still in Oklahoma. You?”
“Only child.”
“Parents?”
“My mother’s a professional shopper, and--”
“Really?”
“Not as a profession, she just passes her time by shopping.”
She giggled. “Oh.”
“My father is the Chief of Police. They live in Portland, Oregon.”
She shot me a surprised look. “Your dad’s a cop?”
I gave a nod. “Police Chief.”
An audible sigh shot from her lungs. “Oh wow.”
I turned to face her. “Have something against cops?”
“Uhhm. I mean, kind of but not really. No. I guess not.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m just scared of them. After the accident. I just. I’ve got this fear that one day they’re going to come get me. It might seem weird, but I think about it all the time. I almost obsess about it. When there’s one behind me in traffic, I get all tense. It’s pretty bad. I think I do obsess about it.”
“So, you fear retribution, but have nothing against the police, in general?”
“I guess so. Yeah.”
It was comforting to hear that she didn’t have some deep-seated resentment toward police officers for some reason. I turned toward the beach and gazed blankly into the darkness for a few minutes, trying to decide how to start.
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 127