Fatal Beauty

by Andrews, Nazarea

  She tugs on her shoes and stands, adjusting her clothes quickly.

  “Do you know? What we need to do next?” Charlie asks, and it’s quiet, with a shadow of doubt clouding the words. It’s the first time since Memphis and shooting Pax that she’s been quiet like this—shy and unsure.

  It’s the Charlie she’s drawn to, the one she wants to seduce and break and reshape into something stronger.

  The one who would stare down her one-time lover and pull the trigger without hesitation—that girl was hot as fuck and intriguing and everything EJ can see hiding behind the sharp southern smiles and polite charm.

  “Yes,” she says, instead of lingering on her unspoken thoughts. She sighs, and sinks back onto the bed. “We need to change the way we play the game if we want to beat Jacobs. Remember, he taught me—so he knows how I think, what I’ll do.”

  “Which is?”

  “The end goal. Jacobs will assume I’ll go to one of the places I’ve always loved—Thailand or Japan.”

  Charlie blinks at her and EJ shrugs, gives her a thin smile. “We went a few years ago. He likes to diversify when it comes to his…business connections.”

  “So he’s involved with a cartel and courting the Yakuza?” Charlie says. “I thought you said he was smart.”

  EJ smiles, “He is. He’s brilliant.”

  Charlie goes quiet, and the words linger awkwardly between them for a moment and then EJ shrugs. “We go to Ireland. I’ll buy a few tickets to Bangkok and Tokyo with my fake ID—he’ll be watching for that alias. And while he’s busy with that—we change the way we look, we get some clean fake IDs and passports, and we leave. Once we’ve got those in the works, we’ll drain his accounts and route it to the ones Pax set up for us.”

  She nods, almost to herself, and looks at Charlie. “Sound good?”

  “Depends.” Charlie says. “What exactly about my looks are you wanting to change?”

  EJ smirks and pulls open the door to the hotel. “All that gorgeous hair, baby. It stands out like a fucking flag. Time to get a trim.”

  Charlie shrieks something profane as she pulls the door shut behind her, and EJ laughs, softly. She looks around the crappy hotel as she walks to the front office. It’s still crappy. But in the daylight, it’s less overwhelming and terrifying. In the morning, it’s just a broken building, a little worn and rough around the edges, showing her age and a little sadder for it. Not a place she should be. But a place she understands.

  It’s appropriate, in a twisted sort of way. It’s how she feels so much of the time. Strip away the pretty trappings, and isn’t she just the same—a little jaded, a little broken, a little rough around the edges.

  *

  “I’m not doing that.” Charlie says flatly.

  “Look, you can do it in the hotel sink, or you can take your ass back to that salon.”

  “That wasn’t a fucking salon,” she says indignantly. “It was a damn CutsRUs. I’m pretty sure they don’t even have to be certified. I’m not—no, EJ.”

  She sounds so horrified EJ can’t help laughing. “Come on, Charlie. It’s hair. It’ll grow back.”

  Charlie glares, and EJ giggles. “Fine.” She tosses a box of hair dye in the basket and moves down the aisle. “What are you willing to do?”

  “If you can find a decent salon—not fucking CutsRUs—I’ll cut it. But I’m not going to do something insane just because you think it’s a good idea or because someone might recognize us on our way to Ireland.”

  They’re in a tiny, well-lit drug store, empty except for a bored cashier and a stock boy listening to music. EJ’s been trying to talk Charlie into cutting or dying her hair for the better part of ten minutes, and her patience is wearing thin.

  “You know you’re being ridiculous, right?” She says, adding a box of red to the cart. Maybe options will sway her where reason wouldn’t.

  Charlie huffs and EJ turns down the makeup aisle. They get snagged on nail polish for another five minutes, but Charlie seems at least vaguely happy armed with three bottles of shiny polish and a cheap manicure set.

  At the hotel, EJ changes into the white ribbed tank top she bought at the drugstore and turns to Charlie, expectantly.

  “Ok, babe. You’re up.”

  Charlie nibbles on her lip. “I’m not entirely sure I know what I’m doing,” she says, and EJ grins.

  “I’m entirely sure you don’t. Come on. Stop pissing around and get it done.”

  Charlie’s arches an eyebrow. “Play nice with the girl cutting your hair.” She says mildly.

  EJ flips through the news channels while Charlie works, trying to ignore the brush of her fingers against her neck. This isn’t sexy. It’s not foreplay. It’s a fucking haircut.

  If she keeps repeating that, eventually she might believe it.

  “Did they say anything about the shooting?” Charlie murmurs, close to her ear and EJ struggles not to jump. She swallows hard.

  “Not yet. I mean, there was sketchy details last night. I think it’s mostly being considered a home invasion gone wrong. But—they have to be investigating, considering we didn’t leave a gun at the scene and who ran off with those.”

  Charlie pauses. “I suppose that was a bad move. Sorry.”

  EJ shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. You got us out, safely. I’ll take it.”

  The other girl is quiet, a still presence behind her, and then, she resumes cutting. When she’s done, she hands EJ a small mirror.

  She almost doesn’t recognize herself. Gone is the long, riotous curls, hanging almost to her ass, softening and framing her face. In its place is a close cropped pixie cut, chunky and disheveled. It’s short enough that it barely brushes her ears, exposes the long curve of her neck and the small tattoo on top of her spine. She blinks at herself, staring in silence long enough that Charlie shifts anxiously.

  “Do you hate it?” She asks, finally.

  EJ looks at her, and smiles. “I look like a badass,” she says, delighted, and Charlie laughs.

  “A hot badass,” Charlie grins.

  EJ’s smile twitches a little, almost turning predatory before she shoves that instinct down and examines the boxes of hair dye on the bed. “What color should I do?”

  “You think you need it?”

  She shrugs. “Probably not, but the magenta needs to go.”

  Charlie frowns, but nods.

  “And then we’re going to do you,” EJ adds before ducking into the bathroom. Charlie swallows her groan. Fighting EJ is like swimming against the current. Eventually it gets too exhausting and you stop, and allow it to pull you where it wants.

  “Fine. You can cut it. I’ll go red.”

  EJ twists to look at her and flashes a smile that is all promise and lazy hunger. “I do love a redheaded slut.”

  Charlie flushes and EJ laughs before she goes back to the task at hand.

  *

  It takes another three hours of color and cutting, and a second trip to the drug store, but eventually they stand side by side in front of the mirror and stare.

  The long hair is gone, for both of them. Charlie’s got a sleek bob that turned out surprisingly well. It’s a shiny red that makes EJ itch to touch it. EJ’s was harder, but it’s finally relented enough to lighten into a honey brown with a few blonde highlights. She was right, Charlie thinks, standing next to her.

  They look badass.

  More importantly, they look different. Not the soft, sweet southern belles who wandered through the boutique district of Memphis. This look almost—almost—belongs in this shithole hotel room in the middle of fucking nowhere Arkansas.

  “Better?” she asks, and EJ grins. Nods.

  Charlie smirks, and drops on the bed. “Good.” A sheet is on the floor, covered in hair clippings and cheap towels stained with hair dye.

  “I’ll clean up and then I’m getting a shower. Are you hungry?” EJ asks, fluffing her bangs, and giving Charlie an appraising look.

  She nods and the ot
her girl grins. “Ok. We’ll eat. And I’ll call my guy about some new IDs for both of us.”

  She gathers up all the mess on the floor, shoving it all into the plastic bags from the drugstore and slipping out to toss it into the big dumpster out back. Charlie picks at her nails and studies her reflection in the TV, now off. She couldn’t handle daytime TV after half of a bad soap opera.

  The transformation is still shocking, and it’s surreal to think how unrecognizable she is now.

  Vaguely, she wonders if her father would recognize her, if he were to see her now.

  She glances at the phone as EJ comes back in, rummaging through her bags for clothes before she vanishes into the little bathroom with the cheap flip-flops they bought at the drugstore.

  Off the grid was fine, and smart—but there was absolutely no need to pick up a foot fungus from the place in the process.

  She files one hand, buffing and trimming her cuticles, rounding out the nails that have gotten a little ragged and uneven. It’s soothing. Settles some of the twisting unease. She applies a base coat of pale opal, and studies it for a moment, the smooth even strokes, the gleam.

  It’s petty, and superficial and belongs in another life. To another girl.

  But she can’t quite make herself stop.

  She picks up the phone and dials before she can think about it anymore, before she can convince herself that she’s not that girl. Because for a heartbeat, with her nails drying and the smell of acetone in the air, she can pretend she’s still a girl who would call her daddy for no reason.

  “Hello?”

  His voice is hoarse and tired. Exhausted, really. He sounds like shit, and she feels guilty, unexpectedly.

  “Daddy?” she murmurs.

  “Charlotte,” he breathes. “Where are you, pumpkin? Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine, Daddy.” She says, tears stinging her nose. “But—I can’t tell you anything else.”

  “Baby, are you being held by someone?”

  “No,” she says, quickly. “I’m fine. I just had to get away for a while. I’m sorry I—“

  “Your brother was drugged, Charlie. And you were gone. Just like Tre. I’ve been going insane with worry.”

  “Don’t get mad,” she says, hearing the temper building in his voice. “I’m not a little girl—I don’t have to check in with you.”

  There’s a beat of silence and then, “Then why the hell are you calling me?”

  She goes still, startled that he called her out so quickly.

  “I miss you. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  There’s a moment of silence, and then. “The police want to talk to you. About Tre. Do you know anything about that?”

  “What could I possibly know?” she says. She shifts and stands, pacing as far as the cracked cord will let her.

  Travis curses on the other end of the line, a thousand miles and a world away. This was stupid. Calling him. She can’t be that girl anymore. She doesn’t even want to be.

  “Daddy, I have to go.”

  “Charlie, talk to me. Tell me where the hell you are.”

  She hesitates, and the call stretches out. She hears a shuffle in the background, and her stomach lurches.

  “Why?” she asks, softly. “Who with you wants to know?”

  The silence spins out, long enough for it to be an answer, and she hangs up. Clenches her hands tight, and stares at the phone while the rage and fear and tears build.

  It doesn’t come. Just a long, lonely sense of betrayal that stings in only the faintest of ways.

  She sinks back onto the bed, and opens the nail polish remover, and scrubs her painted nails clean. Clips the perfect ovals back until her nails are barely there slivers above her fingers.

  She files them smooth quickly, and then tosses all of it—the polish and clippers and manicure set—in the trash.

  *

  Charlie has been quiet, almost reserved since they got back from dinner. It bothers her, vaguely—she wants to ask what’s bothering her, and she doesn’t want to know. Because today has been a good day, and those are rare, lately. She sits on her bed, the phone next to her while Charlie flips through the channels, and looks at the material on the thumb drive.

  Part of her is amazed by the extent of Jacobs’ network. She knew about part of it and his desire to expand the contacts. His penchant to use blackmail to control people and situations.

  But seeing it laid out so clearly—it’s overwhelming and a small part of her that she wants very much to shut up is impressed.

  She grabs the phone and stands.

  “What’s up?” Charlie says, shifting.

  “Nothing. I just need some air.” EJ lies with a smile. “You good?”

  Charlie’s eyes narrow, but she nods, and doesn’t protest further as EJ slips into the fading evening. She sits on the bottom stair and dials with fingers she’s proud to see are steady, and listens to the hum of traffic from the highway while the phone rings in her ear.

  “You shot Marco.”

  She hesitates. “Is he alive?”

  “You shot him, Ella. Twice. That man beat up your first boyfriend.”

  “Actually, he put Tony in the hospital. Beat up implies a couple punches—and Tony wasn’t my first boyfriend.”

  “Ah, but he is the bastard who took your virginity,” Jacobs purrs.

  “Whose fault is that?” she snaps, and he chuckles. She broke first. Her nails dig into her palm and she takes a deep breath, forcing down the irritation. “I didn’t shoot him.”

  There’s a moment of hesitation from him and then he laughs, a disbelieving noise. “The mouse? She’s got bigger balls than I gave her credit for.”

  “You always underestimate the women you fuck, Jacobs.”

  She wishes, suddenly, that she had a blunt. That there was anything to dull the sharp edges of this conversation that she doesn’t want to be having.

  “Is that what I did with you?” he asks. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

  For a heartbeat she considers lying. But. She shrugs, “Yes.”

  Far away, she hears him sigh, and the soft curse. She can picture him, head tipped back. Fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The soft, concerned look he wore only for her.

  It’s all a lie, though. His concern for her started and ended with what she could do for him.

  “Come home, EJ. Let me fix this. If you want more, I can do that. I can give you whatever you want,” he says, and it’s almost a plea.

  It’s almost enough.

  “I don’t’ want you to give me anything,” she whispers. “That’s the thing you never seem to understand. How could you teach me to play this game, to play people and get what I want, and have no idea of what that really means?”

  “Explain it,” he says.

  “No,” she says, softly.

  “Don’t be a fucking child, Ellie,” he snaps. “This isn’t a game. People are dying.”

  “Don’t be a fucking douche, Anthony,” she shoots back. “Call off your dogs and maybe no one else will.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “You can’t find us,” she says, softly.

  “Do you really believe that? I found you in Charleston. I found you in college, and when you ran before graduation and in Baton Rouge and Memphis, and I’ll find you now.”

  It’s a simple promise, and the part of her that has always—will always—love him, smiles. Wants him to find her.

  “Leave me alone.” She whispers instead, “Let me go.”

  “Ellie. Sweetheart. Even if you hadn’t stolen from me, you know that’s never been an option for us.” There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Does your girl know who I am? What I am?”

  “I don’t keep shit from her.” EJ says, defensive.

  “Stupid girl,” Jacobs says, softly, a twisted endearment that makes her shift on the stair.

  How many times had he called her that, whispered it while she fought him and he made her come. Control was his f
avorite aphrodisiac, and even when she wanted him—always—fighting him was foreplay.

  Hearing it now, even murmured in annoyance, pulls hot desire across her skin.

  “Good night, Jacobs,” she whispers.

  “Sleep well, Ellie.”

  The phone sits still and silent in her hands after she hangs up, and she blinks, her head tilted back.

  “Come back,” Charlie says quietly.

  For a second, she wants to ask how long the other girl has been standing at the top of the stairs. But she doesn’t. Charlie following her out of the hotel room, listening to the conversation with Jacobs—that was as much a foregone conclusion as the phone call to her father had been earlier today. She stands and climbs the stairs to follow Charlie back into the hotel room. It’s still disgusting and she killed a spider the size of Ping-Pong ball earlier, but it’s also cozy. It’s their disgusting, bug-infested hovel.

  She crawls into bed next to Charlie and tries to focus on the TruCrime that’s come on. Both girls stare at it, a kind of sick fascination as the investigators talk and the victims cry.

  “Is he mad?” Charlie asks, at last.

  “He’s—I don’t think he knows what he is. He wants to be angry. I think part of him is, because I’ve never disobeyed him like this. But, he also thinks I’ll come back. Jacobs doesn’t understand a world where I would willfully disobey him.”

  “You and him are all kinds of fucked up,” Charlie says, shaking her head. EJ twists to look at the other girl, a tiny smile curving her lips.

  “And we aren’t?”

  “You aren’t fucking me,” Charlie points out.

  The words are spoken evenly, but EJ is watching her. Watching the way her eyes look away nervously, and the quick dart of her tongue to lick her lips. It’s a statement.

  But it’s also a dare.

  EJ sits up and crawls closer to Charlie, until there is no space between them and they are still not touching. “Do you wish I were?” she murmurs and Charlie shudders.