Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution

by Jeanne C. Stein

  The beast is quiet within me. It’s nice.

  I place the bottle on the deck and sort through the mail. A couple of bills, a couple of checks. A postcard.

  From France. The Eiffel Tower.

  I flip it over, smiling because I know it will be from my niece. Trish’s precise, graceful script fills the back. Her friend Ryan and his parents are visiting for spring break. They’ve traveled from my family’s home in Avignon to Paris and her words sparkle with wonder and excitement. Her fourteenth birthday is next week and they plan to celebrate with fireworks at the chateau. Could I possibly fly over, too?

  Oh, Trish, I wish I could.

  She is having such a good time, learning so much. I can’t remember ever feeling as optimistic or hopeful about the future as she does. It’s a gift. I wish I could share it with her. If I were human, I might be able to.

  As a vampire, I’m afraid that all I can bring to her life is the threat of danger. She and my parents are better off with distance between us. It’s the reason they are now living on a winery in France and I’m chasing lowlifes like Hilda in San Diego.

  I gather the mail and the now-empty beer bottle and go back inside. For the first time, I notice the message light blinking on the telephone. I lift the receiver and punch in the code for voice mail.

  “Anna. It’s Williams. This is the fifth message I’ve left. I need to talk to you, damn it. It’s important.”

  I delete this message just as I have the other four. He doesn’t seem to get it. I don’t want to talk to him.

  I slip the checks into a drawer to be deposited tomorrow, place the bills on the desk blotter and prop the postcard against my computer monitor. I’ll call Trish on her birthday. I can do that. Talk to her. Let her know I love her.

  And speaking of love . . .

  I close the slider and grab my car keys. I have a date up the coast. It’ll take me a while to go home, shower and get to Malibu but I know what awaits me is worth it.

  LANCE MEETS ME AT THE DOOR OF HIS BEACH HOUSE wearing a smile and an open terry robe. He’s tall, handsome in an edgy, bad-boy way and has blond hair that falls to his shoulders. The look he’s giving me makes my blood heat and my heart pound. He’s as happy to see me as I am to be here.

  “What took you?” he asks, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I can see that.”

  He pulls me over to the couch and lets me plop down before reaching for the opened bottle of wine sitting beside two glasses on his coffee table. He pours, I take one, and in another second he’s beside me and I’m settling my head on his shoulder.

  “This is nice,” I say.

  And I mean it. I met Lance right around Christmastime last year when everything in my life was going to hell. He was the one bright spot—a willing, energetic and quite enthusiastic lover who helped me forget my problems.

  Amazingly, we became friends and that led to our becoming real lovers. He’s an underwear model for Jockey. Do I need to say more about the body? He’s also a vampire, which means I don’t have to hide my nature or hold back in our lovemaking for fear I’ll hurt him. We can bite, suck and fuck each other’s brains out.

  It’s liberating. It’s cathartic. It’s an arrangement I can live with.

  I release a breath, run a hand over his chest, down lean muscled, rock-hard abs.

  His human buddies have to diet and work out all the time to keep this kind of physique. The only diet Lance is on is the one we share—the liquid protein kind.

  He’s a female vamp’s wet dream.

  And for now, he’s mine.

  I let my hand roam farther, a feather touch, teasing.

  He responds, staying my hand with his own, guiding my fingers so they encircle him, letting me feel him grow bigger, a pulse that’s an invitation.

  He shifts to take my glass out of my hand. He places the glasses on the table and stands up, drawing me with him. He lets his robe fall to the carpet.

  In a heartbeat, I’m out of my clothes, too.

  He lowers me to the floor, his mouth on mine, his own fingers exploring. Heat radiates from his touch, making me shiver with need. Blood sings. I’m ready. More than ready.

  Time to get down to business.

  THE BEDSIDE CLOCK SAYS THREE A.M. LANCE IS ASLEEP beside me. So why can’t I fall asleep?

  I kick off the covers and slide out of bed. His house is right on the beach, one of the perks of being a successful male model. The slider is open and the rhythm of the ocean draws me outside. I don’t bother to take a robe or wrap a towel around me, but stand naked on the deck. At this time of morning, who is around to see?

  The water is black under a cloud-studded sky. The surf advances and retreats from a white, sandy beach with comforting regularity. The smell of sand and sea is rich, teeming with life. Before Malibu was an enclave of the rich and famous, before there was a Los Angeles, before there were people, there was the ocean.

  The concept of time changes when you’re a vamp. Maybe that’s why the sea draws me the way it does. If I’m not staked or beheaded or burned to death, I may live to see Malibu reclaimed by the ocean.

  I used to be afraid of the idea of immortality. Had difficulty accepting the notion of never-ending life. Something is shifting inside me. I’m not so afraid anymore.

  Not for myself. But when I lose my family, when I watch generations come and go without being a part of what makes human life bearable, when I have to constantly build new relationships to replace those I’ve lost—I may rethink the price of immortality.

  Lance awakens. I hear his sleepy voice in my head. Anna, what are you doing out there?

  I half turn toward him. Contemplating eternity.

  CHAPTER 3

  JUST AS HAVING A MALIBU BEACH HOUSE IS A PERK of being a successful model, early morning photo shoots are a drawback.

  Lance’s alarm clock goes off at four thirty. I hear it before he does. I prop myself up on my elbows.

  We’re outside, on a chaise, with only his robe thrown over us. He’d joined me earlier to watch the ocean and one thing led to another as it inevitably does with us. We’d both fallen asleep after, our limbs tangled, my head on his chest. We’ve been asleep exactly thirty minutes.

  I study his beautiful face, relaxed in sleep, brush a lock of long, silky hair out of his eyes and shake him gently awake.

  He groans, stretches, kisses me and hauls himself up to go inside to shower.

  I haul myself up to start the coffee.

  About the same time the smell of fresh-brewed coffee has my salivary glands pumping, my cell phone rings.

  The caller ID displays a number and area code I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Anna?”

  “Culebra?” I almost drop the coffee mug in my hand. My Mexican shape-shifting friend has never called me. Never. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize the number or that I blurt stupidly, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling you.”

  “It’s four thirty in the morning.”

  “Were you asleep? You don’t sound like you were sleeping.”

  “No. Happens that I wasn’t asleep. But it’s still four thirty in the morning. What’s going on?”

  “Can you come to TJ?”

  “You mean to Beso de la Muerte?”

  “No. I’ll tell you where to meet me.”

  It could be the lack of coffee, or the shock of having him call me, or the fact that it’s four thirty. For whatever reason, my brain seems incapable of forming an intelligent answer.

  Culebra waits a second before barking impatiently, “Anna. Wake up. I want to see you. Are you coming or not?”

  I rouse myself with a mental thump to the head. “Yes. I’ll come. What’s this about?”

  Lance comes out of the bathroom. He raises a questioning eyebrow at seeing me on the phone but takes my mug, pours coffee for both of us and hands mine back.

  He’s naked and smells of soap and shampoo an
d my thoughts drift to wondering just how much time we have before he has to go and what might happen if I follow him back into the bedroom . . .

  “Goddamn it, Anna.” Culebra’s ire is escalating. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Lance moves back into the bedroom. Not fucking, which is what I’d like to be doing. The bedroom door closes and the vapor lock in my brain releases. “I’m here, I’m here. Where do you want to meet?”

  “I told you. Downtown Tijuana.”

  “TJ? Why?”

  A pause. Then a noisy, impatient exhalation. “I have my reasons. Can you come?”

  My turn to pause, impulse to grill him strong. But Culebra never asks favors. This must be important. I relent.

  “Where?”

  “Thirty-four Avenido Revolucion. In an hour?”

  Crap. “Have to make it three. I’m not in San Diego.”

  “Where are you?” Then he laughs. “Let me guess. Malibu with that muscle-bound model. Am I right?”

  There’s no condemnation or sarcasm in his tone. If anything, he sounds pleased. “With Lance, yes.”

  “Okay. I have some things to attend to. I planned to do them after we met, but I’ll take care of them before. Just don’t get sidetracked. I’ll be waiting.”

  He disconnects.

  Lance is back, dressed. Too bad. No sidetracking now. He pours his coffee into a travel mug and leans down to plant a kiss on the top of my head. “Who was that?”

  “Culebra.”

  “At this time of morning?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t have a clue what’s up, but he wants to meet me.”

  Lance scoops his keys and wallet from the counter. “Have to go. Will I see you tonight?”

  “Can you come to my place?”

  He smiles and I’m suddenly counting the hours.

  “I’ll be there. Lock up when you go.”

  I see him to the door and wave him off. It’s a small, comforting gesture, waving a lover good-bye in the morning. Normal. Human.

  I like the feeling.

  I get dressed and head back for San Diego. A quick stop at the cottage to shower and change clothes and I’m on my way again. When I hit the border crossing, I sail through. It’s a little before eight on a Sunday morning. Too early for most tourists to be entering Mexico but the line coming back stretches a half mile.

  TJ has changed a lot in the last twenty years. Especially the border crossing and the area right around it. Where there was nothing but bad road and vendors selling pottery and junk, there is now a mall. High-end stores, air-conditioning, trendy restaurants.

  But go on into town, follow Avenido Revolucion to the end, which is where the address Culebra gave me is located, and you’re back in the TJ of my youth. My mom hated coming here, but out-of-town visitors always insisted on seeing the real Tijuana.

  Of course my family never made it back this far. Back through narrow streets lined with bars and brothels, a few dicey eating places and shops filled with fake turquoise jewelry and authentic Mayan pottery. Evidently the Ma yans had forged a trade agreement with China. This is where the shows were, the infamous animal acts. Used to draw a lot of tourists until an attempt was made to shut them down. From the looks of the signs above the bars, the attempt failed.

  I haven’t been here in years. Memories flood back. As a teenager, armed with fake IDs and a wad of cash, my friends and I would sneak across the border for cheap booze and adventure. I was never afraid. Stupid, naive, but never afraid. When your brother is run over by a drunk on his way to a college class, your perspective on danger changes.

  The bar where I’m to meet Culebra makes me wish I’d driven the car David and I use for work, a Ford Crown Vic, instead of my Jag. I’m afraid if I park out in front of this dive, I’ll return to a stripped hulk. What was Culebra thinking?

  As soon as I pull up, a boy of about twelve steps from inside the bar.

  “Are you Senorita Strong?” he asks in heavily accented English.

  He’s about fourteen, tall and skinny with a shock of black hair that curls like a comma in the middle of his forehead. He projects an air of hard independence. Hard earned, too, I suspect, looking around at the surroundings. He’s wearing clean but well-worn jeans and a red Harvard sweatshirt.

  I nod.

  He holds out his hand. “Twenty bucks and I’ll watch your car.”

  Must be Harvard Business School. I pull out my wallet and hand him a ten. “You get the other ten when I get back and my car is in one piece.”

  He accepts the bill and strolls over to lean against the passenger side door. “He’s in the back room. Go straight through.”

  Reluctantly, I turn away from the car. My only consolation is that if I come back and something has happened, David has a friend with a good body shop.

  Loud, grinding strip music suddenly starts up from inside. I push through the double swinging doors and the music intensifies. Bad sound system, like a seventies boom box, exaggerates the bass and warbles the treble. It might as well be amplified through tin. The smell of stale beer and overripe male is strong enough to wrinkle my nose.

  I forget the smell and the bad music, though, when I look around the dingy interior and see what’s going on.

  Ten men in various states of inebriation slouch around a raised platform. A woman, a hard thirtysomething, struts in front of them. Grinning, leering. She’s dressed in a halter top, breasts barely contained. And a miniskirt. She’s wearing no underwear under the skirt. It’s evident with every calculated step.

  Behind her, there’s a girl and a burro. She looks about twelve. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Her hands and voice are busy, coaxing the burro. Readying it for the performance.

  My stomach lurches and I look away.

  I think I’m going to be sick. Right after I kill Culebra.

  CHAPTER 4

  I FLEE INTO A BACK ROOM AS DINGY AND BADLY LIT as the front, but it’s a relief to leave the scene on the other side. There are four tables spaced on a sawdust-strewn floor. Culebra is sitting by himself at a table against the far wall. He doesn’t look up when I come in. He doesn’t sense my presence. Unusual. As a shape-shifter, he can read my thoughts and I his. Unless, like now, he’s closed the conduit between us.

  It allows me to use my voice. My loud voice. “Have you lost your mind? What are you doing here?”

  His shoulders jump. He looks up. Even though I’m not able to read his thoughts, I can read what plays across his face just as clearly. He’s startled, momentarily confused by my outburst, apologetic when he understands what’s behind it. He pushes back his chair and stands up.

  He gestures toward the other room. “God, I’m sorry, Anna. I should have picked somewhere else to meet. I’ve been distracted lately.” He glances at his watch. “I know the manager here, and I had to see him. I have to be at the airport in an hour. But I am truly sorry for my thoughtlessness. Sit, please. I have much to tell you and little time.”

  When I don’t immediately move toward the table, he adds, I know it doesn’t make the situation better, but that girl is sixteen and makes more in one week than her father makes in a month in the fields. She only cares for the burro.

  Only cares for the burro? I saw how she was caring for the burro.

  Culebra winces at my anger. She and her brother support a family of twelve.

  The brother must be the kid outside watching the car. So who’s the woman? Their mother?

  It’s an imperfect world, Anna. You know that better than anyone. He lets a heartbeat go by before adding, She isn’t Trish.

  Bringing up my niece and the abuse she suffered at the hands of her mother’s friends provokes a flash of anger. I narrow my eyes and stare back at him. Not a good idea to be in my head right now. Out loud I say, “I won’t stay here.”

  Culebra has the good sense not to argue. He gathers the papers from the table. “There’s a café across the street. We’ll go there.”

  The music has stopped. The show mu
st be over. When we step into the other room, men are staggering toward the door, no doubt off to find some other perversion. The urge to stop them, to break each of their necks and toss them into a Dumpster, is strong.

  But stronger still is the urge to break the neck of the woman scooping scattered dollar bills and pesos from the stage. When she’s finished, she says something in Spanish and tosses a dollar to the girl before disappearing into the back.

  The girl is brushing the burro, crooning softly, ignoring the crumpled bill at her feet. She’s pretty in the Spanish/ Native American, dark-haired, dark-eyed way. She’s slender, small-boned. Her skin has an unhealthy pallor. She spends too much time in this dump.

  I fish my wallet out of my bag. I have two hundred dollars in twenties. I give it all to her. “Take the rest of the day off.”

  She looks at the money, then up at me. Her expression doesn’t change. Her eyes hold neither warmth nor interest. She folds the bills out of my hand, slips them into the halter, and resumes grooming the burro.

  That won’t alter her situation, Anna. I hope you didn’t think it would.

  Culebra’s tone is sad and disapproving.

  Of course I didn’t think it would, I’m tempted to snap back. But a part of me knows that’s a lie. I was hoping it might alter her situation for at least a day. That she would take the money and go shopping or to a movie, do anything a normal sixteen-year-old girl would do on a Sunday afternoon.

  Instead, there’s a group of American teenagers, boys about seventeen years old, pushing through the doors, pointing with leering grins to the girl on stage.

  My last glimpse of the girl is that she’s grinning back.

  CULEBRA IS APOLOGIZING, AGAIN.

  We’re settled in a booth in a café across from the bar. I can’t get that last image of the girl out of my head.