Black Leather

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “You needed a break.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I did.”

  “Don’t argue with me next time.”

  “Just keep doing that.”

  “Later,” he said, stopped rubbing and pulled her collar back up around her neck. He put an arm around her shoulders and joined her at the railing.

  The lights of San Francisco receded as Sausalito loomed ahead. The night sky was clear and bright, with as many stars as the city lights would allow. The Golden Gate Bridge was magnificent. Usually, she saw it from her apartment, from above. She had never been below the bridge at night. She’d never seen it, or Alcatraz, from the water.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick,” Joseph said.

  Irene laughed. “Who’s the mother in this relationship?” She looked up at his face, at his comfortable, familiar, handsome face, and saw genuine concern there. “I know,” she said somberly. “I feel that if I stop, or even slow down long enough to take a deep breath, that I’ll fall to pieces. I feel as though it’s the spinning that’s keeping all my parts together.”

  “Here’s your deep breath,” Joseph said. “And it’s good for you. You don’t look like you’re falling to pieces to me.”

  She leaned into him. “You’re right, as usual.” So this is what it’s like, she thought, to have someone care for you. Maybe she’d been too single, too independent, for too long.

  Joseph. What a mystery. What a delight. He was everything. Professional, challenging, courteous, smart, and he wasn’t put off by her dark side. While he had every right to be angry or vindictive or any one of a thousand other emotions after what she’d done to him, he had been as attentive and as loving as ever. Maybe more so.

  That was incredibly attractive to her. She didn’t know why she had taken her blade to his shoulder; she shouldn’t have. Not only was it stupid in light of her professional aspirations, it was going to cause great consternation in her family. With Cynthia. She tried to pass it off as a side effect of the drugs, but she knew she couldn’t blame it on that. She’d wanted to carve into Joseph’s skin right from the start. In retrospect it seemed like a test. A test of his loyalty to her, a test of his devotion. And he passed. Oh boy, did he pass.

  “It’s incredible, the pressure,” she said, leaning into him. “This investigation is getting way too personal. This never happens with this type of judicial investigation, Joseph. It’s supposed to be just a cursory probe. They don’t want to be embarrassed by their choice. They never go too deeply, they don’t need to. People with sketchy backgrounds never make it this far. I don’t understand it. It must be because of Cynthia. I can’t think of any other reason they’re going through my life with such a magnifying glass. God, if they’re having this much trouble with my name in the hat, why don’t they just toss it out? Pick another attorney. There are plenty of qualified ones out there.”

  “Maybe the governor wants you,” Joseph said. “And he wants to make certain that you stack up.”

  Irene looked up at him as he looked out to sea, the ship’s lights catching his strong profile. Irene snuggled down under his protective arm. Maybe the governor does want me, she thought. Wouldn’t be the first time. “Could be,” she said. “Or it could be Cynthia, or it could be Owen Crowell. But even as ambitious as Owen is, I don’t think he’d call the dogs out on me. No, I think it has to be the Cynthia thing.”

  Maybe the governor wants to make sure he and I are not connected, Irene thought. Maybe this is the governor’s way to investigate any signs of his presence in my history.

  “Did you call for a psychiatric evaluation on her?”

  It took Irene a moment to realize that they were still talking about Cynthia. “Yes, but I don’t know. I don’t think we can safely plead insanity. I don’t think there’s a jury that would buy it.”

  “She’s not insane,” Joseph said. “That methodical skinning, and then the suffocation, there’s no way that was done during a bout of insanity—temporary or otherwise. It was a pretty cold blooded murder. Clearly premeditated.”

  “You’re right. I can’t go with any kind of mental illness excuse. Besides, she maintains that she didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t think she did,” Joseph said. “And the truth is, if Cynthia is guilty, she belongs in jail.” He winced. “There. I’ve said it. That’s my opinion.”

  Irene looked up at him, flakes of ideas swirling in the emulsion of her emotion.

  “Sorry,” he said, then leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  She leaned into him. He rubbed the back of her neck.

  “You have to take better care of yourself,” he said.

  “I know. Sometimes it’s all I can do to keep myself moving. Sometimes I’m so afraid... Sometimes the fear is immobilizing. I need some time off. I need to get out of town, but...”

  “But?”

  “I don’t dare,” she whispered, hoping he heard her, hoping he didn’t. She pulled her coat tighter around her neck, took another gulp of ocean air, then walked down the deck and leaned up against the pilothouse wall, out of the chill wind.

  He followed.

  “Sometimes I think I’m going insane,” she said, and was surprised at the lump in her throat.

  ~~~

  Warm and comfy, snuggled up on her couch and wrapped in a blanket that had absorbed the ferry ride fog, Irene smiled up at Joseph as he brought her a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

  She should be working, but she was taking the night off instead, and that was all there was to that. She needed this time to herself. She needed Joseph all to herself, without sharing him with the case or anything else.

  “This feeling of going insane,” Joseph asked. “When did it start?”

  Irene smiled at his persistent interest in a statement she’d uttered an hour earlier. But her smile faded when she considered the truthful answer. “A long time ago. My mother used to say that I was born with a train whistling through my soul, just like my father.”

  “Train?”

  “Long story. My father was apparently a drifter, a horse-shoer, who couldn’t let a freight train pass by without jumping aboard. He was detached. But I’m not really like that, at least I don’t think I am, or maybe I am, I don’t know. I just know that the feeling of going crazy is really strong right now. I have too many things pushing at me, both from inside and outside.”

  “Am I pushing at you?”

  That lump in her throat appeared again without warning. She didn’t want to cry, but maybe she should. Maybe the backed-up tears were plugging her up and making her feel this way. “Most of all,” she said, her voice cracking. She took a ragged breath and let the emotions come. A tear puddled in one eye. “You’re the biggest thing, the most important thing pushing on me, because you’re two things at the same time. You’re the one thing holding me together. The only thing. And that makes the other part worse.” The tear skidded down her cheek when she looked up at him. He looked guilty, as if he had done something wrong, something to hurt her.

  She threw off the blanket, crawled over and curled up in his lap.

  “What’s the other part?” he asked, but it sounded as if he didn’t really want to know.

  She kissed him, tenderly and deeply. There was only one place she wanted to finish this confession. It hadn’t been on the boat, and it wasn’t on the couch. She got up, took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

  Slowly, with tenderness instead of passion, they undressed each other and slipped between the cool sheets. Irene snuggled up under Joseph’s arm, loving the sight of her pale white arm against his dark brown chest. “The other part is that I want to lose this case, keep Cynthia in jail so I can have you all to myself.” There. It had been said. An ugly statement, an ugly thought, and she felt mildly liberated after voicing it. But she wasn’t proud of those feelings. She barely breathed, awaiting his response. “I’m not a very nice girl, Joseph.”

  “You’re not a bad girl, either,” he said. “C’mere.” he pulled her c
lose. His warm breath ruffled her hair. She could hear the steady pumping of his heart.

  He hadn’t been shocked by her confession. Did that mean he’d been having the same thoughts? Of course he had. It was only natural. They were in a complicated situation, and Cynthia was their complication. Getting rid of the complication would be the easy way out. That didn’t mean she was going to dump the case, it only meant that she’d been thinking of it. There was nothing wrong with examining all her options, and voicing her private thoughts to someone she trusted.

  They could work it out. They would work it out.

  She and Joseph would work it out together.

  Irene and Joseph.

  Permanence. Commitment. Marriage. Family.

  That metallic taste of panic hit the back of her tongue, and she gripped his forearm tightly.

  “You okay?” he calmly asked.

  She swallowed and firmly pushed away the fears.

  There was nothing to be afraid of. There was no immediate threat of permanence here.

  None.

  Was that the sound of a train whistle in the distance?

  Chapter 26

  The next time Joseph saw Cynthia, she had a black eye, a split lip and a big bandage on her forehead. She’d been beaten, and beaten badly.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said into the impersonal black telephone. “What the hell happened to you?”

  She began to cry. “I need to get out of here.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  She looked up, her face looking like misery incarnate. She sniffed, wiped the tears off her cheeks with the palms of her hands, dragged her nose across the short sleeve of her jumpsuit, then said, “I don’t need to see a doctor, Joseph, I need to see a lawyer. I need to get out of here. I don’t belong here. I didn’t do it! Do you hear me?”

  “Hey,” he said softly. He put his hand against the glass. He hated to see her like this, he hated to see her hurt, crying, behind glass, behind bars. She was still his wife, she was still a beautiful woman, she didn’t deserve to be in prison, she didn’t deserve any kind of a beating at the hands of inmates or guards or whatever. He was afraid he was partly responsible for Irene’s inaction. He was afraid Irene was guilty and he was helping her get away with it. Somehow he’d been able to justify it or stomach it or something.

  Until now.

  Now, Cynthia’s been beaten.

  Jesus Christ.

  She folded her arms on the little ledge and put her head down on top of them. Joseph could hear her breathing, and now and again snuffling into the telephone. After a moment, she spoke again, softly, without looking up. “Can you get her working on it, please? Or get somebody else?”

  “Cynthia, do you remember somebody named Bobby Milner?”

  Cynthia peered up at him and whined, “I don’t know, Joseph, is this important?”

  Not a flicker of recognition in her eyes. “No, maybe not,” he said. “No, I guess it isn’t.”

  “Please, Joseph, can you get me out of here?” She picked up her head, lowered her voice to a whisper and glanced around behind her furtively before she spoke. “I’m really afraid.”

  “Okay. I’ll work on it. If you’re that afraid, we can probably get you moved to—”

  “No! Not moved! Not moved, out! I want out!”

  “Okay, okay,” Joseph said. “I’ll talk to Irene. I’ll see what we can do.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay. I still love you, Joseph.”

  “Yeah,” he said, not looking at her, uncomfortable with the lies—both hers and his. “Me, too.” He started to hang up the phone, but she gestured at him. He brought the phone back up to his ear, glanced up at her. He knew there was guilt on his face.

  “She always does it after a big win, you know,” Cynthia said in a steady, calm voice. “She goes away and cuts some guy. If we could get her to win my case, she’d do it. We could catch her at it. If she won my case, against all odds, especially if it was against all odds, she’d do it again and we’d catch her. We’d catch her bloody-handed.”

  Nausea churned in Joseph’s belly.

  “She’d fly some place,” Cynthia said, her voice brittle and bitter, “pick up some guy in a bar, and skin him alive.”

  ~~~

  Joseph’s fingers brushed the slim telephone receiver a dozen or more times that afternoon, but he didn’t dial it. Irene Nottingham. He didn’t want to call her.

  He didn’t want to be a part of her “vested interest” in the outcome of Cynthia’s trial.

  He wanted to get Cynthia out of jail.

  He hated that he couldn’t stay away from Irene. When he was away from her, he could see her clearly. She was poison, she was deadly, but he could not stop himself from basking in her toxic glow.

  He felt lovesick. He felt needy for the first time in a long time. He wanted to possess her, to merge with her, to convince her that she needed to give up her evil ways and cleave to him and only him.

  That, of course, was impossible.

  It was all impossible.

  She’d already marked him, and he felt a different kind of sick every time he thought about the carving on his shoulder and back. He assumed everybody who got a tattoo felt some remorse, but tattoos could be removed. This was a scar. It was pinkish-white and obviously deliberate. He was ashamed. He’d never take his t-shirt off in the gym again.

  She seemed to dance around commitment pretty successfully, but there was permanence to every one she chose as her lover.

  He proved no challenge to her by letting her carve his skin. What was her next trick?

  There were other women. Other white women. Maybe there was even a black woman out there who was right for him. He had a lot to offer. He had other things to do. He ought to be working on his dissertation. He ought to behave like the professional he was and leave Cynthia and Irene to their own destructive devices. They engaged in a sibling dynamic that had nothing to do with him, and he didn’t want to get in the middle of it.

  When he finally did call her, he rationalized it by telling himself it was for Cynthia. Yeah, sure. As if Cynthia would see it that way.

  “Irene Nottingham,” she said when she answered, her voice crisp, cool and professional.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, feeling overly familiar and too proprietary.

  “Swamped.”

  “I have wine and massage oil,” he blurted out, surprising himself, hating his weakness, resenting his fascination with her.

  He heard the smile on her face, though she said nothing. Then, softly, “Ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  ~~~

  She lay on the bed, face down. Joseph straddled her, his hands rubbing warm oil into her back. Her skin gleamed in the candlelight.

  He tried not to think about how pitiful he was, he could never justify that he was doing this for Cynthia. He put it all right out of his mind, and dived into enjoying Irene and her lightning-quick mind and animal appetites.

  He rubbed one thin but muscular arm. He could wrap his hand around her upper arm. She was so small. “So where shall we go?” he asked.

  “Go?”

  “Cynthia said you always go somewhere to celebrate or relax or whatever after you win a big case.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Let’s go someplace together after you get Cynthia off.”

  “Do you think that would be appropriate?” Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

  “Why not?”

  “What about Cynthia?”

  Joseph lost interest in the massage. He trickled his fingers down her slippery sides. “What about her?”

  Irene twisted her neck to look up at him, then turned over, dumping Joseph over onto his side. “She’s your wife.”

  “Not for long,” Joseph said. “You’re the one for me.” He was still surprising himself. He paused, his eyes searching her face, and he knew, with distressing certainty, that he spoke the truth. “I’ve always known that.�
��

  “I don’t know...” Irene’s eyes were full of caution.

  “Yes you do,” he said. “You and I have been like magnets ever since I started going out with Cynthia. Before that, even.”

  Irene smiled, a tentative, distasteful smile. “Be careful. Next thing you’ll be saying is that you married her to get closer to me.”

  Joseph looked down, ran an oily fingertip up her arm, tickled her neck and brought the finger to rest next to her earlobe.

  “No,” she said. “Please God, say it isn’t so.”

  “It isn’t so,” he said, looking up at her and smiling. At least he didn’t think it was, although he was surprising himself every damned day since this whole mess started. He wasn’t sure he knew himself very well any more. “I love Cynthia. Past tense. I loved Cynthia. But you...” He leaned down and kissed one of her breasts. “You...”

  She trailed a finger over the network of bumpy scabs on his shoulder.

  “You’re the one who got under my skin,” he said, smiling.

  “So to speak.”

  “So to speak.”

  Irene rolled over, grabbed the sheet, covered herself, and then slid up to sit against the headboard. She picked up her wine glass from the nightstand and took a sip. Knees drawn to her chest protectively, she regarded him, still lying at the foot of the bed, black, oily and naked. “I don’t think you understand all of what’s happening here,” she said.

  The evening was taking a weird turn. Joseph was ready for it. He was ready to blow the lid off a little of the secrecy. He was ready to know more of the dynamic. He was ready to understand, ready to help, ready to rid himself of the odd feelings he was having. He was tired of spying on Irene, he was tired of being deceptive with Cynthia. Let’s open this fucker up.

  He wanted to be full of happy, joyous and free feelings of love for this woman. With this woman. He wanted her to feel the same way he did.

  Or else be rid of her. One or the other.

  Whichever, he was afraid that the secrecy was part of the attraction. He had to know. The secrecy had to be dispelled. And if the attraction went with it, well then so be it.

  He followed her up to the headboard, pulled the sheet up to his waist, picked up his wine and waited.