Deeper into Darkness

by Maria Ann Green

  I’m just still thankful he didn’t hear anything, so I listen to their conversation without contributing.

  “Hey, did you ever find that watch?” Jason looks to Aidan as he asks it, and I freeze. I know I shouldn’t, and I don’t mean to, but my mind turns to ice in panic. “Or do I already have your next birthday gift picked out?” His eyes are intent, holding Aidan’s to his.

  The watch, the watch, the damn watch.

  Aidan lifts his hand from where it was in his lap, and jingles the replacement watch he bought a few months ago. “Didn’t I tell you? I found it.” His smile is casual, and the venom in his eyes is concealed well, but there is just a hint too much of teeth showing, and I can see the flexing of his other hand.

  “How’s work?” I interrupt, and then regret it.

  Eva, Eva, Jason took Eva’s old job.

  What is my problem today?

  Jason nods, smiling. “It’s great. I miss having less responsibility, though. So,” he pauses to change the subject again, and I’m thankful. “I just saw Amelia.” Finally, the closest thing to a safe subject yet, but I struggle not to roll my eyes at the mention of her name. It’s tough. “She was picking up the girls,” he adds.

  “Last time I saw her leave your place, she had her ring back on,” I say, and Aidan looks up with food in his mouth. I’d looked the same way when I noticed her diamond a week or so ago. But Jason’s eyes stay where they are, and I think I see the smallest of shrugs.

  “Didn’t she stop wearing it before she even left?” Aidan asks.

  Jason nods, not really commenting.

  “I thought she looked sad,” I add, trying to gauge the situation.

  “Yeah, she does a lot these days. So anyway, what are you guys doing today?” Jason doesn’t leave enough room for a full breath between the two sentences. Aidan looks to me, his eyes as curious as mine at Jason’s blasé attitude. Just months ago, his ex-wife’s demeanor, behavior, thoughts, all of it would be a lengthy topic of conversation.

  But apparently not today.

  “We’re actually going to a movie in just a minute, so…” Aidan looks to Jason as he says it, grabbing my hand, and putting cash down onto the table.

  In other words, go away.

  “Oh, great. I didn’t have anything to do. What movie are we seeing?”

  Aidan’s face falls, but he recovers in time to stop my laughter from escaping my throat, but only barely. “Yeah. Great,” he says as Jason grabs the waitress to cancel his order, and pay for the trouble.

  I see Aidan’s jaw flexing as he squeezes my hand a little too tightly.

  “Is it just me, or does Jason need to go? I swear, he gets more annoying with every pound he loses,” Aidan says. He has his fingers intertwined tightly with mine, on top of the console between us, as we drive away from the theater.

  “Like go, go? On a playdate…?” I ask, trying to keep the surprise from my voice.

  “Oh, no. Not what I meant. Just go away and leave me alone.”

  I sigh, letting my shoulders fall from where they’d sprung up.

  We saw a slasher, which would have been way more entertaining without Jason between us. Yes, between us. He said he didn’t want to feel like the third wheel, so he separated Aidan and me. I swear, I thought Aidan was going to deck him. But instead he ate an entire bucket of popcorn while he watched the movie very intently.

  I suspect urges were suppressed.

  “It’s just you,” I say, deadpan. He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to narrow them at me, and I hold my palms up in defense. “Are you jealous?” My lips curl up.

  “I’m not.”

  He totally is.

  “Definitely not,” he snaps.

  I don’t argue. After seeing Aidan’s face when Jason hinted about wanting an invite to dinner, after crashing both our lunch and our movie, I knew it was time to say goodbye to him for the day. He’d joked about eating all by himself, and how he’d be lonely, but Aidan laughed and said goodbye as he pulled me along with him toward the car.

  Aidan lifts our hands up to his mouth now, planting a soft kiss on my knuckles, when we hit the highway. And I let the subject drop.

  “You okay?” Aidan isn’t able to look when he asks, his eyes on the exit we’re taking, almost home.

  “Yeah.”

  We get out of the car, and I follow him inside, both of us walking slow, trying to get back to the mood we had earlier. But it doesn’t really work, so when we get inside I head to the fridge for something comforting.

  “What should we do the rest of the night?” I ask, thinking mostly about dinner. Aidan doesn’t answer, so I turn to find him out of sight. I search the living room, and bathroom, but he’s not in either. Finding him in the bedroom, looking through his closet, I try again. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

  “You’re on your own, babe. I’m going out.”

  I blink.

  He says nothing.

  I blink again.

  “Sorry,” he adds.

  “Oh.” I inhale, looking to the tally marks on the glass across the room from me. “Okay.”

  I don’t get it; we’ve both been doing so well. And this bet was for him, to follow his lying low request. And with Harwell’s persistence over Eva lately, it really makes sense. But suddenly he’s going out?

  We both know why he’s going out, what he’ll be doing, and why I’m not invited. But neither of us says it. That drives me the most crazy. Why does it have to be this unspoken thing? We used to talk about Aidan’s playdates, about my rendezvous, about everything. All the time. But ever since this bet, he’s gotten even cagier.

  “Are you going to…?” I let my words float in the air unfinished, hoping he’ll pick up where I left off.

  “I’m just doing research. Planning. I’m not going to lose the bet.” Aidan doesn’t snap exactly, but his stare into his bag is hard, and his tone is anything but warm. It’s frustrating. Maybe he needs a release. Maybe I should ask to drop the bet.

  But when I open my mouth, something else entirely comes out.

  “Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Aidan turns to me, but then turns away quickly, before I can search his eyes with my own. “I just mean, with the extra questioning and everything.”

  “I’m going,” he says and finishes preparing.

  When Aidan’s done he walks over, changed into new clothes and his duffle bag in toe, with a blank expression spread tightly across his whole face. Leaning down, he kisses the corner of my mouth, then whispers, “See you later.”

  “Love you,” I answer as he walks toward the front door. It opens and closes again a second later, and I flop back onto the bed, groaning. “Love you too,” I say for him, in an extra annoying voice.

  Rolling my head to the left, I see the little black hashes again. I’ll let him win. I decide it, and it feels right, like I should have known it from the start, like it’s what the stupid competition should have been about in the first place. I won’t actually put us into any more danger; I won’t kill before him, but I’ll disappear to write again and pretend I got a release—and then he can get his. If he’s careful.

  I hear the car start and back out onto the street.

  The urge to follow Aidan is strong.

  I lie still, willing it away.

  I know he wouldn’t be more than a block away by the time I got outside, if I left right now, and I could guess which way he went if he got a bit farther. I watched long enough, we talked about his experiences enough, for me to have several great guesses for where to start.

  I want to watch, to admire his planning. I want to feel connected and high from being near him in his element, if only part of it. I want to feel the warmth and tingle between my legs in a way I rarely do otherwise. I want all of it, all of him. No more hesitating, no more waiting and holding back.

  But I don’t move.

  I can’t break his trust, and I know that’s how he’d see it.

  So I sit up, bouncing a little
on the mattress after I do. I’ll have my own night out, separately. If I can’t get what I want with him, from him, then I’ll do it for myself, alone.

  I stand.

  Then I sit, right back in the same spot.

  Maybe it’s not the very best idea. And I did just try to convince him to stay here.

  I punch the bed next to my thigh in frustration at my own indecision. This is ridiculous.

  “Screw it,” I say, standing again. And in a few minutes I grab my keys on my way out to my car and to my own night of fun.

  It’s all about tonight.

  None of the previous, none of the future, matters.

  Just tonight.

  Just now.

  I feel the clouds more than see them, rolling into the sky, blotting out the moon, creating shadows perfect for playing in. I smile. Maneuvering around my bedroom—in my house—with the lights off, my eyes are completely adjusted; I slink with ease. And it’s simpler because I’m so focused on one specific point of light, one image filling my mind—a handsome face taking a last breath. It’s all I can see, all I want to see.

  I don’t worry about Aidan; I’m not even sure I could conjure up the sight of him right now if I tried. I don’t worry about Harwell or Eva, or anyone. I don’t even worry about running into Jason when I leave. It’s me and my fantasies right now, dark and bleeding, soon to be realities. Just them. Just me. Just this night.

  A cat hisses somewhere in the nearby street, knocking into a metal can. The sound is sharp, and it sends goosebumps up my arms. My smile returns.

  I move like I’m made of liquid, almost floating from one spot in my room to another, back arched, arms dancing. Spinning, I turn from my bed to my closet and grab a black shirt—lace, revealing. Underneath I pull a red lace bra into place. Both are see-through, but with two layers there’s only a hint of nipple.

  But a hint is all you need.

  This will be fun, I can feel it, and it smells like strategy.

  I pull my shoes on, flats, then turn toward the mirror. Almost all black, with a hint of red, wide eye liner, hair sweeping and curled for drama and mystery and over one eye. I’m just about done. But something’s missing.

  Walking to the bathroom, almost on tiptoe, I feel like a cat stalking prey, looking for someone to engage so I can win a fight. I grab jewelry, blood red rubies for my fingers. Then I’m perfect, and it feels like a couple pieces of a puzzle have slipped together after having been missing or damaged before.

  I can feel something building inside, something nameless but dangerous, and the edges of it start to press against my skin. Whatever it is, the effect is magnificent, monstrous, and I find myself rolling my shoulders and rubbing my thighs together in answer. I relish whatever it is, hoping for more. It may be difficult to reign myself in tonight, but I’m strong enough to, I’m sure.

  I feel the smile on my lips, subtle but dangerous, before seeing it in my peripheral when passing a window. It’s a dark night, but I know it’s far from over. There are plenty of people awake—one of which will later wish they hadn’t been.

  I won’t kill anyone tonight; I can’t.

  I’ll play with my dinner before sitting down to snack sometime later, when things are less worrisome and chaotic.

  Okay, so maybe tonight isn’t going exactly as planned.

  Oh god, yes.

  But I’m adaptable.

  “Mmmmm.” The sound escapes despite my lips never parting. It’s just a vibration, a grunt of all consonants, husky. I barely realize it and couldn’t stop it if I tried.

  Don’t stop.

  Once the sound is out it breaks the damn, more words tumbling from two sets of lips, words flying around the small room, filling me up in a way I haven’t experienced in a while.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “You’re so fucking hot.”

  “Right there.”

  I part my legs wider, raising a knee and bending it, but instead of following my hints he moves upward, kissing my stomach before moving to my nipples. Shaking my head, I let the comments building in my throat go instead of giving them voice.

  I can roll with it.

  His tongue swirls around, licking before he nibbles. I yelp, but it’s a good sound, one I’d like to make again. Then his fingers are in my hair, between my legs, and I wonder how many arms he has, how many sets of fingers. How many mouths, tongues, lips, how many of him there are in the room working to please me. A solitary focus.

  When I need a break to breathe, I grab his shoulders, careful not to pull his hair, and bring his mouth to mine. Not the best way to catch a breath, but I only let his tongue roam for a moment before I have him on his back and beneath me in a smooth movement.

  “My turn,” I say with a wicked smile, all sharp edges and masked in shadows.

  He just nods, his brown eyes veiled and heavy.

  Good boy.

  A different kind of pleasure washes over me as I move with a rhythm. It builds and pulses, pushing against the inside of my skull, making my vision narrow and sparkle. I move without thinking. I think without moving. I sink into the experience, into him.

  And I realize I don’t know his name. So I ask.

  “Parker,” he grunts. “Parker Fisher.”

  ***

  I’m screaming, crying out as tears stream down my face. I don’t know when I started, but the sound is loud, hurting my own ears.

  The man beneath me is shaking his head, covering his face, closing his eyes tight with a look of disgust. Pulling myself back, I take a breath and realize I’d been leaning down, screaming inches from him, no room for him to move, my hands pressed into his shoulders. There are red marks beneath the pads of my fingers, but I barely move them when I pull my head back and stop the sounds streaming from my mouth.

  Then it hits me again, like a second punch to the gut.

  Parker.

  I keep him pinned to the bed, unyielding.

  “Please stop,” he cries out, a rogue tear rolling into his ear, filling the little spot with salt and water, and fear. I shake my head. “Why?” he asks.

  He gets nowhere, because I have no answers.

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t understand.” His words are hollow now, just hope on air.

  But I just shake my head.

  He gasps, struggling, and even I’m not sure how I’m still overpowering him. He’s not a big man, and his strength is laughable compared to Aidan’s. But, still. I did catch him off guard, and the rage…the memories of him…

  Him.

  He’s not the real Parker, though. Play Parker. Fake Parker.

  No Longer Parker. But that doesn’t matter.

  His eyes widen before starting to close. They become slits, barely letting light from the room—still smelling of cologne and sex with our discarded shoes and clothes in the corner of the bed and floor—into his pupils.

  He’d been tugging at the lace held around his neck, trying to pry the underwire from his chin. But with leverage, and pent-up anger, I’m still stronger. And he isn’t pulling at my lingerie anymore. He isn’t fighting.

  He isn’t doing anything anymore.

  And that’s fine. With the slowing of his heartbeats, the little thumps hitting my inner thigh, I feel better. The more time between each, the lighter I get, the less burdened by the Real Parker’s face. My Parker.

  I could see him for a while, transparent and wavering, but standing in the corner of the room, begging me to fix this.

  So I did. And now he’s fading, taking the trauma and the rest of all this with him.

  No Longer Parker finished fading, completely. His eyes don’t blink, his chest doesn’t move.

  I try to resist, to stop myself from what I know my whole body is burning for me to do. It just doesn’t feel like enough yet; it feels unfinished because it started and ended so quickly. I didn’t get to enjoy it, and now I can’t get myself to move. So I take a breath, looking around the room.

>   I spot it after only a few seconds, and of course he’d smoke too—just like My Parker. Without dressing I grab the pack, and with a match he so conveniently had tucked inside I light the stick between my lips. It burns my eyes and my throat simultaneously, and the smell threatens to bring me back to a different time. But I resist, having something to do.

  Pulling a long drag, lighting the tip of the cigarette, I breathe in the memories. Then as quickly as I can I pull it from my mouth and press the orange tip to his body. I put it to sensitive skin and imagine the begging he’d do if he hadn’t already died. I do it over and over again.

  And then, finally, I feel better.

  Looking at the blackened circles, I don’t know how much time passes, but I notice little details I hadn’t before. His eyes are green. He has a scar on his chest that I hadn’t noticed, and a tattoo on his ribs.

  And one of his hands fell over the side of the bed. Seeing his fingers dangling there, stories of monsters under the bed come to mind, and why it’s dangerous to lie that way. But I don’t move his hand up. He’s already faced, and lost against, the real monster. And I was on top of him, on top of the bed anyway.

  The room feels quiet, like the absence of sound is pressing down on me, and it’s time to go. This whole night didn’t go as planned, and that fact is hitting me harder now. So I gather my clothes, putting them on with speed, but efficiently, not rushing. Afterward, there’s an extra tousle in my curls and smell of another body on me, but I can’t worry about that now.

  I take some time to clean, what I can anyway. Putting the bedding in the laundry, wiping down surfaces I touched, doing my best. Though, I’m not overly worried, not about that. I’d just met him. It was coincidence, and coincidence is hard to investigate.

  I make my way to the door, but double back just before reaching for the knob.

  The lingerie.

  I snag my bra, straps and clips dangling. It’s expensive, and probably easy to connect to me. Heading back to the door, I shove it into my bag, letting the lace hang over the side. I try to focus on my steps, on my breath, instead of the feeling of what’s brewing. It’s an odd mix of fear, determination, paranoia, and fate.