by Keri Lake
“You’ve got three-quarters left in that bottle. I’d say you’ve got time.”
Cheek dimpled with a half-cocked smile, she reaches for the bottle that’s between us and pours another glass. “It’s not something most people want to hear. I’m certain it’s not something you want to hear.”
“Why’s that?”
She sits quietly for a moment, as though contemplating her response.
I like this about Nola, the way she considers her words, chewing on them before she spits them out.
“People tend to perceive the world as inherently good.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“I believe in balance. Yin and yang. Positive and negative energy. For all the good, there’s an equal amount of bad to keep the universe in check. And if that’s the case, there must be a whole lot of good somewhere in the world. Just isn’t here.”
“Somebody hurt your son.”
Clearing her throat, she lifts her glass to her lips, pausing before she takes a sip. “Not directly, from what I can gather. But those are the worst scars, right? The ones you don’t see.”
She brushes her knuckles across her cheek and jawline, and I watch, fascinated by the beauty in her sadness. The way her eyes carry desolation, the same way a painting captures a single moment in time. “He watched his father brutally murdered by some meth-head. Some … junkie who valued money and drugs over human life. Who had no idea a little boy watched on while his whole world caved in on him.” The shine in her eyes fails to dull as she blinks at the tears gathering in them. “It’s a shitty thing when a child is forced to hand over his innocence, that magic of childhood.”
Her comment tugs at the dark cluster of thoughts sequestered in the back of my mind. Ones I refuse to entertain at the moment. “You’re right. Those are the worst scars. The invisible ones.”
Lowering her gaze, she sits quietly, and the way her eyes shift only slightly, it’s as if a thousand thoughts are passing behind them. An observation that leaves me curious to know what this woman has been through in life that she can speak so matter-of-factly about pain, like a scarf she puts on when it’s cold. The murder of a husband is tragic enough, and I’ve watched plenty of women try to piece life together afterward and fail to achieve any level of normalcy. But I get a sense that pain is home for Nola, just as it once was for me.
Without warning, she pushes up from the table and reaches for her son’s untouched plate of food, stacking it on top of hers. As she flicks her fingers for mine, I gently brush her hand aside and push to a stand across from her.
“I’ll help with dishes.”
She rears back her head with a guarded smile. “Well, that’s unexpected. Most of the men I know would sell off a kidney to keep from helping with the dishes.”
“I suppose I value my organs a bit more than that.”
Following her into the kitchen, I try not to stare at her round ass filling those tight jeans, but I find it impossible to look away from things that stir my imagination so vividly. The thought of how symmetrical it’d look with her straddling my leather barrel horse back at home.
Standing beside her as she fills the sink with soapy water, I glance over at the unused dishwasher.
“Sorry, it’s broken. Haven’t gotten it fixed yet.” She sets what clearly looks like handmade dishes, based on their differing sizes and slightly off colors, into the basin. One of the plates slips from her hand, landing on the sink divider with a clash. The plate cracks in half—one falling into the soapy water, the other into the rinsing basin. I lift the non-submerged one out of the sink and turn to toss it in the trash, when I feel a tight grip of my arm.
“No, wait.” Taking the broken plate in hand, she runs her finger over the edge of the break. “It’s clean.”
“You’re gluing it?”
“Um, something like that. It’s called Kintsugi. My mother taught me the technique.” At what must be a look of confusion on my face, she glances up and smiles. “My mother believed that everything had a lifeline, so to speak. A history. Even this plate. And to honor it, she would seal the pieces with gold.” She sets the plate halves onto the counter and opens the cupboard, reaching for a bowl set off from the others stacked inside. A map of gold lines decorates the outer and inner surface of it, some very thin, others thicker, creating a beautiful webbing across the black glaze. “My mother ate oatmeal out of this bowl every single morning when she was alive. Her shakes were so bad, she must’ve dropped the damn thing and broke it a dozen times over the years. The morning I found her, though, the bowl was lying on the floor beside her, perfectly intact, in spite of the oatmeal splashed everywhere. The cracks had made it so strong, it didn’t break the last time she used it.”
I stare down at the bowl, the business half of my brain wanting to reject the poetry that breathes inside this woman. The other half of me is intrigued by her, so much so, I gently set the bowl back onto the shelf and grab a towel.
For the next twenty minutes, we wash the dishes, the pans and the countertops through benign conversation about her grandmother, who traveled the world and spent a good chunk of her youth in Japan. She apparently left the love of her life there and returned to the States to raise Nola’s mother alone.
“So, that’d make you about a quarter Japanese?”
“Something like that. My dad was Swedish, so all the Scandinavian has kind of taken over.”
Now that she says it, though, I can see it in her—the almond shape of her eyes that pairs beautifully with the chestnut brown, and the very pale tan of her skin that holds a soft peachy glow.
“I’m going to have another glass of wine,” she says. “Want to join me?”
It’s a risk, spending so much time with her, but one I’m willing to take for the sake of gathering as much as I can on Harvey and Bethany.
“Yeah, sure.”
Back in the dining room, she plops down on the same chair as before, and I follow suit, taking my seat across from her. She kicks her legs up onto the table, and her long slender feet covered in thin socks leaves me to wonder how they’d look slung over my shoulders, digging into my back.
The raising of her glass to her lips draws me out of those thoughts. “The wine is good,” she says before taking a sip.
“The food was better.”
“Dale’s special sauce. I agreed to stay an extra hour at the diner last week, in exchange for his secret recipe.”
“Did you specifically ask for his special sauce in that exchange? Because I’m thinking you got shafted.”
“No, I—” Her eyes narrow on me as the pun dawns on her. Slowly. “Very funny.”
“Couldn’t resist. You’ve worked there a while now?”
“A few years.”
“How is it?” The conversation feels as normal as any, except it’s not. This is the boring shit I have to weed through to get to the information I need. Who the hell would love a waitressing job? Woman probably busts her ass all day, for a bunch of ungrateful bastards who don’t even tip the standard.
“How is it? As opposed to what? The hustle and bustle of Wall Street?” Her brows wing up while she pours more of the wine. “Exciting, let me tell you.”
“Tell me.”
“Oh, let’s see. There’s Dale, my boss, who you so grossly assumed was some kind of booty call. He’s not, by the way. I’m pretty sure his favorite phrases are ‘Order up!’ and ‘Can you work this weekend?’”
I bury a smile behind my own glass of wine.
“Then there are the customers. Always entertaining, especially when they’re bitching about the food.” Another long swill of her drink, and she tips the bottle for more.
I want to shake my head, knowing what’s coming, and save her the embarrassment of another drunken night, but that won’t get me the details I’m desiring more so than the preservation of her dignity.
“Shitty food, then?” I tease, surprised at how much I enjoy these kinds of interactions with her, and the way her face scru
nches to a scowl every time, just before she’s about to slap a retort.
“Seriously? You just raved about dinner, man. No, the food is great. The customers are just picky as hell. And how can I forget my coworkers? Particularly Bethany, who’s always a trip.”
“Bethany,” I echo.
Ding ding ding.
“Yeah. She’s married to Harv, who is another story, but regardless, she’d have a guy like you unwrapped, like a kid on Christmas morning.”
I snort at that and lean back into my chair, watching the wine commandeer this woman’s usually tight-lipped confessions like truth serum. “Unwrapped?”
“She’s a narco. No, wait. That’s not the word I’m looking for. I mean nympho! She’s a nympho and hits on any guy with a nice body.”
“Like mine?”
“Yes. I mean, no! Yes, she’d hit on you, but don’t trick me into saying you have a nice body, okay? That’s rude.”
There are four stages to drunkenness: the attempt to fake sobriety, quickly smothered by the string of truths that tend to fly out a drunk’s mouth, until we arrive at slurring, and she’s one step away from that, from what I can see. The final stage is passing out.
Rubbing my hand across my jaw is a poor attempt to hide my amusement.
“And Harv is the physical embodiment of every woman’s nightmare, wrapped up in a beer gut. They’re like … perfect together.”
“He sounds like quite a catch for her.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re swingers. Even if he doesn’t get her hot to trot, someone else surely will.” Her words have begun to slur a bit, as she prattles on about her friend. Feeding me random minutiae that hasn’t yet clicked into place.
“I take it you don’t care for the husband.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
The glass tips back again, and she’s already polished off her third glass of wine in less than thirty minutes. My guess is, she’ll be nursing another hangover at this rate.
“What bugs you about him?”
The way she holds her breath, brows pinched together, I know she’s thinking. Of what, I can’t be certain, but as the pinch grows tighter, so does the urge to sweep her up out of that chair and pin her to the wall behind her, while I fuck the truth out of her.
“Karma,” she finally answers.
“Karma bugs you?”
“No. I mean, yes. It does. Which is why I’m not going to talk about them. I didn’t mean to invite you over just to bore you with my freakish life.”
“Your freakish life is far from boring.”
The giggle that flies from her mouth is quickly capped by the slap of her hand, and the hiccup that follows is a sure bet the alcohol has kicked in.
“I don’ need any more bad karma, right?”
“Having an opinion doesn’t make for bad karma.”
“No, but sharing it does.”
“Touché.” I smile back at her, catching the slight sway of her posture. “What’s your opinion of me, Star Wars? Still think I’m a killer?”
“I’m still formin’ my opinion, but if y’are, you’ve got great taste in wine!” She lifts her glass like a toast and tips back the last sip in the glass.
“Drink it up.”
“I will, thanks. Wait. You didn’t poison it, did you?”
I feign a glance at my watch and smile. “About five minutes, and the poison should kick in. You’ll be knocked onto your ass.”
“If I do, you better not try anything while I’m dead.”
A chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head at this chick. She’s probably the most entertainment I’ve had in years. It’s almost a shame this is business and not pleasure. “Scout’s honor.”
“Were you actually a Boy Scout, because I think you’ve pulled that scouts honor shit before.”
“No, I wasn’t a scout. So, this Harvey, tell me why he rubs you the wrong way.”
“I never said he rubbed me. Never. The thought of that is just … disgusting.”
As amusing as this is, it’s going to take hours to keep this girl focused.
“But if you must know, I’m apparently his Tom Hardy.”
“You’re what?”
“His free pass. His fuck fantasy. Whatever sick thing swingers call it.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“He left me a note. Telling me he wanted to strangle me, or rape me. I get to choose. Isn’t that sweet? I get a choice.” She chuckles again on another hiccup.
Meanwhile, her words hit my blood like a frost, turning everything cold and numb. Carl. Perhaps it’s the taunting nature of the note—providing two horrible outcomes—that reminds me so much of my childhood, when Carl would have me choose between two evils. A manipulative means of lessening his own guilt, by making me an accomplice to my own nightmare.
Kill the cat, or skin the fur off its tail. You pick. His words chime in my memory, and I’ve no doubt the note Nola received wasn’t from Harvey. A cunning killer has chosen her, and she thinks it’s some swinging cock looking for a gang bang. There is a connection to Harvey, one I haven’t yet made in my head, but for now, I have a vehicle to track, one that has ties to Nola, and that’s better than nothing.
“He signed it Sweet Dreams.”
A play on his moniker.
Jesus Christ.
She doesn’t even realize the shit storm she’s been swept up in. Bad karma doesn’t even begin to describe the situation.
“When was this?”
“Other night. When I left work.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“My brother’s a cop. I could’ve. I should’ve. Jonah would probably sever Harvey’s nuts, though, and then he’d get in trouble for that. He doesn’t need all that right now. ‘Sgotta lot going on.”
Of course her brother’s a cop. And I’ll be sure to take my time wringing Jackson’s neck for his scrupulous research skills.
“This Harvey sounds like a piece of work.” I have no intentions of encouraging her to go to the police about the note. Better to go along with her story.
“Wan’ know how I got m’name, Voss? My parents had sex. In Nawlins.” Snorting a laugh, she rubs her hand over her face and bites her bottom lip. “They got it on drunk. So it’s only fitting I’m drunk, right? I’m an oops baby.” She sighs, resting her chin against her palm that slips from beneath her. “I think … I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I’m getting … tired. Need to close … my eyes.”
With a hearty yawn, she rests her head against her palm once more, and eyes closed, she asks, “What’d you say again?”
I don’t answer, and instead tip my head, watching her chest move up and down, her mouth gape while she slowly succumbs to sleep. When her head plops onto her outstretched arm, passed out, I push up from the table and take the last sip of my wine, before setting the glass back down.
I pull her chair back, and as her head wobbles like a rock on a toothpick, I scoop her up into my arms.
“Mmm y’smellrealgoo.” She mumbles incoherently, wrapping her arms around my neck, as I carry her up the stairs. Oddly enough, I like the way she feels against me, tucked into my chest.
I pass two closed doors until I find a large spacious bedroom at the end of the hall. The lace and heavy wood furniture reminds me of my mom’s room when I was a kid, a little outdated, but feminine and warm.
Laying her down on the bed, I take in the scent of her—a sweet vanilla and peaches that hits my jaw with the urge to bite down into that creamy flesh. Standing over her, I run my hand down over her jaw, to her throat, and grind my teeth at the thought of squeezing her there, then down to her collarbone, over her shoulder toward her breast. The intense desire to grope her is stamped out by the visual of her tied up and blindfolded, passed out, just as she is now, while I fuck her unresisting body. So unnatural.
Clamping my eyes closed, I step away from her. From those thoughts.
To fulfill that fantasy, she’d have to be a willing pa
rticipant. That’s the rule that’s kept my control in check. The one thing that ensures I’ll never be like my uncle, or my grandfather.
My brand of sex would terrify an innocent thing like Nola, though, whose diet is probably strictly vanilla. She’d never submit to something so depraved, so as far as I can see, she’s nothing but a lovely piece of art to admire from afar. An unwitting little canary who’s captured the attention of a starving wolf.
Brushing my knuckles across her cheek, I move a strand of hair from her eyes and stare down at her peacefully sleeping face.
Not exactly hard to watch her closely. With my focus still on her, I back myself out of her room, and close the door behind me.
Hot steam seeps over the top of the shower as I undress. In the mirror’s fogged reflection, the scar across my eye sticks out from my face like an ominous reminder of why women like Nola are off the menu for me. I’ll never have something so normal, so unsullied. The night I was given this scar changed everything. It turned a decent kid into a criminal, and eventually, a man into a monster.
The craving inside of me is a black hole, a void that’ll never be filled. As if my insides have been hollowed over time, leaving me starving for something darker, more sinister, with every climax. I can’t deny that a fucked-up childhood played a major role in my violent nature. The intersection between a sordid past and my pleasure is a consummation unfulfilled, a temptation I won’t indulge in, for fear that I would be just like the men who raised me.
Men who found sadistic joy in harming women.
I’d sooner starve than feed such violent acts, but I can’t deny the lure of those sounds and the rush of excitement. The fantasies of having a woman like Nola, strong and defiant, giving me some measure of chase. Taunting whatever primitive part of my brain craves the challenge of conquering something wild and untamable.
I press play on the video. It’s staged porn, ridiculous to watch, as the dude reminds me of some old time villain, detailing his nefarious intent in the beginning. Thankfully, he’s quiet the rest of the video, and it’s only her sounds after. Her muffled cries. Her pleas. Her suffering. Again, all staged, but as real as it gets for me.