Ravage (Book 1)

by Naomi West

  I need to kick this habit, I remind myself for the thousandth time. I picked it up when I was a weird teenager with my head buried in books, whispering to myself to better formulate my ideas, or singing to myself to hone my voice. I was my own companion even before I shed my name.

  I will myself to stand up, to let the man go. I’m not the sort of person to hang around because a stranger looked at me. I’m not some swooning, helpless thing. That’s what I tell myself. And yet, I don’t stand up. I sit here, waiting, secretly hoping that he’ll come backstage and introduce himself.

  When the door creaks open, it isn’t the strange man. It’s Charles, looking decidedly sweaty and flustered. I rise to my feet warily, watching him with the eyes of a wolf. He looks drunker than he did twenty minutes ago: the kind of drunk men get so they don’t have to feel guilt. But guilt for what he said to me, or guilt for what he’s about to do?

  “Did you see that guy?” he sneers, rubbing his hands together. He’s so sweaty they make a squelching sound. “Said I was an old man! Do I look like an old man to you, darling?”

  “I’m leaving,” I say.

  “Why?” He stands firmly before the door.

  “Because my set is over.”

  “I haven’t paid you yet.”

  I look him over. He’ll draw this out, use it as an opportunity to trap me here, and all for less than a hundred bucks. The twisted part is I need the cash, but what I don’t need is to be trapped in a confined space with a drooling jackass.

  “Keep it.” I take a step forward, waving a hand. “Can you move, please?”

  “What’s the rush?” Charles asks. “Are you in a mood with me?”

  “In a mood with ...” I rub the bridge of my nose. “Don’t ask me stuff like that. It implies we’re even close enough that I could be in a mood with you. But we’re not. This is business. And you’ve just ruined it. I can’t come back here anymore. What is it with men like you, Charles? I didn’t come here to fuck you. I never gave you any signs in that direction. I’ve always just come here, sat in this room, and then gone out there and performed. So please get out of my way so I don’t have to look at you anymore.”

  “You’re mean and cold,” Charles says. “That’s what you are!” His voice rises to a raven’s squawk. “And I won’t put up with it anymore!”

  He leaps forward, hand reaching for my ass, already gripping in preparation. I wait until he’s almost on me and then bring my knee to his crotch. He coughs, stumbles, and then falls to the floor, gripping his belly.

  I kneel down next to him. “All the girls made fun of me when I started kickboxing. Most of the boys did, too. I didn’t do it for very long. A year, maybe less. It’s crazy what you remember, isn’t it?”

  “You bitch,” he growls. “You ungrateful whore.”

  I shake my head. “It’s men like you who make women nervous, Charles. You make us nervous to sit at a bus stop when it’s dark out, and nervous to go to the club, and nervous to go to the goddamn library. It’s men like you who give other men a bad name, who make some women think all men are slathering scumbags.” I tut, and then stand up. “It was nice knowing you.”

  I leave the green room, clenching my fists so that my hands won’t shake.

  Chapter Five

  Logan

  I sit outside the club, waiting off to the side on my bike so that I have a view of both exits. The sun has set now, but all along the street lights flash: clubs and restaurants and a game arcade. I think about smoking a cigarette and then decide against it. There are times when a man can do that, choose whether or not he wants to smoke, and there are times when he’s covered in blood and has just killed several people, and smoking is the only thing that can calm him. I force my mind from blood and focus instead on the light breeze.

  The punk emerges with her gaggle of friends, all of them tattooed with dyed hair. She spots me and then flips me the bird. “Fucking dickhead!” she roars.

  I smile, and call back, “Charming!”

  She and her friends leave in a taxi, and then Cora Ash emerges. She looks pissed off, her lips pursed, her fists clenched, her green eyes on fire. From here I can see that her tattoo is a snake, and the one on her hand is some kind of letter. She’s even sexier up close. I jump off my bike and walk across the parking lot. She looks up and an expression flits across her face—a smile, a frown, something in between—and then lowers her head and makes for her car.

  “Hello, Cora Ash,” I say, catching up with her.

  She stops in the middle of the parking lot; we’re completely surrounded by cars, as though we’re on an island and instead of water we have vehicles. “What do you want?” she snaps. “I saw you looking at me. I’ve had enough of assholes today.”

  I laugh, unfazed. “I just wanted to introduce myself. My name’s Logan Birch. I thought it was a nice coincidence, is all: Ash and Birch. Looks like we’re both named after trees.”

  “Nice coincidence,” she repeats, and the way she says it, it could mean anything. “I’m just trying to get home, all right?”

  “Then why are you standing here talking with me?” I raise my hands. “I’m not holding you hostage. And I saw you looking at me in there. I’ve gotta say, I don’t like being objectified like that. It made me feel like a piece of meat.”

  She laughs. It isn’t a giggle. There’s nothing girlish about it. She’s all woman. Then she covers her mouth as though she can force the laugh back down her throat. “I wasn’t looking at you,” she says. “You were the one staring. If I did look at you, it was only to see if you were still looking at me. Because you were freaking me out.”

  “Right ... So what’re your plans for the rest of the evening?”

  “I can tell you what my plans aren’t: to stand in the middle of a parking lot until the sun rises.”

  “You set was awesome, Cora,” I say. “I really mean that. I’ve never been to this place but I come to these sorts of places every so often. Dive bars, places to get shitfaced where the music’s loud, the sort of music that makes folk angry. But your set was different. It was like, fuck ... it was primal. The way you danced, too. Goddamn. You were like a water snake. I thought that exact thing when I watched you: this woman’s like a goddamn water snake—” I stop myself, hearing my own voice. I sound overexcited, which is odd because I never sound overexcited with women. “It was good, anyway.” I shrug, cursing myself for exposing too much emotion. Men like me have to be careful of that.

  “Thanks,” she says. “That really is nice to hear, Logan. But I’m going home now.”

  I hold my hand up. “Wait. Is that your rusty red Nissan over there? That’s the one you seemed to be walking toward.”

  “Uh, yeah. Why?”

  “I reckon the manager’s got some evil on his mind. Look.”

  She turns and we both watch as the manager tries to sneak through the parking lot. He’s clearly drunk. Either that or he thinks weaving side to side makes him less conspicuous. He crouches down between two cars, ducking lower when he sees us.

  “For God’s sake,” Cora mutters. “This guy just won’t give up, will he?”

  “Maybe he thinks he’s being romantic,” I offer.

  She rolls her eyes. “Since when is sneaking up on someone romantic? And he tried to grab my ass backstage ...” She tells me about kneeing him in the balls.

  “There’s more to you than meets the eye, and there’s a hell of a lot that meets the eye.”

  She blushes, and for a second looks almost flirtatious. Then her face hardens. “I’m so sick of men thinking I owe them sex just because I fucking talk to them. This was a business relationship and now—I shouldn’t be unloading on you. I’m leaving, Logan Birch. It was nice meeting you and all. I’ll walk quickly. Maybe I’ll get to my car before he reaches me.”

  “Maybe.”

  But I’m not about to leave this up to chance. I’m much better at sneaking than the manager. I’ve snuck into drug dens and past security since I was barely out of hig
h school. I crouch down low and reach into my leather pocket for my knuckleduster, and then remember that my leather is locked up on my bike. I move forward, watching Cora and watching the manager, waiting to see what’ll happen but intent on not letting the old man cause her any harm. She reaches her car and he emerges, making a gurgling noise I think is supposed to be a whistle.

  She turns, spotting me and him at the same time. She gestures at me silently, mostly with her eyes: stay away, let me handle this. I shrug and stay where I am. I’ll let a lady handle it to a certain extent, but I won’t stand by as a fully-grown man whales on a woman. That just isn’t how things are done.

  “What are you going?” Cora snaps. “You’re stalking me now?”

  “You can’t assault a man at his place of b’ness.” He coughs. “Do you really think you can get away with that? Is that really what you think? Is that how your dumb slut mind works? I’m not going to stand by while some up-her-ass cunt treats me like a dog!”

  I make to step forward. Again, Cora gestures at me. I grit my teeth. He’s getting closer every second.

  “I want you to leave, Charles.”

  “Or what?” Charles reaches into his pocket and takes out a boxcutter.

  I stand up and step between him and Cora. I don’t care if she thinks she can handle this herself. If she does, she’s never seen what a boxcutter can do to a person’s belly. I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve done it. It will open a person up just as easily as it opens a box up, maybe easier.

  “It’s you,” Charles murmurs.

  “It’s me,” I say, arms at my sides, watching his hand. “What’re you plannin’ on doing with that blade, old man?”

  He looks uncertain for a moment, eyes flitting between me and Cora, and then hardens his lips. He spits. “I’m planning on getting some of my pride back!” he barks. “This bitch, this cunt, this—”

  “Call her cunt again,” I say. “Go on. Do it.”

  “I have the knife.” He waves it, as if I won’t believe him.

  “I see that. Does it make you feel like a big man?”

  “Be careful,” Cora whispers behind me. “I don’t want you getting hurt for me.”

  That strikes me as an intimate thing to say, and the way she says it is full of emotion women don’t usually use with me. It’s like she actually cares.

  “You have two options here, Charles,” I say. “You can either walk away with some small part of your dignity, or you can come at me and we can settle this. If you think that blade gives you the edge you need to beat me, well, fine, come’n prove it.”

  He lets out a scream and charges me. I weave forward, duck a right hook that would’ve impaled my eye, and then bring my arms up around him, forcing his shoulders up so that his arms are above his head. I twist, and he yelps, dropping the knife. I twist again and he falls to his knees, making another yelping sound like a hungry cat. I lower him to the ground and turn him over, placing my fist on his chest. I’m bleeding, I realize, a two-inch cut across the forearm. Blood drips onto his quivering jowls.

  “Let me give you a word of advice,” I say. “Women don’t like it when you come at them with blades. I know. It’s a fuckin’ revelation.”

  He spits.

  I hit him a couple of times in the face, one slap and one punch, opening up a cut under his eye. “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood today, ’cause otherwise I’d make a phone call and get some real mean bastards down here, bastards who make me look like a goddamn reasonable man.” I hit him again, feeling the bloody ache of violence rising inside of me, the ache that fills me when bullets ricochet around me and there’s killing to be done. I tighten my hand around his throat. “Maybe I’ll just keep squeezing,” I tell him, “until your eyes pop like grapes and your mouth fills with blood. Maybe that’ll teach you not to treat ladies like dogshit.”

  Cora places her hand on my shoulder. “That’s enough. He gets the point.”

  It’s the feel of her hand that does it. It’s like a balm, soothing my rage. I let go of him and stand up, studying the cut on my arm. It’s not deep, but the blood pours freely.

  “Get out of here,” I say, giving Charles a nudge with my foot.

  He stands up, rubbing his red throat, and then waddles away.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Cora says.

  I turn to her. “I wasn’t about to let him stab you.”

  “Thank you ...” She bites her lip. When she releases it, she looks surer of herself. She squares her shoulders. “We can get a drink, if you like.”

  “Sure.”

  “But maybe you should come back to my place, so I can patch up that arm. But I really mean to patch up your arm, and maybe have a drink. This isn’t an invitation to anything else. I want to make that clear up front.”

  I tip an imaginary hat. “Ma’am. Just let me get my leather. I’m not leaving it here, even locked up.”

  When I return, she asks, “So you’re one of those outlaw bikers, then?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “My dad was a biker. At least he tried to be.” She hurries on quickly, as if conscious of having shared too much. “Come on. Let’s get you patched up.”

  Chapter Six

  Cora

  I remember reading the story about the giant who was hired by the gods to build the walls of Asgard, only they didn’t know he was a giant and never thought he could do it. I remember wondering if it was possible for a person to build a wall around themselves without knowing everything about the wall, or how it was built, or what would happen if it crumbled. And now, as I drive myself and this stranger back to my apartment, it seems like those questions are in danger of being answered. I built a wall around myself just as the giant did, and now I am simply welcoming somebody through them. Cora Ash was meant to be celibate and alone, and yet here he is, a man, a handsome man at that, a man who makes my body sing.

  I tell myself I should ask him to leave when I bring the car to stop, or apologize and take him back to the dive bar, but instead I say, “Let’s go up, then.”

  My one-bedroom apartment is a bit of a mess, with clothes spilling out of the bedroom and piled atop the wash basket, a few dishes in the sink, and a pile of books on the coffee table. I go into the kitchen and root around under the sink for the first-aid kit as Logan wanders over to the table, picking up a book at random. “The Poetic Edda,” he says. “What’s this one about?”

  “It’s a book of Old Norse poetry,” I tell him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Vikings.”

  “Ah, so that’s what you were singing about? I don’t know much about that.”

  “That’s odd, because you’re very much like a Viking.”

  I curse myself for the line even as I say it. He does that cute gesture, tipping a fake hat, and I feel something inside of me drop away. Walls crumble, walls cave, and Cora Ash collapses with them. He grins at me, and I smile back, unable to stop myself. He looks even sexier with his jacket on. The patch shows a blood-colored demon riding a motorbike made of charred bones. Demon Riders.

  I nod for him to sit down and dab his arm with the alcohol, and then bandage it up. Heat radiates from his body. I feel it on his face, in my hand, the kind of heat which makes me wonder what it would be like to have it unleashed on me. Once I’ve bandaged his arm I go into the kitchen and get a glass of wine and two glasses. I stand there, watching as he looks over the books, willing myself to call over, “I’m sorry, but I think you should go.”

  I’m nervous, and scared. One year without a man will do that, I guess. But it’s more than that. I feel too close to this man, far too comfortable. It’s making me do things I’d never normally do, like invite men I just met up to my apartment, or drink with them. I don’t call over, though. Instead I join him and pour two glasses of wine.

  He holds the glass up, studying the liquid. “I don’t usually drink this fancy stuff,” he says.

  “I’m out of whisky and grit, I’m sorry.”

 
He chuckles. “You’ve got some fire in you, Cora.”

  “Have I?” I shrug. “I never noticed.”

  “I bet you haven’t,” he says. “I’m sure every man you’ve ever met has tried to put that fire out in some way.” The dim lamplight plays in his ice-white eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’ll make me blush.”

  “I wasn’t looking at you like anything,” I protest.

  He holds my gaze. “Sure, whatever you say.” Then he waves at the coffee table. “You’re really into this Viking stuff, then?”

  I nod. “I’ve been into it ever since I was a little kid. I had this picture book about myths and legends and I’d sit for hours reading it over and over, even when Mom wanted to dress me up and paint my face. That was before she was in the car crash.” Stop it, I tell myself. Stop oversharing!

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Logan says. “So, your tattoos, they Viking?”

  “Two of them are. This one’s the World Serpent. You see how it’s biting its tail? At the end of the world it will let go. This one’s a rune. It means burning desire, or something close to that.”

  “You have another?”

  “It’s on my lower back.” Suddenly the room seems very hot. My palms are sticky. I’ve finished my glass of wine without realizing it. I pour another.

  “Are you gonna let me see it?” he asks.

  If any other man asked that I’d laugh in his face, but there’s no desperation or boyish excitement in Logan’s voice, no lascivious widening of the eyes. He just asks it, casual, almost uncaring.

  “Sure,” I say on impulse.

  I stand up and turn around, lifting my shirt to show him my lower back. The tattoo is of a microphone with a lightning bolt through the middle.

  “Rock and roll,” he says, smiling.

  “Rock and roll,” I agree.

  I sit down, cheeks flushed, body tingling. I can’t stop looking at his neck, corded as though the muscles of his torso are tugging at it. He sees me looking and then dramatically looks at my chest. “Wow,” he says. “Breasts.”