Torture to Her Soul

by J. M. Darhower

  Her expression falls at my reaction. "That's okay, isn't it? I mean, you've been feeling better, so I didn't think you'd need me, especially since you were gone this morning, and Melody called, so I thought…"

  She's rambling.

  Nervous.

  "It's fine," I say, although I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it, personally, her slipping into a large crowd somewhere in the city, possibly disappearing forever. More than once these past few weeks she's mentioned feeling like someone's watching her. It's only a matter of time before her observer decides to make a move. "Just… be careful out there."

  She eyes me warily for a moment. "I will."

  "Good, because you tend to find trouble when you're off on your own."

  I'm only half-joking, but she smiles, amused. "What can I say? It's a talent."

  I nod, my eyes lingering on her for just a moment, before I turn away, letting her finish what she's doing.

  "Naz?" she calls out. "You don't want to go along, do you?"

  The invitation surprises me. "I'll pass."

  I stroll toward the doorway when her voice rings out again. "Are you going to follow me today?"

  The question stalls me yet again. She's calling me out for keeping an eye on her, matter-of-factly, like she's truly curious about the answer. It's been a while since I've done it... since she's gone somewhere for me to do it... but I can't deny the thought crossed my mind.

  Pausing, I turn back to her. "And if I am?"

  "Then you might as well just come along," she says, shrugging as she uses the icemaker on the refrigerator to send a swarm of crushed ice down into the little cooler. "The whole watching me from afar thing is kind of creepy, you know. I get that you don't trust me, but stalking is only cool when Edward Cullen does it."

  Edward Cullen… I can't place the name. "Edward Cullen?"

  "Yeah, you know, the vampire? From Twilight?" She looks at me like she expects me to get it, but shrugs it off after a second and continues. "It doesn't matter. It's kind of creepy when he does it, too. The point is, if you're going to keep an eye on me, to make sure I'm being good or whatever, you should just come along."

  It's peculiar to me, how casual she talks about the situation, but something she said rubs me the wrong way. "It's not that I don't trust you."

  "Do you, then?" she asks. "Do you trust me?"

  "No."

  The response makes her laugh.

  "But that has nothing to do with it," I say. "I do it so I know you're safe."

  "I'm fully capable of keeping myself safe."

  "You really think that, Karissa?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, you think wrong," I say. "You can't recognize danger when it stares you right in the face, sweetheart."

  Real danger doesn't come with a gun; it doesn't come at you with violence or anger. When someone sees red, they get careless, emotional, and it's a hell of a lot easier to diffuse a ticking bomb with all the wires exposed than one that's quiet and hidden. The biggest dangers have smiles on their faces and sweet words on their lips. They don't threaten or coerce… they entice. They have the power to make you believe whatever they want you to believe, and they do it with manipulation, through seduction.

  And Karissa has absolutely no idea when it's happening to her.

  I know, because I did it, and she easily fell for me.

  She crosses her arms over her chest. She's feeling defensive because of what I just said. Her eyes regard me for a moment in silence before she shakes her head, deciding not to engage in that argument. "Whatever. I just think if you're going to be out there anyway, you ought to just come along."

  "I'm not going to interfere with your plans."

  "It's not interfering if I invited you."

  "Why would you invite me?"

  "Because I want you to come."

  I raise an eyebrow. "You want me to come?"

  "Uh, yeah." She shrugs. "Otherwise, I'll just be paranoid all day, thinking someone's watching me again."

  "What do you have planned?"

  "We're going to the park near the bridge to cook out and hang out and swim before the fireworks. Melody will be there with her boyfriend, and some other people… friends of hers. It would be nice to have someone else there… someone to talk to. Besides, who knows? You might even have some fun."

  Highly unlikely, I think, but I don't say that, letting her believe what she wants. I would turn her down, decline the invitation, but her words nag at me, making a denial nearly impossible to force from my lips.

  "Fine," I say. "Okay."

  A flicker of surprise passes her face that she wipes away quickly with another smile. "You sound so enthusiastic."

  "Cooking out and hanging out aren't really my things," I admit. "I prefer delivery and solitude."

  "I've noticed," she says, going back to what she was doing when I got home, tossing a few sodas in on top of the ice. "What about swimming, though? You said nothing about swimming."

  "That's because I can't swim."

  She nearly drops a soda, swinging around fast. She doesn't bother trying to hide her surprise this time. "You're kidding."

  "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

  Her eyes survey my face as she shakes her head. "That gives a whole new meaning to you giving me the plank, you know."

  "Not really," I say, casually leaning against the doorframe. "Either way, I end up drowning, whether I can swim or not."

  "Yeah, but at least if you can swim, you have hope of maybe surviving."

  "Sometimes it's better to not have hope."

  She scoffs. "That's nuts. If I'm going into the water, I'd like to know I at least have a chance."

  "Even if it's false hope?"

  "Absolutely." She sticks the top on the cooler, closing it up when she's done packing it full. "I'd rather have a reason to fight than to just give up right from the start. I don't care if the hope is a lie and I'm just delaying the inevitable… at least give me something to cling to. Something's always better than nothing."

  She leans back against the counter beside the refrigerator and crosses her arms over her chest, a peculiar look passing across her face as she regards me. I know her well enough to know she's thinking about her mother, about the deceit, about the glimmer of hope her mother tried to instill in her in life, twisting the ugly truth into a semi-decent lie… a lie I shattered, a hope I took away. I destroyed the fantasy with reality.

  She'd be happy living in the clouds, but I grabbed her by the feet and dragged her back down to the ground.

  Karissa would prefer the second wind, I realize. Even with death knocking at the door, inevitably coming to take her away, she'd want nothing more than to believe there was a chance for her to stay.

  "You'll really come?" she asks after a moment.

  "Yes."

  "I'll call Melody," she says. "Her and Paul were going to pick me up, but since you're going they don't have to."

  "Okay."

  She pulls out her phone but doesn't use it yet, still looking at me, studying me, like maybe there's something else she wants to say. Her eyes trail me from head to toe before meeting my gaze again. "You are going to change, right?"

  Instinctively, I glance down at my suit. "I wasn't planning to."

  "It's the Fourth of July," she stresses. "It's a cookout, not a board room meeting or, you know, whatever it is you do in those suits."

  The way she words it makes me laugh. "I do everything in these suits… socialize, eat, work… I've even been known to fuck in them before."

  The flush of her cheeks and the sly grin she tries to repress tells me she very clearly remembers that happening. "I'm just saying, you know… you might be more comfortable in something like I'm wearing."

  She motions to herself to stress her point, and my eyes instinctively scan her body, all too happy to have an excuse to openly ogle her. "Something tells me I wouldn't look nearly as good in that outfit as you do."

  She rolls her eyes, the blush only deepening. "Yo
u know what I mean."

  "Yeah, I do," I say. "If it'll make you happy, I'll change."

  "Thank you."

  I end up changing into some of my workout clothes—a pair of black gym shorts and a plain white tee, digging a pair of black sneakers out of the bottom of my closet. I haven't worked out in a while, with Karissa keeping me preoccupied and my injury making it hard to even walk around for too long some afternoons.

  After I'm out of the suit, I head back downstairs, hearing Karissa's voice as she talks into her phone.

  "Yeah, I'm sure," she says. "We'll meet you guys there."

  She hangs up, slipping the phone into her back pocket, before turning toward the doorway when I step back in. Her eyes widen, jaw dropping, as she gapes at me so hard it damn near makes me hesitate.

  "What now?" I ask, glancing down at myself.

  "Uh, nothing," she says, shaking it off as she averts her eyes. Huh. "I've just never seen you wear anything like that before. It looks good… I mean, I'm just saying, you look good."

  The flush is back on her cheeks.

  "Are you hitting on me, Karissa?"

  "What? No! Of course not! I'm just saying…"

  "You're saying I look good."

  "Yes."

  I let out a laugh, shaking my head, waiting for her to finish whatever she needs to do. It only takes her a few minutes before she turns to me and smiles, a large canvas tote bag on her shoulder, stuffed full of her things. I take her expression to mean she's ready and grab the foam cooler, motioning with my head for her to start for the door.

  I stick the cooler in the trunk of the car, and she drops her bag beside it, huffing as she does so. "Jesus, it's hot out here today."

  "You sure you want to go?" I ask, slamming the trunk closed. "It's only going to get hotter."

  She scoffs. "I can handle the heat."

  Brooklyn Bridge Park is on the upper eastside of the borough, located along the waterfront of the East River. I park the car in a garage a quarter mile away, knowing I'm never going to find a spot on the street, and grab the cooler from the trunk as Karissa once again slings her bag on her shoulder.

  The fifth pier is packed, most of the picnic tables occupied, a few of the charcoal grills already heating. The grass is unnaturally green, the air briny, permeated with the scent of salt this close to the water. Karissa tilts her head back as we get closer, inhaling deeply as a smile plays on her lips. "I love that smell."

  She loves it.

  Go figure.

  It makes my nose twitch.

  I notice the group as soon as we arrive, half a dozen people surrounding one of the tables. I don't know most of them, and from the way Karissa's footsteps slow, her approach tentative, I know she doesn't really know them, either. Melody Carmichael is dead center of the crowd, standing behind her boyfriend, as he sits at the table with two other guys. The others are female, pretty little blondes with deep tans, just like Melody.

  They're paired up, I realize. Three couples.

  No wonder Karissa didn't want to come alone…

  My eyes survey the group before shifting to Karissa when she approaches, immediately hugging Melody. I linger behind quietly, setting the cooler down at my feet, and watch as greetings are made and introductions are done. Mandy and Monica—Melody's best friends from high school—along with their boyfriends, Scott and Jackson.

  Melody comes to Paul last, wrapping her arms around him from behind and planting a kiss on his cheek that he wipes away the second she turns around. "And of course you know Paul."

  "Yeah," Karissa says, her voice tentative as she only briefly glances his way. "Of course."

  No one else seems to notice the change in her voice, the less than enthusiastic way she reacts to Paul's presence, but it screams loudly to me, waving a big red flag. I stare at the boy, assessing him. I've seen him before when I watched Karissa from afar, saw him the night at Timbers when Melody left the bar… the night Karissa was drugged and collapsed in the street.

  Huh.

  That's a strike.

  I'm so wrapped up in that fact, caught up in riddling out the mystery, that I don't realize anyone addressed me until the hand presses against my chest. My eyes dart to it, seeing the bright red polish on the unnaturally long nails, before following the arm to the body of someone who shouldn't be touching me.

  I meet Melody's eyes.

  "Looking good, Naz," she says playfully, the soft blue twinkling with amusement. "I haven't seen you out of a suit before. I like it."

  I look back down, staring at her intrusive hand until she removes it. Finally. "It's nice to see you again, Miss Carmichael."

  She blushes at my tone like she thinks I'm flirting, but I'm just trying to keep from upsetting Karissa's friend. I smile so I won't scowl, offering kind words so I won't offend. As much as I despise deception, I know how to play the game when I have to.

  And much to my dismay, I have to play it often.

  I know their type. They smile too easily, welcome too warmly, their words as fake as the moans they make when they let their little boyfriends play around between their thighs. They come from well-to-do families and never want for anything. They don't know what it's like to feel pain. They don't know what it's like to struggle. They don't know what it's like to wake up one day and realize everything you thought you knew about life was a fucking lie.

  They don't know, but I do, and Karissa does, too.

  She's too good for them.

  Despite being out of her element, Karissa seems relaxed, like she belongs with these people, and maybe she thinks she does… maybe she wants to… but I know better.

  She's fought through life and managed to survive.

  She hasn't had anything handed to her.

  Paul and the other boys vacate the table quickly to start grilling. Karissa scoops up one of their seats while Melody sits beside her, the two falling into easy conversation. I listen for a moment before zoning out, switching my attention back to Paul. They're fumbling with charcoal, scattering heaps of it around inside the grill, before Paul pulls a small lighter from his pocket and flicks it, igniting the tiny flame.

  He holds it straight up to one of the dry coals, expecting it to take off without any accelerant.

  Despite myself, I laugh, loud enough that Karissa's voice temporarily wavers, but she doesn't stop to question me. I don't know shit about grilling, but starting fires? Piece of cake. It's just as much an art as it is a science, and it's clear, watching them, they don't have a resourceful bone anywhere in their bodies.

  I let them fuck around for a minute, listening to them argue about how to go about it, the two others berating Paul for buying the wrong charcoal, for forgetting lighter fluid, for not knowing how to do anything. They're close to getting into a full-blown fistfight when I sigh exasperatedly, interrupting them before they throw any punches.

  I don't say a word, merely slipping between the bickering boys and glancing around at their supplies, not finding much to work with, but it's enough to do the trick. A few napkins and a spray from a can of PAM grilling spray are all I need. I arrange the napkins so they're evenly distributed before turning to Paul.

  He's gaping at me.

  "Lighter?" I hold my hand out and he slips it in my palm with no question. I quickly flick it, lighting the edges of the napkins, ignoring the feel of the flame as it laps at my fingers. I stare at the paper as it ignites before turning away and tossing the lighter back to him. "You're welcome."

  He doesn't thank me.

  The idiot just gapes some more.

  I stroll back over toward Karissa. She's watching me, her conversation with Melody forgotten as the girl moves on to talking to her other friends. I stall right in front of Karissa as she leans back against the picnic table, facing the water. You can see the Manhattan skyline clearly from here, the bustle of the city right across the river. Her eyes scan me before she tilts her head back. She arches an eyebrow as I stare down at her.

  "You're good at that," sh
e says.

  "Good at what?"

  "What you just did."

  I briefly glance over at the grill. The flames flicker, burning away at the coals so intensely that the boys took a few steps away from it.

  I turn back to Karissa, offering a slight shrug. "We all have our talents."

  She's quiet, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she studies my face, like she's trying to riddle something out from my expression, but I keep it blank. After a moment she leans forward, craning her neck more to look up at me. "Playing with fire," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It's your specialty, right?"

  My brow furrows.

  "I heard you say that once," she says. "You were on the phone in the den."

  She swallows thickly, like what she just said makes her nervous. My eyes are drawn to the contours of her neck. It's a beautiful thing, watching her throat muscles flex. It reminds me of how it felt that time she sucked my cock, the heat that engulfed me, the tingles, the tickles, when I felt myself slide down her slick throat.

  As much as I loved it, I couldn't tolerate it for long. Fucking her is one thing—I own her, body and soul, when I'm inside of her, claiming every inch of her as my own. But when she took me in her mouth, when she peeked up at me from between my legs, the honesty in her eyes was too much to take.

  That was when she owned me.

  I'm scum, compared to this woman.

  I should be the one on my knees.

  That thought makes me laugh, and her expression shifts with confusion, as I reach over and trace my fingers along the length of her larynx, down to the dip in her throat, the notch where her necklace sits. She's wearing the one I bought her. She doesn't wear her engagement ring, but she never takes that off.

  I pick up the pendant, rolling the round ornament between my fingertips, reading the words engraved on it. Carpe Diem. It's a funny feeling, I think, treasuring something you used to want to destroy. Not funny, ha-ha… funny as in what-a-fucking-joke.

  I meet her eyes again. "Are you always going to be suspicious of everything I do?"

  "Yes."

  Her voice is barely a breath.

  I laugh again, but there's no humor in it. I appreciate the honesty, but I hate the fucking answer.