After Her

by Amber Kay

  I glare at him, unable to summon a response malicious enough to dispute his accurate theory. Adrian chuckles a reply, probably able to detect the panic in my eyes as I realize that he’s managed to one-up me.

  “Why so shocked? Did you think that you were the only one with a college education?” he replies. “I’m a son of the Ivy League brethren. Four years of Cornell, two of grad school with a Masters in Finance and Accounting. Summa cum laude, first in my class. Never presume that you’re the smartest person in the room, Cassandra.”

  “Fuck you.” I stand and march toward the door. “I'm going home.”

  “So you’re not curious about the night of the murder?” he asks after I’ve opened the door to leave. “I can tell that you’re at least interested. You want to know what I did to that woman, don’t you? You don’t want to admit it, but some part of you is even a little turned on just thinking about it.”

  I grip the doorknob, biting my lip. What’s come over me? Aroused at the thought of him choking a woman to death? My thighs clench together, fighting the sensation.

  “Just what I thought,” he says. “I know arousal when I see it.”

  “Shut up,” I mutter though I refuse to back away from the door, to face him. I should leave. Yes. But dammit, he’s right. I'm curious.

  “Why would you trust me with the truth?” I ask. “Why now?”

  “Why not?” he says with no hint of caution in his eyes. “I have nothing to lose. The case has been closed for ten years. I’ve already been convicted of the crime. I served my time.”

  I turn to face him, unable to determine how I feel about that answer. Curious? Nervous? No, suspicious. Only a guilty person would say something like that. Unless he intends to tell me something that the lawyers and judge don’t know.

  “Alright,” I say. “I’ll humor you. I doubt there is anything you can tell me that I don’t already know.”

  “You might be surprised.” He gestures at the empty spot beside him on the sofa with a puckish smile. “Have a seat,” he says. After weighing my options for the umpteenth time, I hesitantly obey his demands.

  18

  The candlelit room does nothing to ease my nerves.

  Darkness frames Adrian in shadow like a side of the moon that vanishes after nightfall, visible by day.

  “Allow me to offer you a drink,” he says. Before I can decline, he’s already left the room.

  I remain on the living room loveseat, fidgeting and watching shadows in the room dance with the firelight emanating from chandelier candles overhead.

  It’s no wonder I can’t sit still. This is the stupidest decision I have ever made. Allowing myself a nightcap with a convicted murderer. I glance at the door several times, debating whether to leave, but can't bring myself to move.

  “I hope vodka will suffice,” says Adrian when he returns with two glasses a bottle of wine. I shake my head as he sits while filling the glasses. “Come on,” he says when I refuse to take the glass. “You said you would humor me and I am much more inclined to talk after a drink or two.”

  “I didn’t agree to get drunk with you,” I say.

  Adrian smirks at my impudent tone and grasps my hand. After wrapping my fingers around the glass, he holds his hand in a fist around mine with an expression on his face, challenging me to refuse it.

  “Drink the vodka,” he orders. As I gaze into the glass at the liquor, he quickly adds,

  “I didn’t spike it with anything if that’s what you’re worried about. I have no plans of taking advantage of you tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “I’ve heard that you prefer your women incapacitated. Your favorite method of restraint is strangulation.”

  He scoffs at my remark and sips his wine, but refuses to speak until I take a sip from my glass as well. The liquor burns my throat on the way down. I cough aloud and gag on the taste as he chuckles at my reaction then offers me a small flask that he fishes from his pocket.

  “Here,” he says. “It’s a chaser.”

  “A what?” I ask while leaning closer to examine the silver flask.

  He gapes at me, briefly spellbound.

  “You really don’t drink, do you?”

  “I'm obviously not very familiar with the alcoholics’ dialect,” I reply and he sneers at my response.

  “I’m not an alcoholic.”

  “I don’t know any normal people who walk around carrying a flask in their pocket or the keys to their home wine cellars,” I say.

  He doesn’t reply. To kill the rancid aftertaste on my tongue, I swipe the flask from his hand and gulp the contents. It tastes like orange juice with a sprinkle of lime. It’s not what I'm used to, but it manages to soothe my taste buds long enough for me to catch my breath.

  Adrian says nothing for several minutes and continues sipping his vodka. I wait and still he says nothing.

  “Well?” I say to break the ice. “You said you’d talk if I drank. It’s time to pay up.”

  “I’d rather play a game,” he says and I sigh aloud. “Something fun for two consenting adults might lighten things up.”

  “I'm not in the mood for games.”

  “And I'm already bored with this conversation,” he replies. “Either we do this my way or no way.”

  I should leave, but he’s already dangled the bait over my nose. Like a hungry piranha, I want more. I glance at the door again and listen for a voice of commonsense to offer its two cents, but it doesn’t. It seems that one gulp of vodka has muted that voice. Sasha is right. I am a lightweight when it comes to liquor.

  “Fine,” I say while removing my jacket as a veil of sweat trickles down my back and shoulders. I hadn’t realized how hot it was until after that liquor settled into my stomach.

  I'm on fire and itching to alleviate some of the discomfort. “I’ll play your little game.”

  Adrian pours more wine into my glass then drinks what’s left in his and refills his glass as well.

  “We’ll call this Truth or Drink,” he says. “The rules are simple. Each of us are allowed to ask the other a question. If either of us thinks that the other is lying about their answer, the liar must take a drink then reveal the truth.”

  “You are a total frat boy at heart, aren’t you?”

  He shrugs. “I just like to keep things interesting.”

  “Vivian was right,” I say beneath my breath.

  “About what?”

  “Being married to you never allows a dull moment.”

  He chuckles and steals a pregame swig before refilling his glass to its brim.

  “Ladies first,” he says while pointing at me with the vodka bottle and I ponder what will be my first question. I don’t want to go straight for the jugular. If he wants a game, asking any hard-hitting questions upfront could be a killjoy.

  “I know you and Vivian have a volatile history,” I say. “My first question is…have you ever abused Vivian?”

  He doesn’t hesitate to respond, “Despite my many faults, I have never hit any woman, certainly not Vivian. I’ve seen the damage it can cause firsthand. I have no interest in following in my father or grandfather’s footsteps.”

  I stare at him, gauging his expression for any sign of deception and although his body language is a bit too relaxed for the circumstances, I can’t spot any obvious hints of distress or manipulation.

  “Do you believe me?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “For now.”

  He smiles.

  “Then you, my dear, will have to take the first drink of the night.”

  “Hey, you never said that the person asking the questions had to drink,” I say.

  “I'm telling you now.”

  His game. His rules. I can’t refute it. Since I agreed to the terms beforehand, I take a sip of vodka. Like before, it burns in my esophagus like acid. I swig the chaser afterwards. Adrian watches me the entire time, assessing for something while pondering his first question.

  “You seem like a very straight-laced g
irl,” he says. “I doubt that any demons reside in your closet.”

  “That isn’t a question,” I say. “If we’re going to play this game, the least you can do is abide by your own rules.”

  “Touché,” he replies with a chuckle.

  “Ask your damn question before I change my mind.”

  “How old are you?” he asks. It’s such a generic question that I wonder why he bothered asking it. Knowing my age couldn’t possibly titillate or inform him of anything he doesn’t already know.

  “Nineteen,” I say and his eyes widen briefly, either from shock, surprise or delight.

  “Do you believe me?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “I thought you were much younger.”

  I'm not sure whether to feel offended or flattered.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Is that your next question for the game?”

  “Was that your next question?” I say.

  He sighs.

  “What is your real question?”

  “How old did you really think I was? And why?”

  He gives me a playful scowl, pretending to reproach me, but with no real malicious intent.

  “You aren’t allowed to ask two questions at once,” he says.

  “You broke the rules,” I say. “Why can’t I?”

  He doesn’t acknowledge my response.

  “I figured you were sixteen to be honest,” he says. “Your clothes don’t help that.”

  “My clothes…or my body?” I immediately regret the question the moment it slips from my lips. This vodka is doing me no favors, but I don’t want to make a newb out of myself by refusing to drink. Adrian glances once at my cleavage. I quickly pull up my blouse to deflect his focus away from it.

  “Your body is perfect the way it is,” he replies. I can’t help grinning at the compliment then scolding myself for reacting like some giddy bimbo who isn’t used to any sort of male admiration.

  “I don’t think Vivian would approve of this conversation,” I say though I get the feeling that she’d be ecstatic to hear that her plans of arranging my prospective marriage to Adrian is coming together just as she hoped it would.

  “Vivian isn’t around to hear it,” he says. “Besides, it’s not like she’d have the right to object to any of my liaisons.”

  “So you admit that you’re flirting with me?” I ask, wishing once more that I could bite off my tongue for allowing the wine to talk for me.

  “Is that your next question?”

  For the sake of swaying the interrogation my way, I nod.

  “I’m actually not used to flirting with women,” he says. “I’m much more of an action oriented man.”

  “Action oriented?”

  “I don’t care to plod through a courtship,” he says. “I’d much rather cut to the chase.”

  I smile at his response, figuring that now is best time to address the elephant in the room.

  “Is that what happened between you and the woman you murdered?”

  He steals a swig of wine, clutching the glass by its bowl in his fist. Any tighter and I'm sure he’ll shatter the poor thing.

  “That woman got what she came for,” he says. “She liked the feel of someone’s hands around her neck. She got off from it. We were two consenting adults. I gave her what she wanted.”

  “By choking her to death?”

  “No, by fucking her,” he blurts and I quickly guzzle a mouthful of wine to muffle a gasp. Noting his crude manner of speaking, I gape at him, wondering if he’ll apologize for his vulgar outburst. Instead, he pours himself more wine and drinks it all in one gulp.

  “You’re blushing,” he remarks after swallowing. I shrug and avert my eyes from his face. “Should I apologize for offending you?” he adds.

  “I'm fine,” I say. “Don’t treat me with kid gloves. I can handle some adult language.”

  “Then allow me my next question,” he says.

  “Fine. Ask it.”

  With another sip, he replies, “What else did Vivian disclose about me?”

  “Well, she mentioned your little choking fetish,” I say.

  His hand tightens around the glass again, reacting to my response. I wonder if that’s an involuntary spasm.

  “I have enjoyed a bit of the unconventional,” he says. “And so has Vivian.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Vivian has her share of sexual hang-ups, but don’t we all? I'm sure that even you have something that inhabits you.”

  I shrug and swallow another taste of vodka.

  “I’m a normal and well-adjusted person,” I say with slurred words.

  “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself of that, not me.”

  I chuckle and it’s unintentional. I can’t believe I let him coax this reaction out of me.

  “Stop pretending like you know something about me that I don’t,” I say.

  “How do you know I don’t?”

  We meet in a five-second stare down, me unwilling to cave to the pressure befalling me. I note his hands, fingers twitching like something has triggered them. Beautiful, but dangerous hands that force me to take notice. I blink a few times, hoping to dispel myself from the sudden haze that cloaks my senses. Adrian’s faces blurs like an out of focus picture until a stint of nausea festers in my stomach.

  “I think I'm gonna barf.” I cover my mouth. His hand rests against my back now, stroking as I slump forward against him.

  “Cassandra, are you okay?”

  All I see is the outline of his face until I can’t see anything at all, but darkness.

  * * *

  Sunlight peers through the curtains, spilling onto my face. I roll over, scooping a handful of disheveled hair off my forehead. When I open my eyes, Adrian is standing the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets, staring at me.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” he says. “Thank god. I didn’t think you’d recover from your first alcoholic beverage.”

  I jerk up, grasping blindly for the bedspread to shield myself.

  “You’re still wearing clothes,” he informs me. After a brief inspection, I realize he’s right. The only garments missing are my shoes and socks, which sit atop a chair in the corner of the room. I adjust my bra, sliding the fallen strap back onto my left shoulder while fiddling with the neckline of my blouse.

  “What did you do to me last night?” I ask.

  He narrows his eyes, clearly offended.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You got me drunk and now I'm lying in your bed,” I say. “Your track record with women does not instill much faith in me when it comes to you.”

  “You woke up in a nice, comfortable bed, fully dressed and you still find some way to accuse me of molesting you?”

  I grasp for words, seeking a reply that won’t come because I don’t know what to say.

  “What else am I supposed to think?”

  “I offered you a bed after you spent last night liquoring yourself up,” he says. “If I had let you leave, you might have actually been molested by someone less kind than me. You should be thanking me, not crying rape.”

  I blink at him, once more speechless and flushed from embarrassment.

  “I'm sorry,” I say. “And…thank you.”

  His stance relaxes, melting away the tension in his face.

  “I'm free to drive you home before I have to go into the office,” he says. “Unless, you mind being alone in a car with me.”

  “I said I was sorry,” I say while staggering out of the bed with a headache that makes my skull pulse. Adrian watches me attempt to put on my shoes. I plop atop the mattress and fumble with the laces like a clumsy drunk groping through the dark.

  He kneels in front of me and grasps my ankle. I don’t brace myself in time for the abrupt physical contact. A chill falls over me, inciting a spastic twitch of my arm. I watch as he ties each of my shoes then peers up at me through a veil of disheveled hair. I'm not used to seeing him so untid
y. In fact, he’s dressed quite casual for a day at the office. A blue polo shirt with no tie and khaki shorts. It’s stupid, but I didn’t think he owned any casual wear.

  “You’re not dressed for the office,” I say. “You look like you’re going golfing or something.”

  “Golf then lunch,” he replies with a half-smirk. “The usual boring scenario that most of my clientele enjoys.”

  “You don’t enjoy spending the work day playing golf?”

  “My job isn’t to enjoy. My job is to make sure that others enjoy. I'm good at helping people enjoy themselves. It’s what I do best. I hate my job, but I love my occupation…if that makes any sense.”

  “To you, I'm sure it does,” I say, wincing the words as a sharp ache pierces the back of my skull.

  “You’ve never had a hangover before, have you?” he asks, smiling.

  I shake my head.

  “Does it always feel like this?” I ask while pressing my fingers against my temples to soothe the dull ache. His hand slides up my calf, slowly, clasping my leg for a moment before releasing me.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he says. “I promise.”

  “I don’t see how you drink that stuff. It’s awful.”

  “Like I said, you’ll get used to it. I’ll have to get used to corrupting you. We’ve both got our crosses to bear.”

  He rises to his feet, never once blinking to break his stare from mine. As he heads toward the door to leave the room, he turns at the last second to add, “I will be waiting downstairs to drive you home.”

  “Okay,” I say as my stomach remains in knots. “Just give me a minute.”

  With a nod, he smiles and hesitates once more with hand gripping the doorknob.

  “Oh and…I have never sought pleasure from rape,” he adds. “If I wanted you, I wouldn’t have had to take you by force.”

  I say nothing and he leaves the room. As the door closes behind him, I sit dumfounded along the edge of the mattress, mouth hung open, lips parted and mouthing words that I should’ve said aloud to him.