by Sarah Noffke
The girl now tucks her chin, probably to hide her embarrassment.
“Well, it’s been as long for you as for me,” Dahlia says, also like me not shameful about having this conversation in front of the help.
“No, not as long for me actually,” I say.
“Oh, did you finally cave and get some hookers?” Dahlia says, a joke in her voice.
“Ha-ha,” I say. “Hookers are so beneath me.”
“So I want to hear, how are Adelaide and Lucas doing?” Dahlia says.
“Lucien,” I correct her. “And hell if I know. I’ve been gone and just got back. Came straight in here to see you.”
“You came to interrupt my first bit of rest, you mean,” she says.
“Well, of course. I rearranged my schedule to ensure I was here during your first bit of relaxation.”
The masseuse moves around to the other side of the table, her attention now on Dahlia’s shoulders.
“Well, where did your travels take you? I’m assuming you’re still working the Smart Solutions case.” Her voice fluctuates from the pressure the girl is pushing into her body.
“I am. I’ll have it wrapped up soon,” I say, meaning it.
“Oh good. The sooner you don’t have to work with that blonde bimbo, the better.”
I shift my weight on my feet, a nervous gesture I’m glad Dahlia can’t see with her head down. She hasn’t been comfortable with this case since I told her about Vivian’s obsession with me. I thought it was interesting. Dahlia did not.
“So where’d you have to go for business? Usually you don’t have to stay overnight,” Dahlia says.
She’s right and observant. My dream travel ability and proximity to GAD-Cs make it so I’m either home or in the Institute at night.
“It was more of a vacation,” I say, again shifting my weight, unsure how to stand properly all of a sudden.
Silence. The masseuse doesn’t notice, but from the way I spy Dahlia tense I know she isn’t digesting this easily. “Since when have you, Ren, taken a vacation?”
“Well, I never have actually but when you go on a honeymoon, that’s apparently what you have to do,” I say with a dramatic sigh, which does little to ease my growing tension.
Dahlia’s head flips up, her face red and creased in places from the massage table. Still she’s beautiful.
“What? Why were you on a honeymoon?” she says.
I roll my eyes at her. “Oh, duh. Obviously because I got married. You are tired, aren’t you?”
She whips her head up and looks at the girl and jabs a finger at the door. “Out,” Dahlia says to the masseuse.
The girl nearly knocks me over making her way to the door. Dahlia has the sheet wrapped around her and is standing by the time the door shuts. “Go ahead and repeat yourself, Ren, because I don’t think I heard you right. You better hope I didn’t.”
I sigh dramatically like I’m put off by her command. “I. Got. Married. You know, hitched. Tied the knot. Bit the proverbial bullet.”
She closes her eyes and pulls in a breath. When she opens them she looks calmer, but only slightly. “And whom did you make your ball and chain, Ren?”
I blink at her like she’s an idiot. “To Vivian, of course.”
“Oh dear god. You’re being fucking serious,” she says, throwing a palm to her forehead, the sheet dropping a bit to reveal part of her boob. “Why in the hell did you do that?”
“Well, certainly not out of love, lust, money, convenience, or any of the other dumb reasons that people get married,” I say.
“Then why?” she says, sounding past the verge of impatience.
“Well, because I’m trying to outmaneuver her.”
“Oh right,” she says with a fake laugh. “So you married her. Genius move.”
“Well, you know how they always say keep your friends close and your enemies—”
“For fuck sake, you married her! Another woman,” Dahlia says, cutting me off. And she doesn’t sound mad. She sounds furious and looks like she’s going to murder me.
I nonchalantly pull my hand up like I have a nail that needs attention. Truthfully I can’t see my fingernails and just had a manicure while on vacation. That’s apparently what people do when getting some R and R. “I had to get married, Dahlia. It was the most efficient strategy.”
“So that means… that you… Earlier when you said it hadn’t been as long for you as for me since you had sex… You weren’t kidding, were you?”
“When have you known me to joke?” I say.
“Ren!” she yells at top volume. And the anger in her voice knocks something loose in my chest, but I keep my face neutral.
“Look, I didn’t want to. This is a part of the job. And you knew that—”
“You fucked someone!” she screams.
I sigh. “It’s true. But she doesn’t mean anything to me, so don’t worry. I’m only playing a game and she’s a part of it.”
She’s scrutinizing me with her eyes, her brain sifting through my words. One of the many reasons I love this woman is she is logical. She understands the way the world works and more importantly she understands how I work. Dahlia may not always like it, but she’s always willing to try to understand my perverse ways. “Ren, did you have to marry her?” And she sounds much calmer.
“I’m afraid so,” I say, stepping forward, sensing it’s all right. “But, dear Dahlia, she didn’t feel like you. There were her thoughts and the same dissatisfaction I always felt when shagging the hundreds of women I had before you. No one is like you, resistant to my powers. You’re my true love and the woman I enjoy shagging the most,” I say, and it’s all true. No one could ever be Dahlia. Ever.
“But you enjoyed it a little bit, didn’t you?” she says.
“Well, I am a man, Dahlia, so yes. I’d probably be fine having sex with a fat girl,” I say.
She combs her hand through her tangled hair and her boob peeks out again. “Well, I guess I get it. You are an agent and if you say it was part of the job.”
“It was one hundred percent,” I say, my eyes on her boob.
“Fine, as long as this marriage doesn’t last long then I forgive you,” she says.
I wave my hand at her. “Didn’t ask for your forgiveness and again I did nothing wrong. Just doing my job,” I say.
“Yeah, I think you should become an accountant or something, where you don’t have to screw other women,” she says.
“Maybe I will,” I say, tugging on the sheet so it slides down a bit to reveal more of her naked body. “So do you want to shag?”
She sizes me up and then releases a seductive smile. “Well, I did miss you.”
“Of course you did,” I say, sliding in close to her, my hands finding the contours of her lower back and hips. My chin is tucked and my mouth close to hers when my mobile buzzes in my trouser pocket.
I step back with an impatient grunt. Dahlia, who often has to interrupt our conversations or intimate moments for a call, simply nods her understanding.
I eye the caller ID and then purse my lips in response. “I’ll have to give you a rain check on the sex.” I flash her the front of the mobile. “The wife is calling.”
She narrows her eyes just as I tap the screen and press it my ear. “Yes, love,” I say, turning for the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
A racket that sounds most akin to a rabid raccoon rummaging through a dumpster pours through the study when I cruise by it.
“Let me call you back,” I say to Vivian on the other side of the phone.
“But I’m not done—”
I switch off the mobile, cutting her off, and slide the device into my breast pocket. Something thuds against the closest wall. I peel around to peer through the open double door and immediately duck to avoid having my head connect with a flying book.
“What in the bloody hell is going on here?” I say, straightening and looking at Adelaide, who has a
nother book in her hand. It’s at the ready to be thrown in my direction.
“It’s that woman,” she says from the far side of the room, next to the bookcase. She’s directing my attention to the nanny woman who stands just to the left of me.
“I have a name,” the woman says, her voice shrill. Her fists clenched by her side.
“Yes, Carole, I know that,” Adelaide says.
“Cheryl,” the nanny corrects.
“Adelaide, put down the book,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Fine,” she says, but pulls back her arm and launches the paperback at the woman. Her aim is awful and so it misses her by a few feet, sliding to a resting place by my feet.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” I say, picking up the book, brushing off the cover. “Throwing books. Really? What are you thinking?”
“What should I be throwing?” she says, a sniveling laugh in her voice.
“Not books,” I say, tossing it on a nearby table.
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned that your daughter is throwing objects at an employee?” the nanny says.
I tilt my chin and regard the woman and her question. “No. I throw all sorts of rubbish at the help. They always deserve it. What did you do?” I say.
“Oh really,” the woman says. “No wonder your daughter is so bad tempered. She obviously gets it from you.”
I ignore the woman and focus on Adelaide, who has taken a relaxed seat in my plaid armchair.
“What did she do?” I say to Adelaide.
“I didn’t do anything,” the woman interrupts. “Your neglectful daughter is drunk and was about to give breast milk she just pumped to the baby,” she says, pointing to the bassinet in the corner where the demon is thankfully sleeping.
I shrug, my expression neutral. “I thought alcohol was good for babies. Helped with teething or whatever,” I say.
Adelaide slides her head back so it’s resting on the chair, her legs propped over one arm so it looks like the chair is cradling her. “See, he gets it,” she says with a giggle.
I consider telling her to get out of my chair, but decide against it. She looks awfully comfortable and I have other pressing matters at the moment.
“You people are hopeless. Mr. Lewis, your daughter, who is supposed to be caring for a fragile newborn, is drunk,” the nanny says.
“I can’t really blame her,” I say, not giving the woman the response she was hoping for. “That’s how I handled things when Adelaide exploded into my life. It appears it’s an inherited tactic for realizing your spawn isn’t going away.”
“Mr. Lewis,” the woman hollers. “This is simply unacceptable. I quit!”
I regard Adelaide, who looks half amused and half on the verge of passing out.
“No, no,” I say with authority. “You can’t quit. You have to give notice.” Adelaide is in zero position to care for the demon and replacing the nanny will take work. I really don’t have time for this shit.
“I refuse to work for people as undignified as you two,” the nanny says. Her screaming has awoken the thing and he’s making demon noises. Adelaide regards him with disinterest before sliding her head back down to its resting place.
“We aren’t undignified. We invented dignified. We’re British,” Adelaide says, her words slurring and trailing away like she’s talking in her sleep. “Ren, you see the bullocks I’ve had to deal with?” she says to me.
“Look, Cheryl,” I say over the growing noises the thing is making in the corner. “My daughter is in no shape to care for that little monster.” I point at the corner where the thing resides. “Just give me a chance to make a few calls and I’ll relieve you from your position tomorrow first thing.”
“No, Mr. Lewis,” she says, marching for the door. “I refuse to stay in this house one second longer.”
“But who’s going to care for the baby?” I say, real worry setting into my voice. It’s late and all the employees but the guards have been sent home for the night.
The nanny turns and sizes me up. “May I suggest you step up to the challenge,” she says with a proud laugh before marching away.
This argument hasn’t gone unnoticed by the thing and now he’s screaming.
I turn to Adelaide, who has stretched into a standing position. She doesn’t even cast a glance at the corner where mutinous noises are emanating. She strolls to the exit. I step in front of her, holding up a hand.
“Make. That. Thing. Stop,” I say, each word deliberate.
“I don’t know how. I’ve tried,” she says, emotionless.
“Adelaide, you wanted this child. Now you’re going to take care of it. Do you understand me?”
She shakes her head. “Remember when I said we were obligated to be great, and that’s why I was having Lucien? Well, I was wrong. We aren’t great. We’re monsters. You were right all along. There’s no hope for us, and I see that now. I don’t want to be great anymore. I don’t want anything anymore. I just want to wallow in the fact that I’m cursed,” Adelaide says, zero emotions in words which should be weighted with gross feelings.
I want to tell her that she’s wrong and I firmly believe that she is, but something tells me it wouldn’t matter. And there’s no point trying to have a logical conversation with someone as illogical as a drunk.
She bites her lips, real emotion finally spilling forth on her face. Regret mixed with shame. “I made a mistake. I thought I’d fall in love with him. That it would be easy once he was born. I thought I’d have an instant connection to Lucien. But I don’t and I also don’t know what I’m doing,” she says over the cries of her child. “He hates me. Cries every time I touch him. He treats me like you do. Like I ruined his life by existing.”
A growl escapes my throat. How dare she? “He’s a baby. He can’t treat you any certain way. You’re projecting on to him,” I say.
She half smiles, but it’s marked by such sadness. “Probably. But at least I know exactly how you feel. I now know how it feels to not want your child. Like father, like daughter,” Adelaide says.
And because I’m shocked that her words actually have an effect on me, stick in my chest like a thorn, I just let her walk around me. Away. Away from her baby. Away from the problem that he obviously poses by crying alone with no one to help him. Why did I have to send my pops back home? Why didn’t I employ a fleet of nannies? I should have known Adelaide would wear them all out in no time at all.
And the thing still cries in the corner, unaware or unconcerned that I’m thinking, trying to figure out a solution.
“Shush, would you?” I say and my voice isn’t as harsh as I intended it.
The thing cries louder in response.
I take several steps until I’m close to the bassinet. Without looking directly at the thing I can tell it’s flaying its arms and legs. I grab on to the bassinet and rock it slightly.
“Go on now. Be quiet,” I say, my voice commanding.
It stops crying, and so I pull my hand back only to be rudely greeted by more wailing.
“Oh really, what in bloody hell do you want?” I rattle the bassinet again but this time it seems to incite the little bugger.
Finally I force myself to look down at it. I’m unsurprised to find he’s got orangey red hair and a bloody lot of it. His hair is mashed down in places, spiky in other places, and his eyes are bright green and seem magnified in intensity on the backdrop of his red face.
“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh,” I say
And in retort the little wanker screams louder.
“Adelaide might have been right about you. You have a sour disposition,” I say to the little red-faced thing.
It screams. The noise is unnatural. A torturous sound that I can’t stand. Not any longer.
I check the entrance at my back. It’s just guards in the house. Dahlia locked herself away in the eastern wing and is probably asleep right now. And I’m certain Adelaide is passed out. How am I the only one in
the house to handle this bloody mess?
“I’ve got a joke for you,” I say to the thing who is kicking and screaming like life is a big fucking deal for him. “Oh fine, you don’t want to hear it. You’ve got your knickers in a wad, don’t you? Did you poop yourself? Is that your problem? You have zero restraint nor any responsibility. Really, what are you going on about?”
The thing actually pauses and regards me briefly. And then the strangest thing happens. Something that isn’t a scream jumps out of his mouth. It’s more of a soft coo.
“Well, good,” I say. “I’m glad you subscribe to sound logic and we’ve come to a mutual agreement.”
And then the git wails again. This time really loud. Like the coo was the calm before the fucking storm.
“Oh, for the love of baby Jesus! What do you want?” I say to the thing.
He thrashes like a mad baby, the kind that would have dared crawl out of Adelaide.
“You do realize I have a life to live and a few critically important things to do, don’t you? I can’t stay here with you, all right?” I say to the demon.
He screams and this time, it’s a hoarse sound, like he’s hurting himself with his protest.
“Tell you what,” I say, leaning down over the bassinet so we’re closer. “If I promise to take you tomorrow to a shiny little place we call the Lucidite Institute and give you to jolly people to raise you, will you shut the bloody hell up tonight?”
And then the thing tilts his head and looks at me. He actually stops crying to do this. And his face resumes a normal shade.
“Oh good. It’s a done deal then. We will trademark you property of the Lucidites, your mum can get plastered every day, and I can go back to saving the fucking world by marrying sociopaths. Good plan, I say.”
He coos again.
“No, of course I didn’t want to marry her,” I say to him. “And I want to feel bad about it, but it goes against my calloused nature.” This is the first time I’ve admitted such a thing. My desire to feel guilt and inability to do so.
In response he throws his fist in the air, like an assault on my guilt.
“I know. And then there’s Vivian’s plan. It isn’t so bad. And now I’m married to a woman who is supposed to be my enemy and yet I don’t really want to stop her. It’s fucking ridiculous,” I say.
