by Sarah Noffke
“You know I never thought of you as a monster,” Dahlia says.
I slide down and lay my head in her lap, stretching out my long legs on the leather sofa.
“Oh no?” I say.
“No,” she says in a soft voice. “Unique. Brilliant. An incredible jerk. But not a monster.”
“Well, maybe this is just a discussion of semantics,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says, sliding her fingers through my hair, pure adoration on her face. “All I know is that loving you is better than all the fame and riches in the world. I’d give it all up for you. I’d do anything for you, Ren Lewis.”
I catch her hand in mine. “Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to give up anything. You, dear Dahlia, get to have it all. You get your riches, your fame, and me.” And then I press her hand to my lips.
And strangely, I somehow managed to do that too. After a lifetime of treachery God decided to forgive me. In the end, I somehow managed to have it all.
Epilogue
Change is by far the scariest thing a human will ever face. We go to great lengths to avoid it. The idea of not having our usual ways or to be the same person we were yesterday isn’t intimidating, it’s fucking terrifying. But evolution is the only way for a bunch of beasts cursed with a heart and desires to survive. It’s through experience that we grow and therefore change is impossible to avoid.
But Churchill was wrong. He said, “To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.”
But reaching for perfection would only seek to destroy us. There are no perfect homes, or families, or people. We are all flawed. Beautifully and ultimately flawed. And it is this imperfection that pushes us every day to find the only thing worth fighting for. Love. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we suffer. That’s why any of this bloody matters.
I’m Ren Lewis and I’m not perfect. Thank fucking God.
REN: THE MONSTER’S ADVENTURE, Book 4
Prologue
People with a low IQ, no lives, and a serious misunderstanding of how natural selection works seek out adventures. It’s these dumbasses who elect to bungee jump or parachute or shop in malls. Did the Native Americans jump off cliffs for the sheer thrill? Did English settlers throw down with bears to find out who came out on top? Did aborigines walk on coals? No, and for the simple fact that surviving life was enough of an adventure for them.
But fat Americans and useless Europeans shell out big bucks to some guy with a soon-to-produce-cancer tan so they can go paragliding and jet boating. These people don’t need a high. They need to get a fucking life. They need to live on an edge, where they are doing something meaningful. Experiencing the real essence of life while in subconscious or conscious form. They need to get off the bloody sofa and do that which scares them, no wires and no parachute. Adventures aren’t something one seeks. If we are living a real life then the adventure is a part of the ride. It doesn’t have to be inserted or discovered. It’s in most moments. It’s a part of the job.
That’s how I’ve always lived. But then I had to go off and attach permanent people into my life. People with no real lives. People with questionable day jobs. People who poop themselves. People who drag me on their phony adventures.
I’m Ren Lewis and I’m a prisoner in this life.
Chapter One
I’ve faced madmen, crazed by a lifetime of abuse and looking to solely punish me for it. I’ve disarmed bombs with less than a handful of seconds on the clock. I’ve swiftly handled hundreds of thousands of deadly situations. But this, this is definitely going to kill me. It will be my undoing. I’m sure of it.
“Would you kindly stop repositioning yourself?” Dahlia says from beside me.
“Why? I was under the impression this was still a free country, although I hear rumor that’s subject to change,” I say, taking off my suit jacket and trying yet again to find a suitable position in the SUV passenger seat.
“Look, I’m trying to concentrate and all your fidgeting is making me nervous,” she says, squinting at the dials on the center console.
“Eyes on the bloody road, diva,” I say, slamming my foot into the floorboard like I can actually stop the car with the movement. Dahlia looks up in time and mimics my gesture, slamming on the brake, lurching us all forward. “And really, you had to insist on driving. You clearly don’t know how.”
“Look, it’s our first family vacation,” she says, sweeping her hand at me and the backseat, where Adelaide and Lucien are hopefully double seat-belted in if they want to survive. “I told you, we’re having an adventure. No chauffeurs, maids, cooks, personal assistants, or guards for the next two weeks.”
I flick my finger at the brim of the oversized black straw hat balanced on her head. It looks like the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. And if I’m, honest Dahlia looks a bit like the movie star with her slender neck and high cheekbones, which can barely be seen under the ridiculously giant sunglasses. “Yes, no guards and you in constant disguise. Sounds like a stellar vacation.”
“It’s going to be tons of fun. And I wouldn’t have to be the one driving if you ever learned how,” she says, slowing the car without giving me whiplash for once. We left an hour ago and have cleared less than twenty miles. Oh, the bliss of living in Los-fucking-Angeles. There’s four million people in this godforsaken city. In that population there are a zillion hipsters who don’t know how to drive. There’s also a bunch of sleazy car salesmen who sell the American dream as an SUV on steroids. Then there is a city planning department who makes parking spaces extra small and highways that encourage collisions. And a slew of automobile body repair shops who sit back and laugh at all the repugnant socialites who lose most of their lives sitting in traffic, getting their cars repaired and their terriers groomed. I’m certain no one in this city actually has a life. Hence the reason for all the adventure seekers.
“What use have I ever had in learning how to drive?” I say, adjusting the vent so more filtered air is blowing on my face, quickly drying out my freckled skin. “I just dream travel wherever I like and use a GAD-C to generate my body. No carbon footprint. No valet fees. No bullshit.”
“Well, we could have flown if you wouldn’t have been such a baby about it,” she says.
I lower my chin and regard the pop star through my long red eyelashes. “You weren’t calling me a baby last night, woman.”
“I will whip open the door and throw myself out of this slow-moving vehicle,” Adelaide says from the middle row, her elbow perched on the car seat where Lucien is thankfully asleep. The little monster is calmer now that he’s entering his toddler years, but now he can crawl. And if I don’t keep kicking his legs out from under him then he will be walking in no time. Then there will be no peace.
“You actually can’t,” Dahlia sings, looking up at the rearview mirror. “I have the child locks on.”
“Oh great, now I’m your prisoner,” Adelaide says, crossing her arms like she’s pissed, although I spy the laugh in her voice.
“Join the bloody club,” I say, drumming my fingers on the armrest.
“You both need to stop with the bad attitude. This is going to be really fun. Our first family vacation,” Dahlia says, taking the exit for the 101 north. Who knows where the fuck we are headed. Guess I should have been paying more attention when she was babbling on about the plans for this hellish excursion. “I need the sense of normalcy that a family vacation provides,” she says, that familiar stress in her voice, weighing on the word need. She’s been working nonstop for so long. Well, for all her life.
“How do you know anything about normalcy?” I say.
“I don’t, but I hear things. And normal people go on vacations and road trips and take pictures and have stories they tell. And they don’t travel thirty weeks out of the year and perform until they make themselves sick,” she says.
Ever so gently, as to not draw attention to the moment, I slide my fingers into Dahlia’s hand, resti
ng on the shifter thingy in the middle of the car. From behind her dark sunglasses I still see her eyes shift to look at mine. My gaze hopefully helps her to buckle the emotions back down. I know she doesn’t want Adelaide to know, to worry. The two have gotten close. But still there’s things Dahlia doesn’t want anyone to know.
“Yeah, I’ve never been on a family vacation. Honestly, we hardly had enough money for fare to the shops,” Adelaide says from the back.
“Sounds rough,” I say. “I still don’t bloody care how bad you had it. You’re rich now.”
Adelaide likes to continuously remind me how hard her childhood was because of my absence. I continuously have to remind her that it doesn’t bloody bother me.
A swift jolt knocks into my back. “Ouch,” I say, pulling forward and twisting about. “What the bloody hell?”
“Oops, my foot twitched,” she says, guilt written on her freckled face, her green eyes mischievous but also reminiscent of my mum’s, which were conversely always honest and full of good.
I turn back around after a few seconds, certain I’ll be carsick if I’m not focused forward with Dahlia’s bad driving.
“Yeah, I get that you two are bent on some defunct family experience. However, I don’t see why I couldn’t just meet you at the Alamo or Disneyland or whatever cursed place you have us scheduled to see,” I say.
Dahlia laughs but it sounds forced. “Those places are both south of LA,” she says. “And Lucien and I can’t dream travel like you and Adelaide. We are doing this together because travel is part of the experience. It’s a part of the adventure.”
“Yeah, yeah, but will you stop using the word ‘adventure’ in place of the word ‘punishment.’ You can sell this ten different ways but when you force people to travel together and pay for canned experiences then that’s classified plainly as torture,” I say.
Chapter Two
Three hours into this phony affair we’re labeling as a “relaxing endeavor” and I’m about to take an axe to the glove compartment. I turn toward the window, my legs stretching but finding roadblocks.
“Oh really, Ren, it’s an Audi SUV. How do you not have enough leg space?” Dahlia says, her high-heeled foot coming off the gas as she talks. Apparently the glamour queen can’t multitask.
“Did I complain?” I snap back.
“You didn’t have to. You’re turning this way and that way every few seconds. Maybe if you would have worn something more comfortable this wouldn’t be an issue,” she says, indicating my suit.
“You’re wearing bloody high heels,” I say.
“And do you hear me shifting all the time?” she says. “Besides, I’m more comfortable in high heels. Commoners wear flats. People like me need to be elevated.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say with a growl. “You’re the one who said you were striving for normalcy with this whole vacation.”
“There’s normalcy and then there’s slumming it. Don’t think for a minute that I’ve lost my will to live,” she says and winks, but there’s a new defiance to her voice.
“No, I’m clear on the fact that you’re intent on making me lose my will to live with this repugnant trip. And don’t worry, my remaining spirit is waning.”
“Oh good,” Dahlia chirps. Then she lifts her chin up and looks in the rearview mirror. “When your father passes then you’ll have the front seat.”
Adelaide, who has been rummaging around like a bloody squirrel, pops her head up. “I can’t wait,” she says. “By the way, where did you put the snacks? I’m starving. And Lucien will be awake soon and will wail without a biscuit.”
Dahlia looks at me, real confusion on her smooth face. “Snacks?”
“They’re things people eat when they don’t want a meal but need a little something. I mean, mostly just weak people,” I say.
“Yes, I know what snacks are,” she says to me. Then she looks to the rearview mirror where she can see Adelaide in the back. “Chef said he left them on the kitchen counter. I figured you grabbed them.”
And just then the monster starts the telltale signs of stirring. If like usual, it will be a fast awakening. Full of a torture from arriving back in a world where fellow redheads and selfish divas mock him.
“Oh, you did,” Adelaide says, her voice oozing with condescension. “Because grabbing Lucien and the trillion outfits he will mess over the next few days wasn’t enough for me to remember?”
Dahlia looks at me, a little bit of worry in her stare. “You grabbed the bag, right, Ren? Is it in the far back?”
I huff, readjust again. “I don’t grab things, dear Dahlia. I save lives. I tolerate people who should be dead already. But I don’t grab things, or do chores or run errands. I am a man, you do remember that, right?”
“Barely,” she says, thankfully refocusing on the bloody road.
“Well, we will just have to stop,” Adelaide says, juggling some plastic keys in front of the monster’s face. Yeah, let’s substitute overstimulation using plastic for real nourishment. We are in America and such is the way. “There’s a petrol station up ahead. Will you pull over there?”
“No can do. We can’t afford to stop. I want to make it to the alpaca farm before sunset,” Dahlia says.
“The what?” I say.
“Alpacas,” Dahlia says, sounding lame and cheery. “You know, they’re like llamas and have that nice wool that makes those sweaters of mine that I love.”
“I didn’t understand half of what you just said,” I say.
“So you’re not going to stop,” Adelaide says, sounding pissed. She’s always that way though. Can’t figure out where she gets her sour disposition.
“No, we don’t have the time to stop,” Dahlia says, her voice casual.
“This is unfair,” Adelaide says, about to throw a tantrum to match one of Lucien’s.
Dahlia shrugs, uncharacteristically sounding patient, and then looks over to me. “I just thought it would be quaint and fun to visit a farm.”
“You’re not missing anything. If you’ve gone this long without having your nostrils laced with shit then count your diva ass lucky.”
“Come on, Ren,” she says. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
I clear my throat. “Must have gotten my fill last week when I stepped in and stopped that bank robbery. Or maybe it was when I prevented an evil mastermind from stealing a ton of Americans’ money through a treacherous tax scheme. Or it could have been—”
“We get the point,” Adelaide says, trying and failing to push a pacifier into Lucien’s mouth.
“Yes, she’s trying to shut me up too, little monster. I feel you,” I say back in the direction of the baby who I can’t see in his rear-facing car seat. I complained that turning him backwards was one way to make him feel left out of the “fun.” That’s when my pain-in-the-ass daughter informed me that it was the law. The government just isn’t happy unless it’s telling us how to sit, what to eat, and how much of our salary to give them. God fucking forbid I get a splinter in my finger. Then they shut up and tell me I’m not any of their business. Good thing I work for a real entity who has exemplary healthcare. The Lucidites might be a scorching sunbeam on my soul, but what they do makes sense.
“That’s curious,” Dahlia says.
“Yes, it’s a sun and the earth rotates around it,” I say, pointing at the fireball making its fiery path through the sky. “I know you always thought that the earth rotates around you, but contrary—”
“Shut up, Ren,” Dahlia says. “I meant this light that just blinked on the dashboard. I wonder what that means.”
I flick my eyes at the orange light. It isn’t a symbol that instantly registers in my mind. “Maybe it means you’re going too fast,” I say, eyeing the speedometer.
“I don’t think so,” Dahlia says, like she’s actually considering and disqualifying my notion. “It looks like a door with one arm.”
I glance at the orange light in the
dash. Nothing in my memory connects with that image, but my knowledge of mechanics is fairly inadequate. It’s one of the few areas where I can say I’m a bit sheltered. I chose to learn about philosophy, psychology, and history while others were schooled in these lesser subjects. Truthfully, all my battles have been ones of the mind. No wars are fought with actual machines, so one shouldn’t confuse their history lessons. People fight people. Outmaneuver others. Machines aren’t really a part of the equation if a mastermind is involved.
“That’s not a one-armed door,” I say. “It’s a wire connected to a circuit.”
“What?” Dahlia says, yanking her hands off the steering wheel like it’s on fire. “Are we okay?”
I reach out and grab the wheel with a single hand. “Not if you wreck the car.”
It’s tricky to steer this beast of a vehicle with one hand. “Take the wheel back, would you? We are fine. If the light was a problem then it would be in red and there would be other warnings.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right,” she says, taking the wheel again, as she inhales a breath. “I mean that other light just came on.”
“Which?” I say, leaning over to scan the dash.
“That one,” she says, pointing at a scale. “E” is at the bottom of it.
“Hmmm,” I say, wishing I did anything more than high-level stuff my entire life. “E. I wonder what that means. Maybe it’s for engine.”
From the backseat I hear a giggle. I spin around and Adelaide immediately covers her mouth with her hands. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. Just delirious from hunger,” she says.
“Then eat your young,” I say, indicating Lucien beside her, who is now waving the dumb plastic keys around like he’s a big hotshot. “That’s what rats and other pests do.”
She nods, still giggling.
“If I find out you brought along a flask and are getting pissed back there I’ll drop you off on the side of the road,” I say.
