‘Ream you a new one, did he?’ a voice asks close beside her.
Antoinette jumps, swears again, as Jackson steps out of the shadows beside the bins. Cigarette smoke – not entirely tobacco; she can smell that much – drifts with him, curls from his mouth as he apologises, says he didn’t mean to scare her.
‘Just be glad I didn’t have my pepper spray handy.’
‘Pepper spray?’ Jackson carefully extinguishes the glowing end of his cigarette against the side of one of the bins before tucking the butt into his sleeve. ‘Had you pegged as being more a switchblade kind of girl. Either that or a katana.’ He mimes a couple of samurai sword passes. Badly.
Antoinette laughs. ‘You should be so lucky.’
‘A guy can hope,’ he says, grinning. ‘You doing anything right now?’
‘Other than going home to crash for about a bazillion years?’
‘Some of the others went down the road for a drink. Thought I’d hang back, see if you wanted to come with.’
Now it’s her turn to apologise. Sorry, really, and thanks for the offer but being around a whole bunch of shiny happy people right now? Probably not such a great idea, she tells him, heading towards her tram stop on the off chance she hasn’t missed the last service and won’t have to flag down a taxi. Jackson keeps pace, keeps smiling, and ‘What about just one person?’ he asks, holding up an index finger even as she turns with no already shaping her lips, no and sorry, but ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Just me, just one drink. You look like you’re sorely in need.’
And there’s more than a thimbleful of truth in that.
‘Okay,’ Antoinette reaches out to tap the end of his finger with her own. ‘Just one drink.’
Jacqueline wraps her arms around her knees. Pulls herself into a tight and trembling ball. Her flesh is stubborn. Solid. It contains her. Constrains her. Refuses even the most transitory of escapes. This has never happened before. Not since that first time, age fifteen with a paring knife snuck from the kitchen. Moonlight through curtains and breath sucked hard through teeth as her virgin thigh split beneath the blade. As blood-drops bloomed like berries, smeared warm beneath her fingers.
As she discovered there were more ways than one for a woman to bleed.
But now, tonight, too many cuts. Seven, perhaps eight, and none of them with more to offer beyond a simple flash of pain. No transcendence, no ecstatic emergence from the shells in which she has cocooned herself. The cascading matryoshka sequence of Jacqueline, Jacqueline, Jacqueline, all those artfully constructed personas that stifle and strangle. Squeeze her into close, constricting forms until she cannot even breathe without second-guessing whether or not she is doing it right.
Tonight, each fresh cut proved merely an anchor line. Dragging her further and further down. Holding her there in the blue and the brine and the cold.
She gets up from the bed. Her thighs burn. Blood spots the doona cover and she frowns, lays a tissue over the mark. She can see to that later. In the living room, she takes the bottle of vodka from the drinks cabinet. Unscrews the lid and sniffs. The alcohol claws at her nostrils. Claws more going down her throat. Jacqueline coughs, unable to fathom why her sister likes this stuff so much. Smirnoff, black label, the only bottle she has ever had to replace. The others – Tanqueray and Bacardi, Glen Fiddich and Baileys, the Midori with which Dante presented her last Christmas – all remain at their carefully balanced levels. Enough splashed down the sink for the sake of seeming regularly sampled at least.
Jacqueline seldom touches alcohol. A mouthful of wine when it’s pressed upon her, not much more than that. The vodka sloshes in her stomach like molten fire. Warm tendrils thread through her veins. She has cared for a thoroughly drunken sister on enough occasions to know bodily surrender when she sees it. Perhaps tonight she can lose herself in the bottle, if not the blade.
She crosses the room to the balcony doors. Presses her torso against the glass. Her skin prickles. Outside, below and beyond, the bay spreads to the horizon. A runnel of blood slides down her thigh, tickles the back of her knee. Too deep, that final slice. Too desperate.
Jacqueline raises the bottle to her lips and swallows a second mouthful.
Then a third.
Last call, and Antoinette rolls her eyes as Jackson places yet another glass of the paint stripper that passes for house red on the table in front of her. ‘What happened to one drink?’ Thick-tongued and muzzy-minded, she speaks slowly, trying to keep her words this side of a slur. Judging by the smirk on Jackson’s face, she hasn’t come close to succeeding.
‘Fuck one drink,’ he shouts over the clamour of the pub. ‘One drink is for pussies.’
Antoinette laughs, downs half her wine in a couple of gulps so fast the stuff barely skims her tastebuds. They’ve done very little but talk meaningless shit for the past hour or two and god how she’s missed this, the effortless ebb and flow of ephemeral banter. No weighty pauses for thought, no grave descents into the oh-so-serious, no need for eggshell diplomacy. Just the simple freedom to leave her brain in neutral, to abandon conversational threads in favour of irrelevant segues, to snicker at Jackson’s filthy jokes and crack worse ones of her own.
Right now, she feels more like herself than she has for months.
Perversely, the thought makes her sad.
Which might be why, when Jackson nods at her empty glass and suggests they could very well kick on back at his place, she grins and sways to her feet, half-stumbling around the leg of her barstool.
‘Whoa, careful there.’ He grabs her elbow, steadying her with a hand so flushed she can feel the heat of it through her blouse. Antoinette sways towards him, smiles as he shifts his grip, slides his arm through hers in a slow and purposeful motion that leaves no doubt as to whether or not the brush of finger against breast might have been accidental. ‘Come, fair princess. Your pumpkin awaits.’
‘You okay to drive?’
‘Abso-ma-lutely,’ he says, baring straight white teeth as he ushers her through the dregs of the two o’clock swill, and she’s pretty sure he’s lying, pretty sure she doesn’t really care. So obvious now that Jackson is in fact a wolf. Muzzle-deep in the endgame, sleek nice-boy pelt shed in favour of claw and slavering fang, but that’s okay, that’s just peaches and cream as far as she’s concerned. Because waiting back home are Loki and Jacqueline, prickle-backed twins emanating their own peculiar versions of the silent treatment while the apartment walls pull in around them, closer than shrink-wrap, with Antoinette squeezed breathless in between.
Right now, the forest is more welcoming than the path.
Jacqueline is cold. She knows she should go inside. Should put something on before she catches her death. But the balcony is quiet. The bottle of vodka significantly diminished. She doesn’t even know if she can stand up without her head falling from her shoulders. She runs a finger over her bottom teeth. Feels their hard, sharp edges. Bites down. The pain is a distant thing. Fragile. Futile.
Everything is futile.
Behind her, the living room is splashed with light. She turns in her chair. Careful, slow. The ground seems a long way down.
‘Jacqueline?’ Loki stands in the middle of the room. He is holding something long and red. It falls from his hands like the bloody, shorn scalp of a girl entowered. ‘Are you all right?’
Jacqueline laughs. Tells him that she’s fine. Or thinks she tells him. Her tongue is dead weight. She braces herself on the arms of the chair. It wobbles as she tries to push herself to her feet. Or she wobbles. Hard to tell. Either way, she ends up back on her backside, laughing. Sorry, she thinks she says to Loki. I appear to be indisposed.
‘Stay there,’ he says.
He drapes the red thing over the couch and leaves. Jacqueline looks out at the bay. A breeze has picked up, chill and needling. She really should go inside. In a minute, in a minute. She cl
oses her eyes.
‘Here. Jacqueline, try to stand up.’
Loki has brought her kimono with him. He helps her to her feet. Helps her slip her arms through the sleeves. The pale cream silk is almost as cold as the breeze. She shivers. Leans against him as he shuffles them both through the balcony door and into the living room. The red thing is a dress, she sees. The satin shiny as varnished nails. Black sequins glitter at the bodice. Pretty. She reaches out a hand but they’ve already left it behind. The hall is dark. A surge of nausea grips her and she falters. Sags in Loki’s arms. Wait. One hand over her mouth. I feel . . .
‘Hold on,’ he says, picking her up. Not a good idea. The burn of vomit already in her mouth by the time they reach the bathroom. On her knees, crouched over the toilet. Water – and worse – spattering back onto her face as she heaves. Her stomach spasms, violently, again and again. There is nothing left of her inside. She rolls away, head still spinning. The tiles are icy against her bare legs.
‘Here.’ Loki holds a glass of water to her lips. ‘Rinse your mouth.’
‘Have you checked for fillings?’ she asks weakly.
He smiles. Makes her take the water. Waits for her to spit before he flushes the toilet and helps her to her feet. Waits, too, while she brushes her teeth and splashes her face clean. She keeps her eyes averted from the mirror. The fluorescent lights are too bright. Too clinical.
In the bedroom, the lamp is still dimmed to a dusky green glow. Jacqueline allows Loki to lead her over to the bed and sit her down. But she refuses to let go of him and so he sits beside her. Leans across, places the water on the bedside table. She didn’t realise he’d brought it with him.
‘You should sleep,’ he says. ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve slept.’
‘Liar.’ Jacqueline rests her head on his shoulder. Men are so hard. Muscle stretched solid over bone. She places a hand on his thigh and squeezes. He tenses beneath her touch. His flesh is warm. Immutable. She stares at him with eyes that refuse to focus. His smooth white skin, the dark fall of his hair. If she had a type, Loki would not be it. But, oh, the smell of him.
‘Jacqueline,’ he says. ‘You should lie down.’
Smiling, she takes hold of his shoulder. Swings herself into his lap. Not so much graceful as gravity assisted. Loki grasps her waist – it’s either that or let her tumble to floor. Jacqueline laughs, wriggles in close. He’s hard everywhere. She kisses him, her tongue sliding between his lips, tasting him. The kimono slides from her shoulders and she takes his hands, guides them up to her breasts. Circles her groin against his. Loki moans, a torn and broken sound trapped deep in his throat.
Then he pushes her away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. Picks her up, lifts her right off his lap and places her gently onto the bed as though she is made of nothing but air. ‘This can’t be.’ He tucks her hair behind her ears, rearranges her kimono over her chest.
Jacqueline slaps his hands away. ‘I’m not a doll.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. His eyes are wet. ‘I can’t hurt her.’
‘Hurt who?’
He stares at her. A gaze filled with longing, with desire beaten down and muzzled. She reaches for his face and he flinches. ‘Don’t,’ he whispers. ‘Please, she . . .’ His arms are wrapped around his stomach. His fingernails dig into his ribs as though he’s the one being hurt, or should be.
Realisation creeps in. ‘You mean Ant, don’t you?’
Loki nods. He doesn’t meet her eye.
‘But she doesn’t . . .’ Jacqueline chews on her lip. Tries to think of the least horrible words for what she needs to say. It would help if her mind would keep still. If it didn’t insist on wandering off under its own drunken steam. ‘My sister doesn’t feel that way about you, Loki. She loves you, I’m sure, but it’s not . . . it’s not that kind of love.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘But then why . . .’ She reaches out again. More cautious this time, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. A fresh spark of heat quickens within her. ‘I honestly don’t think she would mind.’
‘I belong to her,’ he says. ‘This would be a betrayal.’
‘Even if she doesn’t want you?’
‘Even then.’
Jacqueline snorts. ‘Martyrdom doesn’t suit you, Loki.’
He lifts his head. Glares at her with eyes that bite colder than hoarfrost. ‘You say that like it’s something I’ve chosen.’ She doesn’t understand. Not until he sighs and shifts around to face her, takes both her hands in his and kisses her fingers with a gentleness she finds unnerving. ‘I can’t hurt her like that, Jacqueline. It’s not a matter of choice, or doing the right thing. It’s more like, I don’t know . . .’
‘A compulsion?’ she offers.
‘Close. There’s resistance. It feels . . . unpleasant.’
‘So it hurts? You hurt my sister, and you feel pain. Is that how it works?’
Loki grimaces. ‘Pain is too simple. It feels like I’m about to be torn apart, pulled to pieces. Like there’s this line and I can come right up to it, put my toes right on the edge but if I was to take one step more, even the smallest nudge forward, then . . .’ He shudders. The dread in is his voice is unmistakeable. ‘I don’t ever want to know what’s on the other side of that line.’
Jacqueline feels sick again. She closes her eyes. Swallows the bile that rises in her throat. She remembers the hard, white light that threatened to claim her in Brisbane, the promise of annihilation at its core. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. The words are inadequate. Worn out. Still, she says them.
He squeezes her hands one last time then lets them drop. ‘You really should try to get some sleep.’
She lies down, rolls onto her side. Catches Loki frowning at her exposed thigh. At the cuts and the dried blood. She waits for him to comment, but he says nothing. Simply stands and draws the doona up to her waist, then switches off the bedside lamp. Darkness, it appears, is not her friend. A wave of vertigo washes over her; her stomach cramps.
‘Loki?’
‘Still here.’
‘Can you stay with me?’
‘Antoinette isn’t home yet. I should wait up.’
‘Just until I fall asleep? Please?’
She feels the mattress sink beneath his weight. Shuffles over to give him room. He is a barricade, solid and warm. She curls herself against his back, presses her cheek to the ridge of his spine. ‘You really think I’m like you?’ she whispers. ‘You really think Ant made me?’
‘What do you think?’ he asks. ‘What do you feel?’
Jacqueline swallows. Dizziness is giving way to a headache, a dull pulse of pain taking roost behind her right eye. She buries her face into Loki’s back, inhaling the strange, not-quite-sweet scent of him. She thinks about lights and lines, passing through and crossing over. About Loki, about the connection that sparks between them, brighter than desire. Simpler as well.
It’s impossible.
Impossible seems to be in flux these days.
‘I’m scared,’ she says. ‘I’m scared of what comes next.’
— 16 —
Idiot, Antoinette tells herself as she sneaks into the apartment. It’s not like her mother will be waiting in the kitchen with arms crossed or that Jacqueline gives a damn in whose bed she decided to spend the night. Nevertheless, there’s an element of relief in finding the place silent and empty, the door to her sister’s room still closed. She puts on the kettle and searches the cupboards for camomile tea, thinking she might flake out on the couch for a while, try to catch up on some of the sleep she didn’t get staring at the ceiling of Jackson’s bedroom for half the night. Antoinette still isn’t sure what happened with that.
The sex wasn’t awful, exactly, just weird. Mechanical and disconnected, at least from where
she was lying. Jackson more than enthusiastic, his mouth wet and eager, his hands skilfully persistent, and it wasn’t like she didn’t want to, not like the thought hadn’t slunk across her mind once or twice before last night – those full lips and honey-smooth skin, those eyes stolen straight from a Manga comic – but all the same it felt . . . not wrong, not bad, just weird.
You okay? You want to stop?
Jackson uncertain, anxious even, as he picked up on her vibe, maybe wondering just how wasted she actually was, running desperate calculations of responsibility and regret, and so she kissed him, moaned and arched her back and pulled him deeper into her, wanting him to finish and be done before she lost control of herself.
Before she started to laugh.
Afterwards, he kissed her neck, one finger circling her nipple until she told him that it tickled.
You sure you’re okay? You were pretty quiet.
I’m fine.
Short, clipped words too much like her mother would have spoken them, too much like Jacqueline even, and she forced a smile, told him that really, it was good, it was fun. Stopped herself just short of we should do this again sometime, giggles catching like burrs in her throat, as he stroked her hair like it was the mane of some horse he’d just dismounted – good girl, have a sugar cube – before he kissed her on the forehead and got up to take a piss.
She should have gotten up herself. Dressed and called a taxi, written the night off as a Bad Idea. No, not bad, that was hardly fair; just weird. But so much easier to stay where she was, to keep that smile on her face as Jackson padded in and slipped beneath the blankets. Her wolf now fat-bellied and fed, shrunk down and squeezed back into his boy-skin. And so she stayed, and must have dozed off at some point because one minute the room was dark and the next the sun was streaming through the gap in the curtains, and as she swung her legs out of the bed, Jackson mumbled something in his sleep and she stopped and stared at him, ran her eyes over the muscled curves of his shoulder, remembered the rhythms of him moving inside her.
Perfections Page 20
