Sirens of DemiMonde

by N. Godwin

  Rawly places a hand on either side of me, looking down hard into my face. “And if I teach you another tactical maneuver you’ll go on another date with me, and so on?” I nod. He laughs cruelly and I feel myself blushing. “I’ve seen the way you treat your dates, Helen.” His hot breath brushes up against my face and I try to move away from the heat but his finger pulls my face back forcing me to look up at him.

  “I have no interest in being your date. That is not what I want from you.”

  “What do you want from me?!”

  There is something in his gaze that makes me freeze. I realize there’s a distinct possibility he’s to be my sacrificial lamb, and he is a demon! If he’s to be the one than I better be sharper than I am now because his look is candid and cunning and I would lose, big time.

  He strikes the wall beside me with his fist and for a moment his face brushes up against mine. “I want--” he says, “I want you to open up and let me in. Let me in!” We are both trembling and I feel as though my knees might give out any moment as he whispers: “I want you to love me.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Rawly demands. I turn my head and try to look away but he pulls my face back and searches my eyes for truth.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. “Honestly.”

  He moves in me, molding against me, strangely calming my tremors, and I can’t breathe. I feel his shoulders against my cheek. His heart is pounding into me. I can feel more of him that I want and I twist my body to the side. He lays his cheek against mine and rubs them together.

  “Then it’s time we found out,” he says as he desperately rubs his face against mine and I tremble. “Damn it, Helen! I’ll ignore my intuition. I’ll cast my fate to the wind and I never do that. I’ll teach you how to repel a monster like me and in return you will open up your heart to me and try to love me. But you have to cross your heart and swear you will try with all your might. Do you agree to this?”

  “I have to cross my heart and swear?”

  “Unless you’d rather put it in writing?” he whispers in my ear.

  “Oh, alright,” I concede and close my eyes as he watches me cross my heart and swear my oath, wondering if this is merely my stupid luck or a stupid mistake of epic proportions, one that only God alone could divine.

  I feel Rawly push off against the wall away from me and I open my eyes and lean back against the wall to steady myself. Rawly is already halfway down the garden path before he turns and addresses me again.

  “By the way, I’ll be here at 6:00 a.m. to get you. Don’t make me wait!”

  “6:00 a.m.,” I moan, “what for?”

  “You want to learn or not?”

  “It’s my birthday for pity sake!”

  “Fine, sleep in; see you at 6:30.”

  “You are a certifiable bastard.”

  He laughs and opens his arms wide and bows slightly. “See how easy that was.”

  Fight or Flight

  “You want to pick up the pace a little?” Rawly taunts as he spins around and runs backwards beside me.

  I just groan and try to ignore my hard-earned gasps as the soft, thick, beach sand molds over my shoes with each step I take. I am trying to keep my feet dry by avoiding the waves rolling in and I’m trying to ignore the growing pain in my side as he paces me impatiently.

  “What,” he asks cupping his ear, “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I hate you, sir!” I gasp as he laughs.

  “That’s better! Now, just keep this pace. Push yourself. You have to be fit. Unless of course, you’re foolish enough to believe I can simply show you a few secret moves and you can magically tackle any man. If that’s what you believe you’re about to be rudely enlightened. First, we are going to get you in the best shape of your unsullied, little life.”

  I glance over at him while he gives me more instruction about this or that or who cares what and I notice he isn’t even breathing heavy although he just told me we’ve passed the mile marker. I groan again.

  “You need to embrace some form of strenuous exercise and make it routine if you’re going to get conditioned. I’m going to show you a good cross training program.”

  I hate him even more. Not only is he not even breathing heavy but he appears to be enjoying this torture, every minute of it. I try to concentrate on the shoreline instead of how much I hate this man and his rippling muscles but the pain in my side grows with each step I force myself to take. He laughs at something else about me and I moan. “When do I get to learn how to kill somebody with my bare hands?” I ask in between gasps, imaging my hands around a throat, his throat.

  He looks over at me and watches for my face to betray something. “Is that what this is all is about? You want to kill somebody?”

  “Why don’t you use that great intuition of yours and figure it out for yourself?”

  “Anyone in particular or just some random act?” he questions zooming in front of me, coaxing me to keep pace as he turns around and runs backwards so he can watch my expressions.

  “Probably you,” I gasp again trying to go around him as he blocks my path and laughs.

  “Me, huh? Then this could take longer than I thought. I’ll have to teach you to be fast and efficient, no sloppy techniques allowed if you’re gunning for me.”

  I try to run all-out and get him out of my face. I give it the final shot of energy I possess but the pain in my side brings me to my knees. I lean on shaky hands in the sand, gasping painfully for air.

  Rawly is at my side immediately. “What’s wrong?”

  I don’t answer him. I can’t answer him, just struggle to breathe. He puts his arms around me and gently pulls me to my feet and begins to walk me around slowly.

  “Move around. Cool down,” he tells me firmly. “Don’t stress your body out.” I look up at him, daggers in my eyes. “What hurts?”

  “Everything!” I say in between gasps as he laughs.

  “You’re in worst condition than I thought. Don’t you do anything for exercise?” I don’t answer, just shrug and concentrate on not puking all over his running shoes. “How do you plan on keeping your beautiful little body in shape once our babies start coming?”

  I let him slowly walk me around even though I’m giving good consideration to tossing my cookies all over him just for fun. “Not having any kids,” I offer instead.

  “Bullshit!” he says as I find the strength to glare up at him and force him to stop walking me, to take his hands off me and let me bend over and die in peace. “Why would you say that?” Rawly asks bending down and resting his hands on his knees to keep his constant vigil on my expressions.

  “Don’t want ‘um.”

  “You, Saint Helen, not want kids? Bullshit.”

  I give into the temptation despite his protestations and sink down and lay face first in the cool crystalline sand. I lie there for a minute in silence then roll over on my back as the pain subsides. I brush sand off my face and look out into the morning gulf, basking in the quiet.

  “Sometimes,” I offer softly, “silence would be a welcomed change, just every now and then.”

  Rawly tentatively sits next to me in the sand. He gathers up a handful of shells and begins skimming them over the top of the emerald water. “So, you think this desire for solitude would make you a bad parent? Is that it?”

  “Maybe,” I offer as I close my eyes and breathe in the calm of the breaking surf, the soft currents of wind, and the warm feel of the morning sun on my face.

  “It’s interesting,” Rawly says after a moment’s silence, “how you expect perfection from yourself but not from those you surround your life with. Do you find comfort from that, being with the bruised and stunted?” he asks as I open my eyes and frown at him.

  “What’s the M.O. here, Commander? Do I derive strength off the weak? Am I a parasite?”

  “Hardly,” he allows throwing a small scallop shell from hand to hand. “No, the more likely possibility is you’re only comfortabl
e with them because that’s how you secretly view yourself.”

  “Ah, I see; analysis from an assassin.”

  “Or maybe having the advantage is your safety net? Maybe, my dear, you’re afraid to confront your emotional equal because you can’t control the outcome?” His smile is hungry. “Messy stuff, isn’t it? Life, I mean.”

  I push myself up angrily to stand but my spinning head makes me wobble on my feet. Before I can drop back down, Rawly’s sturdy arms are around me, steadying me, directing me to sit on the bank of the nearest dune.

  “What did you eat for breakfast?”

  “Yuck,” I shudder and almost gag. “I don’t do breakfast.”

  “That figures,” he tells me gruffly.

  He pulls me up and insists on keeping his arm around my waist as he leads us away from the beach, over the sheltering sand dunes carefully bypassing the sea oats toward The Strip. He leads us down the almost deserted road without saying a word. I’m starting to feel a little better, less nauseous and am actually starting to marvel at how lovely the beach is this time of ungodly morning. I feel my energy returning and push my way out of his heated grasp, because I’m suddenly very aware of his proximity and it disturbs me.

  He ignores me and takes the back of my elbow and looks both ways at the empty road then propels me across the street. We are both silent as we walk up the driveway of the trendy juice bar. Rawly leads me up its sidewalk and opens the door for me, and as we walk inside several men with seriously pumped bodies call out greetings to Rawly.

  Rawly acknowledges them with a silent nod as he leads us across the wide room away from everyone and orders me to sit in a booth. He slides in opposite me and watches as I quietly study our surroundings; the chintz curtains, the red carnations and rosemary in little white vases on each table and the long narrow bar just across the room from us. Behind the bar doesn’t have a pot or pan in sight, just dozens of spotless blenders and sterile stainless steel.

  “You eat here often?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “That figures.”

  “Lieutenant Commander!” a man with the silver ponytail says as he approaches our table.

  “Captain Harris, good to see you. Brought you a rookie, she’s--”

  “I know who she is,” Harris says with a big smile. “She’s the competition. Welcome, beauty.”

  He winks. This guy’s got to be pushing sixty but he’s in primo shape.

  “Old Harris here is a retarded frog,” Rawly explains.

  “He’s …French?” I ask. “Retarded?”

  “That’s Navy-speak for retired,” Harris says.

  “And a frog is a SEAL Helen,” Rawly patiently explains to me as if I were a child.

  “Then why don’t you just say SEAL?” I ask as they both sigh.

  “You know, Lieutenant Commander,” Harris offers with a shrug, “cake eaters can be taught. Although, my guess is you’ve got your work cut out for you with this one.”

  “Helen, Captain Harris owns this rabbit bar and preaches the gospel of good clean living,” he tells me then nods sternly at Harris. “Don’t let this lovely, twenty-one year old, body fool you, Harris, she’s got the stamina of a dweeb.”

  “She looks plenty lethal to me,” he laughs. “What’d’ y’all have?”

  “I’ll take the Carrot Hopper. And for the lady…hum? Better make it a Super 8 stress reliever.”

  “Rough night, huh, hon?” Harris asks as he disappears behind his counter.

  I listen as many blenders kick on. There is an uncomfortable silence between us as we sit silently and stare around our separate perimeters. This makes me smile because I figure right about now Lieutenant Commander Hawkings is getting plenty tired of me and my unhealthy lifestyle, and I gloat for a moment over the brilliance of our deal. All I have to do is study him, learn his sins, and, if necessary, find his Achilles’ heel. While he, on the other hand, has to convince me to want him, and this almost makes me chuckle because there is no way that is ever going to happen.

  I lean my chin in my hands and study the beautiful sailor before me as he surveys the tableware. He unfolds his napkin and begins to fold it in a neater more elaborate pattern. I chuckle as he reaches for mine and does the same. Not an edge is showing on those napkins.

  “Are you always this anal?” I ask trying not to smile.

  “I’m not anal.”

  “Uh huh, I’ll bet your socks are separated according to color and occasion.”

  “They’re easier to find.”

  “And your shirts are sorted—No! Color coded.”

  “I have a maid. Look, if it makes you feel any better I’m a slob at heart.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’s a constant effort to remain organized. I have a complicated life and little time.” He stops trying to explain as I break out laughing. “But you’re more than welcome to come and explore my drawers anytime you’d like.”

  “Uh huh,” I laugh, “I’ll pass.”

  “Here we go, kids,” Harris says shoving this huge quart sized drink the color of mud under my nose and sliding a much smaller frosted glass over to Rawly. He waits patiently by the table smiling and nodding.

  “Go ahead,” Rawly says as I study the grayish matter in the glass before me.

  I take a big gulp smiling at Harris. As my taste buds absorb the taste I shudder and try to hold back a gag. I force myself to swallow the sour pungent mush instead and my eyes tear.

  “It’s great!” I wheeze at Harris, trying not to puke.

  Harris laughs good and hard and slaps Rawly on the back “Virgin pallet, eh?”

  “You’ve no idea,” Rawly replies watching me, daring me to insult this God-awful drink in my hands as Harris walks away laughing.

  “What is this—this stuff?” I shudder again.

  “Kale, collards, spinach, parsley, carrots, garlic--”

  “It’s awful! How can you stomach it?”

  “You’d be amazed at what you can learn to like if you’d only just try. So much to teach you,” Rawly sighs, looking far away, “so much for you to learn.”

  “Yeah, well I’ll take my F on this course, Commander Frog,” I say. “I’m not touching this… stuff ever again. It sucketh big time.”

  “Drink it!”

  “It sucks!”

  “You don’t want to make me say it twice.”

  “Oh, come on,” I whine, pouting as I look down at the disgusting drink.

  I raise it to my lips again, take another gulp and shudder. I hold my nostrils closed and drink half the gross matter down before coming up for air. I glance over at Rawly and notice the curious expression on his face. I hold my nostrils closed again and make a mad go for the second half of the slimy mush. I push the empty glass aside and lay my face down flat on the table.

  “That was disgusting,” I marvel hoping it will stay down.

  I notice Rawly’s perplexed gaze as he critically surveys me. I sit up expecting a lesson on the etiquette of consuming gross liquids, but his look is one of genuine concern.

  “Why did you do that?” he finally asks. “Drink something you obviously hated?”

  “You—told me to.”

  “Very interesting,” he muses leaning his elbows on the table between us. “But you don’t take orders, Helen, you give them.”

  I chuckle, “Authoritative huh? That’s how I seem to you?” I ask softly. “Old habits are hard to break. When they said “Do this” I did this; when they say “Do that” I do that.” But I’m not really sure I’m talking to the man across the table from me any more or if I’m even speaking aloud.

  “Who, Helen?” he asks softly.

  “You know, them,” I say, “figures of authority.”

  “I see,” he whispers. “And you view me as a them?”

  “Are you going to psychoanalyze everything I do?”

  “Is that why you don’t like me?” His voice is soft but his dark eyes are probing.

  “I don’t know,” I laugh
thinking about this, “maybe.” I grow silent because his insight scares me a little and I’m starting to believe he might be gaining more knowledge from me than I am from him.

  “Tell me, Helen, haven’t you ever heard of rebellion?”

  “I thought that’s what I was doing.”

  “What?” he asks as his voice takes on a demanding pitch. “Being den mother to a group of throwaway kids and living like a nun cloistered away from any real emotions of your own? That’s rebellion to you?” He drinks his juice while he watches my reaction.

  “Ah, no, actually I was referring to being here, with you.”

  He laughs so hard he sprays his juice everywhere, on me, on the wall, on the tidy chintz curtains. “Oh, Helen, you are amazing,” he says chuckling softly as he wipes carrot juice off my nose and cheek with his napkin. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s rebellion before.”

  “Ah, then I’m your first.”

  “Yes, Helen,” he whispers as he gently wipes just above my eyebrow, “you are definitely my first.”

  He locks his black eyes onto mine and I look away as I push his hand way from my brow. I bite my lip and can taste where a small speck of his honeyed juice remains.

  “Hey, how come your drink tastes so much better than mine?”

  “You like this, really? Here,” he says sliding his juice over toward me. “Drink it.” He meets my eyes and smiles. “Please,” he says.

  He seems excited as I swallow his smoothie. “These are my carrots, you know, from one of our organic farms in California.” He meets my blank gaze and shrugs. “Although farming is just a small part what my family does, it is one of my favorite. There’s something about soil and science. I’ve decided when I head home and settle down, I’m going to play with genetics a bit and implement a better process for organically grown vegetables.”

  “Why does the word genetic sound scary when you say it?”

  “Actually you’ve no idea how much money there is in organically grown produce. We grossed over two bil--”

  “Oh yeah, you’re a rich man’s son.”

  “Like his father before him and his father’s father, and so forth.”