Origin

by Chloe Adler

  Maggie and Jerome exchange smiles but his is pained. From guilt?

  I like them both, so much. I want him to love her, but he doesn’t. Not like that. They’re both playacting without knowing it. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen that—yeah, I’d be living in a manor in Bosques de las Lomas with a servant spooning crème caramel into my mouth. Or perhaps I’d be draped over a leather couch in a Portuguese mansion munching on flan.

  These people have welcomed a home-wrecker into their lives. If only I could pretend, even for an hour, that I was deserving—that I was worthy—I could be comfortable here and let myself experience true safety. But I’m not worthy and I’m not deserving. I’m a relationship killer and a fraud.

  After breakfast I do the dishes while the couple reads from their devices. I don’t have a device.

  “You don’t have to clean everything up,” Maggie calls. “Really, it’s fine.”

  “There’s a dishwasher. I’m just scraping, rinsing and piling everything inside of it. It’s the least I can do. You’re feeding me, cooking for me and giving me a place to crash.” And I don’t know how long I can stay here knowing that if Maggie knew what we did behind her back, what I did, she would beat me up herself.

  “Thank you,” Jerome calls.

  They’re thanking me?

  The front door opens and Eleanor walks in.

  “Mom.” Maggie stands. “You could have knocked.”

  “You could have locked it.” She strides over to the kitchen table and glares at Jerome. “Jerome.” Her voice is stiff and curt. Then she looks over the counter and sees me. “What is she doing here?”

  “Mother. That’s rude. This is Sydney and she’s going to be staying with us for a while.”

  “Is she?” Her voice is robotic, devoid of emotion. “Maybe not after what I came here to show you.”

  I walk out of the kitchen and wipe my hands on a dish towel.

  “That’s it, everyone gather around.” She places a black leather case on the table that looks like it should contain a bowling ball.

  “Really, Mom? You’ve got to do this right now?” Maggie says but her voice is resigned.

  “Yes. I do. And you’ll thank me after.” She fishes through the contents of the bag, then pulls out a large, clear, glass sphere. Holding it in one hand, she digs in the bag with her other and removes a brass stand.

  I chance a glance at Jerome, who is standing, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Eleanor places the ball on the stand and waves a hand over it. “Replay last night, at Ichor.”

  I lean in, mesmerized as the ball clouds. I’ve heard of crystal balls but never seen one used before even though my own mother used to go to a fortune-telling witch. I never went with her. The mist inside swirls and thickens, and when it clears I gasp. There I am, in miniature, on the bed at Ichor with Jerome. I look over at him but he’s in shock. His curls spill down over his face, sticking to his forehead.

  “What is this?” Maggie looks at him and then at me.

  “This,” Eleanor points to the ball, “is what your boyfriend and this . . . this . . . slut were doing last night.”

  Maggie turns back to the ball and watches me suck him off. She looks at me, her eyes wet with tears.

  Shit shit shit. Not good. I’ve been caught by girlfriends and wives before, many times, but not by someone who’s been so kind to me. Not by someone who’s opened up her home to me. Not by someone I genuinely like. I want to crawl inside that crystal ball and rewind the film, turn back the clock, have a do-over.

  Eleanor runs her hand over the ball and it jumps to me riding Jerome. Maggie’s mouth has dropped open and she’s looking between the image of me fucking her boyfriend and her boyfriend.

  “Why?” she screams at him. “I wasn’t enough for you? I know we’ve been in a rut but I thought you loved me. I thought you’d talk to me first or break up with me. Anything but this . . .” She sob-hiccups.

  “Maggie, please . . .” He approaches her with his hand out, pleading. “I have no idea how it happened. I don’t remember going there. I don’t remember doing that.”

  She snorts. “Well then, why don’t you watch the fucking replay. Or better yet, take another turn.” She points to me. “I’m sure if you pay her enough she’ll pity fuck you.”

  Eleanor doesn’t bother hiding a wicked-witch grin.

  10

  Sydney

  Less than an hour later, Jerome and I are standing outside the gate and lush garden of Maggie’s complex wearing blank stares. He’s clutching a suitcase and I have my small backpack.

  “I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what to say. Sure, I’ve been the cause of more than one breakup. I’ve even been around for them, like that time the wife walked in to find her husband fucking me, reverse cowgirl, on the steps of their swimming pool. But this is different. It’s personal. Maggie is the first woman who’s ever truly been kind to me. And I screwed it up by fucking her man. Maggie. My black and deadened heart bleeds for her.

  My chest tightens and I rub the back of my neck. I have the option to go back to my shithole room in Imperial Beach, even if the thought causes rising anxiety. I may not be safe there but at least I’m not screwing anyone, figuratively. Jerome doesn’t have any options and neither does Maggie, which is all my fault.

  Jerome says nothing. He sits down on the steps, drops his head into his hands and starts to cry. What can I do? Part of me is smug, glad he’s acknowledging the hurt he caused his fiancée. I want to feel satisfaction over his predicament but I don’t. A whore’s intuition is both her greatest asset and her biggest curse. There’s something not quite right about my encounter last night with Jerome. I suspect he was high and not in his right mind. Everyone makes mistakes. I of all people know that and while I’m pissed that he hurt his girlfriend, I’m also curious. Why did he do it, and was he truly aware of it or did he subconsciously sabotage their relationship for some reason?

  How can I fix this? Can I fix it? There’s no way Maggie will let me back into her house to even apologize. Maybe in time? Or maybe, if I help her fiancé? Wouldn’t Maggie want to know the entire truth, even if it’s hidden and convoluted? Wouldn’t she want him to be okay?

  “Hey.” I put my hand on his shoulder and he jumps as though he forgot I was even here. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” His breath is hitched.

  “Anywhere but here.”

  He sniffles. “Merde. You’re right. Give me a minute. I’m such a colossal ass.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and closes them.

  I give him the time he needs to pull himself together, looking back through the courtyard and up at Maggie’s apartment. There on the balcony is Eleanor but she’s not looking at us. Instead, she’s focused on something else, and when she lights a fourth candle, I can make out two tiny figures in the center of the glass table. Dolls? The woman is playing with dolls while her daughter is bawling her eyes out inside. What a witch!

  She passes her hands over the figures and Jerome stands, digging his hands into the pockets of his light beige jacket.

  “Do you have someplace to go?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, looking down at his feet, and then he looks back up at me with wide eyes. “Mais oui. Yes, there’s a townhouse for rent close to town center. I wanted Mags to look at it with me. See, it’s got two large bedrooms, much larger than the apartment here. I thought we could move there as soon as we were married, or even sooner and get the dog we always . . .” He sighs. “Guess I screwed that up.”

  No, I want to say, I did. But instead I hoist my backpack over a shoulder, grab his suitcase and start walking down the street.

  He chases after me. “My car’s over there.” He points to a sweet Audi.

  I stuff his suitcase in the trunk, throw my backpack in the back and walk around the front to eye the grill. RS 7, top-of-the-line, just another rich prick. I hop into the passenger side.

  Once he’s in the driver’s side, he sits, loo
king out the front window, unmoving.

  “When were you planning to get married?” I rub my hands along the black leather seats.

  “We hadn’t officially announced our engagement yet. Her mother doesn’t like me and Maggie didn’t want to deal with her anger. She joked about going to Vegas next month to elope.”

  Poor Maggie. Shit. Shit. Fuck. I just destroyed their dreams and it’s even worse knowing that her mother is opposed to her finding a man to settle down with. My mother was the complete opposite. Too bad we don’t get to choose our parents. Not that I’d have traded my hopeless-romantic, bleeding-heart mamá with Maggie’s ice queen. “Shit. I’m so sorry.” I look over at him but he’s not looking at me. “Can you take me home first and then go look at the apartment yourself?”

  He stops staring out the window and turns to look at me as though he finally realizes that the woman who destroyed his life is sitting next to him in his car. His eyes soften. “Maggie told me where you were living, Sydney. I can’t let you go back to that. Even Maggie, as angry as she is now, wouldn’t want you to. I know that woman’s heart even better than my own.”

  My own heart slams against my chest. This is crazy. The guy’s a cheating asswipe. Why am I feeling sorry for him? Probably because he just screwed up his chance with the best woman I’ve ever met. So why won’t he just drop me off at my old place to get me out of his life as fast as possible? Not that I want to go back there, ever. “What do you suggest then? I move onto the street?”

  “Move in with me.”

  I do a double take. “Yeah, like that would be a good idea. Are you giving up on trying to get Maggie back?”

  “Not at all. If she finds out we’re living together and not screwing . . . maybe she’ll let me come back to her.”

  Either he’s lying to himself or he’s lying to me. Is this his way of coping or does he want to keep me as his mistress? Maybe he blames himself for my face. Or maybe he feels sorry for my circumstances and is telling himself this is what Maggie would do—what Maggie tried to do before she learned that I screwed her man.

  Or maybe he’s just not thinking straight because he just lost his hopes and dreams. Trauma does weird shit to people.

  “I tell you what.” I clip on the seatbelt. “I’ll go look at the place with you, but I can’t promise I’ll move in.” The truth though, the part I can’t say out loud, is that I’m in no hurry to get back to my dangerous squat. Is clinging to the illusion of safety I finally tasted last night so wrong?

  “Good enough for now.” He starts the engine and we drive to the rental in silence.

  11

  Niall

  Ichor is full of desirable men and women, each one begging me to pick them tonight.

  “Niall,” purrs a statuesque Asian female dressed as a geisha and known only as Eye. Miss Cheryl is nothing if not predictable.

  Eye touches my shoulder and leans in close. The scents of her two recent donors and one john still cling to her bottle-red hair.

  “Eye.” I pry her fingers from my shoulder one by one, letting her hand fall back to her side. “You know I don’t like to be touched.”

  She knows I’m an asshole. They all do. Yet they keep begging for more. At first I thought it was my bank account they were after, but this vectum in particular is filled with plenty of rich fucks. Then I thought it was my fame, my status, but nope, this place also crawls with actors, musicians and producers in a league far above my own. It could be my unavailability, but who gives two fucks why?

  “You like it when I touch your cock though, don’t you?” She licks her bloodstained lips. Some vamp must have messed her up and then offered her a drink to heal her. All illegal, but Ichor scoffs at the law.

  My eyes travel down her tight kimono, a red and black number that hugs every, single, curve. And yet my cock doesn’t even twitch. Strange. That’s never happened before.

  Distracted, I strain my neck, looking for Sydney.

  “Who’re you looking for?” Eye touches herself, rubbing her hands slowly over her ample breasts, down her waist and over her hips.

  “Sydney.”

  “That skank? Really, Niall, I thought you had better taste than a common spic whore.”

  My first instinct is to slap her, but I don’t hurt women. She’s obviously jealous and trying to goad a reaction from me. Instead, I slide past her pettiness like maneuvering my car around a tight turn. She’s the one who needs me and my money, not vice versa. Without another glance, I turn and saunter out of the foyer into the back area of Ichor.

  I wait outside Miss Cheryl’s door for a moment, listening for voices inside. When I hear none, I rap three times.

  “Come in,” she calls out in a silken trill.

  I open the door and she’s already on her feet, offering me a beatific smile and motioning to the seat across from her large antique mahogany wooden desk.

  “Niall, wonderful to see you. Is there something I can help you with?”

  I remain standing. “That girl I had last night, Sydney was it?”

  “I believe so. I can check my calendar to make sure. A passionate Latina?”

  I nod. Understatement of the year. “That sounds about right. Any chance she’s working again tonight?”

  She eyes the night’s roster and shakes her head. “Unfortunately, no. She called in and said she couldn’t make it tonight.”

  “Change her mind. I’ll pay extra.” I open my billfold and place a large wad of hundreds down on her desk. Her eyes widen and she snatches the money, counting it aloud.

  “That’s quite generous of you.” Her usual nails-on-a-chalkboard drawl sneaks back into her rehearsed silken tone.

  “I want what I want when I want it. Will that be a problem?”

  “Of course not. Why don’t you amuse yourself with one of the other girls while you wait? If she balks, I’ll let you know, but I’m sure she’ll be,” she folds the bills, “amenable.” Picking up her cell, she presses the screen, then waves toward the door. “Go on now.”

  No one tells me what to do, but I want this girl so bad I can taste her fragrant licorice flesh on my tongue so I step outside without saying another word.

  12

  Jerome

  “What is it?” Sydney frowns down at her phone. I park next to the townhouse for rent downtown. It’s in a small complex with three others, all overlooking the ocean off Discovery Highway.

  “Fucking work. They want me to come in.”

  “Can’t you say you’re busy?”

  “I did already.” She motions to her face. “But Miss Cheryl is offering me extra and I need the money. Especially if you’re going to insist we rent this place together.” She stares out the window.

  “I can afford it on my own.”

  “Oh no you don’t, Mister. I do not accept charity. Not from your fiancée and not from you. I pay my fair share or I live where I can.”

  “Fine, fine.” I throw up my hands. “Come look at it with me first and then I’ll drive you to Ichor. Okay?”

  She frowns, bites at her lip and then taps in a response on her phone. “Ten minutes, tops. But really, Jerome, if it’s got hot running water and a closet, it’s already a thousand times better than my last place.”

  Where was she living? A flop house? A cardboard box? Maggie only told me it was bad, real bad. She’d promised to go into further detail but she never got the chance.

  My gut twists. Maggie. I can’t believe I wounded her that way. If only I could have ended it honorably. I hate myself for hurting her. How could I be such a coward?

  And—I should have seen it coming. Her mother wants her to marry a warlock, always has. If she breeds with me, a shifter, our children won’t be witches, if we can even conceive at all. Interspecies breeding and all that. I get it, I really do, but wouldn’t a parent rather see their child happy with a person they love, who treats them well? Treated them well. I can no longer claim that now, can I?

  Sydney opens the car door and steps out. I follow.
There’s a lockbox on the unit and I punch in the code and open it, fishing out the key. She takes it from me and tromps up the three steps to the front door. I can’t believe I even suggested this. What was I thinking? Oh right, I wasn’t. I was grieving. Sydney is, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, even compared to—and damn me for thinking it—Maggie. The way Sydney’s dark hair pours down her back. Those bright green eyes. Skin that has just a hint of brown, so smooth and soft. The sparks flying between us, even with her bruised and bandaged face, are undeniable.

  If I close my eyes, I can almost trace the contours of her body. The soft frame of her hair over my cock when she was sucking it. The warm cave of her mouth. The expert flicks of her tongue. The perfect grind of her hips as she rode me. Shit. And why do I remember all of that in such exquisite detail but not how I got there? I would not have consciously made that decision, would I? Was I subconsciously setting myself up so that Maggie would leave me? So that I wouldn’t have to man up and break up with her the gentlemanly way? I’ve always believed the woman was too good for me, but would I do this to her on purpose?

  “You coming?” Sydney calls from inside the building.

  “Yeah, right behind you.” I rush after her and catch the door a moment before it slams in my face. Which is what I deserve. Not that Sydney’s a bad person. I don’t know what kind of person she is, but Maggie would have held the door open for me, even waited until I entered first, and then she would have pecked my cheek and told me she loved me. Yeah, she was too good for me all right.

  Sydney drops the key on a built-in shelf to the right of the door. Pictures of the large foyer and the built-in shelves are the main reason I picked this place. Maggie’s always complaining how she trips over shoes and mail and trash to be taken to the curb in our walkway. Correction. Her walkway now.