Killing Kate

by Lila Veen

  “Now you just sound like an overprotective big brother,” I say. “I’m fine. And how do you know that I haven’t hooked up with men like him before?”

  “You haven’t,” Devin says, and of course he’s right, but sometimes I wish he didn’t know everything about me. “Is Kate still around?” he asks.

  “Sometimes,” I say. “She comes and goes as she pleases. Sometimes I don’t even know she’s there. I open the fridge and find all of the food gone and don’t remember eating it, or I wake up and I’m out of cigarettes after I just bought a pack.”

  Devin cringes. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to move to Jack’s house with you because I wasn’t worried.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I do love you for it, but you have to let me be a little bit annoyed about it, too.”

  Now he grins. “Fair enough.”

  We pay the bill and he walks me to my apartment where his bike is parked out front. “Let me know what happens after you talk to Drake,” he says. “And seriously, if you need me to call for you, I will.”

  “I know you will,” I say. “But let me handle this.” Devin nods. We hug and I watch him get on his bike. As a final act of stubbornness he waits for me to get inside instead of letting me watch him drive away. I watch him take off from my front room window. When he’s gone, I take Drake’s card out of my purse and dial him on the phone. He answers on the second ring.

  “Jenna,” he purrs. “So nice to hear from you.”

  “Devin and I want to move into Jack’s house,” I say. “Can we meet to discuss the details about property transfer of ownership or whatever.”

  “Sure,” he says. My heart flips around in my chest and practically climbs up my throat. Who knew his voice could turn me on? “I’ll pick you up tonight at 8:00. Wear a dress. Preferably a nicer one than you wore the other night.” He hangs up immediately. I am completely taken aback but flattered and excited. He doesn’t ask for my address or anything, but I suppose since he’s a lawyer handling my father’s estate he would have that information and don’t think much of it.

  Chapter 6

  I’m wearing a dress as ordered. It’s yellow, short, strapless, and transparent to the point where I have to change my underwear four times in order to get it to where you can’t see my panty lines because of the way the material clings to my skin. On my left thigh is a spray of pink embroidered flowers and that is pretty much the entire design of the dress. It’s definitely one of my more expensive pieces of clothing. I blew nearly an entire paycheck on it at a little boutique in one of the nicer Chicago neighborhoods where there’s a Starbucks on every corner where blonde girls triple park their VW Jettas to run in but they always take their dog that fits perfectly inside of their purse. That’s the kind of girl I imagine Drake Carroll taking out to dinner, not me, so at least I can look the part for tonight, minus the blonde hair. It’s nearly 90 degrees outside and the sun is down. I won’t freeze despite my lack of material to cover me up. My shoes are an afterthought, which are gold strappy four inch heels that I can barely walk in. I intend to carry them most of the evening if I have to, but they match and I find a gold purse that I happened to buy the exact same day in case of emergency. I’d deem tonight an emergency.

  Kate is taking a nap. I think she’s hung over. I am extra quiet so I don’t wake her, because I want to be on my own tonight. I apply makeup precariously. Green and gold eye shadow, thick black eyeliner and mascara and my eyes are unrecognizable as my own. A touch of peach colored lipstick completes the look. I don’t need any foundation or blush, since the little time I spend outside has already given me a natural flush. Besides, upon inspection in the mirror, I can see that I’m glowing. It’s because I want this date to happen. I’ve been anticipating it all day long. I called off work for the night, telling Alicia I have a headache and couldn’t make it in. She knows that means hangover, but I rarely call off so she assumes I’m not lying and doesn’t give me any shit, though she should in this instance.

  Drake calls me when he arrives and I hobble outside to meet him, wishing I’d practiced in the heels a bit longer. He smells like cinnamon, I notice upon entering his car. It’s the same black Mercedes he drove away in when I met him at Jack’s funeral. Everything inside of the car is black as well and the dash is intimidatingly lit up with red and blue lights. Music with loud bass is turned down low. I note he drives a stick shift and watch in fascination the way he handles it as we coast down Lake Shore Drive toward the city lights, Lake Michigan on our left.

  “I thought we could discuss creating a declaration of property tax transfer over dinner at Crimson,” Drake says. “I’ll keep it very non-technical for you and just explain what you’re signing before you sign it, and then we can enjoy our meal and some drinks.”

  “I appreciate that,” I say. I sincerely hope this is one of those dates where the man pays, because I definitely can’t afford Crimson. It’s one of those fusion places with two different types of cuisine that really have no business being together, but for some reason it works and everyone loves it. I think it’s Thai and Italian or something. It’s a place for people who actually care about what they’re eating and survive on more than ramen noodles and cheap whiskey. Lucky for me, my diet keeps me thin, and I think to myself about how people who can afford to eat well probably have to spend their spare time working it off while I get to lie around drunk. What a treat. It takes about fifteen minutes to drive downtown tonight and Drake tells me a bit about himself while I listen and stare at pretty the dash in hypnotic awe. He and his brother grew up not too far from where I did in Elmwood and didn’t have much money, but their mother said she’d scrub toilets to make sure they had a good education. His father died when he was ten. His first apartment was on the south east side, which even I won’t live in, even though the rent is cheaper than where I live now. He went to University of Chicago in Hyde Park and worked as a mechanic through college and law school. I learn more about Drake than I have ever shared with myself with any guy in a fifteen minute drive. He pulls his car up to the entrance and a valet attendant immediately runs up and opens my door for me. I precariously attempt to not give him a crotch shot and gracefully step out of the car while balancing on my heels. It’s not as easy as I make it look and I feel relieved, as though if I pass that small test the rest of the evening will be a piece of cake.

  Everything inside Crimson looks like a palace and is, of course, entirely done in red. I heard something once a few years ago when it opened that the owner had paid four million dollars just for the décor and had entire walls flown over from Tunisia or Morocco or some other exotic country I’ll never make it to. Crimson is as close as I’ll get, so I decide to really enjoy it and pretend I’ve been whisked off to some faraway land. We are led by a gorgeous hostess to cushy chairs that are low to the ground where you lounge while you eat. It probably isn’t conducive to digestion, but it gives you the impression that you’re being pampered and relaxed. Our table is privately shielded with gauzy gold curtains that are draped from the ceiling to surround us in a personal cove. I feel like I’m in an opium den, but it’s cozy. I tuck my legs beneath me and open the gold leather menu and bite my lip to prevent myself from gasping at the prices. Everything sounds rich and expensive, from the coconut cumin lobster ravioli to the braised truffle chili duck confit. I’m way out of my league, but Kate would be too, and I am holding her within me so hard I’m trembling. We order some $14 cocktails that are stronger than they taste and thankfully I relax a bit. Mine is a dark violent orange color and tastes like how I would imagine Hawaii does. I find myself nibbling on parmesan edamame and peanut-coconut olives. It’s all strange and wonderful. The flavors and alcohol are intoxicating me like nothing I’ve ever had before. I think to myself about how if I eat this way more often I probably wouldn’t be as drunk and oversexed as I am. A life of cheap food and liquor will leave you feeling empty, I suppose. I am on my second fancy martini when our meal comes, and I forget what I even ordered.
There’s a hunk of meat in front of me that looks like something Fred Flintstone would eat. I am suddenly starving and can’t really remember the last time I actually ate a meal. A can of soup before bed doesn’t count. It was very likely after Jack’s funeral. The effect of actual food is mildly sobering and it’s a new feeling for me, and suddenly I realize I’m getting a strange and curious stare from my dinner companion. I completely forgot he was there. “What?” Having to pause between bites is killing me.

  “You’re eating with your hands,” he says. I look down. So I am. There’s also a trail of grease running down my arm. Oh yes, I ordered the lamb shank. I femininely lick the grease off my arm from elbow to wrist with a mild attempt to be seductive yet humorous and note the way Drake is looking at me. I realize the effect was intended to intoxicate him with my charms but I feel myself getting slightly aroused. Dammit, what was his crazy effect on me? I can’t remember the last time a guy made me feel this way, and I’m terrified and thrilled. I rest a bit on the cushion so I am closer to Drake under the low table and lean back against the pillows behind me. I decide I’m full and likely to explode if I consume more of the dead flesh that was my meal.

  “Shall we talk business?” I ask him. Drake raises one eyebrow, shrugs, and reaches into his briefcase. He pulls out the stack of paperwork and slides it over toward me across the table. I reach for it and jump as I feel his hand clench around my ankle. His hold loosens gradually and I feel his hand slide up and around my leg, stroking my calf.

  “This is a declaration of property tax transfer,” Drake says. His left hand is to my knee now and I see he is calmly sipping his martini with his right hand. “Basically it indicates that all taxes paid on 10133 S. Menard Avenue will be in your name and in Devin’s name. He will need to sign as well.”

  “What about mortgage?” I ask. I feel his hand graze over my knee and onto my thigh. The hem of my dress is hiked up pretty far. Any farther and it becomes a shirt, though some might argue that it already was before Drake did anything to it.

  Drake pulls my leg so that I am practically lying down at the table. Lucky for us there are curtains. I wonder how much can be seen as the curtains aren’t exactly opaque, and the thought intrigues and excites me. I feel his hand slide against the edge of my panties which are officially soaked. He takes his hand and pushes his fingers onto my clit. My lips part and I gasp and am about to moan, but he puts his drink down and puts his finger on his lips and says “Shhh.” I comply and smile slightly.

  “The house is paid off already. The taxes are about six thousand per year, give or take. We can appeal those since they just raised them. But other than maintenance and property tax, you don’t owe anything.”

  His thumb slides inside of me and the knuckle of his middle finger presses on my clit. I grip the pillow on either side of me as though I might float away. I realize I’m holding my breath and it enhances what I’m feeling below my waist. The waves of pleasure mount within me and I close my eyes and imagine how I want Drake to be mounting me later on when we get out of this place. I am close. Suddenly my orgasm comes in an electric surge and I hear a demure voice say, “Would you care for another drink?” I shoot to a sitting position, bang both of my knees under the table and tip my drink directly into my lap. Chaos ensues. Drake obviously has to disengage his hand which is soaked, and thankfully everything is masked with the smell of my orange blossom martini. Napkins are shoved in my direction. Apologies are barked at me. All I can do is sit and allow myself to be blotted and consoled because I am completely and utterly numb. Drake is laughing somewhat maniacally, and even the dirty look I shoot his way doesn’t suppress his ability to find the situation ridiculous.

  Our waitress discounts our drinks because she feels guilty about how I spilled everything all over myself. I actually consider it my fault, but keep my mouth shut. It’s as though I contributed to the bill in some way – drinks on me! Literally. My dress is still somewhat damp from the drink and my legs are somewhat damp from what Drake did to me over dinner. We stand and wait for the valet to bring Drake’s Mercedes. Drake looks at me and chews on the tip of his thumb and grins while I smoke. I flush from cheeks to chest and decide that if I wanted him before, I wanted him ten times more right now. Kate isn’t here to do the dirty work for me, and for once I’m truly grateful.

  In his car Drake drives fast and is silent, unlike the ride to Crimson. I don’t know where we are going and don’t really care. “Take your dress off,” he tells me, watching me twisting the damp hem in an attempt to dry it off. “We can find you something dry at my place.” I comply, pulling the once-soft yellow fabric over my head and toss the ruined thing on the floor. I didn’t wear a bra. It’s odd that I’m not self-conscious in front of a man I barely know, but he did just finger me in a restaurant and I dance in a cage for a living, so I guess it makes a little bit of sense.

  Drake pulls into a parking garage and parks between a Mini Cooper and a Porsche. He shrugs out of his light jacket and hands it to me. “Wear this in case anyone else might be in the elevator.” I nod and slip on the jacket. It smells like the restaurant we just left, and a bit like a spicy musk that gives me a flash of familiarity, but it’s quickly gone. He leads me over to the elevator and presses the button to go up, and then inside he presses another button to go to the eighteenth floor. No one else is in there, but Drake doesn’t touch me, and we don’t say anything to each other, and I wonder if he is upset about something or what he might be thinking. The doors open on eighteen. I step out and let him pass me, and then follow him down a long hallway to a door that says 1806 in brass numbers. He lets me in to his place.

  The view is beautiful. I can see the Chicago River through one set of floor to ceiling glass windows and Navy Pier through the other set. Drake turns the lights on and the city lights become less prominent, but I can see that his color scheme of his apartment is the complete opposite of his car. Everything is completely white and immaculate. While my walls are white, my constant chain smoking has probably tinged them a dingy yellow over time. His are glowing, and the word “pristine” comes to mind. Various pieces of abstract artwork covered his walls which tied in the red shag rug and plush red sofas. His kitchen was an open area with shiny white cabinets and light granite countertops, all gleaming from lack of use, no doubt. Christ, what the hell was I doing with this guy? I spot a glass sliding door and I step onto a balcony and light up before I hyperventilate. Drake follows me outside. I am still wearing his jacket but it’s so warm outside, I start to shrug it off. Drake looks amused.

  “Do you realize that people have telescopes and binoculars around here and are probably enjoying the show you’re giving them?” he asks me, looking pointedly at my bare chest. I shrug. My level of caring went on permanent hiatus years ago.

  “So cover me,” I tell him and pull him over and put his hands over my breasts. I finish smoking and pitch the cigarette butt over the balcony. I lazily drape my arms over his shoulders and link my fingers behind his neck and push myself against him and find his lips with my own. He tastes of bourbon and I notice he’s poured himself a drink. I realize that he’s a non-smoker kissing a smoker. I’ve heard that kissing a smoker is like kissing an ashtray, which is a disgusting thought. I decide to help the cause and take a swig of his bourbon. I note that it’s definitely good quality stuff. I could get used to this lifestyle.

  “Follow me,” Drake says. He leads me off the balcony and slides the door closed behind me. I follow him down a short hallway to a large bedroom. Again, I am comparing my shoddy mattress and sheets on the floor to his lavish masculine black wood sleigh bed. His room is simple in décor (like mine!) with a bed, two nightstands and a bureau in the corner where I assume a television is concealed. The curtains are closed otherwise Drake would have a view of Navy Pier, I judge based on the layout I recall of his living room. It occurred to me that Drake is classy enough to have a “living room”, while the rest of Chicago has “front rooms” or “fronchrooms” as we tend to sa
y. “Sit in the middle of the bed and strip,” he tells me flatly. Now I see there is a chair off to the side and he sits on it, fully clothed and calm with his drink, sipping casually.

  I go along and sit down on his soft duvet, feeling myself sink in. I now notice it’s not completely white like everything else but rather a very light silvery grey. Since stripping doesn’t really involve much at this point, it doesn’t take much effort to hook my thumbs inside of the bikini straps across my hips and pull my panties down and toss them off toward Drake. They land on his lap. His hand picks them up and holds them in a ball, clenched in his left fist. “Play with yourself,” he instructs me. His tone doesn’t change at all.

  “Why don’t you join me?” I ask him. Drake shrugs and gives me a slight smile.

  “I like to watch,” he tells me.

  Oh, interesting, I think to myself. The disappointment must be obvious across my face because he reassures me, “I will join you…soon.” I smile and settle back against the pillows that feel like silk on my bare skin and decide to do as I’m told, not because he told me to, but because I want to do it for him. I put my finger in my mouth to get it wet, which is cliché but I watch a lot of dirty movies and think that men like to see girls actually do the things that only tend to happen in porn. To confirm this I trace my wet fingertip around my nipple until it turns into a stiff, hard peak while watching Drake’s face. He is annoyingly difficult to read, though the slightly faster movements of his chest indicate I’m performing well. I press my nipple down gently and watch as it springs back up instantly.

  With my other hand I reach down to stroke my thigh, which has a lingering stickiness to it from the drink and my own bodily fluids from earlier at dinner. I watch Drake the whole time. He is calm and still but I can see the clenching muscles on the arm he is holding my panties in. I know my actions have some effect on him. I part myself with my hand and give him a good view by lying on my back with my feet pointed toward him and my knees in the air. Sliding two fingers inside of myself, I feel how wet I am again. I wonder if it’s possible to make myself come without Kate tonight. It certainly feels like I might, but I want to wait for Drake. I ache for him to join me, but for now I am alone with myself. I close my eyes and let my mind wander. Bad idea. Suddenly I am in a place I haven’t been in a very long time….